Naboth and he had this vineyard. Stop me if you know the story.'
Silva shook his head. The old man went on.
'Ahab, he was the King of Samaria, wanted that vineyard so bad he could practically taste the grapes, but Naboth was like me. The old fellow liked his wine. He made that wine from those grapes, and he told the king to buzz off. Now, Ahab was married to a very unpleasant lady by the name of Jezebel. They decided to… what's the phrase you use? Bump Naboth off?'
Silva nodded.
'You also say `waste them,' don't you? I think I like that even better. So Ahab and Jezebel decided to waste Naboth and lay their hands on the property. They did it, but it was a big mistake. In those days, God used to take a more active role in people's affairs and he was on Naboth's side. The Lord avenged Naboth's death in a most exemplary way: Dogs wound up licking the blood he spilled from Ahab, but Jezebel fared even worse. The dogs ate her. They must have been a good deal fiercer than old Methuselah here.'
At the sound of his name, the old dog turned his head and looked at Father Angelo. Father Brouwer picked up where his friend had left off.
'The moral of the story is that if you get greedy for land, you'd better watch out. Muniz should have spent more of his time reading the Bible and less of it exploiting the people who worked for him.'
Silva looked from one to the other. 'Thank you, gentlemen, for the scripture lesson. What else can you tell me about Orlando Muniz Junior?'
'He was responsible for the murder of an innocent man by the name of Aurelio Azevedo,' Brouwer said. 'And not only Azevedo himself, but also his entire family, a wife and two children.'
'Can you prove that?'
'No. But I'm sure he was. Whatever death Muniz died, he deserved it.'
Silva pounced. 'What makes you so sure he's dead?'
'Why… you said so, didn't you?'
'No, Father, I didn't.'
After a moment of silence, Father Angelo spoke. 'Chief Inspector Silva is quite right, Anton. He didn't say it. Perhaps someone at the encampment mentioned it to you, someone who was jumping to conclusions.'
He turned to Silva. 'The night before last the league-'
'-invaded Muniz's fazenda. Yes, I know.'
Father Brower shook his head. 'Don't call it an invasion. It wasn't. What the league did was to occupy uncultivated land within a fence put up by Orlando Muniz Junior. When the government-'
Father Angelo put his hand on Father Brouwer's knee. 'I think that Inspector Silva's concerns lie elsewhere, Anton. He's only interested in things that are germane to the cases he's investigating.' He turned to Silva. 'Muniz's foreman was heard to say that his employer had disappeared and that people were searching for him. Perhaps the rumor about him being dead is simply wishful thinking.'
'That must be it,' Brouwer said. 'A rumor.'
There was a moment of silence.
Then Silva said, 'All right, let's put Muniz on the back burner for a moment. What can you tell me about the bishop?'
Father Brouwer leaned back in his chair. 'I can't help you very much,' Brouwer said. 'I didn't know him well.'
'Did you like him?'
'As I've just said, I hardly knew him.'
'Why would anyone want to kill him?'
'You heard about his sermon? Asking people to come forward if they knew anything about the murder of the Azevedo family?'
'I heard about it, yes.'
'Well, then, there you have it. My guess would be that he was killed by the same murdering parasites who killed Azevedo: Muniz, or one of his cronies.'
'Landowners?'
'Landowners. From all accounts, the bishop wasn't a particularly likeable man, but I can't think of anyone else who would have had a reason to kill him.'
'Father Gaspar thinks otherwise. He thinks someone from the league might have done it.'
'From the league?'
Father Brouwer was genuinely surprised.
So was Father Angelo. 'What possible motive could anyone from the league have?' the old priest asked.
'Perhaps because the bishop withdrew church support?'
'Nonsense,' Father Brouwer said. 'Everyone knew that was bound to happen when the old bishop died. Now, that man, the old bishop, he was a saint. He cared more about the poor than he did about the opinions of a few learned-and some believe misguided-old men in Rome. We won't see his like again in our lifetimes. These days, Rome would never appoint a man like him. They'll only appoint someone else who follows the party line. Dom Felipe did. That's one of the reasons he got the job.'
'Tell me about the league.'
'What do you want to know?'
'Help me to understand them. What kind of people are they?'
Father Brouwer scratched his chin, and then said, 'They're the stubborn ones.'
'Stubborn?'
'Stubborn. The ones who haven't given up, the ones who've rejected migration to the big cities, the ones who've elected to stay and fight.'
'That's well and good, Father, but they shouldn't be doing it by occupying land to which they have no right-'
'No right? No right?' Father Brouwer scowled. He took a deep breath then let it out, slowly, through his nose. 'Tell me this, Chief Inspector: Who has a greater right to the land, someone who's born on it, sweated on it, drawn his subsistence from it, or some capitalist who paid for it with money, or stole it by forging false documents?'
'Capitalist?' Silva said, raising his eyebrows.
Father Brouwer leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. 'I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Marxist, you're thinking communist. But you're wrong. I'm neither. I believe in God.'
'How about liberation theology? Do you believe in that?'
Brouwer exchanged a glance with Angelo. 'How could l?' Brouwer said. 'After all, my superiors in Rome have condemned it.'
'It's forbidden,' Angelo said. 'I'm surprised you didn't know that.'
'Condemned?' Silva said. 'Forbidden? So no priest could ever publicly commit to it, right?'
'Right. Not publicly,' Brouwer said.
It didn't escape Silva that neither one of the priests had actually denied being a liberation theologian. He looked from one to the other. The conversation was going nowhere. He rose to his feet. 'I think I've taken up enough of your time. I'm at the Excelsior. You will call me, won't you, if anything else occurs to you?'
'Of course,' Father Angelo said.
Father Brouwer didn't say anything at all. He didn't even nod.
When Silva got back to the hotel he was surprised to find a note from Arnaldo:
If you're reading this, I'm in the coffee shop.
It would have been impossible for Arnaldo to arrive in the few short hours since he'd authorized Hector to summon him. His nephew had clearly jumped the gun. Silva made a mental note to take him to task about it.
Arnaldo was where he'd promised to be. It was still lunchtime, and the restaurant was crammed with people dressed in the fashion of the countryside. At that time of the year, with temperatures peaking around 40 degrees Celsius104 degrees Fahrenheit-the men were clothed almost exclusively in thin cotton shirts open at the neck. Arnaldo, in a beige suit, starched white shirt, and blue necktie, stuck out like a penguin in a chicken coop.
He was frowning at a menu when Silva slipped into a seat in front of him.
'A cheeseburger, medium,' Arnaldo said to the hovering waiter.
'And to drink, senhor?'
