Blood of the Wicked Page 9

  “How about this,” Hector said, “how about we talk about your story after you answer our questions?”

  “How about we don’t.”

  “Then how about we charge you with impeding an investigation?”

  “Don’t you threaten me, Delegado. That won’t stick and you know it.”

  Hector flushed. Silva put his hand on his nephew’s arm.

  “Let’s start all over again,” he said. “Hector has been in Cascatas since yesterday. He’s a bit upset with the level of cooperation we’ve been getting.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s a little grumpy.”

  “A little?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  Diana sat back in her chair and smiled. “Okay,” she said. “I won’t. Lack of cooperation, huh?”

  Silva nodded.

  “Ferraz?”

  He nodded again. “But that’s not for publication,” he said.

  “What else do you know that isn’t for publication?”

  “Ferraz has what he claims to be the murder weapon. It’s what you might call a sniper rifle, a Sako Classic with a Leupold telescopic sight, if that means anything to you.”

  Diana picked up a pencil and made a note. “It doesn’t, but it will. I’ll look it up. What else?”

  “The weapon and the cartridge casings are apparently free of fingerprints. The shots seemed to have been fired from the north tower of the new church. That’s where the rifle was found.”

  She made another note. “Have you been able to trace it? The gun, I mean.”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

  “The killer didn’t file off the serial number or anything like that?”

  “No. But that probably only means he knows the weapon won’t be traceable.”

  She tapped the paper she’d been writing on. “Why don’t you want me to publish this?”

  “The ballistics tests haven’t been completed. We’re not absolutely sure that the rifle is the murder weapon.”

  She leaned forward. “When will you know for sure?”

  “Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning.”

  “And you’ll tell me when you do?”

  “I will if you help us.”

  She leaned back. “Okay, we have a deal. Do you think the murderer was somebody from around here?”

  “I’d be guessing.”

  “Guess.”

  “Probably. According to the bishop’s secretary, the decision to arrive by helicopter was made the day before the murder. There wouldn’t have been much time for an outsider to plan the shot, and he probably wouldn’t have known how to get access to the tower.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What else can you tell me?”

  She held her pencil poised.

  “At the moment, nothing else. Your turn.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Hector, calmer now, picked up the questioning.

  “Why did you smile when you mentioned Ferraz? What do you know that we don’t?”

  She dropped the pencil into a coffee mug she’d pressed into service as a penholder. SÃO PAULO. 450TH ANNIVERSARY, it said. Red letters on white porcelain with a black outline of the city’s most prominent buildings.

  “Because I think—as a matter of fact I know—that Ferraz doesn’t want the Federal Police snooping around Cascatas.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I’m doing a little investigation of my own. Not about the bishop’s murder. Something else.”

  “What?”

  Diana hesitated, and then shook her head. “It has nothing to do with your case.”

  “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?”

  “Because I’ve been working on the story for weeks, and I don’t want to tip my hand. You can read it when I publish it.”

  “And when will that be?”

  She picked up a cardboard desk calendar and consulted it. “The fourteenth. That’s a week from this Friday.”

  Hector let his displeasure show.

  Silva didn’t.

  “What can you tell us about the Landless Workers’ League?” he asked. “Not the movement. I know about that. I’m talking about the local picture. Who runs the league here in Cascatas? What have they been up to recently? Who opposes it?”

  Diana pulled another pencil out of the mug. “Why do you want to know?”

  Hector and Silva exchanged glances.

  “There’s been a suggestion made—” Hector said.

  “By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that, but there’s been a suggestion made that Dom Felipe was acting against the best interests of the league. They might have wanted him out of the way, might have killed him.”

  She dropped the pencil on her desk and made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. Okay, Dom Felipe came down on liberation theology, and that hurt the league, but that’s no reason for them to kill him. As far as the higher-ups in the church are concerned, liberation theology is a dead issue. People like Dom Felipe don’t make the rules. The Vatican does, and they’re sure to appoint somebody with the same views.”

  “So liberation theology is dead?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said it’s a dead issue in Rome. Here, on the local level, it’s different. There are still a few priests who are—how shall I put this?—sympathetic to the doctrine.”

  “And who might they be?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Another suggestion was that a priest, one of those liberation theologians, might have committed the murder.”

  She looked at him as if he’d given her a personal affront. “That’s insane. Who put an idea like that into your head. Gaspar?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Why do you think it might have been Father Gaspar?”

  “Ah, so it was him. Why do I think so? Because he’s like that”—she crossed her index and middle fingers—”with the landowners. One of his favorite themes for a sermon is the inviolability of property. The people from the Association love him.”

  “The association?”

  “Landowners’ Association, set up to oppose the league.”

  Silva nodded knowingly.

  “Oppose? How?” Hector said.

  “Don’t you read anything other than the sports pages?”

  Hector reddened and opened his mouth to reply. His uncle stepped on his foot.

  “Ever since the government in Brasilia shifted to the left,” Diana continued, “the big landowners have been feeling like orphans. The bureaucrats have been grabbing their uncultivated property and giving it away.”

  “So what?” Hector said. “It’s legal, isn’t it? And it’s not like they don’t get paid for it.”

  “Legal, yes. And, yeah, they get paid for it—eventually— but most of them don’t want the money. They don’t need it. They want to keep the land. And there’s something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  The definition of ‘uncultivated.’”

  “Seems pretty clear to me.”

  “As it does to the people from the league. For them, anything that isn’t actually planted with food crops is ‘uncultivated.’ The landowners don’t see it that way. Some of them run cattle, some plant trees for the paper industry, some of them have land they’re allowing to lie fallow for crop rotation. The league goes in anyway. Next thing you know they’re setting up tents, occupying farm buildings, planting their own crops, and petitioning the government. It drives the landowners crazy. That’s why they set up the association.”

  “To lobby the government?”

  “That too. But also to force the eviction of league members who occupy their fazendas.”

  “Force how?”

  Diana shrugged. “By any legal means possible. But, for some of them, by using capangas, hired gunmen. They contract them in Paraguay and up north in places like Piauí. And sometimes they hire the local cops.”
<
br />   “Like Ferraz?”

  “You said it. I didn’t. The landowners call the league people communists and anarchists. The league calls the landowners despots and terrorists. The truth of the matter is probably somewhere in the middle. Who wrote that line ‘in a true tragedy both sides are right’?”

  “I don’t remember,” Silva said, “but from what you’re saying, it sounds appropriate.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” she said, picking up her pencil and making a note to herself before continuing. “There’ve been excesses on both sides, but most people are only capable of seeing one side of the question. Even the priests.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to them. Where do I find liberation theologians?”

  Diana’s smile was back. “You don’t find them. They no longer exist. Not officially, anyway. They wouldn’t be permitted to stay in the church if they did. But if you want to know something about how they used to think and what they used to do, go talk to Brouwer.”

  “Brouwer?”

  “Don’t give me that innocent look, Delegado. I wasn’t born yesterday. If Gaspar talked to you about liberation theology, he must have talked to you about Anton Brouwer.”

  “I don’t recall telling you that Father Gaspar talked to me at all.”

  She sighed. “Okay, have it your way. Father Anton Brouwer. He’s a Belgian from some little town in Flanders near Antwerp. He’s been living here for years, helping the Indians, the orphans, AIDS victims, the street kids, you name it.”

  “Is he involved with the league?”

  She hesitated. “He was once,” she said, cautiously. “But since the bishop started cracking down. . . . Well, I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “He’s a good guy, Brouwer is. He does what he thinks is right.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “No, I’m not. And I don’t intend to. But I’ll say this: Brouwer is a priest, not a landless worker. That means he wouldn’t qualify for membership, much less leadership, in the league.”

  “Who runs it?”

  “Luiz Pillar.”

  “Not him,” Silva said. “He’s in Brasilia. I’m talking about here, locally.”

  “Most people don’t know,” she said.

  “But you do?”

  She thought about the question for a moment and decided to answer. “I do, but I don’t print it.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed. “Because when certain landowners manage to identify league leaders, those leaders have a way of turning up dead.”

  “Like that guy they nailed to a tree?”

  “You heard about that, did you? His name was Aurelio Azevedo. Ferraz was in charge of the investigation. He never arrested anyone. Why am I not surprised?”

  “You think Ferraz is in bed with the landowners?”

  “I think he’s a whore who gets into bed with anyone who pays him, and the association pays him. Don’t quote me. I can’t prove it.”

  “Who runs the association?”

  “The Munizes, father and son. Orlando Senior is the national president. Junior runs the local chapter. He also runs a big ranch—and I mean a really big ranch—that his father owns about fifteen kilometers east of here, the Fazenda de Boa Vista.”

  “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-who-doesn’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?”<
br />
  “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 Iguaçu Falls. Scotch whiskey, cigarettes, and weapons were all popular items.