“The team’s chance to win last year’s national championship, the only one they’ve had in the last ten years, went right out the window when that happened,” Arnaldo said. “Every single Palmeirense wanted to kill the Artist, and they are neither few nor noted for their passivity.”
“The break never healed properly,” Goncalves said. “It was the end of Joaozinho’s career, and he was only what? Twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-eight,” Hector said. “But I never heard him say a word against the Artist. Not then and not since.”
“Let’s talk to him anyway,” Silva said. “It can’t hurt. Any more from the kidnappers?”
“Maybe,” Mara said.
“Why maybe?”
“They’re communicating through the Artist’s website.”
“I know. So?”
“So, before the news broke, the Artist was getting about a hundred emails a day. At the moment it’s more than five thousand an hour, mostly expressions of sympathy. The kid who administrates the site is overwhelmed. I assigned a couple of people to help him. They’re overwhelmed too.”
“Put more people on it.”
“I don’t have more people.”
“Can’t you sort electronically?”
“We have no parameters. They didn’t use the subject line when they first made contact. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the same email address twice. And, if they run true to form, they’ll log on through a wireless connection.”
“And it’s unlikely to be the same one they used last time.”
“Correct.”
“So you have to read every incoming email?”
“We do. It’s a nightmare.”
“Damn. How about the media? Who broadcast the story first?”
“Radio Mundo.”
“Where did they get it? Sampaio wants to know.”
“They won’t tell us.”
“Why not? What difference does it make?”
“According to them, their source insists on confidentiality.”
“Probably just means she’s some blabbermouth who feeds them information all the time,” Arnaldo said, “and they want to make sure she keeps on doing it.”
“She?” Mara bristled. “Why do you assume it’s a she?”
“Uh oh,” Goncalves said. “Here we go again.”
“You know any male blabbermouths?” Arnaldo said.
“I know one. He’s a Neanderthal by the name of Arnaldo Nunes.”
The sniping between Mara and Arnaldo was a regular feature of their meetings. Silva didn’t think either one of them took it seriously. He generally ignored it.
“What’s the Artist’s reaction to all of this?” he said.
“He wants to pay,” Mara said.
“Five million in diamonds? Just like that?”
“Five million dollars in diamonds. Not Reais, dollars. He doesn’t even want to negotiate the amount. He’s terrified, Mario. Terrified they might hurt her.”
“For him,” Goncalves said, “five million dollars is peanuts. The Artist is loaded.”
“I think even the Artist would miss five million dollars,” Silva said. “Are his telephones being monitored?”
“His apartment,” Mara said, “plus his mobile phone, his girlfriend’s apartment, his house in Guaruja, his house in Campos do Jordao, his condo in Rio and his agent’s office, home and mobile.”
“How about the civil police? Have they brought anything to the party?”
Mara shuffled through the pile in front of her and handed him a folder. Silva perused it, and after a moment, looked up.
“Says here,” he said, “that Juraci had an appointment scheduled with her hairdresser for 10:00 this morning.”
“Jacques Jardin, no less,” Mara said.
“Why ‘no less’? Is this Jardin some kind of a big deal?”
“Yes, Mario, he’s a really big deal. I wouldn’t be able to get an appointment with him even if I could afford it.”
“I fail to see,” Goncalves said, “how an appointment with a hairdresser could be of any significance.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re a male.”
“So?”
“You guys know about football players. We girls know about hairdressers. The person who wrote that report is a woman. If she was sexist pig like Nunes here-”
“Hey,” Arnaldo said.
“-Juraci’s appointment probably wouldn’t even have been mentioned.”
“And?” Goncalves said.
“And we might have missed out on a possible lead. One of the great secrets of the sisterhood is this: we confide in our hairdressers, sometimes more than in anyone else we know. I think it might have something to do with their fingers massaging our scalps.”
“Mmmm,” Goncalves said. “Sexy.”
“Not at all,” Mara said. “Most of the really good ones are gay.”
“Who’s spoken to the Artist?” Silva said.
“Only the civil cops.”
“Where is he?”
“At his apartment.”
“Call him. Ask if Arnaldo and I can come over.”
“Now?”
“Now. We’ll need his address.”
Mara nodded and went out. Silva turned to Goncalves. “See if that fellow Jardin is at his salon. If he is, go over there and talk to him. Put him through records first, though, just in case we have something on him.”
“You think a high-society hairdresser has a rap sheet?”
“You never know. Bring your cell phone.”
“I always do,” Goncalves said. He stood up and took his suit jacket off the back of his chair.
“That leaves me,” Hector said.
“You,” Silva said, “go home and be nice to Gilda.”
“And tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow morning, first thing, you go out to Granja Viana and have a chat with that locksmith.”
Chapter Seven
“Jesus,” Arnaldo said, “Look at that.”
The street ahead, from curb to curb, was packed with media vans, reporters, and a horde of anxious fans.
“Back out,” Silva said. “We’ll park at the shopping center.”
They weren’t the only ones with that idea. The lot behind the Ibirapuera Shopping Center was nearly full, but they managed to snag one of the few remaining slots. They locked the car and set out for the Artist’s apartment on foot.
“I read in Veja that a one-bedroom goes for over a million,” Arnaldo said as they rounded the corner and came within sight of the building.
“And he has five bedrooms. I read the same article.”
“What’s an unmarried guy do with five bedrooms?”
“One to sleep in and four to keep his money. When he moves to Madrid, four won’t be enough.”
“Don’t remind me about Madrid,” Arnaldo said.
Wooden barriers had been put up to hold back the crowd. When Arnaldo made a move to shove one aside, a uniformed cop blew a blast on his whistle and ran over to stop him.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” he said.
Silva flashed his badge. “We’ve got an appointment with the Artist.”
Silva’s badge was gold trimmed with blue enamel, a sign of high rank. In a flash, the cop’s expression went from indignation to respect.
“Let me help, Senhor.”
He completed the shoving, stepped aside-and saluted.
The salute was a tip-off to the reporters. Strobe lights flashed, only a few at first, then by the score. The people not operating cameras started shouting questions.
Silva detested attention from the media. He forced himself not to break into a run.
“I’ve got a new one for you,” Arnaldo said, taking the reporters in stride, as he did most things.
“Later.”
“You might want to reconsider that. It’s about football.”
“About football? Okay, tell me.”
Arnaldo waited until they’d gained sanctuary in the lobby, then:
“This guy is sitting in the second row, center field, during the final game of the World Cup. Just below him, there’s an empty seat.”
Silva hit the button on the elevator.
“An empty seat? At the World Cup Final? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Of course I am. It’s a joke. Next to the empty seat is an old geezer who’s got his stuff all over it, program, beer, spare pair of eyeglasses, binoculars. A guy just above him, in the third row, figures he’s holding it for somebody. Halftime comes. Nobody shows up. By this time, everybody is looking at that empty seat and thinking how nice it would be if their girlfriends, sisters, parents, or whatever, could be there, sitting in it. Finally, the guy in the third row taps the geezer on the shoulder.