“Going in by name is quick,” Hector said as he returned the handset to its cradle. Mara says it shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
It didn’t. Twenty-five minutes later, Mara came in with an answer. The result was negative. “The only one on file is his thumbprint.”
“We’ll visit him,” Silva said, “give him something to handle that won’t arouse his suspicions, a photo or some such, and get his prints that way. I hope we’re having better luck with the van?”
“Ah, yes, the van,” Mara said, letting out a long breath. “Well, we’re not. It’s a Volkswagen Kombi, just about the most common type ever made. It’s white, too, which is the most common color. There are tens of thousands of the damned things out there.”
“And the person sitting next to Nabuco on the front seat?”
She shook her head. “You saw the original recording, right?”
“I did. Did you try enhancing it?”
“Tried, but it was a waste of time. The quality wasn’t good enough.”
“Could it have been a woman?”
“You’re thinking Cintia Tadesco?”
“We can’t discount her, but I’m beginning to think the two cases are unrelated.”
“Miranda’s murder and the kidnapping?”
“That’s my feeling.”
“So Talafero killed Miranda for business reasons?”
“If, indeed, he killed anyone at all.”
“Come on, Mario,” Arnaldo said. “The detonator was a clock, for Christ’s sake.”
“The signs seem to point to him, either as the perpetrator or the contractor, but it’s still unproven. Miranda had lots of rivals, not just Talafero.”
“Once he’s confronted with the print, he’ll talk.”
“Maybe.”
“One more thing about that van,” Mara said, “There’s a scrape along the left-hand side. Not just the paint; the metal is indented.”
“How many auto repair shops are there in this city?”
“Almost as many as there are white Volkswagen Kombis.”
“Surely not.”
“Okay, I’m exaggerating. But we’re not talking dozens, Mario, we’re talking hundreds. And God knows how many more Mom and Pop operations run out of backyards and home garages. We’ve lifted a photographic image of that indentation from the video, and we’ll circulate it, but it’s a long shot.”
“I assume you’ve checked to see if Talafero owns a white Kombi?”
“I have. He doesn’t.”
“Get the word out. We’ll cross our fingers and hope we get lucky. Is Goncalves here?”
“Babyface? Downstairs, trying to discover how someone might unload five million dollars in diamonds.”
“Get him up here.”
Goncalves, looking relieved at the prospect of something more interesting to occupy his time, appeared three minutes later.
“Chief Inspector?”
“Did you interview that partner of Tarso Mello’s?”
“Edson Campos? No. Should I?”
“He’s a vet tech, right?”
“So Mello said.”
“The substance used to subdue Juraci was Ketamine. It’s an anesthetic; its principle use is in veterinary medicine.”
“The plot thickens.”
“Thickens?” Arnaldo said.
“Thickens. I am a reader of the classics.”
“Classics? The last thing I saw you reading was that piece-of-trash magazine, Fofocas.”
“That,” Goncalves sniffed, “was research.”
“Where exactly does this Campos fellow work?” Silva asked.
“I don’t know,” Goncalves said. “But I’ll find out.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“He’s not in, ” Tarso Mello’s secretary said.
“When will he be back?” Goncalves said.
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Come on, lady. This is the Federal Police you’re talking to, not some wannabe actor in need of an agent.”
“I’m not being evasive, Agent Goncalves. Really, I’m not. Something strange is going on. This morning, Senhor Mello was in a great mood, but then he took a call from one of his clients and-”
“Was that client Cintia Tadesco, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, it was. What do you-”
“Never mind. What happened next?”
“He came out of his office, passed my desk and walked out without a word. He looked ill. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer me, didn’t even turn around. You might try him at home. Do you have the number?”
The woman, it was now apparent, wasn’t being obstructive. Goncalves regretted he’d taken a tough line.
“Maybe you can help,” he said.
“If I can.”
“It’s my understanding that Senhor Mello’s partner, Edson Campos, works at a veterinary clinic.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know which one?”
“It’s called the Clinica Polo. It’s in Granja Viana.”
Only later, when he was on his way, did it occur to Goncalves that the name Polo sounded familiar. And it wasn’t because of the explorer. No, something else, but he couldn’t call it to mind.
Two women and a bird were in the vet’s waiting room. One of the women was the receptionist, the other, a client. The client smiled and said hello. The cockatoo on her shoulder lifted its crest and said hello as well.
The receptionist stared at him suspiciously.
“I don’t see an animal,” she said. “What are you selling?”
She was a woman with steel-rimmed glasses, grey hair tied back in a bun and pictures of her grandchildren on her desk, a type impervious to Goncalves’s charm. Her nametag identified her as Calestra Polo.
“I’m not selling anything,” Goncalves said, “and I haven’t got an animal. I’m here to speak to Edson Campos.”
“Ah,” she said, “so you’re the one who called. Well, sorry, you’ll have to wait.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all. She said it, in fact, with a considerable degree of satisfaction.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Too bad. Doctor needs him.”
“So do I,” Goncalves said, flashing his badge.
She wasn’t impressed. “You,” she said, “are not paying his salary. My son, the doctor, is. Take a seat.”
“I-”
“A seat.”
She picked up her pen and opened a ledger. As far as Calestra Polo was concerned, the conversation was over.
Goncalves didn’t like her attitude. “How about I cite you for obstruction?” he said.
Behind her glasses, Calestra Polo drew her eyes into a squint.
“And how about,” she said, “if I arrange to have my other son, the lawyer, ask his wife, the public prosecutor, to bring you up before my husband, the judge, on a charge of abuse of authority?”
Goncalves suddenly remembered where he’d heard the name Polo. Judge Nemias Polo was reputed to be one of the nastiest bastards ever to sit on a Brazilian bench. And no friend of the police.
Goncalves gritted his teeth-and took a seat.
“There’s a new e-mail from the kidnappers,” Mara said, barging into Hector’s office with nary a knock. “It just came in.”
Arnaldo and Hector broke off their conversation. Silva, about to call Irene, put down the receiver.
“Where is it?”
“Being forwarded. But the gist is that they want to schedule the payoff for tomorrow morning,” Mara said.
“We’ll need a proof-of-life question,” Silva said. “Get the Artist to formulate one.”
“The usual drill? Something only he and his mother would know?”
“The Artist is a delightful man, but his brilliance is confined to football pitches. If we leave it to him, he’ll come up with something too easy to guess. Help him with it.”
“Will do.”
“And don’t tell him about that email until the press conference is over. We don’t want him inadvertently blabbing payoff information to the press.”
“I’ll call him now.”
Silva held up a hand. “Call the technical people first. We’ll need a tracking device for the diamonds, something small, so it’s hard to find, and powerful, so it will work over a considerable distance.”
“Small and powerful,” Mara said. “Got it.”
The woman with the cockatoo was gone. So were the man with the cat who came in after her, and the kid with a toysized Yorkshire terrier who came in after him. The reception area was now empty, except for Goncalves.