"If you could, perhaps, give me some inkling of the subject matter…"
"I can't."
"Well, then…" Father Gaspar lifted his palms in a gesture of helplessness. "Do you have any reason to believe that… what was that young man's name again?"
"Edson Souza."
"That Edson Souza's telephone call to the bishop and the bishop's call to me are related?"
"I don't. But it's a possibility, and I'm exploring all the possibilities."
"Hmm. Sorry I can't help you.
Father Gaspar folded his hands over his ample belly and leaned back in his chair.
"During our first conversation," Hector said, changing tack, "you suggested that a priest might have been responsible for the bishop's murder."
"Yes."
"Father Francisco, the bishop's secretary, has another theory."
"Which is?"
"It might have been a landowner."
"A landowner?" Gaspar unclasped his hands and leaned forward. "A landowner? Why in the world would he say a thing like that?"
"Do you remember the last sermon Dom Felipe delivered in your old church?"
Gaspar nodded.
"`The Blood of the Wicked,' he called it. It concerned the murder of Azevedo, the league activist. He asked people to come forward. Not unlike what Orlando Muniz is doing, don't you agree?"
"No, Father, I don't agree. The bishop, to my knowledge, didn't mention money."
"Well, that's true. He didn't."
"I gather you disagree with Father Francisco."
"I most certainly do. The landowners of Cascatas are pillars of the community. None of them would stoop to violence.
"There's just one thing wrong with that argument, Father."
"What's that, Chief Inspector?"
"Judging by what happened to Azevedo, one of them already did."
When Father Gaspar returned from escorting his guests to the door, Euclides was waiting for him.
"I don't like those guys," he said.
"But then, there aren't really many people that you do like, are there?" the priest said, sinking into his chair.
"I like you."
"Yes, my boy, I know you do. And I like you. You were, I suppose, up to your usual bad habits while those policemen were here?"
"If you mean was I listening at the door, then, yeah, I was."
"Good. So I don't have to explain. This Edson Souza? Who might he be?"
"He might be anybody. They've all got street names. I had one, too, remember?"
"Of course, I remember. But that's all behind you now. Let's see what the colonel can tell us."
He checked his watch.
"He should be in his office by now."
Ferraz was in his office, and probably alone because he immediately took Gaspar's call. They exchanged pleasantries, then Father Gaspar asked, "Why do you suppose, Colonel, that the Federal Police are looking for a menino de rua named Edson Souza?"
"Who says they are?"
"Mario Silva does. He and that young delegado, Costa I think his name is, just paid me a visit."
"Yeah, Costa. He's Silva's nephew. Why do you care if they're looking for Pipoca?"
"Who?"
"Edson Souza. That's his street name. Pipoca. Why do you care?"
"Well… I thought I might be able to help."
"Take my advice, Father. Stay out of it. Let the Federal Police solve their own problems.
"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right. No business of mine, after all."
"That's the attitude. Anything else I can do for you?"
"No. Nothing else. Thank you, Colonel."
"My pleasure."
Father Gaspar put the telephone back on its cradle and looked at Euclides. "It seems," he said, "as if the colonel knows the young man in question."
"He does, huh?"
"Yes, my boy, and so do we. It turns out that Edson Souza is the young man we know as Pipoca."
"Pipoca! Well, that explains a lot."
"It does, doesn't it? Something more: the colonel didn't actually say so, but he gave me the distinct impression that he's looking for him as well."
Euclides smiled. "Good," he said.
"Indeed. Let's hope he finds him before Silva does."
Chapter Thirty-two
Silva could hear the telephone ringing while he was still in the corridor. It stopped before he could get his key into the lock, then started again when he was closing the door to the suite.
"Finally," his caller said. "I must have called ten times."
Vicenza Pelosi.
"I should have asked you for the number of your cell phone," she said. "Hang on. Let me make a note of it right now."
And why shouldn't I give it to her? Silva thought, thinking of the director's admonition to keep the number confidential. Everybody else seems to have it.
"Okay, go ahead," she said.
He rattled off the digits, could hear her fumbling as she wrote them down. She was outside somewhere. There were traffic noises in the background.
"Good news," she said when the fumbling stopped. "The kid called."
Silva's hand tightened on the phone. "Edson Souza?"
"He wants to meet."
"Thanks, Vicenza. I'll take it from here. Where and when?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"What?"
Vicenza started talking fast. "I know we've got a deal, and I know you gave me his name, but he doesn't want anyone else. Just me. Says he's scared but he's willing to talk."
"Vicenza, for God's sake, it's dangerous to be anywhere near that kid."
"Don't worry. I'll be careful."
"Vicenza-"
"No time to talk now, Chief Inspector. I'm almost there. I'll drop by your suite when I get back to the hotel."
"Vicenza, please listen-"
But she didn't. She hung up.
Major Osmani Palmas told the technician to rewind the tape and play it back. Then he told him to rewind it again, and picked up the telephone.
Ferraz answered on the first ring.
"The monitoring of the phone in Silva's suite paid off, Colonel," Palmas said without preamble. "Listen to this."
He put the handset next to the speaker and nodded to the technician.
When the playback ended, Palmas put the telephone back to his ear. "How about that?" he said.
"Where's she meeting the kid?"
"We don't know."
"Where is she now?"
"We don't know that either. Not at the hotel, that's for sure. You heard those traffic noises? She's on the street somewhere."
"She's staying at the same place Silva is, right?"
"Uh-huh. The Excelsior."
"Throw a cordon around it. Snatch her when she comes back. Don't let her get anywhere near those federal cops."
"And then?"
"And then bring her to the tobacco shed."
Edson had told Vicenza to be on the northeast corner of Republic Square at four o'clock. Someone would come, pick her up, and take her to him.
In her blonde wig, dark glasses, and floppy hat she felt like a character out of a spy movie. Even disguised beyond recognition, she was still getting admiring glances from males.
Five minutes after the appointed hour, a battered Volkswagen taxi stopped directly in front of her. She waved him off, but the driver wouldn't take no for an answer. Ignoring the horns and catcalls from the traffic behind him, he climbed out and opened the door on the passenger side.
"I don't want a taxi," she said.
"You'll want this one, Senhorita Pelosi."
The driver was well above average height, with hair that had once been blond and intelligent brown eyes.
"I'm here to take you to Edson."
He didn't sound like any taxi driver she'd ever met. His elegant Portuguese bore a trace of a foreign accent.
"So who are you?" she asked, as they pulled away from the curb.
"I'll have to ask you to turn off your cell phone," he said. "It's been said they can be used to trace one's location."
No. Definitely not a taxi driver.