“He’s working it, but there’s no word on the street.”
“And that bicheiro, Miranda?”
“I’ll speak to him before the day is out.”
Fiorello Rosa, PhD and master kidnapper, was a most uncommon felon. He’d been a professor of criminology and had published seven books on the subject. His work had earned him high praise in the academic community, some notoriety in law-enforcement circles, and far too little money.
So, sometime in the late nineties, Rosa set his mind to bettering himself-and chose kidnapping as the most lucrative and least violent way of achieving his objective. At the time of his arrest, he’d been abducting people for almost six years and hadn’t once, in all that time, missed a single university lecture because of it.
Throughout his criminal career Rosa selected his victims based upon their ability to pay, a strategy he considered wise at the time, but one which, when he was brought to justice, added to his troubles. Rosa’s furious and resentful ex-victims used all of their influence to make sure the judge threw the book at him. The judge, eager to please the power elite, did just that. The miscreant was sentenced to fourteen years.
To Rosa, the severe sentence came as a most disagreeable surprise. He’d never committed murder or mayhem on his victims. Indeed, he’d never touched a hair of their heads. He’d expected to get away with a sentence of no more than eight, which might have put him out in four.
The prison where Rosa was being held was in Guarulhos, not far from the international airport of that name. After Silva hung up with Sampaio, he and Arnaldo chatted about Rosa’s arrest.
“Refresh my memory,” Arnaldo said. “I took the kids to the beach for a few weeks. When I got back, you had the whole thing wrapped up.”
“Luck,” Silva said, and told the story.
The last of Rosa’s victims had been a wealthy advertising man, a partner in a successful agency. Rosa’s gang had kept him in captivity for almost three months while the terms of his release were being negotiated. As day followed day, with few developments to break the monotony, one of Rosa’s henchmen had gotten sloppy. Against all instructions, he’d left the prisoner alone and gone down to the local padaria for a coffee and a cachaca.
The place where the gang had been holding their victim was a semi-detached house, rented specifically for the purpose. It wasn’t soundproof and, if the guard had followed his instructions, there was no reason why it should have been. But when the captive heard movement next door, he called out to his guard and, getting no response, raised his voice and hazarded a cry for help. Before long, he managed to attract the attention of a student living in the adjoining garret.
When the guard got back from his recreational excursion, he found Silva and his men waiting for him. The guard, in exchange for leniency, fingered Rosa as the mastermind.
The abduction of the ad man had been the last in a series that Silva, as a professional, admired for meticulous planning and execution. It had taken place in broad daylight at what was, ostensibly, a police roadblock. False cops, cars and uniforms correct in every detail, were checking licenses and registrations of vehicles. They’d established their trap between the home and the office of their victim.
In the subsequent interviews, it appeared everyone noticed the strange accent of the cop who was doing all the talking, but such was the power of his uniform that no one questioned his authority.
The false cops had gone through the motions of attending to almost a hundred other vehicles by the time the man they were after pulled up to the checkpoint. They left him fidgeting and looking at his watch for a full five minutes. His impatience kept building, and building, and when his turn came, he rolled down the three centimeter thick bulletproofed window without a squeak of protest.
It was all over in a heartbeat. No one died; no one was shot; no one was manhandled. Rosa’s thugs simply bundled their victim into a vehicle and took off with him. They left his driver shackled to the car’s steering wheel with two pairs of handcuffs.
The getaway car was indistinguishable from any other police cruiser in the city. As soon as they were around the corner, they stopped to remove their license plate, revealing another already in place. Then they drove four kilometers to a garage, where they switched the police car for a van. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the hideout.
The little room was ready and waiting, with a television and a stack of books. On a tray sat a bottle of the ad man’s favorite whisky, a bucket of ice, and a cut-crystal glass of the kind he liked to do his drinking from.
Rosa had done his research well. He knew their victim was an alcoholic. He didn’t want to put his life in danger by exposing him to withdrawal symptoms-and he even provided him with the proper pills for his hypertension and type 2 diabetes.
The “cops” he’d hired, the only members of the gang who might be recognized, were immediately flown to Argentina, the place they’d come from. They embarked, by private plane, less than an hour after the commission of the crime. None were apprehended.
“Chief Inspector Mario Silva,” Rosa said, when they led him in. “What an agreeable surprise.”
“Hello, Professor. You seem happy to see me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m not stupid, Chief Inspector. We aren’t exactly friends.
We haven’t seen each other in seven years, and when they told me you were coming, I could only think of one reason for your visit. You want something.”
“I do indeed.”
“As do I. You’re aware that I’m coming up for a parole hearing?”
“I’ve been invited to testify.”
“So my attorney told me. And this gentleman is?”
“My colleague, Agent Arnaldo Nunes.”
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Nunes. I’d offer you a hand, but…” Rosa held up his shackled wrists.
“I think we can dispense with those,” Silva said, and nodded to the guard.
The guard removed Rosa’s handcuffs and left without a word.
“Sit down, Professor.”
Rosa rubbed the red marks on his wrists and shook hands with both Arnaldo and Silva before taking a seat.
“It’s the Artist’s mother, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” Silva said, “it is.”
“Just before the game with Argentina, too. Rather unpatriotic, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
Silva dropped a sheaf of papers on the table. Rosa looked at it, but he didn’t extend a hand to pick it up.
“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?”