Buried Strangers

“We are. To gain time. It’s only a hundred thousand dol-lars, after all. A trifle.”

“And take his advice? About Ribeiro?”

“Certainly not.”

She walked to the window, turning her back to him, con-cealing her expression. When she spoke again, her posture hadn’t altered, but her tone of voice had.

“I most emphatically disagree. The man’s an idiot. He had strict instructions to destroy that furniture. Instead, he sold it, and for the sake of a few reais he’s put us in jeopardy. We should get rid of him immediately.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said no.”

“Why not?”

“Because he continues to be useful.”

“Useful?” She snorted. “He’s dangerous, that’s what he is. If that cop wasn’t venal, where would we be then? Tell me that.”

“Ah, but the cop is venal, which means there’s no serious harm done.”

“No? What makes you think we’ve seen the last of him? I’ve heard blackmailers always come back for another bite of the apple.”

“They do. And that’s the problem we should be concen-trating our energies on, not Ribeiro. What’s the name of that police official we have on the payroll?”

“Soares. Lieutenant Soares. Why?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

Chapter Fifteen

“It’s another one of those crummy undercover jobs, isn’t it?” Babyface Goncalves said, looking back and forth between Hector Costa and the device on the table in front of him.

They were in the conference room of the federal police field office in Sao Paulo. The device was one of the latest-generation speakerphones. It looked like a little, gray pyramid.

Goncalves was one of the principal participants in the conversation that was taking place, Hector a mere bystander.

“It is,” Silva said, his voice emanating from the instrument.

“What are you guys gonna do when my face catches up with my age, huh?” Goncalves said.

Agent Heraldo “Babyface” Goncalves was going on thirty-five, but he looked to be in his early twenties, hence the nickname.

“Plastic surgery.” Now it was Arnaldo’s voice. “We figure you’ll be able to go on forever.”

“You read the report?” Silva asked, addressing Goncalves, ignoring the exchange.

“Boceta’s? About cults? Yeah. You told me to read it, and I read it.”

“Good. Now, pay attention. The rest is confidential. You know Cavalcante, the minister of tourism?”

“We’ve got a minister of tourism? What the hell for?”

“Shut up and listen.”

Silva related his conversation with Sampaio and Cavalcante.

“What’s with him?” Goncalves said when Silva finished. “Sticking his nose into an investigation like that? He’s the minister of tourism, for Christ’s sake, not the minister of justice.”

“Thank you for your trenchant observation,” Silva said. “The answer to your question is exactly what I want you to find out. We have two hypotheses at the moment: the first is that the minister is being absolutely straightforward when he says his concern is tourism-”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“The second is that he’s protecting someone.”

“Who?”

“His daughter.”

“Why?”

“She’s a Wiccan.”

“What the hell is a Wiccan?”

“A witch.”

“Huh?”

“A witch. You know, black cats, broomsticks, magic potions.” “You’re putting me on, right?”

“I’m not.”

“And how did you-”

“Tarcisio Mello.”

“Ah. Him. And you think-”

“I don’t think anything. I know the girl’s a Wiccan. I know her father is aware of it. I suspect he believes that she and her coven-”

“Coven?”

“A group of witches, generally thirteen in number.”

“Where are you getting this stuff?”

“The Internet. Now, as I was saying, I suspect that Cavalcante believes his daughter and her coven might be murdering people for ritual purposes.”

“What do you think?”

“I have no opinion one way or another. I’m not even sure Boceta’s right about a cult being responsible for the deaths. But we have to check it out. And that’s where you come in. The girl’s a contemporary of yours. She’s twenty-six and-”

“She’s not. She’s not a contemporary. I’m almost thirty-five.”

“And she works as a disc jockey in a club by the name of Banana Banana. You know it?”

“Everybody knows Banana Banana.”

“Wrong,” Arnaldo said. “I don’t.”

“Because you’re a fucking dinosaur,” Goncalves said.

“And neither do I,” Silva said.

“Probably because you live in Brasilia, Senhor,” Goncalves said, without missing a beat. “It’s the place to see and be seen in this town. They say the decor alone cost a million reais. They’ve got a sound system with speakers even bigger than my dick.”

“Tweeters?” Arnaldo said.

Goncalves continued, undeterred: “The bouncers are all Neanderthal types with low foreheads like Arnaldo Nunes. Unlike him, they’re smart enough to separate glitterati from riffraff, maybe because they’re riffraff themselves, again like Nunes.”

“But you,” Silva said, “being a handsome and person-able young man, should have no trouble getting past those bouncers and turning your considerable charms onto the minister’s daughter.”

“What if she’s got a boyfriend?”

“She hasn’t. Tarcisio checked. She’s unattached and lives alone.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“You don’t think being a witch might be an impediment to forming relationships?”

“Not if she’s hot.”

“That’s the trouble with kids,” Arnaldo said. “Their dicks speak louder than their brains, even when the dicks have tiny, little voices.”

“Hey,” Goncalves said, “at your age I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. I’ll bet your dick hasn’t talked to you for forty years.”

“The girl’s name,” Silva said, “is Randi Calvacante.”

“Randi? What kind of a name is that?”