But he didn't. This time, he held on to the newly severed finger and dangled it in front of her nose.
'No one,' Diana said desperately. 'No one else. Honest to God, no one but me. I didn't even tell Lori.'
Ferraz adjusted the cutting board and reached for Lori's ring finger. Lori was wearing her Russian wedding ring, the companion piece to Diana's own. He slipped it off, examined it, and put it into his pocket. Lori didn't react. She was still unconscious.
'Where is the little bastard?'
Diana shook her head. She would have told him if she knew. He raised the cleaver.
She stared, transfixed, willing him to keep the cleaver where it was. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She struggled to speak.
The cleaver smacked into the board.
Diana gave a little squeak. Lori's blood was flowing freely from all of her stumps, dripping off the board, pooling on the parquet floor of the office.
'What's this kid Pipoca's real name?'
'Let me stop the bleeding.'
'You want to help her? Talk fast. What's the kid's real name?'
'I don't know. Everybody just calls him Pipoca. Everybody.'
Pipoca was a nickname, a street name. It meant popcorn. She'd thought it was funny when she heard it for the first time.
'Where does he live?'
'He wouldn't tell me.'
'Who else knows?'
'Anton Brouwer. He's a priest who-'
'I know Brouwer. Who else?'
'No one.'
'Why Brouwer?'
'He works with street kids. Tries to get them off drugs, find places to live, get jobs. Pipoca talked to him first. Brouwer convinced him to talk to me.'
'Those federal cops, how much do they know?'
'Nothing. I didn't tell them anything.'
Ferraz gestured with the cleaver. 'I swear,' she said in a strangled voice. 'I swear to God.'
'What else do I need to know?'
'I took photos.'
'You did what?'
It was his first sign of anger. She shrank away from him, spoke quickly.
'I used a digital camera so I didn't have to process the film. I worked without a flash. No one noticed me doing it, and no one's seen any of it. No one, except me.'
'What's in the photos?'
'You. Your men. Distributing drugs. Taking money.'
'Where's the material?'
'Here in the computer.'
'Where else?'
'There's… there's a memory stick. It's in my safe-deposit box at the Itau bank, the one on Avenida Neves.'
'And the interviews? The original tapes?'
'Same place. And a CD, too, with copies of all the transcriptions.'
'So you lied. I should make this a whole hand.'
He lifted the cleaver and brought it down again. The severed finger remained on the board. He used the blade of the cleaver to brush it aside, and it fell with a plop into the spreading pool of blood.
Diana felt a rush of gratitude. Yes, he was right. He'd told her the rules. He could have made it a hand. What's he done to me? He cut off all those fingers and I'm feeling grateful. Oh, God.
'Where's the key?'
'What key?'
'The one to the safe-deposit box, you fucking dyke. Where is it?'
'In my pocket.'
'Which?'
'Hip. Left side.'
Ferraz put down the cleaver, groped in her pocket, and came up with the key. Then he reached for his cigar, only to discover that it had gone out. He tossed it back onto the dinner plate.
'Anything else I should know about? Anything at all?'
'No. Nothing. I've told you everything.'
His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of duplicity. 'You know,' he said at last, 'I really think you have.'
He wiped the bloody fingers of his gloves on Diana's Tshirt, treating it like a dirty rag, kneading her breasts while he was at it.
Then he took out another cigar and nodded, casually, to the cop who was holding her by the arm.
Chapter Eighteen
Father Anton Brouwer was a tall man, so tall that he'd developed a slight stoop from leaning over when he spoke to people. He had a nose like the beak of a parrot and a receding hairline of straw-colored blond hair. Like straw, too, it lay every which way on the top of his head. From what Silva had already learned, he was well into his fifties, but unlike Father Angelo he wore his years lightly.
No cassock for him. His blue denim pants hung low on bony hips. Above them, and tucked in at the belt, he was wearing one of those red T-shirts bearing the logotype of the league.
He was smiling when he mounted the veranda, still smiling when the old dog got laboriously to its feet, and he leaned over to stroke it. The smile vanished when he found out who his visitor was. Brouwer rose to his full height. The dog continued to stand there, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
'Chief Inspector Silva and I have been having a pleasant chat,' Father Angelo told him. 'He's here to talk to you about the league.'
'For the league,' Father Brouwer said, sinking into a chair, 'I have all afternoon. As for you, Angelo, you'd better empty that ashtray and clean the table. That's no way to receive a guest, now is it?'
Brouwer's Portuguese was excellent, but there was the trace of an accent there. Silva had never heard anything quite like it. He assumed it was Flemish.
Father Angelo contemplated the overflowing ashtray. 'In time, my boy. I'll clean it in time. At the moment I'm rather enjoying myself.'
'Before we touch on the subject of the league,' Silva said, 'I have a few other questions.'
'About?' Brouwer said. The dog came up to him and stuck its muzzle in his lap. Absently, he scratched it behind one of its floppy ears.
'About Bishop Antunes and about Orlando Muniz Junior. He seems to have disappeared.'
Silva was watching Brouwer closely to see how he took the news. Brouwer's expression didn't change. He didn't even nod.
'Let's start with Muniz,' Silva said. 'Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?'
'Read First Kings Twenty-one,' Brouwer said.
Angelo chuckled.
Silva looked from one to the other.
'How about sharing the joke?'
'First Kings Twenty-one,' Angelo said, 'a passage from the Old Testament. There was a chap by the name of
