'Cornmeal mush, Chief Inspector?' Brouwer said, holding out the spoon.
'Thank you, no,' Silva said.
'Maria likes it a lot. Don't you, Maria?'
The little girl nodded her head gravely and opened her mouth for another bite.
'You see the results of greed, Chief Inspector?' Brouwer said, gently tapping the fingers of his free hand on the child's distended belly. 'Malnutrition.' He pointed at her legs. 'Rickets. This is what people like Muniz bring about.'
'It turns out you were right about him,' Silva said. 'The younger one, I mean. He's dead.'
The priest didn't seem in the least surprised. 'Poor man,' he said. 'He should have changed his ways. Our Lord said it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. You'll find the same passage in Matthew, Mark, and Luke.'
'Listen to me, Father. Old man Muniz is on the top of that hill where his son's body is. He's going to be down here any time now. He's got gunmen with him. He's got that bastard Ferraz and his men from the State Police with him. This is his property. Remember what happened last time?'
'Oh, yes, Chief Inspector, I remember. I remember very well. I was here.'
'I didn't know.'
'I've been fighting social injustice all my life. It's my vocation. I never learned to preach a good sermon. I'm not sure I was ever capable of writing one. But this, Chief Inspector, this I can do.' He clucked at the child, gave her another spoonful of cornmeal mush and continued. 'I sense you're a good man, that you want the best for everyone, but sometimes that's just not possible. Sometimes there has to be suffering to achieve progress. Jesus showed us that.'
He smiled down at the child and the child smiled back, a smile so sweet that Silva found himself smiling too.
'There's really nothing you can do,' the priest said. 'So please, go away and let us get on with it. What's going to happen now is in God's hands, not yours.'
Chapter Twenty-eight
The upper-middle-class condominium calledJardim Jericoara was less than ten kilometers from the favela of Consolacao, but in socioeconomic terms it was in another galaxy. Access to the property was by way of two entry lanes, one of them labeled RESIDENTES and the other VISITANTES. A metal gate blocked each lane, and each gate was controlled from a guardhouse with what looked to Arnaldo like bulletproof glass on the windows.
When the taxi stopped, the four rent-a-cops in the guardhouse gave it a thorough once-over through the glass, and then three of them went back to watching a daytime soap opera on their little television set. The fourth, a husky fellow with a revolver on his hip, carrying a clipboard, came out of the door and approached the taxi. He ignored the driver and spoke directly to Arnaldo.
'Senhor?'
The form of address was polite. The man's tone of voice wasn't. Arnaldo's taxi was a Volkswagen Beetle, not even a taxi especial. A resident (or a friend of a resident) of Jardim Jericoara wouldn't have been caught dead in one. The conclusion was obvious: Despite his suit and tie, Arnaldo had to be either a household servant or some other kind of service provider. In either case, he didn't merit first-class treatment.
'I'm here to see…'-Arnaldo consulted the paper the old woman had given him-'Dona Marcia on the Rua das Bromelias.'
The guard narrowed his eyes at the soap wrapper and made an annotation on his clipboard. 'About?'
Arnaldo flashed his badge. 'Police business.'
The guard's attitude changed completely. He stood up a little straighter, the sneer on his face vanished, and a tone of respect crept into his voice.
'You want me to call?'
'That's what you're supposed to do, right?'
The guard nodded. 'That's the procedure,' he confirmed, 'for any visitor.'
'Then you'd better do it.'
'Can I hold on to some ID? Sorry. But that's the procedure, too.'
Arnaldo took out his national identity card and handed it over.
The guard walked into the shack, said a few words to his companions and picked up a telephone. Three pairs of eyes turned toward the taxi and stared at Arnaldo. Arnaldo stared back. They redirected their attention to the TV screen.
The guard returned in less than a minute. 'Okay, she's expecting you.' Then, for the first time, he addressed Arnaldo's driver. 'Bromelias is the first right off the second left.'
The driver nodded. Arnaldo sank back in his seat. The barrier lifted and the taxi started to roll.
The condominium was no housing project. Every house was unique, and every house was set well back on a tailored lawn. It was a little island of luxury in a sea of poverty. After the first turn, Arnaldo could no longer see the high walls that surrounded the place.
A group of teenagers was hanging around on one of the street corners. They were similar in age to the kids Arnaldo had seen in the favela of Consolacao but there the similarity ended. These were wearing clean T-shirts with slogans in English and French. One of them, not older than twelve, was sitting on a motor-driven scooter, gunning the engine. There wasn't a dark skin among them.
The driver had no problem finding Dona Marcia's house. She was standing at the curb, and she started waving to them when they turned into her street. It wasn't a friendly wave. She was only doing it to get their attention.
Dona Marcia was a slender woman, closer to forty than thirty. Above her designer jeans she, too, was wearing a Tshirt with something written on it in English. This one said: FIVE REASONS WHY A BANANA IS BETTER THAN A HUSBAND, and went on to enumerate them. None of the first four were complimentary to males. Arnaldo, whose English wasn't that good anyway, couldn't read the fifth. It was tucked in under her belt.
The taxi driver offered his keys when Arnaldo got out of the cab.
'Keep them,' Arnaldo said, and then to the woman, 'Dona Marcia?'
'Sim.'
She didn't ask him what he wanted, didn't ask him anything at all, just stood there frowning at him.
'You have a woman working for you? A woman by the name of Souza?'
'What's she done?'
'Nothing. She hasn't done anything. I just want to ask her some questions. Is she here?'
'Could I see your badge, or something?'
Arnaldo had his police ID ready.
She took a moment to study it, compared the photo with his face. 'You're not from around here?'
'No, Senhora, Federal Police, based in the capital.'
By which they both understood him to mean Sao Paulo, the capital of the state, and not Brasilia, the nation's capital, which everybody always refers to by name.
'Look, Agente, I've got a couple of young kids in this house, and my husband travels a lot. If Marly's been involved in anything illegal, I'll fire her so fast her head will spin. And I want you to tell me, right now, if she has.'
She was a woman used to getting her way and not in the least fazed by being in the presence of a cop. She knew what cops were for. Cops were to protect people like her.
'She hasn't. I told you, I just have some questions to put to her.'
Dona Marcia hooked a thumb under her jaw and tapped perfectly manicured fingers on her cheek. It wasn't a wholly unconscious gesture. She was wearing a gold ring with a large diamond-three carats, at least. After he'd had a good look at it she said, 'I suppose you'd better come in.'
He followed her through the front door. She led him through a sunken living room with white leather furniture and onto a wooden deck overlooking a swimming pool.
