A Vine in the Blood (15 page)

“What’s this?” he said.

“Copies of all our reports, everything we’ve done up to now.”

Rosa raised his eyes to Silva’s, then lowered them again to study the height of the stack.

“Not very much, by the look of it.”

“It’s early days yet. I’d like you to look at this material as a professor of criminology, but also in the light of your … more recent experience.”

“With the objective of uncovering something you might have missed?”

“And anything else that might help us to apprehend the people who did it.”’

“Such as?”

“Profiles of the kind of people we might be dealing with.”

Rosa gave a slow, deliberate nod and leaned back in his chair. “You recognize, of course, that I can make no guarantee other than to try my best?”

“Yes.”

The kidnapper narrowed his eyes. “If I undertake this, can I count on your help in getting me out of this place?”

Silva, expecting the question, had the answer ready.

“You can.”

Rosa’s expression didn’t change. “Even if my contribution, in the end, doesn’t help you in any substantial way?”

“As long as I’m convinced you tried your best.”

“Good,” Rosa said, picking up the papers and removing a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Then we have a deal. Let me peruse all of this. I might have some questions for you.”

Arnaldo and Silva sat in silence while Rosa read. The file was very short, and the reading didn’t take long. When he finished, Silva said, “Any initial impressions?”

“The people behind it definitely had someone on the inside.”

Silva nodded. “I concur, but I’d like to hear why you think so.”

Rosa looked at Silva over his glasses. “Who’s this fellow Lefkowitz?”

“Our chief forensics technician. A
Paulista
, who was working with the local police in Manaus. We discovered him, concluded that his talent was wasted up there and hired him.”

“Manaus.” Rosa shuddered. “Why would any self-respecting individual abandon São Paulo for Manaus?”

“His wife is a biologist. She thought working in the Amazon would be paradise.”

“I’ll bet that didn’t last long.”

“It didn’t. Once they discovered what Manaus is really about, they were desperate to get out.”

Rosa snorted in agreement. “Of course they were. Your gain, I’d say. He seems a perceptive person, this Lefkowitz.”

“He is.”

Rosa tapped the file with a forefinger.

“I agree with him. The kidnappers had a key. Smashing the door was a mere ruse to conceal that fact. If you don’t have a key, there are easier and quieter ways to get into a locked house, ways that don’t entail making anywhere near as much noise.”

“Indeed. Anything else?”

Rosa removed his reading glasses, folded them, and put them back into his breast pocket.

“Another salient point is the killing of the maids,” he said. “Why would they do that if not to reduce the danger of recognition? It occurs to me that Senhora Santos’s maids might have known and recognized the kidnappers. And I’m strengthened in that belief by a feeling that the people who committed this crime weren’t professionals.”

Silva leaned back and crossed his arms. “Why?”

“True professionals always carefully consider what they’re getting into. They don’t embark on a project unless they’re reasonably sure of being able to escape unscathed. That said, they always retain their fear of being apprehended. They set limits for themselves, avoid unnecessary risk, plan for the worst-case scenario.”

“That’s what you did.”

Rosa grinned. “Except at the last,” he said, “when I chose the wrong man to do a simple job.” The grin vanished. “But I wasn’t speaking as a kidnapper. I was speaking from the point of view of a criminologist. I studied hundreds, probably thousands, of cases before I was arrested. I’ve continued my research here in prison.”

“You’re an expert, Professor. That’s why I’m here. Explain to me, exactly, why you’re convinced these people weren’t professionals.”

Rosa shook his head. “I didn’t say I was
convinced
, Chief Inspector. I said I had a feeling. Criminology isn’t an exact science.”

“Noted. Go on.”

“Murder bears a much heavier penalty than kidnapping. Professionals would have been aware that, with proper planning, murder would have been superfluous. And it certainly wouldn’t have been desirable. So they wouldn’t have done it. These perpetrators, on the other hand, either didn’t plan properly, or got rattled and forgot what they’d planned, or allowed one, or both, of the maids to get a glimpse of someone they knew. Or perhaps they’d already decided upon murder before they entered the house, or simply killed out of impulse. I can’t see any other possibilities. Any one, or any combination of them, would mark the abductors as amateurs.”

Silva rubbed his chin. “Interesting. Anything else?”

“The diamonds.”

“What about the diamonds?”

“They’ve obviously been requested for some specific purpose. But what purpose?”

“Portability. Large denominations would be difficult to negotiate. Five million dollars in small bills, even hundreds, would make quite a bundle.”

“Perhaps. But think about it. If I’m right, and they’re amateurs known to Juraci, or someone in her circle, it follows that they live here, that they have a life here.”

“And?”

“And, if they want to
stay
here, they’d wind up selling those diamonds here. The risk of them being traced through the people who buy them, it seems to me, offsets the convenience of portability.”

“Also interesting.”

“Does Juraci have any medical condition that might require special treatment or special drugs?”

“No.”

“But you
have
inquired?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s a dead end. You won’t be able to trace her through physicians or drug purchases.” Rosa closed his eyes and rubbed them. “I really have to get a new prescription for those reading glasses,” he said.

“Any further questions?” Silva said.

“Not at the moment. You’ll send me updates as your investigation progresses?”

“By email. From Mara Carta. She’s our intelligence officer here in São Paulo—”

“And collates the various reports into a unified whole. I know how it works, and I well remember the charming Senhora Carta. Tell me, Chief Inspector, did you ever think we might someday work together?”

“Not in my wildest dreams.”

“Well, think about it now. I’ll be seeking employment when I get out of here. The university is unlikely to have me back.”

“You’re asking for a job?”

“You think that’s absurd?”

Silva rubbed his chin. Rosa had been one of the best criminologists in the country—and one of the best criminals. He had a profound knowledge of both sides of the fence.

“What do you propose to do for us?” he said.

“What I will attempt to do for you now. Profiling. Criminal profiling.”

Arnaldo and Silva looked at each other.

“What?” Rosa said, looking from one to the other.

“We already have a profiler,” Silva said.

“No, you don’t,” Rosa said. “You have that incompetent ass, Godofredo Boceta.”

“Professor,” Arnaldo said, “I like your style.”

Chapter Eighteen

L
EO
M
ARQUES’S PARENTS HAD
named him well. There was, indeed, something leonine about him. His massive head, with its thick mane of gray hair, seemed set directly upon his broad shoulders. He glided around his desk with feline grace, shook Gonçalves’s hand and gave him an appraising up-anddown look.

“Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

“Thirty-four,” Gonçalves said.

“Really?” Marques’s voice conveyed disappointment. “You don’t look it.” He turned around and walked back to his chair.

Gonçalves had the feeling that he’d been judged and found wanting. Instead of saying
I know
, his customary response to someone telling him he didn’t look his age, he said, “What difference does it make?”

“After thirty-five,” Marques said, “the camera becomes a hard mistress. She’s crueler to women than to men, but still …”

“I’m not here for a modeling job, Senhor Marques.”

Marques smiled an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he said. “Of course you’re not. But when a fine-looking young man like you walks in here, my professional instincts kicked in. You’re not at all what I expected.”

“What
did
you expect?”

“Some grizzled veteran, I suppose. You know how it is. When your secretary says you have a visitor from the Federal Police …”

“I’ve don’t have a secretary, Senhor Marques, so I really wouldn’t know.”

“No. No, of course not. But tell me honestly, Agent Gonçalves, have you never considered a career in modeling?”

“Never.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Perhaps you should have. Not now, but certainly when you were younger. Even now, you must still be quite a hit with the girls, or the boys, if your preference goes in that direction.”

“Girls.”

“I’ll bet you have to beat them off with a stick.”

“Well … not really.”

“No need to be modest. I’m an expert on these things. Coffee?”

“No, thank you. I had one just before I arrived.”

“Then what can I do for you, Agent Gonçalves?”

“You can talk to me about your client, Cintia Tadesco.”

“Ex-client,” Marques said, the smile vanishing from his face. He looked like he’d just taken a mouthful of something sour.

“A recent development?”

“We parted ways a month ago.”

“Amicably?”

“Not in the least.”

“Two of my colleagues met her yesterday. They found her … difficult. Would you concur with that assessment?”

Marques leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his grey waistcoat.

“In my line of work, Agent Gonçalves, difficult goes with the territory. I often take on demure young beauties and mild-mannered young Adonises only to see them evolve into raging egomaniacs. It happens all the time and no longer surprises me.”

“But, with Cintia Tadesco, you got something that
did
surprise you?”

The agent stuck out his jaw, as if Gonçalves had questioned his judgment.

“I’m good at reading character. Ask anyone. But for her, purely out of spite, to kill a goose that was laying golden eggs?

Well, that, I confess, I never expected.”

“The goose being?”

Marques’s belligerent attitude vanished in the wink of an eye. He broke into a sheepish grin.

“The goose being me, I suppose.”

His self-deprecation showed another facet of the man; Gonçalves began to like him.

“It’s this way,” Marques said. “I don’t expect my clients to become intimate friends, but I do expect a modicum of loyalty.”

“And you didn’t get it from Cintia?”

“No, Agent Gonçalves, I didn’t. Do you read
Fofocas
?”

“I’ve seen it around.”

“It’s trash, and it’s full of lies, but I find it a useful tool. I’m only asking because there was a recent article about Cintia’s new agent and his stable of clients. All of those clients, until last month, were clients of mine. Cintia was quoted as saying I’d been a good agent once, now become but an aged shadow of my former self. She went on to state that anyone truly concerned about their career shouldn’t consider employing me.”

“Ouch.”

“Ouch, indeed.”

“Do you think she believed what she was saying?”

“I do not.”

“Why, then, would she do it?”

“I have a supposition.”

“Nothing concrete?”

“No. Simply a supposition.”

“Something to do with money?”

“Money?” Marques scoffed. “No, Agent Gonçalves. Nothing at all to do with money. Cintia is greedy. She loves money. She can never get enough of it. But, as far as our relationship is concerned, it’s no longer a factor. She has achieved what physicists call critical mass. She’s hot and getting hotter. She no longer needs external impetus to fuel her growth. Despite her disagreeable personality, Cintia is getting more offers of work than she can possibly accept. Money she could make with me or with any other agent. Money wouldn’t be a motive for her to switch.”

“What then?”

“I could be wrong, but I suspect a romantic liaison with her new agent.”

“If that’s so,” Gonçalves said, “she’s being discrete about it.”

Marques smiled. “You’ve been talking to Caio Prado.”

“How did you know?”

“After that damned article appeared in
Fofocas
, the Artist’s mother came to see me. By that time, it was apparent there was no love lost between me and her potential future daughter-in-law. Juraci wanted to know if I had any dirt to dish, told me she’d hired a detective, told me it was Prado. Not a bad choice, by the way.”

“He doesn’t make much of an impression.”

“That’s one of his strengths. People don’t notice him; he fits in anywhere; he’s never perceived as a threat. Prado is a sly old fox. Lots of people in the entertainment industry use him, and he knows a good deal about it. Juraci could afford the best. In Prado, she got it.”

“So you told Juraci your supposition about this new agent of Cintia’s?”

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I was still in a state of shock, still trying to understand
why
Cintia did what she did. Since then, I’ve given it a great deal of thought. Frankly, I can’t come up with any other explanation.”

“Who is this guy?” Gonçalves asked. “This new agent of hers?”

“A young man by the name of Tarso Mello. Actually, his name
isn’t
Mello, or even Tarso, but it’s the one he goes by, a stage name, one that was chosen for him.”

“What’s the name he was baptized under?”

Marques scratched his head. “I’m not sure he
was
baptized. I think he’s Jewish, but that’s beside the point. He never uses his original name. Tarso Mello is the only name you’ll need to locate him.”

Gonçalves made a note of it and said, “Okay, go on.”

“He was an actor once, a bad one, but he was extraordinarily good-looking when he was younger, and he had a reasonably good run as a photo model. But then, when he started pushing thirty-five …” Marques held out two hands palms upward.