“That’s why I said I wouldn’t want my son to get involved with her. It’s obvious to everybody, as it was obvious to Juraci, that what her son has going for him has nothing to do with physical beauty or intelligence, both of which Cintia has in abundance. Of course, she might love the Artist for the kind and gentle soul he is. But how likely is that? Juraci didn’t buy it. She’d already pegged Cintia as a social-climbing, mercenary harpy. As far as I was able to learn, so has everyone else who’s ever had contact with her. Everyone except the Artist, that is.”
“And Franco? What happened to him?”
“She returned his letters, wouldn’t take his phone calls, told him to get lost. She humiliated him in public and in private, leaked to the press that the rumors about his being gay were all true. Then, when the reporters came to talk to her about it, she did this teary-eyed television interview saying that she really loved him until she found out he was cheating on her with the aforementioned tennis pro.”
“Which he wasn’t.”
“Which he wasn’t. That was all before Cintia came along. The tennis pro, though, felt jilted and wanted to get back at Marco.”
“So he said it was true.”
“He did, and the gossip press had a field day. They went on about it for weeks, every sordid exchange, every scandalous revelation. Well, the rest of the story is quickly told. Marco couldn’t get any more work. He’s still got money, but fame is an addictive thing. He misses it, and he’s drinking heavily. People in the know tell me he’s drinking himself to death and won’t last out the year. Cintia, sweet thing that she is, has allegedly said she doesn’t give a shit.”
“Did you report all of this to Juraci Santos?”
“I did. But think about it for a minute. What did I really get? Nothing, Agent Goncalves, nothing that Cintia couldn’t easily refute. If she sticks to her side of the story, and if the Artist believes her, Juraci really has very little that she can condemn her for, nothing she can go to her son with.”
“When did you make your report to Juraci?”
“I called her the day before she was abducted.”
“No written report?”
“I prepared one. I was going to mail it this morning. But then there didn’t seem to be much point.”
“Will you make me a copy?”
“If I must.”
“You must. Were you able to find out anything else about Cintia? Does she have other boyfriends?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you wouldn’t rule it out?”
“My recommendation to Juraci was to put Cintia under around-the-clock surveillance.”
“Around the clock, eh? It wouldn’t have been cheap.”
“It certainly would not have been. But I think she was going to agree to it.”
“You could have earned a bundle.”
“I most certainly could have. If you catch those people, and it is my earnest hope that you do, would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Give each and every one of them a kick in the balls from me.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Back so soon?” Pedro Cataldo said. “What happened with Talafero?”
Silva told him.
“You believe him?”
“I’m suspending judgment. Meantime, what can you tell me about Miranda?”
“Captain Miranda? Now, there’s a piece of work. I’ve been after him for years.”
“How close are you to nailing him?”
“Not close. He’s a slippery bastard.”
“Why ‘Captain’?”
“Because he was.”
“Military?”
“An army officer. During the dictatorship, he worked in Section II.”
Silva’s mouth crinkled in disgust. Section II was a torture squad, the most notorious of them all. The Section’s members received monetary rewards for capturing, or killing, left-wing militants-and they’d sooner kill than capture. After the country reverted to democracy, it became known that many of Section II’s victims weren’t militants, or even left-wingers.
“While he was busy killing people for the government,” Pedro continued, “he also got involved in contraband.”
“Smuggling?”
Pedro nodded. “Whiskey and cigarettes, but it didn’t work out. He and a dozen of his buddies got busted.”
“He confessed?”
“He confessed, but when he got in front of a judge, he claimed it was beaten out of him.”
Silva snorted in disgust. “And?”
“His case was thrown out on appeal.”
“Grounds?”
“Torture, if you can believe that.”
“How’s that for irony,” Arnaldo said.
“In fiction,” Pedro said, “nobody would believe it. By the time he was acquitted, though, Miranda had become a persona non grata to his army buddies. They cashiered him.”
“So,” Arnaldo said, “the army promoted him for killing people, and threw him out for smuggling. What a country we live in!”
“So there he was,” Pedro said, “thirty-five years old, no marketable skills, and looking for something to do with his life. Apolidoro Nasca gave it to him.”
“Who’s Apolidoro Nasca?”
“Was, not is. He’s been dead for years, but he was a big man once, a crook who controlled the animal game in the four biggest towns in the state of Minas Gerais. You’re in a job like that, you need killers to work for you. Miranda was a killer with credentials, so Nasca hired him. For a while, so they say, Miranda only killed the people Nasca told him to kill. Rivals, deadbeats, people who were skimming money.”
“And then?”
“And then, one day, Nasca disappeared.”
“Miranda took over his operation?”
“Uh huh. What you’re thinking is what everybody thinks-but nobody can prove it. Then Uncle Scrooge-”
“Uncle Scrooge?”
“Nelson Catto, the chief bicheiro. His nickname was Uncle Scrooge. So Uncle Scrooge starts keeping a close eye on what Miranda is doing in Minas Gerais. Within a year, he doubles the income of the business, which means he doubles the cut for Uncle Scrooge. Within three years, the Captain is up there on the Council of Seven, the guys who run the operation for the entire country. As soon as they put him in the chair he moved from Belo Horizonte to Sao Paulo. It took him less than six months to consolidate the market.”
“Consolidate the market?”
Cataldo nodded. “Before Miranda came along, Sao Paulo was divided into three districts, all about equal in size. Now it’s just one.”
“How did he pull it off?”
“Easy. He was already on the Council. All he had to do was assign dead men’s territories to himself.”
“Except, first, he had to make them dead?”
“Exactly. By the early-nineties, he was into his golden years, having a great run, walking around dressed in expensive Italian suits. It annoyed the hell out of Lili Norunha. She spent years building up a case against him.”
“I knew Lili well,” Silva said. “I liked her. A lot.”
“I did too. She told me, before she died, that she’d managed to implicate Miranda in sixty-two murders. But in the end, the whole thing fell apart. He only got six years.”
“Wait a minute,” Arnaldo said. “This guy kills sixty-two people and he only gets six years in prison?”
“Miranda got to the jury. And then he went after Lili. I know it, but I can’t prove it.”
Judge Lili Norunha had been found in her apartment, shot dead, on the 27th of November, 1998. Her husband and two sons were murdered with her. Officially, the case had never been solved.
“Uncle Scrooge died in 2001,” Pedro went on. “Natural causes, they say. Maybe it’s even true. Miranda stepped up, became the boss of bosses. He still is.”
“Still wearing his Italian suits?”
“No more. He learned his lesson. These days, he keeps a much lower profile. But he’s the one guy nobody screws with. Not that anybody would want to. He’s making lots of people tons of money. He’s the best manager the bicheiros ever had, the head of the whole rotten organization.”
“So, when you finally get him, you’ll be able to stamp out the game?”
Pedro laughed. “I’m not that naive, Mario. The game is here to stay; it will be with us forever. As soon as Miranda is out of the picture, some other bicheiro will step up and take his place.”