“Didn’t you?”
“No, I did’t.”
“He said you did.”
“And I’m saying I did’t. Could I see your identity card, please?”
“I can’t imagine why he’d tell me you did, if you-”
“The card, please.”
Edson searched his wallet, located the card and handed it over.
Goncalves made a note of Edson’s RG-his national registration number-and checked his date of birth. The vet tech was thirty-three, but appeared to be older. He also appeared to be nervous.
“I have sixteen cages to clean before I go home,” he said.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Goncalves said. “Are you familiar with the drug Ketamine?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Goncalves considered telling him to stop beating around the bush and to answer the question. But then it occurred to him he’d probably get more cooperation if he told him about the syringe. So he did.
Edson folded his arms protectively across his hollow chest.
“It seems to us,” Goncalves went on, “that someone who elected to use Ketamine is likely to be someone familiar with veterinary medicine.”
“And you think that might be me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think I stole Ketamine from Doctor Polo?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing missing from Doctor Polo’s stock; I checked that already. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The source of the drug isn’t the key issue here.”
“What’s the key issue?”
“The knowledge of Ketamine: what it is, and how it works.”
“I know what it is, and I know how it works. I’m a vet tech, for Christ’s sake. But if you think I had anything to do with the abduction of that woman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m no kidnapper.”
“No?”
“No. First you persecute my partner and now you’re persecuting me. What is it with you people?”
“Do you know Juraci Santos?”
“Yeah. I know her. Her poodle, Twiggy, is one of our patients.”
“Not any more.”
“What?”
“Twiggy is dead. The kidnappers killed her.”
Edson looked shocked.
“Killed her? Killed Twiggy? Why? She was the sweetest little thing. And she wouldn’t have posed a threat to anyone.”
“We don’t really know why they killed her. But they did.”
“How… how did they do it?”
“Broke her back, apparently.”
Edson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. For a moment, Goncalves thought he might cry.
“Jesus,” he said. “Poor Twiggy.”
Goncalves paused for a few seconds, then said, “Could we get back to the Ketamine?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure. The Ketamine. Well, what you’re suggesting…”
“Yes?”
“It’s just ridiculous. I’d be scared to use that stuff on a human being.”
“You would?”
“Anybody would. Anybody who isn’t a doctor. Ketamine is an anesthetic. You give someone too much of an anesthetic, and it’ll kill them.”
“How much is too much?”
“For a person? I have no idea. Ask me about a dog. Or a cat. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Let’s move on.”
“Move on to what?”
“The secondary issue: sourcing. Suppose you couldn’t steal the stuff from a clinic, and you needed to get your hands on some Ketamine, how would you go about it?”
“I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.”
“Not you. Some other guy. A kidnapper.”
Edson uncrossed his arms, rubbed his chin, gave some thought to the question. “He might try a disco.”
“A disco?”
“Yeah. Drug dealers hang out in discos. So do drug users. Ketamine isn’t only used by vets. It’s a recreational drug. They call it Special K.”
“How come you know that?”
“Everybody knows that.”
“No, Senhor Campos, not everyone knows that. As a matter of fact, there are many, many people who don’t know that. But you don’t seem to be one of them. So think hard. How did you come to know about a recreational drug called Special K?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try hard. It might be important.”
After a while, Edson said, “It was at the Maksoud Hotel, just after a presentation put on by one of the pharmaceutical companies. There was this guy I was sitting next to. He struck up a conversation. We went out and had coffee together. He told me.”
“How did the subject come up?”
“Look, I never saw this guy before, or since. I don’t even remember his name. I didn’t like the way he talked about animals. Hell, I didn’t even like him. I thought he was a slimeball.”
“I ask you again: how did the subject come up?”
“He was dealing, okay? He wanted to buy Ketamine. He said he could offload anything I could supply, said he’d pay a good price for it. But I wasn’t interested, and I told him so, and that was the end of that.”
“Where else might a kidnapper get his hands on some Ketamine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Give me some help here. Think!”
“If he was a certain kind of vet tech, he might go to a pharmacy.”
“What do you mean by a certain kind?”
“Some of the guys, not me, pick up extra money by doing operations.”
“What kind of operations?”
“Spaying, neutering, removing growths, stuff like that. After a few years in the business, after seeing those kinds of operations a few hundred times, they get to thinking there’s nothing to it.”
“So they offer to do it cheaper.”
“That’s right.”
“And they need Ketamine.”
“Uh huh. And pharmacists, well, hell, you know how pharmacists are. If they know you, and they think you have a good reason…
Edson left the rest of what he might have said hanging in the air.
But he didn’t have to spell it out. Goncalves knew what he was suggesting. Brazil’s National Health Service suffered from a shortage of doctors. It could take weeks to get an appointment. Private doctors were too expensive for many people, so they turned to pharmacists to prescribe. The pharmacist who insisted on being shown a doctor’s prescription for every drug he sold was soon a pharmacist without a clientele.
“That pharmacy on the corner,” Goncalves said. “You think they’d sell Ketamine to a vet tech without a prescription?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never asked.”
“But you did buy Ketamine there.”
“A couple of times, but only when Doctor Polo told me to and always with a prescription.”
“Always?”
“Always. Every single time. I swear.”
Goncalves believed him. But he decided to have a chat with the pharmacist anyway.
The clinic was closed, and the doctor’s mother had left for the day, but the reception area wasn’t empty. The vet was there, watering plants with a green plastic pitcher.
“I like to do this myself,” he said. “Mom always gives them too little or too much. You like gardening?”
“Not particularly,” Goncalves said. “Who owns the pharmacy on the corner?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because I want to have a chat with him about their stock of Ketamine.”
“Where’s Edson?”
“Cleaning cages.”
“Good boy. Are you convinced, now, that he didn’t have anything to do with kidnapping Senhora Santos?”
“We don’t jump to conclusions, Laerte. We leave our options open.”
Doctor Polo shook his head. “With all due respect,” he said, “I know the man, and you don’t. He didn’t have anything to do with it. You’ll see.”
“Okay. Your opinion is duly noted. Now, as to the guy who owns the pharmacy…”
“His name is Guido, Guido Brancusi. But it’ll be a waste of time talking to him. He’s hardly ever there. He’s got another job with one of the chains downtown. He only comes in at night, and it isn’t always every night. He’s got this terrific woman who runs the place for him. She’s the one to talk to.”
Goncalves perked up. Women were both his recreation and his passion.
“Pretty?”
“Not particularly.”
“So what do you mean by terrific?”
“Efficient. Capable. Smart. Reliable. Nice figure. Just not a pretty face. She does everything for Guido, controls the stock, pours and labels the prescriptions, handles the bookkeeping, works behind the counter, hires and fires the other women who work in the shop. If I could get rid of my mother, I’d hire her in a heartbeat.”