Perfect Hatred Page 4

  “Not impossible,” Silva said.

  “But you don’t buy it.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t seem like the Nestor I know.”

  “Everybody’s got his price.”

  Arnaldo turned his head and looked at him.

  “What?” Serpa said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are we wasting time?” Serpa said. “Nestor is the key to the whole business. Let’s—”

  Silva held up a hand. “I’ll get back to Nestor in a moment. Right now, I’m interested in Cataldo. What else can you tell us about him?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “Any history of violence? Any criminal record? Any indication he might have been mentally ill?”

  “No, no and no. He was a family man, born and bred in Curitiba. His friends, his neighbors, everybody we talked to said he was the last guy they would have expected to do something like this.”

  “And you don’t find that suspicious?”

  “Not when you know the rest of the story.”

  “Which is?”

  “He was broke. He had debts. He needed money.”

  “So he took on a kill-for-hire. That’s the way you figure it?”

  Serpa shrugged. “Like I said, everybody has his price. All we gotta do is figure out who picked up the tab.”

  “Okay,” Arnaldo said, “so let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

  “What elephant?”

  “Lots of people seem to think your boss had the best motive.”

  “Lots of people have got it wrong. Governor Abbas is a smart politician. Even if he wasn’t, even if he’d been dumb enough to try to knock off Plínio, Madalena wouldn’t have let him.”

  “Who’s Madalena?” Arnaldo asked. “His wife?”

  “Hell no. That’s Esmeralda, and she’s as dumb as a post. I’m talking about Madalena Torres. She’s his campaign manager, and she’s fucking brilliant.”

  “And the Governor wouldn’t have acted without consulting her?”

  “He consults her about everything. When to have breakfast, when to go to sleep, when to take a—”

  Silva cut him short. “So you’re sure the governor isn’t mixed up in this?”

  “One hundred percent. Think about it. If Abbas had anything to do with it, why would he have agreed to call you guys in? Answer me that.”

  “Agreed?” Silva said. “What do you mean agreed? The way I heard it, it was his idea. It started with him.”

  Serpa shook his head. “It started with me. It was my idea. I told the governor I needed help.”

  Silva raised an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me, Braulio, that we’re here because you actually wanted us here? The last time we were in Paraná, I got the impression you couldn’t get us out of your state quick enough.”

  “Hey, that was then. This is now. This time, it’s different. This time, I’m your new best friend.”

  “And with friends like you, who needs enem—”

  “Shut up, Nunes. I’m talking to your boss.”

  “Why the change of heart?” Silva said.

  “I’m forty-eight years old. I got three kids. I got responsibilities. I got expenses. I leave this job without finding out who bankrolled Plínio’s murder, I’m not gonna find another one paying half as well. I solve the case, I’m going to be a hero, and I can write my ticket in the civilian security world.”

  “So you don’t see yourself staying on after Abbas leaves?”

  “Are you kidding? You know who’s running in Plínio’s place?”

  “No. Who?”

  “His widow, Stella.”

  “His widow?”

  “That’s right. Stella Saldana announced her candidacy about two hours ago. With the backlash, with half the state thinking Abbas was behind her husband’s killing, she’s sure to win. She’ll take office on the third of January, and by the fourth, every Abbas appointee in this state will be out on his ass, me included. Happy New Year, right? Anyway, that only gives me another nine weeks to crack this thing, and I’d take help from the Devil himself.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been looking forward to working with you too,” Arnaldo said. “Just the thought gives me a warm, cuddly feeling.”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “If not Abbas,” Silva said, “who?”

  “I don’t know,” Serpa said, “but it’s got to be non-political.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Simple. Up until the time Plínio got shot, it was a two-horse race. Either Saldana, or Abbas, was gonna win this election. Nobody else. No other candidate had a ghost of a chance. And, since nobody in Saldana’s camp would have wanted to kill him, and nobody in Abbas’s camp would have been stupid enough to.…”

  “We should be concentrating on people outside the world of politics. Is that the way you figure it?”

  “That’s the way I figure it.”

  “All right, understood. Any suspects?”

  “None,” Serpa said. “Well, okay, maybe one. But it’s a stretch.”

  “Who?”

  “You didn’t get this from me, okay?”

  “Okay. Who?”

  “Plínio’s brother.”

  “Explain.”

  “Plínio’s old man, Orestes Saldana, is richer than God. His wife is dead, and he only has—make that had—two kids, Lúcio and Plínio.”

  “So?”

  “So, before Plínio got himself killed, Orestes’s estate, when he died, would have been split equally.”

  “I see.”

  “And it didn’t matter a damn that Orestes hated Plínio’s guts, which he did. The law prohibited him from disinheriting a son, so Plínio would have gotten half the money, unless—”

  “He predeceased the old man.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Likes money, does he? This Lúcio?”

  “I don’t know if he likes it, but he sure as hell needs it. Word on the street is his business is going down the tubes.”

  “What business? What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a financial consultant. But I wouldn’t call it a living, because it isn’t.”

  Silva shook his head as if to clear it. “Say that again,” he said. “This Lúcio’s a financial consultant, yet he can’t make a success of his own business?”

  Serpa gave a sardonic grin. “Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it? So it’s no surprise that the folks in this town who have money aren’t likely to trust him with any of it.”

  “You just said his father was richer than God.”

  “So?”

  “So why doesn’t he help him out? Pump some money into the business? Use his influence to get his son some clients?”

  “You wouldn’t ask that question if you knew the old man. Orestes Saldana doesn’t put a centavo into anything that isn’t guaranteed to give him a return.”

  “Like that, is he?”

  “He’s the biggest tightwad that ever there was. Every charity in this town has had a go at him at one time or another, and he’s sent every one of them packing. The only thing he ever contributes to is Governor Abbas’s campaigns.”

  “And what is there about Governor Abbas that inspires the generosity of Senhor Saldana?”

  “It’s not generosity. It’s an investment. Orestes owns a construction company that does about ninety percent of its business with the State.”

  “How cozy,” Arnaldo said.

  Serpa didn’t look at him, acted as if it had been Silva who’d spoken.

  “Very cozy. Abbas and Saldana are like this”—Serpa held up a hand with his forefinger and middle finger crossed—“and the governor is going to want to keep it that way.”

  “And therefore,” Silva said, “if we should subject Orestes, or his son, to interrogation—”

  “Orestes is gonna squawk. And who is he gonna squawk to? Abbas that’s who! And the next thing you know the governor will be on my ass. There�
�s no way he’s gonna believe Orestes, or Lúcio, had anything to do with Plínio’s death, not unless we can prove it to him beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  “How do we prove it, if we can’t question them?”

  “Yeah, that’s a problem, isn’t it? Put your thinking cap on, and maybe you’ll come up with a solution. But I never said a word to you about either Lúcio or his old man. Are we clear?”

  Silva didn’t reply.

  “You want to visit the crime scene?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t get anything out of it anyway. It’s already been trampled over by everybody and his brother—and it’s knee-deep in flowers.”

  “Have you spoken to Cataldo’s wife?”

  “Sure. She sang the same tune as their friends and neighbors. She claimed to be mystified, said what her husband did came as a complete surprise. At first, I didn’t buy it.”

  “But you do now?”

  “I hooked her up to a lie detector. She passed with flying colors.”

  “Lie detectors can be fooled.”

  “You telling me something I don’t know? But that takes a cool customer, and this lady is an emotional wreck.”

  “I’d like to talk to her anyway.”

  Braulio shrugged. “Suit yourself. What else?”

  “We’d like a copy of everything you’ve got. Everything.”

  Serpa opened his drawer, removed a ring binder and put it on his desk. “I figured you would.”

  “Not very thick,” Arnaldo said.

  Serpa chose to take the observation as criticism. “What the fuck did you expect?” he said. “It just happened a few hours ago.”

  “Medical examiner’s reports?” Silva asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. But they’re not gonna tell us anything we don’t know already.”

  “Names? Addresses?”

  Serpa nodded. “Plínio’s father, his brother, Cataldo’s wife, even Nestor’s wife, they’re all in the book.”

  “And the governor?”

  “Him too. And the governor’s chief-of-staff, Rodrigo Fabiano. And Madalena Torres. But you’re going to be wasting your time with that lot. No way any of those people are involved in this.”

  He pushed the binder in Silva’s direction.

  “Then we’re done for the moment,” Silva said, picking it up and rising to his feet. “Next stop, the hospital.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Serpa said, standing up and reaching for his coat.

  While his back was turned, Silva and Arnaldo exchanged a glance. The last thing they wanted was to have Serpa dogging their footsteps.

  “Not a good idea,” Silva said to Serpa’s back, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to being excluded.

  The secretary turned to face him. “Why the hell not?”

  “We’re friends of Nestor’s,” Silva said, reasonably. “You’re not. Without you, we’re likely to get more out of him.”

  It wasn’t a strong argument, but it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment.

  Serpa stood there for a few seconds, trying to think of a way to refute it—but he couldn’t, so he mumbled something inaudible, scowled and sat down.

  He was still scowling when they closed the door behind them.

  Chapter Six

  A TWENTY-MINUTE CAB RIDE took Silva and Arnaldo to Santa Cruz Hospital. They arrived to find a horde of people exiting the front door.

  “Shift change,” Arnaldo said.

  But it wasn’t.

  “The afternoon visiting hours just ended,” the woman at the reception desk told them. She was elderly, long past retirement age, probably a volunteer. Her thick glasses magnified friendly brown eyes.

  Silva showed her his warrant card. “Police business,” he said.

  “Well, that’s different, isn’t it? The patient’s name?”

  Silva told her.

  She opened a folder and ran an index finger down a list. “Here it is. Cambria, Nestor. Room 542.”

  They boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. It stopped on the second.

  The door opened to reveal two young women engaged in conversation.

  “So then I told her,” one was saying, “that, with a boyfriend like that, she’d be better off if she just—” She stopped abruptly when she saw the elevator wasn’t empty.

  Both women were dressed in identical pink frocks, and both were pushing carts laden with trays. Arnaldo put out a hand to prevent the door from closing as they climbed on board.

  “Thanks,” the one who’d been speaking said, but she didn’t resume her conversation. The elevator filled with the smell of overcooked vegetables.

  One woman got off on the fourth floor; the other on the fifth where she turned left and moved off at a brisk pace.

  Arnaldo and Silva stopped at the desk directly in front of the elevator doors. From behind it, a no-nonsense type with a pencil protruding from her hair like an antenna was staring daggers. Silva looked for a name tag. She wasn’t wearing one.

  When they asked her how to find room 542 she raised her chin.

  “Visiting hours just ended,” she said.

  “Yes,” Silva said. “We’re aware of that.”

  “We’re serving dinner. We don’t admit visitors during mealtimes.”

  “Sorry. You’re going to have to make an exception. This is police business.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, Senhora,” Silva said, keeping a tight rein on his temper, “I’m afraid it can’t.”

  “Credentials, please,” she said.

  Both cops showed her their warrant cards. She took her time studying them, then pointed and said, “It’s that way, at the end of the hall.”

  “The life of the party, that one,” Arnaldo muttered after they’d turned their backs and were walking away. “Remind me never to get shot in Curitiba.”

  “Never get shot in Curitiba,” Silva said.

  Just then, there was a scream followed by a crash. The woman who’d exited the elevator with them hurried out of a room and passed them on the run. She stopped at the nurses’ station and leaned over the desk.

  Silva and Arnaldo quickened their pace, reached the door from which she’d emerged and stepped over the tray of food and crockery she’d let fall to the floor.

  Nestor was lying across the bed, his pajamas and sheets soaked with blood. More had pooled on the floor.

  The PA system burst into life.

  Code Blue. Room 542. Code Blue. Room 542.

  “Closet and bathroom,” Silva snapped.

  Arnaldo, gun already in hand, went to check both places.

  Silva holstered his Glock and put his index and middle fingers on Nestor’s carotid artery.

  Their friend’s eyes were open. An ugly gash was in his forehead, a bloody pillow next to his body. His pulse was nonexistent.

  “Whoever did it is gone,” Arnaldo said, returning from the bathroom. “Nestor?”

  “Also gone,” Silva said.

  There was a commotion in the hallway. A young man wearing green scrubs appeared at the door. He spotted the pistol in Arnaldo’s hand and stopped so abruptly that both of the nurses behind him ran into his back.

  “Police,” Silva said and stepped aside.

  Reassured, they entered the room, followed by a third nurse pushing a cart heaped with instruments and medical supplies. The first two women went to the bed and bent over Nestor.

  “I’m Doctor Sobel,” the man in scrubs said. “What happened?”

  “Senhor Cambria is dead,” Silva said. “Murdered.”

  The young doctor raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d be the better judge of that.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think,” Silva said, annoyed. “Tell your security people to block off this floor and to send their senior man to the nurse’s station near the elevator.”

  “I’m a doctor. I’m not—”

  “Just do it!”
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  Sobel grimaced and, apparently better at giving orders than taking them, addressed one of the nurses.

  “Do as he says.”

  She moved toward the telephone. The two cops hurried back in the direction of the elevators.

  “Senhor Cambria?” the no-nonsense woman asked before either one of them could get a word out.

  “Murdered,” Arnaldo said.

  His bluntness would have rattled most people. Not her.

  “Murdered, eh?” she said. “You seem very sure of yourself. Don’t you think Doctor Sobel should make a call like that?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  That took her aback. “No? Why not?”

  “Because I’ve examined more murdered people than that arrogant little prig ever did,” Arnaldo said.

  Silva stepped-in before the altercation could escalate. “Your name, Senhora?”

  She shot a nasty look at Arnaldo, but responded civilly enough. “Telles. Celia Telles.”

  “Tell me, Senhora Telles, is it possible to get onto this floor by way of the stairwell?”

  “Stairwells,” she corrected him. “There are two, and, no, it isn’t. You can leave the floor, but you can’t enter the floor.”

  “What happens if you get trapped in the stairwell?”

  “You have to descend to the lobby. Down there, the door isn’t locked.”

  “So any visitor to this floor would have to use the elevator to get here?”

  “Unless he had a key, or someone admitted him.”

  “Or unless someone left one of the doors propped open,” Arnaldo said.

  She obviously would have preferred to ignore him, or refute him, but was forced to give a reluctant nod.

  “Who has keys?” Silva said. “The nursing staff? The doctors?”

  She shook her head. “Only the security people.”

  “How long have you been on duty?”

  “Since ten. I’m doing a double shift.”

  “How much of that time have you spent here, in this location?”

  “Most of it. Someone has to keep a constant eye on the monitors. Unless I’m on a break, that’s me.”

  “When was the last time you were on a break?”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I returned from the last one an hour and … twenty-six minutes ago.”