“Finally,” Silva said. “Here we go at last. Turn that windbag off.”
“Gladly,” Arnaldo said.
It was nine AM, and for the last five minutes, they’d been sitting in their stationary automobile, suffering the insufferable: a radio interview with Gonzalo Bufa, the Argentinean coach. Bufa had been giving a detailed analysis of why he thought the Brazilian team was overrated.
“The man’s full of crap,” Arnaldo said. “We shoulda stuck with the traffic report.”
“Damned traffic reports are useless,” Silva said.
“So’s Bufa, thank God.”
After an interval of almost fifteen minutes, the beer truck in front of them had started rolling again. All around them, people were turning on the motors they’d shut off when traffic on the marginal, the belt road around the city, had come to a standstill. From overhead, came the constant drone of helicopters, the favored form of transport for the city’s wealthy elite, and the only reliable way to get anywhere in Sao Paulo on a weekday morning between seven and ten.
“How about this?” Arnaldo said. “How about Juraci went to Cintia and hit her with a Break up with my son or else? And then-”
“Cintia, intent on making her fortune out of the Artist despite his mother’s objection, kills Juraci and makes it look like a kidnapping? From gold digging to murder in one easy step? No, Arnaldo, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either, not really, but I still wouldn’t be surprised if Cintia was involved in one way or another. Maybe for a chunk of the five million. Don’t forget, she had access to a key, and up to now, we don’t know of anyone else who did. How about we go back and lean on her a little?”
“Maybe later. Let’s do some more digging first.”
Silva glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Damn! I’d better call Pedro and tell him we’ll be late.”
Before he could, his cell phone burst into life. The ID came up as private. Silva, averse to the practice, took the call with some reluctance.
“Silva.”
“Chief Inspector, it’s me, Tico.”
Silva’s objections vanished. Tico, of course, had to confine himself to telephones free of caller IDs. If he didn’t, his contact numbers would soon become common knowledge-and he’d be deluged by calls from fans.
“Good morning, Senhor Santos.”
“Tico.”
“What can I do for you, Tico?”
“You know those keys you asked about?”
“Yes?”
“Cintia found them.”
“Where?”
“In a drawer, in the bedroom.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yeah. I don’t like to go out. There’s a gang of reporters at the front door. More, even, than last night.”
“We’ll need those keys, Tico. I’ll send someone over to pick them up.”
“Okay.”
“One thing puzzles me. You’ve been in training with the team in Curitiba, right?”
“Right.”
“But your mother only got those keys last Thursday, and you said she delivered them to you personally.”
“She did. When I came for the party.”
“Party? You broke training for a party?”
There was a long pause. When Tico finally spoke, he sounded sheepish.
“Cintia got this big perfume contract. She wanted to celebrate, said it wouldn’t be the same without me, so I went to talk to Dumbo about it.”
“And he agreed.”
“No. He…”
“He what?”
“He got mad. He said some things about Cintia that I didn’t like.”
“And you told Cintia?”
Silence.
“Tico?”
“Yeah. I told her.”
“And she convinced you to come to Sao Paulo, despite Dumbo’s objections?”
“It wasn’t like she had to convince me. I wanted to come.”
“When was the party?”
“Saturday night. It was no big deal. I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, and I was in Sao Paulo for less than forty-eight hours. I came up on Saturday morning and went back to Curitiba on Sunday morning. And the team doesn’t practice on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about coming to Sao Paulo when last we spoke?”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Listen to me, Tico. At this stage, there’s no way of knowing what’s important and what isn’t. You have to tell me everything, you understand?”
“I understand. I did tell you everything… except for that.”
“I want you to think long and hard about how those keys got from your pocket to a drawer in the bedroom.”
“I already did. I thought about it, and I got no idea.”
“Are you going to be there tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you get me my mother back.”
“Good. Agent Nunes and I will be paying you another visit. I’ll call before we come.”
After Silva hung up, he called Mara and asked her to send one of her people to pick up the keys.
“Is Cintia Tadesco with him?” Mara asked.
“Probably. She was last night. Why?”
“I’ll go myself. I want to see her skin.”
“Her skin?”
“I can’t believe anybody has skin that perfect. I think all her photos must be retouched. Is she nice?”
“No,” Silva said.
O NCE AGAIN, Hector’s trip to Granja Viana was against the flow of traffic. Forty minutes was all it took from his home in Pacaembu to the strip mall where Samuel Arns had his shop.
Arns’s place of business was tiny, dwarfed by a pharmacy on the left and a veterinary clinic on the right. Gold letters on the glass window informed passers-by that he dealt in hardware and alarm systems as well as keys and locks.
When Hector entered, a two-tone chime heralded his arrival.
“Samuel Arns?”
“Mmmm,” the man behind the counter said. Hector took it to be an acknowldgment, but the locksmith, concentrating on his work, didn’t look up. He was putting the finishing touches on a key for an elderly gentleman wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
The bright brass of the blank was almost invisible between fingers thick as dinner candles, but Arns’s dexterity belied his size. The file removing burrs from the metal moved back and forth, like a bow in the hand of a virtuoso.
The chime sounded again. A woman with a haughty expression and too much makeup came in. She was carrying a miniature dachshund in her arms.
Hector smiled at the woman. She didn’t smile back. He looked at the dachshund. The dachshund snarled. Hector tried to remember something he’d once heard about dogs resembling their owners, but it escaped him.
Arns put the original, and the key he’d been making, into a small envelope.
The elderly gentleman laboriously counted out the exact change.
The woman started tapping her foot.
“Who’s next?” Arns said when the elderly gentleman left.
“I’m in a hurry,” the woman said inserting herself between Hector and the counter.
“That may well be, Senhora,” Arns said, “but are you next?”
Hector liked him for that. But he’d just as soon not have anyone else in the shop while he was questioning the locksmith.
“Attend to the Senhora first,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
The woman didn’t thank him, didn’t even look at him, simply slapped down a key on the glass counter.
Arns picked it up. “How many?” he said.
“One.”
While Arns cut the key, the woman looked at the ceiling, the floor, and all around the little shop. Everywhere except at Arns and Hector. The dachshund, however, followed the locksmith’s every move with its bulbous eyes.
When Arns was done, he slipped both keys into one of the little envelopes and put the envelope down on the counter. The woman extended a hand holding a banknote.
“On the counter, Senhora,” Arns said. “Remember last time?”
She snorted, as if he’d said something offensive, and slapped down the bill. He counted out her change and put it next to the envelope. She swept up both and made her exit, nose in the air.
On her way out, she passed another woman, coming in.
“You recognize her?” Arns said when the door closed again.
“Who?” Hector said.
“The woman who just left.”
“No,” Hector said.
“That was Maria Luchesi,” the newcomer said.
Arns nodded. “The first soprano of the Sao Paulo Opera Company. She thought you did. Recognize her, I mean.”
“She thinks everyone does,” the woman added.
“The dog’s name is Gunther,” the locksmith said. “It’s a good thing you didn’t try to pet him.”
“That’s why you asked her to put the money on the counter?”
“That’s why. He almost got me the last time.”
“He’s a nasty little thing,” the woman said.
Arns went to the register, rang up the diva’s purchase and put her money in the cash drawer. Then he turned back to Hector.
“What can I do for you?”
“Why don’t you attend to this lady first?”
The newcomer wore a white coat. It made her look like a doctor, or maybe a lab technician. She smelled of berries and spice.
“I’m not a customer,” she said. “I just dropped by for a chat with Samuel. You go ahead.”
Hector would have preferred to question Arns on his own, but he could hardly tell her to leave. He bit the bullet by showing his badge.
When she saw the flash of gold metal, the woman took in a sharp breath. Cops sometimes had that effect on people, particularly on people who enjoyed a juicy bit of gossip.
One of those, Hector thought-and turned his back in an attempt to exclude her from the conversation.
“Delegado Costa, Federal Police. I’m assuming you’re Samuel Arns?”
The locksmith looked over Hector’s shoulder and exchanged a quick glance with the woman. Hector could practically feel her eyes burning into his back.
“I am,” Arns said. “What do the Federal Police want with me?”
“It’s our understanding you recently changed some locks for Senhora Juraci Santos. Is that right?”
“I did, Delegado. I do it all the time. She’s a regular customer, changes locks every time she changes servants.”
“And that’s often?”
“Fortunately for me, it is.”
“This particular job was on Thursday of last week.”
“I remember.”
“How many sets of keys did you make?”
“Four. It’s always four.”
“This time as well?”
“This time, every time.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am. Senhora Santos always buys the best. The locks on all her external doors are Medecos. They’re imported, virtually pickproof, but they’re expensive, and I don’t sell a lot of them. They come with two keys. If you want to make extras, you need special blanks. I stock them just for her.”
“Suppose someone wanted to make another copy of one of those keys. Suppose you weren’t here, and they needed the copy in a hurry. How could they go about it?”
“They’d go into town.”
“Where in town?”
“Their best bet would be one of the big locksmiths on Avenida Sao Joao. Those guys keep blanks for every conceivable type of lock, Medecos included. Why are you asking?”
“We think the kidnappers used a key to get into Senhora Santos’s house.”
“But…” It was the woman again, speaking from behind Hector’s back.
Hector turned to face her. “But what?”
“I read in the paper they’d smashed the door to her house.”
“They did.”
“Then why did you want to know how many keys Samuel made?”
“Yeah,” Samuel said. “Why? You think maybe they got in some other way? You think they used a key?”
“Maybe.”
The locksmith shook his head. “Sounds crazy to me. If that’s what they did, why would they go to the trouble of smashing the door?”
“He knows something,” the woman said, pointing at Hector. “Something that wasn’t in the papers. Is that right, Delegado?”
“It’s just a theory we’re working on.”
“But what would make you think-”
“Please, Senhora. With all due respect, I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m here to ask them of this gentleman.”
She reddened. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “Sorry.”
Hector turned back to the locksmith. “Any idea why she always asked for four sets of keys?”
“One for her, one for the servants, one for her son and one extra.”
“And anyone who had one of those keys could have had it duplicated?”
“Yes, they could. There are certain keys that you can’t duplicate, and other ones you aren’t supposed to duplicate, but Medecos don’t fall into either category. The only problem in duplicating a Medeco is to get your hands on a Medeco blank.”
Hector thought about it. Lefkowitz had found three sets of keys in Juraci’s house. One had been in her office. That must have been the extra set. One was in the purse of one of the maids. That would be the servants’ set. One was in Juraci’s purse. Her set. That left the set that had been made for her son. He sure as hell wouldn’t kidnap his mother. But who was to say that someone hadn’t used Tico’s set? Or copied it?
Perhaps a line of inquiry into Madeco blanks might lead to something. If they couldn’t come up with anything else, they could always try that.
“Who do you get the blanks from?” he said.
“The importer.”
“There’s only one?”
“Only one. That’s how they manage to keep the prices as high as they do.”
“Can you give me the name and address of those people?”
“Sure.”
Samuel Arns went into the back. The woman, visibly chastised, didn’t say a word while he was gone. A minute or so later the locksmith came back with a piece of paper. He held it out to Hector.
“It’s a reliable firm,” he said. “One of the oldest.”
Hector took the paper and glanced at it. Arns had printed out an address and telephone number in a clear, legible hand. The importer was in Sao Paulo. That, at least, was a break. Hector couldn’t think of anything else to ask the locksmith, so he bid him and the red-faced woman a good day, went out to his car and called-in a report to his uncle.