“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 Sao 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 Sao 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
Leo Marques’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 Goncalves’s hand and gave him an appraising up-anddown look.
“Do you mind me asking how old you are?”
“Thirty-four,” Goncalves said.
“Really?” Marques’s voice conveyed disappointment. “You don’t look it.” He turned around and walked back to his chair.
Goncalves 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 Goncalves, 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 Goncalves?”
“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.