“You’d better have a look,” he said.
“Stay here,” Silva said to the other two. “Keep ringing.”
He took off in the wake of the younger cop.
“Over there,” Goncalves said as they entered the back yard. “Beyond the roses.”
The trench, two meters long and about half a meter wide, was freshly dug, the pile of soil still damp. Next to it were a dozen rose bushes, their roots wrapped in burlap.
“Damn!” Silva said. “Let’s get inside that house.”
The doorbell rang for a fourth time. Then a fifth. Vitoria, always high strung, was like a steel wire ready to snap.
“Go up there,” she said, “and look through the peephole. Find out who the insistent bastard is.”
“What if it’s the cops?”
“The cops? Are you insane? Why should the cops suspect us?”
“I just-”
“It’s probably some goddamned salesman, or somebody collecting for some charity.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it must be. A salesman.” Arns sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Stop talking and get up there.”
“They dug a grave,” Silva said, rejoining his companions. “It’s still empty. We have to get inside. There are French doors around back. They look pretty flimsy.”
“Let’s hope so,” Arnaldo said, “because we’re not gonna get in this way. Look at that door. Solid peroba. We’d need a ram.”
Goncalves, whose ear had been pressed to the wood, held up a hand. Someone was coming. Silently, the other cops moved into positions where they couldn’t be seen through the peephole.
The door was opened by a big man in a dirty T-shirt.
“Samuel Arns?” Goncalves asked.
“Who are you?”
“Are you Samuel Arns?”
“Yeah. I’m Samuel Arns. Who are you?”
Goncalves put a hand inside his coat as if he was groping for his ID. What he brought out was his Glock.
“Step back, Senhor,” he said. “And keep quiet.”
Arns opened his mouth as if to shout. Goncalves raised the pistol and brought it to within ten centimeters of his face.
“Quiet, I said.”
Arns closed his mouth.
Silva and Arnaldo stepped into his field of vision. Arns’s eyes darted from one to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What is this?” he said.
“I think you know what this is, Senhor Arns,” Silva said. “But just in case you don’t…”
He took out his warrant card and held it in front of Arns’s face.
Arns tried to bluff it out.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “What do you want?”
“What’s the hole for?”
“What hole?”
“In the back yard.”
“I’m planting roses.”
“More than a meter deep? Step aside. We’re coming in.”
“You got a search warrant?”
“No. But we’re coming in anyway.”
Arnaldo insinuated himself into the doorway. Arns was big, but Arnaldo was bigger, and Arns stepped aside. All four cops entered the house.
Hector was the last man through the door. “Hey,” Arns said, when he saw him. “I know you.”
Hector didn’t respond.
“Where’s Juraci Santos?” Silva said.
“I don’t-”
“If she’s here, dead or alive, we’re going to find her. Why don’t you save us both some trouble and just tell me?”
Arns crumbled.
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill those maids. Vitoria did. Vitoria Pitanguy. She’s the one. The whole thing was her idea. I never-”
“Shut up. You’ll have time later to tell us your side of the story. For now, you just answer questions. Where’s Senhora Santos?”
“Downstairs. In the cellar.”
“Alive?”
“She was when I came upstairs, I swear to God she was. But she’s with Vitoria, and Vitoria has a gun.”
T HEY TOOK Samuel to the top of the stairs and told him what to say:
“Vitoria, they’re federal cops, four of them. They’re in the house.”
“We’re covering Senhor Arns with guns,” Silva said, “and we won’t hesitate to use them on you. Drop your weapon and come out. Now.”
They heard Vitoria emit a string of curses, heard the clatter of something hitting the floor.
Arnaldo and Silva peeked around either side of the doorway. A moment later, Vitoria came into view, her hands in the air.
“You stupid bastard,” she screamed. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”
Arns knew it was meant for him.
“They found the grave you made me dig,” he shouted. “They were going to come in anyway.”
“ I made you dig? So now it’s my fault? You lying bastard! You’re as guilty as I am.”
“That’s enough,” Silva said. “Shut up, both of you. Arnaldo, cuff Samuel. Vitoria, keep your hands in the air and don’t move. Senhora Santos?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. You’re safe now. You can come out.”
“I can?”
“Yes.”
“Got both of the bastards, did you?”
Silva had expected tears of relief, maybe hysteria, but Juraci didn’t sound that way at all. She sounded angry.
“Both,” Silva said.
“Good.”
Juraci stepped out of her cell and into Silva’s line-of-sight. She was holding a little pink-gripped Taurus.
And, without uttering another word, she extended her arm and fired two shots into Vitoria Pitanguy’s back.
Chapter Forty-Three
On the day following the rescue of Juraci Santos, the Cidade de Sao Paulo published a feature article entitled The Man Who Solved the Case.
The content was drawn, almost exclusively, from a press release issued by the Federal Police’s publicity office. Two phrases of that release were even used verbatim: deft and indepth management of the case and intuitive crime-solving skills. The press office also provided a professionally executed photographic portrait of the hero in question-Nelson Sampaio.
The circulation of the newspaper, that day, reached an alltime high. Pundits accredited the spectacular newsstand sales to the high degree of interest in the case.
Arnaldo Nunes accredited them to purchases made by Sampaio himself.
Silva wasn’t surprised that the Director had snatched the credit; he was surprised when Sampaio summoned him to demand a detailed accounting of every aspect of the case. Sampaio loathed detail.
“I’ve been invited,” the Director said, “to dine with the Minister of Justice. Telling him stuff he can read in a newspaper isn’t going to cut it. I need some tidbits to go with the coffee and dessert.” He picked up his Mont Blanc ballpoint. “Start talking.”
“Samuel Arns signed a full confession,” Silva said.
Sampaio started scratching away, taking notes.
“He did, did he?” he said, without looking up. “When?”
“Less than an hour ago.”
“Good. That’s good. Hold it back from the press until tomorrow morning. What about his accomplice, that Pitanguy woman? Is she talking?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. We recovered the weapon she used to kill the maids. Her fingerprints are all over it. Arns’s prints aren’t-and he says Vitoria did it. We don’t need any more than that.”
“What if she says he did it?”
“Before Juraci used the pistol, there were two bullets missing from the magazine. In her home, on the day of the kidnapping, she heard two shots just before Arns injected her with the Ketamine. She’ll testify to that.”
“Good. Too bad there’s no death penalty in this country.”
“True.”
“But let’s look at the bright side. That Pitanguy bitch will get thirty years at least.”
“Not that long, I’m afraid.”
“No? Why not?”
“Her lawyer is Dudu Fonseca.”
Sampaio tossed down his pen in disgust.
“Fonseca? That shyster? What’s with that? Pitanguy worked in a pharmacy. She’s nothing more than a glorified shop girl. Where does she get the money to hire a heavyweight like Fonseca?”
“Juraci shot her twice in the spine. She’s paralyzed from the waist down; she’ll never walk again.”