“ If she’s dead,” Silva said, “I’d have to agree with you. We have less than two weeks before-”
Talafero, impatient, cut him off in mid-sentence.
“You think I’m talking about the Cup?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Hell, no. I’m talking about the option with Real Madrid. It’s only got twenty-seven days to run. If they don’t sign before then, the deal is off.”
“But not for long,” Silva said. “There’s only one Artist. He may be distraught right now, but sooner or later, whatever the outcome, he’ll get over it. Then the scramble will start all over again. Now that the other European teams know you’re willing to sell, you might even get a bidding war going.”
“You don’t have to tell me my business. I know all that. Thing is, I don’t need the money in three or four months. I need it now. I need it for Carnival.”
“Carnival? Carnival is eight months away.”
“You got any idea how long it takes to put together a first class desfile? Eight months is cutting it short.”
“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You think Miranda snatched the Artist’s mother so he can ransom her for five million dollars, so he can invest it in his samba school, so he can win next year’s competition? With all due respect, Senhor Talafero, nobody takes Carnival that seriously.”
“Miranda does. He hates Silver Carnations, and he hates me. And he’s not doing it for the five million. By snatching the Artist’s mother, he queers the deal with Real Madrid and makes sure I don’t have the money to invest in costumes, or floats, or dress rehearsals. Meanwhile, the prick already has a business that nets him hundreds of thousands every month. He doesn’t need the ransom money. That’s just gilt on his fucking lily.”
“So, according to you, the kidnapping of the Artist’s mother is an ego thing? It’s all about who can put on the best show?”
“What the fuck is wrong with that? The public wins, right? You think they go to the Sambadrome to see poverty? You know who likes poverty? The fucking intellectuals and bleeding-heart liberals, that’s who! Them with all their bullshit about the integrity of the common man, the noble worker, all that crap. If that’s what you think, Chief Inspector, I got news for you. What the common man wants is luxury. That’s what they go to the Sambadrome to see, the kilometers of skirts wrapped around the Bahianas, the sequins on the bikinis of the destaques, the floats as big as a ten-story building. They want to see luxury. And luxury costs money.”
“So by snatching the Artist’s mother-”
“Miranda fucks up my deal, prevents me from getting my hands on the money we need, and Green Mangos wins. To top it all off, he pockets five million dollars. It’s that simple.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Rua Augusta was once a fashionable place to shop. But that was once. In recent years, it had become a strip of potholed asphalt and broken sidewalks lined with down-market snack bars, second-class boutiques, and third-run cinemas.
Caio Prado’s office was two flights up, above a store that sold cheap Chinese knickknacks. The hand-painted sign in the flyblown display window read, Sale! Everything less than two Reais.
The sale must have been going on for a long time, because the letters were faded, and the paper was curling at the edges.
Prado’s receptionist looked to be in her late teens and, like most females of any age, seemed happy to find Goncalves standing in front of her. Her smile revealed braces.
“Help you?”
“Here to see the boss.” Goncalves flashed his badge.
“Agent Goncalves.”
She fluttered eyelashes heavy with mascara. “You have a first name?”
“Haraldo.”
The smile got wider. “I’m Ana.”
“ Prazer, Ana. As much as I’m enjoying our little tete-atete, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Okay,” she said, reaching for her telephone, “keep your shirt on. Or maybe not.”
Less than a minute later, Goncalves found himself being led into the presence of an elderly gentleman in a faded blue suit. Prado was thin, almost frail, had an ingratiating smile and looked rather like everyone’s favorite uncle. He offered coffee. Goncalves accepted, and kept his eyes on Ana’s undulating derriere as she left to fetch it.
“How old is she?” he asked when she was gone.
“Eighteen, going on thirty-five,” Prado said, “and before you get any ideas, she’s my niece.”
“Ah,” Goncalves said. “Seems like a sweet girl.”
“Seems that way to a lot of people,” Prado said. “It’s an illusion. But mostly those people are a lot younger than you are, which is the way my sister and brother-in-law prefer it.”
“How old do you think I am?”
Prado looked at him speculatively. “Twenty-two?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Really? You don’t look it.”
Goncalves sighed. “I know,” he said.
Ana returned with two cups on a tray and stood there, fluttering her eyelashes until Prado told her to leave.
At which point Goncalves got down to business: “It’s my understanding you undertook some inquiries on behalf of Juraci Santos.”
Prado stroked his chin. Goncalves was beginning to think he didn’t intend to answer at all. But then he said, “Did you read the brass plaque next to the front door?”
“ Caio Prado. Confidential Inquiries. That one?”
“That one. Confidential, Agent Goncalves, is the operative word. My clients prize discretion.”
“In this case, Senhor Prado, I think your client would value release from captivity over discretion.”
“There’s nothing I could tell you that would lead to her release.”
“We already know you were investigating Cintia Tadesco, and we know you were doing it on behalf of Juraci Santos. What else is there to know?”
“Very little. Senhora Santos largely wasted her money. And you, Agent Goncalves, are wasting your time.”
“I’d like to be the judge of that.”
“I’m sure you would. But no one wants a private investigator who spreads their business all over town. It’s not your welfare I’m considering, it’s mine.”
“Talking to the Federal Police can hardly be characterized as spreading it all over town. Look, Senhor Prado, your client is in trouble. Do we agree on that?”
Prado nodded. “Of course.”
“Then it should be clear you can best serve her interest by telling me what you know.”
“Her interest, perhaps, but not mine. If it got out that I-”
“It’s not going to get out,” Goncalves said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No. We’re quite accustomed to dealing with confidential sources. You can count on me not to go bruiting your name about.”
“Can I?”
Goncalves’s patience was wearing thin. He threw aside the carrot and picked up the stick.
“Listen to me, Senhor Prado. Let me make something clear. We, and by we I mean the Federal Police, have got everybody in the goddamned hierarchy right up to the President of the Republic on our backs. I’m not asking you anymore, I’m telling you: you’re going to brief me on everything you know, and you’re going to do it right now.”
Prado shook his head. “What I know is of no relevance, no relevance whatsoever, to your case.”
“You’re not listening. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You decide.”
Prado was probably an ex cop, certainly knew how the system worked. He was going to have to give Goncalves something, but he made a last attempt to give him as little as possible.
“Here it is in a nutshelclass="underline" Juraci Santos neither liked nor trusted her prospective daughter-in-law. She asked me to investigate her background. I found nothing incriminating. That’s it.”
“That’s nowhere near enough. I want more than the nutshell, I want the nut. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you acquire Juraci as a client?”
Prado gave a deep sigh-and crumbled.