“I’m shitfaced. I don’t want to read anything, and I don’t care if you search my place or not.”
Up to that point, Silva had been harboring suspicions about the man’s involvement. Now, he relaxed the hand that had been hovering over his pistol. His gut was telling him that Mello wasn’t one of the people they were after.
Mello followed the cops into his living room.
“You people want a drink?”
“No,” Silva said, answering for all.
“But you won’t mind if I have one, will you?”
Mello’s speech was slurred. He picked up a bottle and emptied it into a glass, spilling some of the whiskey onto his hand and even more onto the floor.
“I suggest you go easy on that stuff,” Silva said.
Mello licked his hand, and then rubbed it on his pants.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet, huh? Sounds ominous. But since I’m not under arrest, not yet, I figure I can drink as much as I want in my own house.” He took a gulp of the Scotch. “What are you looking for?”
“Not what, who. Juraci Santos.”
“And you think you’re going to find her here? Ha!”
“Where’s Edson?”
Mello, for the first time, showed a degree of concern.
“What do you want Edson for? Edson didn’t do anything. You leave Edson alone.”
“No need to get upset, Senhor Mello.”
“People in authority make him nervous. He had a difficult childhood, spent some time in an orphanage.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Silva said, “but we have to talk to him. Where is he?”
“He’s out in back, messing around with his pigeons.”
“I’ll go get him,” Goncalves said.
“No. No, you won’t,” Mello said, protectively. “If anybody has to get him, I will.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Silva said.
Under Arnaldo’s watchful eye, the two suspects were left to cool their heels in the living room. The other three cops busied themselves with a thorough search of the premises. Silva didn’t really expect to find anything, but decided to be thorough since they were there anyway.
The contents of a chest of drawers in the master bedroom gave Hector pause. He summoned his uncle to have a look.
“Have Babyface keep an eye on Campos,” Silva said. “Tell Arnaldo to bring Mello in here.”
Mello had dispensed with the glass and taken to drinking directly from a bottle. It was a new bottle, and the level was already down by a quarter. He brought it with him into the bedroom.
“Nice house you’ve got, Senhor Mello,” Silva said. “Been here long?”
Mello stifled a hiccup. “I bought it when Cintia became my client, mortgaged myself right up to my ass. Now”-he stifled another hiccup-“I’ll have to sell it.”
“Yes. She told us you two had a tiff.”
“A tiff? Is that what she called it, a tiff?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
Mello’s anger seemed to have suppressed his hiccups. “It wasn’t a tiff. It was an all-out argument, and it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t have been for you people. You don’t care how many lives you fuck up, do you? As long as you nail the guilty, whatever you do to innocent people like me doesn’t matter a damn.”
“That’s not true, Senhor Mello. If we’ve caused you a problem, and you had nothing to do with the crime we’re investigating, I’m truly sorry.”
Mello took another swig from his bottle. “It’s too goddamned late for sorry.”
“Your argument with Cintia had something to do with your collection over there, didn’t it?”
“My collection is none of your business.”
“I didn’t say it was. Nevertheless…”
Mello sighed.
“If I tell you, will you get the hell out of here?”
“We’ll get out of here after we’ve had a chat with Senhor Campos,” Silva said, “but you can speed our departure by cooperating.”
Mello, still clutching the bottle, went over to the chest of drawers, opened one of them and removed a flimsy pair of lace panties.
“La Perla,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I bought them on the Corso Monte Napoleone in Milan.”
Tears spilled out of both eyes and started to roll down his cheeks.
“Senhor Mello-”
“Shut up for a moment, won’t you? Can’t you see I’m drunk? I’m trying to tell you. Just be patient.” He sank down on the bed. “Where was I?”
“The Corso Monte Napoleone in Milan.”
“No. Cintia. I was talking about Cintia. She’s a collector herself, shares my passion.”
“She knows you collect women’s lingerie?”
“Of course she damned well knows it! Why do you think she reacted the way she did? But she’s got it wrong! All wrong!”
“None of that stuff is Cintia’s?”
“Not a stitch of it. Not a goddamned stitch! I’d never steal a piece from someone else. It would be dirty. Even if you washed it over and over, it would be dirty. I only wear new things, things I buy myself.”
“Some of that lingerie looks pretty small,” Hector said. “It might fit Edson, but not you.”
“You leave Edson out of this! He had nothing to do with anything. It must have been one of Cintia’s goddamned maids that stole that piece.”
“But she blamed you.”
“She blamed me because you”-he shot an accusing finger at Silva-“went up there and started asking her about where she found the set of keys to Juraci’s house, and she told you they were in a drawer with her lingerie.”
“I don’t see how that could possibly-”
“She’s missing a Chantelle Chantilly Culotte Thong. They only make it in fuchsia. But I don’t have it. I don’t own a damned thing in fuchsia. I hate fuchsia! Go ahead. Look through all the drawers. See if you can find anything in fuchsia.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Senhor Mello. Just finish the story.”
“She saw me coming out of her bedroom during the party. A day later, she discovered the thong was missing. Your questions caused her to connect the two events and come to an absolutely erroneous conclusion.”
“And that conclusion was that you stole a pair of her panties.”
“What have I been telling you? And, as God is my witness, it’s not true! I went in there to use the bathroom. I went there because the guest bathroom was occupied. I never went anywhere near her drawers. I never opened one. I never took the piece. I told her that. But did she believe me? No, she didn’t believe me; she fired me, that’s what she did. And it’s your fault.”
Mello took another hefty swig of his whiskey. Silva signaled to Arnaldo and Hector. They left Mello where he was and went into the living room to question Campos.
“How is he?” Campos said.
“Drunk,” Silva said.
“He hasn’t slept since yesterday. It’s just so… unfair. Cintia Tadesco is a perfect bitch.”
“Tell us about your pigeons,” Silva said.
“My pigeons? Why?”
“Carrier pigeons were used to deliver the ransom for the Artist’s mother.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you’ll have no objection to answering my questions. Why don’t you sit down.”
Campos shook his head. “I’d prefer to stay on my feet. What, exactly, do you want to know?”
“How many pigeons have you got? Do you keep them anywhere other than here? How long have you been doing it? Who else do you know who keeps carrier pigeons?”
Four questions. Campos counted off the replies by extending the fingers on his right hand.. “Nineteen. Only here. Ever since I was thirteen years old. Lots of people.” He dropped the hand to his side. “What else?”
“Senhor Campos, you’re obviously an intelligent man, and you don’t strike me as the criminal type. You know our objective here. Why don’t you make an effort to be more cooperative?”
“Why should I? You-”
“You should,” Silva said evenly, “because you’ll have us out of your hair a lot faster if you do.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
“So think. How can you help us?”
Campos reflected.
“The best way,” he said, “would be if you let me ask you some questions. Then something might occur to me.”