"Same place. And a CD, too, with copies of all the transcriptions."
"So you lied. I should make this a whole hand."
He lifted the cleaver and brought it down again. The severed finger remained on the board. He used the blade of the cleaver to brush it aside, and it fell with a plop into the spreading pool of blood.
Diana felt a rush of gratitude. Yes, he was right. He'd told her the rules. He could have made it a hand. What's he done to me? He cut off all those fingers and I'm feeling grateful. Oh, God.
"Where's the key?"
"What key?"
"The one to the safe-deposit box, you fucking dyke. Where is it?"
"In my pocket."
"Which?"
"Hip. Left side."
Ferraz put down the cleaver, groped in her pocket, and came up with the key. Then he reached for his cigar, only to discover that it had gone out. He tossed it back onto the dinner plate.
"Anything else I should know about? Anything at all?"
"No. Nothing. I've told you everything."
His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of duplicity. "You know," he said at last, "I really think you have."
He wiped the bloody fingers of his gloves on Diana's Tshirt, treating it like a dirty rag, kneading her breasts while he was at it.
Then he took out another cigar and nodded, casually, to the cop who was holding her by the arm.
Chapter Eighteen
Father Anton Brouwer was a tall man, so tall that he'd developed a slight stoop from leaning over when he spoke to people. He had a nose like the beak of a parrot and a receding hairline of straw-colored blond hair. Like straw, too, it lay every which way on the top of his head. From what Silva had already learned, he was well into his fifties, but unlike Father Angelo he wore his years lightly.
No cassock for him. His blue denim pants hung low on bony hips. Above them, and tucked in at the belt, he was wearing one of those red T-shirts bearing the logotype of the league.
He was smiling when he mounted the veranda, still smiling when the old dog got laboriously to its feet, and he leaned over to stroke it. The smile vanished when he found out who his visitor was. Brouwer rose to his full height. The dog continued to stand there, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
"Chief Inspector Silva and I have been having a pleasant chat," Father Angelo told him. "He's here to talk to you about the league."
"For the league," Father Brouwer said, sinking into a chair, "I have all afternoon. As for you, Angelo, you'd better empty that ashtray and clean the table. That's no way to receive a guest, now is it?"
Brouwer's Portuguese was excellent, but there was the trace of an accent there. Silva had never heard anything quite like it. He assumed it was Flemish.
Father Angelo contemplated the overflowing ashtray. "In time, my boy. I'll clean it in time. At the moment I'm rather enjoying myself."
"Before we touch on the subject of the league," Silva said, "I have a few other questions."
"About?" Brouwer said. The dog came up to him and stuck its muzzle in his lap. Absently, he scratched it behind one of its floppy ears.
"About Bishop Antunes and about Orlando Muniz Junior. He seems to have disappeared."
Silva was watching Brouwer closely to see how he took the news. Brouwer's expression didn't change. He didn't even nod.
"Let's start with Muniz," Silva said. "Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?"
"Read First Kings Twenty-one," Brouwer said.
Angelo chuckled.
Silva looked from one to the other.
"How about sharing the joke?"
"First Kings Twenty-one," Angelo said, "a passage from the Old Testament. There was a chap by the name of Naboth and he had this vineyard. Stop me if you know the story."
Silva shook his head. The old man went on.
"Ahab, he was the King of Samaria, wanted that vineyard so bad he could practically taste the grapes, but Naboth was like me. The old fellow liked his wine. He made that wine from those grapes, and he told the king to buzz off. Now, Ahab was married to a very unpleasant lady by the name of Jezebel. They decided to… what's the phrase you use? Bump Naboth off?"
Silva nodded.
"You also say `waste them,' don't you? I think I like that even better. So Ahab and Jezebel decided to waste Naboth and lay their hands on the property. They did it, but it was a big mistake. In those days, God used to take a more active role in people's affairs and he was on Naboth's side. The Lord avenged Naboth's death in a most exemplary way: Dogs wound up licking the blood he spilled from Ahab, but Jezebel fared even worse. The dogs ate her. They must have been a good deal fiercer than old Methuselah here."
At the sound of his name, the old dog turned his head and looked at Father Angelo. Father Brouwer picked up where his friend had left off.
"The moral of the story is that if you get greedy for land, you'd better watch out. Muniz should have spent more of his time reading the Bible and less of it exploiting the people who worked for him."
Silva looked from one to the other. "Thank you, gentlemen, for the scripture lesson. What else can you tell me about Orlando Muniz Junior?"
"He was responsible for the murder of an innocent man by the name of Aurelio Azevedo," Brouwer said. "And not only Azevedo himself, but also his entire family, a wife and two children."
"Can you prove that?"
"No. But I'm sure he was. Whatever death Muniz died, he deserved it."
Silva pounced. "What makes you so sure he's dead?"
"Why… you said so, didn't you?"
"No, Father, I didn't."
After a moment of silence, Father Angelo spoke. "Chief Inspector Silva is quite right, Anton. He didn't say it. Perhaps someone at the encampment mentioned it to you, someone who was jumping to conclusions."
He turned to Silva. "The night before last the league-"
"-invaded Muniz's fazenda. Yes, I know."
Father Brower shook his head. "Don't call it an invasion. It wasn't. What the league did was to occupy uncultivated land within a fence put up by Orlando Muniz Junior. When the government-"
Father Angelo put his hand on Father Brouwer's knee. "I think that Inspector Silva's concerns lie elsewhere, Anton. He's only interested in things that are germane to the cases he's investigating." He turned to Silva. "Muniz's foreman was heard to say that his employer had disappeared and that people were searching for him. Perhaps the rumor about him being dead is simply wishful thinking."
"That must be it," Brouwer said. "A rumor."
There was a moment of silence.
Then Silva said, "All right, let's put Muniz on the back burner for a moment. What can you tell me about the bishop?"
Father Brouwer leaned back in his chair. "I can't help you very much," Brouwer said. "I didn't know him well."
"Did you like him?"
"As I've just said, I hardly knew him."
"Why would anyone want to kill him?"
"You heard about his sermon? Asking people to come forward if they knew anything about the murder of the Azevedo family?"
"I heard about it, yes."
"Well, then, there you have it. My guess would be that he was killed by the same murdering parasites who killed Azevedo: Muniz, or one of his cronies."
"Landowners?"
"Landowners. From all accounts, the bishop wasn't a particularly likeable man, but I can't think of anyone else who would have had a reason to kill him."
"Father Gaspar thinks otherwise. He thinks someone from the league might have done it."
"From the league?"
Father Brouwer was genuinely surprised.
So was Father Angelo. "What possible motive could anyone from the league have?" the old priest asked.
"Perhaps because the bishop withdrew church support?"
"Nonsense," Father Brouwer said. "Everyone knew that was bound to happen when the old bishop died. Now, that man, the old bishop, he was a saint. He cared more about the poor than he did about the opinions of a few learned-and some believe misguided-old men in Rome. We won't see his like again in our lifetimes. These days, Rome would never appoint a man like him. They'll only appoint someone else who follows the party line. Dom Felipe did. That's one of the reasons he got the job."