rental car. A driver sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes. The others were vans and they were packed with armed men.
Chapter Twenty-five
One thing Silva could have anticipated, but hadn't, was the presence of the press in the league's encampment.
A pod of them surrounded Luiz Pillar. All were men, except for one very attractive brunette.
'That's all we need,' Silva said when he spotted her.
'Wow,' Hector said, 'That's-'
'Yeah. Vicenza Pelosi.' Vicenza was an ex-model turned investigative journalist. If the stories about her were true, she'd gotten her break into journalism by having an affair with the president of the network, but that was ancient history. These days, it was said, she tended to avoid entanglements with men, and had a low opinion of most of them. Her father had been a shop steward in the metalworker's union, mysteriously shot down one night by a person, or persons, never identified. She'd been twelve years old when they'd buried him. By the time she was fourteen, she'd blossomed into a black-haired, olive-skinned beauty with pouting bee-stung lips, an hourglass figure, and intriguing green eyes. She entered a modeling contest and won it. The prize was a contract, and within six months she'd appeared on the cover of half a dozen magazines. The camera loved her, and in another sense, so did the photographers and art directors upon whom her work depended. By eighteen, she'd bedded dozens and her photos had appeared in publications all over the world.
But Vicenza was much more than a pretty face. Early on, she'd realized that the career of a model, no matter how successful, was short. She started bringing books to her photo shoots, reading them while they were setting up the lights or when the other models were being made up. They were the kind of books most photographers and art directors had never read, much less any of the other girls. Marx, Spengler, Engels, Sartre, Camus-she read them all, and kept going back to the bookshops to buy more. While the other girls' closets were stuffed with shoes and dresses, Vicenza's were stacked with paperbacks. While the other girls spent their evenings in nightclubs and trendy restaurants, Vicenza took to staying at home, reading, and going to bed alone, by preference.
She couldn't discuss her books with any of the people she worked with, so she started studying at night. By the time she was twenty-three she'd earned a degree in social sciences from the University of Rio de Janeiro. At twenty-six, she was doing local coverage for the Rede Mundo affiliate in Sao Paulo. At twenty-eight she went national. And now, at thirty-three, she had her own show, could choose what she wanted to report on, and was a major force in shaping Brazilian public opinion. Everybody in government, from the President of the Republic on down, was leery of getting on her bad side.
'I think she spotted me,' Silva said.
'I think she did too. You ever meet her? In person, I mean.
Silva nodded. 'In another age, she would have been locked up for being a communist. She and Pillar must see eye to eye. He probably invited her.'
'She's beautiful.'
'She is that. She's also abrasive as hell.'
'Introduce me.'
Silva nodded. 'Okay,' he said, 'but don't say I didn't warn you.
Vicenza came walking toward them, trailing a cameraman and a guy with a microphone boom.
'Ah, Chief Inspector Silva. I heard you were in Cascatas.'
'Is the camera running, Vicenza?'
She answered him with a smile and another question.
'Are you here to help with the breakup of this encampment?'
Silva just stood and smiled. She repeated the question with exactly the same result. Their activity attracted the attention of other journalists. Some of them started walking toward them like cautious wolves inspecting new prey. Silva didn't recognize any of them but there was a good chance that some of them would recognize him. He turned his back.
'Okay,' Vicenza said, walking around Silva so that she could face him. 'Take a break, guys.' The cameraman took the camera from his shoulder and slipped on a lens cap. The soundman lowered his microphone boom. Then the two of them wandered off in the direction of a blue truck with the Rede Mundo logotype.
The other journalists watched them for a moment, then gravitated back to Pillar.
Vicenza fished a cigarette out of her shoulder bag and lit it. She didn't seem miffed by Silva's unwillingness to play.
'Shall we try again?' she said. 'Off the record?'
Hector cleared his throat.
'Who's this?' She flashed her long eyelashes.
'Hector Costa, a delegado from the Sao Paulo office.'
Hector smiled and took a step forward.
'Ah. And your nephew, if I'm not mistaken.'
Hector winced.
'Well informed,' Silva said, 'as usual.'
Vicenza redirected her attention to Silva.
'What brought you to Cascatas in the first place, Chief Inspector? Dom Felipe? The Poli woman? Young Muniz's kidnapping?'
'All of the above. What can you tell me about Muniz?'
'Who's the reporter here?' She had a slightly crooked incisor. The small defect served to enhance her smile.
'Help us out, Vicenza. I'll reciprocate.'
She cocked her head and thought about it. 'Okay. Who do you want to know about? The father or the son?'
'The son.'
'Nasty bastard, just as mean and greedy as his father. Thought the league was out to get him, and with good reason. They say he murdered a man by the name of Aurelio-'
'I know about that.'
'So he was paranoid. Always locked himself in at night and had a half a dozen capangas guarding the house. He's got a manager who lives here on the property, name of Santos. They were supposed to meet for a late breakfast.'
'Where?'
'At the casa grande, Muniz's house. Santos showed up on time, but Muniz wasn't there. Neither were any of his bodyguards. The cook and the maid were, but they don't sleep in the house. They've got their own little cottage just on the other side of that hill. They arrived to find the front door and the door to his bedroom smashed and no sign of their boss.'
'What time was that?'
'A little after eight.'
'Aside from the broken doors, and the fact that Muniz missed his appointment, was there anything else that induced them to suspect foul play?'
Vicenza smiled. 'Foul play? Foul play? Do cops really talk like that?'
'I'm a cop and that's the way I talk. Answer my question.'
Vicenza's smile vanished.
'Please.'
The smile came back.
'That's better, Chief Inspector. Be nice. Muniz's car and van were still in the garage. Both are blindados, teflon in the doors, windows two centimeters thick and bulletproof. He never traveled in anything else.'
'Was he married?'
