“Ketamine. The substance found in the syringe. Didn’t you read the lab report?”
“I’ve been busy. What’s Ketamine? I’ve never heard of it.”
“There’s no reason why you should have. But I, before being totally reformed by this excellent penal system of ours, made it my business to familiarize myself with drugs that might have been of use to me in my former profession. Ketamine was one of them.”
“You have my full attention, Professor.”
“Ketamine was developed by Parke-Davis back in the early sixties. Initially, it was employed as an anesthetic by American medics during the Vietnam War. Small doses of it will make you high, medium doses will knock you out, large doses will kill you.”
“Did you ever use it?” Silva asked.
“No. I wrote it off as too dangerous. Psychotomimetic effects have been observed in its use.”
“ What kind of effects?” Arnaldo said.
“Psychotomimetic. Delusions, hallucinations, the reactions we’ve come to expect from opiates.”
“How easy is it to get, this Ketamine?”
“Very. In the days before my total transformation into an honest citizen, I could have acquired the drug with no difficulty whatsoever. Ketamine is still widely used in veterinary medicine. A single visit to my local unethical veterinarian would have provided me with enough to treat a dozen unwilling patients. I think it’s unlikely that the situation has changed very much over the course of the last seven years.”
“Interesting,” Silva said, “but I don’t see how knowing any of this is going to be of help. As you say, any veterinarian who’d provided the stuff to Juraci’s kidnappers would, by definition, be unethical-and unlikely to come forward. Where else would one get Ketamine, if not from a veterinarian?”
“From narcotics dealers. The street name is Special K.”
“We can hardly expect any of those people to come forward either. Other sources?”
“Pharmacies. I imagine a number of them would stock it to serve veterinarians in their area.”
“Maybe. Other thoughts?”
“On Ketamine? No.”
“Something else then?”
“It’s occurred to me that the gang you’re after is probably quite small.”
“On what do you base that supposition?”
“I’ve been reading Senhora Carta’s summaries. You’re not getting any tips. Your informers aren’t feeding you a thing. There are no rumors on the street.”
“So? Connect the dots.”
“The larger the gang, the more likely it is that someone will talk. You never add just one member to a gang. You add that person’s lover, family and friends as well. People like to be in the know. They like to gossip. Not only for gossip’s sake, but also to prove they’re in the know. But nobody’s gossiping, are they?”
“No. So your conclusion-”
“ Preliminary conclusion.”
“- preliminary conclusion is that we should be looking for a person or persons with ties to a veterinarian-”
“-or a pharmacist, or a drug-dealer.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Arnaldo said. “Didn’t Babyface-”
“Who’s Babyface?” Rosa said.
“Haraldo Goncalves,” Silva said, “one of our agents. We call him Babyface.”
“But never to his baby face,” Arnaldo said.
“I know where Arnaldo’s going,” Silva said. “Tarso Mello.”
Rosa looked perplexed. “And he is?”
“I guess Mara hasn’t written up that one yet. Mello is Cintia Tadesco’s current agent.”
“Cintia the top-model? Cintia the girlfriend of the Artist?”
“That Cintia. When Goncalves interviewed Mello, Mello told him he was gay, and that he lives with a partner.”
“So?”
“The partner is a vet tech.”
“If I was a judge,” Rosa said, “and you appealed to me for a search warrant based upon that coincidence, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
“But if you were a federal cop, would you follow it up?”
“I certainly would.”
“You mentioned a small gang. How small?”
“I can’t see the job being done with less than two: one to start the car’s engine while the other smashes the kitchen door; one to dispatch the maids while the other subdues Juraci. Yes, I think they could do it with two.”
“Or three,” Arnaldo said. “Mello, his partner the vet tech, and that bitch, Cintia Tadesco.”
“I take it,” Rosa said with a smile, “that you have met the beautiful Senhorita Tadesco-and been less than enchanted.”
“You take it right,” Arnaldo said.
“Tell me this, Professor,” Silva said, “do you think Juraci is still alive?”
“I’d virtually guarantee it.”
“Why?”
“Proof of life. Until they get their hands on the ransom, they could be asked to provide it at any time.”
“And after they get their hands on the ransom?”
“At that point, Chief Inspector, the situation will change radically.”
“I share your opinion, but I’d like to hear your reasoning.”
“The murder of the maids clearly demonstrates the ruthlessness of the people responsible. The choice of such a high-profile target illustrates their audacity and resolve. They won’t want to risk recognition. They won’t want to leave loose ends. Juraci Santos is a loose end. The conclusion, therefore, is inescapable.”
“They’re going to kill her.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector, they’re going to kill her.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the street in front of the Artist’s building, media people had settled in for the duration.
Canopies now afforded protection from inclement weather; tents and chairs had been set up; the smell of cigarettes and coffee was in the air; high wooden platforms supported longlensed cameras.
Silva, as before, ignored the questions that assailed him from every side. This time, many were in English. The international press had arrived in force.
Upstairs, roiling grey clouds hung mere meters above the Artist’s windows. Rain was beginning to sprinkle on the panes.
Cintia was curled up on an L-shaped divan, a fashion magazine on her lap. She raised her eyes and gave the two cops a blank stare. Then she went back to the article she was reading. The Artist was more cordial.
“How about those keys?” he said. “Did they fit?”
“They did,” Silva said. “Still no idea how they wound up in that drawer?”
The Artist shook his head.
Cintia turned a page “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist,” she said, without looking up, “to figure that out.”
“You have a theory?”
Now, she did look up. But it was with the air of someone being put upon.
“When Tico empties his pockets,” she said, “everything goes on the dresser. His wallet, small change, everything. A maid picked the keys and put them in a drawer. End of mystery.”
“Why would they do that?”
