"And his opposite number? The guy who runs the league locally?"
"Roberto Pereira. Don't spread it around, okay? I don't want his murder on my conscience. By the way, did you know that Pillar is in town?"
"Luiz Pillar? Here?"
Silva was surprised. Pillar spent most of his time lobbying politicians in Brasilia. He'd been particularly successful with the President of the Republic, a man who'd been a labor leader long before he had political ambitions.
"Yeah. Here," Diana said, "and staying at the Hotel Excelsior."
"We're at the Excelsior as well," Hector said, giving his uncle a sideways glance.
"Of course you are," Diana said. "It's the only game in town except for the Hotel Grande, which is anything but grand, except, maybe, for the size of the cockroaches."
"What brings Pillar to Cascatas? Any idea?"
"No, but whenever he shows up things have a way of happening."
"They do indeed. This guy Pereira, you know where to find him?"
"No."
Hector lifted an eyebrow.
"No," she repeated. "I really don't, but if there's a demonstration or if they occupy somebody's property-and with Pillar here it's got to be one or the other-you're going to find him right up front."
"Capable of violence?"
"Roberto?" She thought about it for a moment. "I'm not sure," she said, massaging the lobe of one ear between a thumb and a forefinger. "If you'd asked me a year ago, I would have said `definitely not.' But he and his wife were great friends of the Azevedos. Their kids used to play together. After the murders he-"
She was interrupted by a knock. The roar of the press increased in intensity as a young woman stuck her head through the open door. She was in her early twenties, had short blonde hair and multiple studs on her ears.
"Can it wait?" Diana had to shout to make herself heard. "I'm almost done."
The blonde shook her head. "You'd better come out here," she shouted back.
Diana went out, closing the door behind her.
"Bitch," Hector said, as soon as she was gone.
"I rather like her," his uncle said. "Refreshingly candid." And then, to soothe his nephew's ruffled feathers: "Good idea. Coming here, I mean. At least you and the lady seem to agree about one thing."
"Yeah. Ferraz."
Before he could say anything more the roar of the press was back. Diana bustled in, holding what appeared to be a box full of paper. She kicked the door closed with her left foot and put the object on the desk. The word IN was written with blue marker on a piece of masking tape stuck to one end.
"I didn't touch it," she said, breathlessly, "but my secretary did. You'll probably need her fingerprints for comparison. Read it."
She pointed. Silva stood up, took out his reading glasses, and leaned over the paper that topped the pile. The note wasn't anything fancy. It had been block-printed with a ballpoint pen:
ORLANDO MUNIZ, THE MURDERER OF AURELIO AZEVEDO, NOW HAS ALL OF THE LAND HE'LL EVER NEED: IT'S TWO METERS LONG AND FIFTY CENTIMETERS WIDE.
There was no signature.
"Delivered by a street kid," Diana said, "in a plain white envelope with nothing but my name on the front. The envelope is outside in the wastebasket. The kid's already gone."
"Orlando Muniz. Would that be Junior?" Hector asked.
"No doubt," she said. "The old man lives in Rio de Janeiro most of the time. If it had been him, you would have felt the ground shake. They say he's got half of the politicians in Brasilia in his pocket, but that's probably an exaggeration. Personally, I don't believe that it's more than a third of them."
When Diana said the word "politicians," Hector glanced at his uncle.
"Merda," Silva said.
Chapter Twelve
"What?"
"Is that a comment on what I just said, or do we have problems with the telephone line?" the director asked testily. He hated to repeat himself.
"The line," Silva lied.
It was two minutes past 6:00, and true to his promise, the director was calling for an update.
"I said Orlando Muniz is on his way to Cascatas," he repeated, switching into his I'm-speaking-to-someone-whodoesn't-know-the-language mode. "He'll be there tomorrow afternoon. Be nice to him. He was a major contributor to the president's campaign."
"Muniz contributed to the president's campaign."
Silva started the sentence as a question, but managed to kill the rising inflection and turn it into a statement. "Why would he do that?"
"Why not?" the director said.
"Because the president leans to the left and Muniz's politics are said to be somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun's."
"Yeah, but he's not stupid. Every poll predicted that the president was going to win, remember? Anyway, that's no concern of yours. Just make sure you don't piss Muniz off."
"Don't worry. I couldn't if I wanted to."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said. I won't even be here when he arrives."
"Why the hell not?"
"I'm going to Presidente Vargas."
"What for? What's in Presidente Vargas?"
"The seat of the diocese. The bishop's secretary. We have an appointment."
"Cancel it. Send somebody else."
"Didn't you tell me my top priority was to-"
"Yeah, well now you have two top priorities: The murders of the bishop and Muniz Junior. I don't want to see you back here until you've solved both."
"With all due respect, Director, we're not even sure the Muniz kid is dead."
"Kid? The man's thirty-seven, or he was thirty-seven. Whichever. And if he isn't dead, so much the better, but I want you to stay there until you get to the bottom of it. Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. Information about the rifle, the one Ferraz's men found in the tower. The bullets that killed the bishop were definitely shot from it. They traced the serial number."
"And?"
"And a Belgian arms dealer by the name of…" Silva heard the director rustling through some papers, "Hugo van Aalst bought it directly from the manufacturer."
"A Belgian? Did you say a Belgian?"
The director took in an exasperated breath and grunted. "Yeah. So what?"
"Nothing. Go on."
After a pause, the director did. "That's Aalst with two `a's.' He sold it to the Paraguayan army, and he has an end user certificate to prove it. The Paraguayans say they can't find it. Sound familiar?"
"Too familiar."
Not a few Paraguayans made a very lucrative living by supplying contraband to their neighbor to the north. Most of it came across the so-called "Friendship Bridge" near Iguacu Falls. Scotch whiskey, cigarettes, and weapons were all popular items.
The registration of the weapon was a dead end. They'd never be able to trace it to the killer, but Silva didn't think it would be a good idea to stress that fact at the moment.
"Hang on," the director said.
He left the line without waiting for a response, but he was back less than five seconds later: "Minister on the other line. Keep me posted." He hung up without saying goodbye.
Silva looked at his watch. It was already too late to call Irene. With a shake of his head he got up, crossed the living room of their suite, and knocked on Hector's door. His nephew, wearing a bathrobe, his hair still wet from the shower, opened it immediately.
"You don't look happy," Hector said.
"I'm not," Silva said, but he didn't elaborate. "That Poli woman said that Pillar is staying here, right?"
"Right."
"Get some clothes on and see if you can find him. Try to keep it friendly. Invite him for a drink."
"In the bar?"
"No. Here. In twenty minutes."
The young man behind the reception desk confirmed that Pillar was, indeed, registered in the hotel.