At nine in the evening, Silva was sitting at Hector’s desk, re-reading Mara’s most recent summary of the team’s activities, when the author put in an appearance.
“That guy, Miranda?” she said. “The bicheiro?”
Silva put down the folder and looked up expectantly.
“What about him, Mara?”
“He’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”
Silva looked at his watch.
“What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Waiting for you to take me to dinner.” She smiled, but Silva didn’t think she meant it as a joke. “Line five.”
Silva picked up the receiver and pushed the appropriate button.
“Silva.”
Miranda began without preamble. “Just one question,” he said. “Did the kidnappers tell you they wanted to be paid in diamonds?”
Silva stiffened.
“Where did you get that information?” he said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Miranda said. “Get this: Somebody’s checking out the market in illegal gemstones. They want to know how they can best convert diamonds into cash. And they want to know details about the most marketable stones, their size and quality.”
“Names, Miranda. I need names.”
“I don’t have any. Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“By tomorrow morning.”
“And when you get this information, are you going to share it?”
“It depends. I do something for you, maybe you can do something for me. Tit for tat. Let’s talk about it.”
“When and where?”
“Noon. My office.”
Silva thought about it, concluded he had nothing to lose. “There will be two of us, myself and Arnaldo Nunes.”
“Nunes, huh? That the gorilla who was with you last time?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”
Miranda laughed. “And I’ll tell my boys you’re coming. Gaspar, particularly. He’s got a thing for your buddy Nunes.”
Miranda hung up. Silva took out his notebook and looked up the Artist’s unlisted number. When he called, Cintia Tadesco picked up the phone.
“Tico’s sleeping,” she said. “I have no intention of waking him up.”
“A question for you, then.”
“What?”
“The kidnapper’s demand that payment be made in diamonds…”
“Yes?”
“Who have you told about it?”
“Me? Nobody.”
“And the Artist?”
“You guys asked to keep it quiet. That’s what we did.”
“You’re sure you didn’t confide in anyone else?”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then, more sharply: “I don’t like repeating myself. What’s this about?”
“Captain Miranda called me. He knows about the diamonds.”
“That bicheiro? What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s helping us with our inquiries.”
“ Helping you with your inquiries? Oh, please. You trying to sound like you’re Scotland Yard?”
Silva, with an effort, managed to keep his temper.
“We’re meeting tomorrow. He hopes to have more information by then. Meantime, please continue to keep quiet about the diamonds.”
“It’s gonna get out anyway. The kid who runs the website knows, which means his father, Tico’s agent, knows, which means a lot of other people know, because a bigger-mouthed filho da puta was never born. And then there are all the cops that know.”
“I don’t think-”
“The cops would let it slip? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. From what I hear, cops are cheap. You buy them a meal, or a drink, and they spill their guts. Oh, hey, sorry, it didn’t occur to me until just now that you’re a cop.”
“Are you trying to be offensive, Senhorita Tadesco?”
“I’d say I’m succeeding. Wouldn’t you?”
She hung up.
Silva slammed down the phone.
“Bitch,” he said.
“Who?” Mara said, coming in from the corridor.
“Cintia Tadesco.”
“Why were you talking to her?”
Silva told her.
“Sounds like that visit you two made to Miranda paid off,” Mara said.
“He called Arnaldo a gorilla.”
“Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all,” Mara said. “How about that dinner?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Silva was staying at the Sorrento, a small hotel within walking distance of Hector’s office. When his cell phone rang just before seven the following morning, he was sound asleep. He groped for it and put it to his ear.
“Silva.”
“I’m at Miranda’s place,” Hector said. “His home, not his office. I sent a car to pick you up.”
“What happened?”
“Turn on the television.”
“Which channel?” Silva said, reaching for the remote.
“Take your pick,” Hector said. “It’s on all of them.”
The coverage of the explosion, and the fire that followed, was being carried live. Silva watched the images while he dressed. He was knotting his tie when the reception desk called to tell him his car was waiting.
He arrived to find Arnaldo, Hector and Goncalves surrounding the man in charge of quelling the blaze, a fire captain named Godoy.
“So that’s all I can tell you,” Godoy was saying, “but we should have some answers soon.”
Silva was introduced, shook hands with the captain, and squinted upward into the morning light.
“Miranda lived in the penthouse,” Hector said.
The building had been eight stories tall. Now it was seven.
“Bomb?” Silva asked.
Godoy shrugged.
