Blood of the Wicked Page 10

  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.

  “Room four-oh-seven,” he said to Hector, “in the back of the building. Certainly not one of our best, but he asked for the cheapest—”

  “Where’s the house phone?”

  “Over there, senhor.”

  Hector had already turned his back when the clerk added, “But if you’re going to call Senhor Pillar, I’m afraid you’re not going to find him.”

  Hector turned back to the clerk. “No?”

  “No, senhor. There are quite a few messages for him, some of them urgent, so I tried to call him when I came on duty.”

  “When was that?”

  “At five. When he didn’t pick up, I asked the chambermaid to check the room. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “How about his room key?”

  “He left it with me at about this same time last night. I don’t think he’s been back since.”

  Hector was breathing hard when he got back to the suite. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, he’d run up four flights of stairs.

  His uncle’s aplomb immediately deflated him.

  “So you don’t think he was kidnapped?”

  Silva shook his head. “By the landowners? Unlikely.” He set aside the thick folder he’d been leafing through and picked up the scotch and water he’d prepared for himself. “Muniz is their local leader, and he’s gone missing.”

  “Well, then, maybe somebody else organized it.”

  “Maybe. But I doubt it. You leave a message?”

  Hector nodded. “And a tip to the desk clerk to make sure it stayed on the top of the pile. Some pile, by the way. He has more people trying to get in touch with him than you do. What’s that?” He pointed to the folder Silva had been perusing.

  “Pillar’s dossier. I brought it from Brasilia. Pour yourself a drink and have a look.”

  Hector did just that.

  The dossier had been opened back in the days of the military dictatorship, before Pillar had been forced to flee to asylum in Uruguay. Kept current to the present day, it chronicled, in great detail, the life of one of Brazil’s premier activists.

  Hector didn’t see eye-to-eye with Pillar’s politics, but as he skimmed the pages, he started building up a grudging respect for the man. Pillar was a firebrand, but he certainly wasn’t a megalomaniac. When he spoke, and there were summaries of many of his speeches, he always stressed that he wasn’t the President of the Landless Workers’ League. The organization had, he insisted, no chief executive, no board of directors, no hierarchy. They were all comrades, all equals in the struggle for land reform.

  And Pillar certainly wasn’t in it for the money. He lived simply, drove a sixteen-year-old Fiat and resided alone in a studio apartment in one of the less-fashionable neighborhoods of Brasilia. An exhaustive examination of his financial dealings seemed to indicate that he was scrupulous in accounting for the contributions made to his organization and that he regularly paid his taxes.

  In dictatorships, people like Pillar are imprisoned and tortured, often killed. In the great democracies they sometimes become candidates for president or prime minister. But they seldom win.

  More than 1,500 of Pillar’s colleagues had been murdered in the land wars of the last decade. He was more visible than any of them, but the threat to his life didn’t seem to make him afraid, only angry. If Pereira, the local man, was anything like him. . . .

  The telephone rang. Hector started to close the dossier, but his uncle stood. “Keep reading. I’ll get it.”

  Silva identified himself, said “yes” twice, gave his room number, and replaced the receiver. “Better conceal that dossier after all,” he said. “That was Pillar. He’s on his way up.”

  LUIZ PILLAR was older, and thinner, than he looked in his photographs. His brown eyes were sunk deeply into their sockets. His cheekbones showed sharply under his brown skin. He was certainly a man under pressure. Perhaps he was ill. He reminded Hector of a painting by Edvard Munch, the one called The Scream. He was dressed in faded jeans and a red T-shirt emblazoned with the logotype of the league, a crossed hoe and pitchfork on a circular white field.

  Silva offered him a hand and after a moment of hesitation Pillar took it.

  Hector offered him a drink and Pillar refused.

  “Are you here to arrest me?” he asked.

  “Why would you think that?” Silva said.

  Pillar shrugged and smiled. The smile was surprisingly gentle. “Because policemen, when I meet them, almost always do. Arrest me, I mean.”

  Pillar wasn’t exaggerating. He’d been arrested tens of times. He’d been convicted, too, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Policemen and judges often worked hand-in-hand with vengeful landowners. Juries often were vengeful landowners.

  “You have nothing to fear from us, Senhor Pillar. We work for the federal government,” Silva said.

  “I know who you are, Chief Inspector. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Yours, too. Now, will you sit down?”

  Pillar sank into the offered chair.

  “What brings you to Cascatas?” Silva asked.

  “League business. You?”

  “Murder. Initially, the murder of Dom Felipe Antunes, the Bishop of Presidente Vargas, and of your colleague, Aurelio Azevedo. More recently, the probable murder of a landowner by the name of Orlando Muniz.”

  Pillar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Senior?”

  “Junior.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You mean too bad it wasn’t his old man?”

  “Isn’t murder a local matter?” Pillar asked, as if he hadn’t heard Silva’s question.

  “Normally, yes. But the minister asked us to help the local police with their inquiries.”

  Pillar smiled again. “Assisting Colonel Emerson Ferraz with his inquiries? And is the colonel grateful?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “No. I wouldn’t think so. Still, your presence means that he’s probably working harder to find the murderer of the bishop.”

  “But not to find the murderer of your colleague?”

  The smile vanished. “No,” Pillar said. “The colonel doesn’t give a damn about what happened to Aurelio. What do you want from me, Chief Inspector?”

  “There’s been a suggestion that members of the league might have been involved in the murder of the bishop.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “How about in the murder of Orlando Muniz Junior?”

  “Now, that one I could understand. But I deny it, of course.”

  “Of course. You knew him?”

  “Not personally, no, but I knew the bishop. He was misguided, but he was a well-meaning man, true to his convictions. I can’t say I liked him, but I certainly didn’t hate him, and neither did anyone else in my organization. That’s not the case with Muniz. We all
hate his guts. He’s an exploiter of the worst kind.”

  “You just told me you didn’t know him.”

  “Personally, I said. I’m basing my opinion on things I’ve heard.”

  “Heard from whom?”

  “People who worked for him. Other people who knew him.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  Pillar shrugged. “Dead or alive, I had nothing to do with it. His father won’t believe that, of course. The old bastard will probably come after me next.”

  Silva took in a breath and let it out slowly. Before he uttered his next words, he already knew they’d be wasted but he said them anyway. “There’s no end to this. Whenever you kill one of them, they’re going to come right back and kill one of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know more than that, Chief Inspector. I know that when one of them is murdered they go out and kill fifty or even a hundred of us. They’ve killed more than fifteen hundred of us in the last ten years.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But we’re still going to win.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because we have the numbers on our side. There are less than fifty thousand of them. There are almost five million of us out there.” He pointed at the window as if all of them were just outside the hotel. “Five million landless workers. We’ve got them outnumbered by a margin of more than one hundred to one. We can’t lose.”

  “There are laws in this country, Pillar—”

  “Laws?” Pillar snorted. “We occupy unused farmland to force the government to do their duty and expropriate it. Is that a crime?”

  “In fact, it is. It’s called trespassing.”

  “Trespassing. And that serious offense, that major crime, merits the attention of the Federal Police?”

  “Spare me your sarcasm. How long have you been in Cascatas?”

  “What you’re really asking is: Was I here before the disappearance of young Muniz?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he disappear?”

  “Sometime during the night before last.”

  “Then the answer to your question is yes. Yes, I was here in Cascatas.”

  “Sleeping here at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And last night? Did you sleep here last night?” Silva asked, already knowing the answer.

  Pillar didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said.

  “Then where did you sleep?”

  “I didn’t sleep at all. I’ve been up all night.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Helping my brothers from the league to cut through Muniz’s fence and occupy a part of his fazenda.”

  “A part of his—”

  “Less than ten percent of his holding. Land he’s never used, but the greedy bastard doesn’t want to part with any of it. We’re going to stay where we are until our demands are negotiated.”

  “That’s senseless. “

  “You’re referring to the new law, I presume, the one that blocks appropriation in the case of occupation?”

  “I am.”

  “The government hasn’t been enforcing that one. Not since the new president was elected. He can’t come right out and say it, but he’s on our side.”

  “In his heart he may support you, but in practice, he won’t. He has to enforce the law. You’re pushing him too far.”

  “I don’t think so. I think time will prove me right.”

  “My God, Pillar, do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Old man Muniz is one of the most powerful men in this country. You think he’s going to think it’s a coincidence that his son disappears one day and that you occupy his fazenda the next?”

  “I don’t give a damn what he thinks. He can’t prove a thing.”

  “Proof? You think he needs proof?”

  “That’s the law.”

  “He’s the kind that picks and chooses his laws, just like you do. You mentioned Ferraz—”

  “The best cop money can buy. If he was an elevator operator, you’d have to bribe him to let you off on the right floor.”

  “Very funny. But this isn’t a joke. The two of them, old man Muniz and Ferraz, are going to come after your people, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, I’m not crazy at all. Think about it. Right now, this town is full of reporters. They didn’t come for us, they came for the bishop, but I intend to use them. What the league needs, more than anything else, is publicity for our cause. If Muniz and Ferraz crack a few heads—”

  “They’ll do more than crack a few heads. They’ll kill people. Back off, Pillar. This whole thing isn’t worth spilling blood for.”

  “No? Then why did they? You mentioned Aurelio Azevedo. He was my friend, Chief Inspector. They nailed him to a tree. They shot his wife, Teresa. They even killed Paulo and Marcela, their two kids. Paulo was fourteen. Marcela was only nine.”

  “A tragedy, I admit that, but—”

  “Not only a tragedy. A travesty. A travesty of justice. You think we don’t know who did it? You think we don’t . . . ah, why am I wasting my breath. What’s the use of talking to you? You can’t help.”

  Luiz Pillar lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. The face of it was scratched, and it had a cheap plastic band. “Look, I’m busy. If you want to continue this conversation you’ll find me at our encampment, out on the Fazenda Boa Vista.”

  He left without offering either one of them a hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DIANA’S HEART GAVE A leap when she heard the sound of a key in the lock. A moment later someone forced the front door against the chain.

  “Diana? Are you there?”

  Lori’s voice. Diana breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What’s going on?”

  Lori had her mouth against the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. There was an edge to her voice.

  “Coming,” Diana said, making an effort to keep her own voice cheerful and nonchalant. Hurriedly, she closed the file she’d been working on, exited the word-processing program, and switched the computer off.

  “Diana?”

  Lori kicked the door. Hard.

  Diana slipped off the chain and tried to relieve her partner of one of the brown paper bags, but Lori brushed by her, hurried into the kitchen, and set both of them on the counter. She kept her back turned to Diana.

  “Are you alone in here?” she said.

  “Of course I’m alone.”

  Lori spun around and eyed Diana suspiciously. “Then why the chain?”

  “You’re jealous?” Diana said.

  “Have I reason to be?”

  “No, Lori, you don’t. The door was on the chain because I . . . I didn’t want anyone to walk in on me while I was working.”

  It was the truth, but even to her it sounded like a feeble excuse.

  “Including me?” Lori said. When Diana didn’t reply to that, she continued, “Because I thought no one else except you and I have keys to this apartment.” Lori turned her back again and started taking groceries from the bags, setting them on the counter with just a bit more force than was necessary. “So what are you hiding?” she said.

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Diana said. “I’m just being careful. Here, let me help you.”

  Diana picked up a six-pack of yogurt and put it into the fridge. Lori opened the door to one of the cabinets and stood poised with a can of chickpeas in her hand. She was a short woman and had raised herself on the tips of her toes. Now, without putting the can away, she sank back onto her heels.

  “Why careful?” she said.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You-can’t-tell-me?” Lori doled out the words one by one.

  “Not because I don’t want to,” Diana said, hastily. “It’s because I promised someone I’d—”

  “Hold it right there! You promised someo
ne you were going to keep secrets from me?”

  “It’s for your own good, darling. Be a sweetheart and hand me that package of butter.”

  Lori handed her partner the butter and leaned her derriere against the sink. She crossed her arms and watched Diana put the package into the compartment at the top of the refrigerator door.

  Diana glanced at her. “What?” she said.

  “You don’t trust me.” It was an accusation, not a question.

  Diana closed the door to the fridge and breathed out in exasperation. “Of course I trust you.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . because it’s dangerous. If a certain party gets wind of it before it’s published, God knows what he’ll do.”

  “Who is he?”

  Diana shook her head.

  “Have it your own way,” Lori said.

  She turned her back, went into their bedroom and slammed the door. Diana heard the key turn in the lock. She sighed to herself, returned to her office and rebooted her computer. Lori would come around. Eventually. But until Diana had her work in print she wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep, and not just because she’d be spending all of those nights on the couch.

  Her biggest threat came from the kids themselves. Those kids were used to selling their bodies, which aside from being humiliating, was often more painful than selling information. If it occurred to one of them that Ferraz would pay him for what he knew, the kid would betray her in an instant. And whatever most of those kids were, they weren’t stupid. At least one of them was bound to figure it out before long. That’s why she and Anton had agreed that it was safest not to tell Lori anything. If Ferraz came for her, the less Lori knew, the better.

  Up until that moment, the moment she resumed her seat, Diana had taken only minimal precautions. She hadn’t typed up the interview transcripts at the office. She hadn’t left any record of what she was working on in the computer there. She’d been careful on the telephone. She’d even made sure Lori hadn’t caught her working at home. Until now.

  The risk hung over her head, and it was a deadly risk, but it was worth it. This was going to be the series of her journalistic life. She didn’t want to rush it into print. She wanted more color, more human interest, more juicy details. That’s what sold newspapers. That’s what won prizes for journalism. That’s what could catapult her into the big time.