When Tarso Mello made a minute adjustment to his Hermes necktie, one of his French cuffs slid back to reveal a gold Rolex. That, Goncalves suspected, was what the adjustment was designed to do-allow him to display his expensive watch.
“As I told you on the telephone,” Mello said haughtily, “I never discuss my clients’ personal lives with anyone.”
“And as I told you,” Goncalves said, “I find that commendable. But, in this specific instance, I’m going to have to insist on your cooperation. What you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”
“I don’t propose to tell you anything,” Mello said.
Goncalves leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “How would you like to have your taxes audited?”
Mello blinked. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, but didn’t seem to have much behind them. It took a moment for him to grasp the significance of the non sequitur.
“Are you blackmailing me?” he said.
“Not at all. I asked you a simple question. How would you like to have your taxes audited? Gone over, in fact, with a fine-tooth comb? You think I can’t get a court order to access your bank accounts? Think again.”
“This is preposterous!”
Goncalves shrugged. “The choice is yours. You either talk to me about Cintia Tadesco, or I’m out of here. But I won’t be gone for long, and when I come back, it will be with accountants from the receita federal.”
Mello took in a deep breath and looked out the window, as if something outside had captured his attention. Not likely, as Mello’s office was on the twenty-third floor of a highrise on Avenida Paulista. All the buildings on his block were skyscrapers, and his view didn’t extend any further than the other side of the street.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, sullenly.
“There’s a rumor going around that you have a personal relationship with Cintia Tadesco. True or false?”
“Define personal relationship,” he said.
“That the two of you are lovers.”
Mello met Goncalves’s eyes, broke into a broad grin, and then into an outright laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Goncalves said.
“What’s funny, Agent Goncalves, is that you couldn’t be more misinformed.”
“Couldn’t I?”
“I’m gay, Agent Goncalves, gay and out of the closet since my mother died.”
“My condolences.”
“Condolences? Are you a homophobe?” Mello said it with a straight face, tried to make Goncalves believe his question was a serious one.
Leo Marques had been right. Mello was a very bad actor.
“When did she pass away?” Goncalves said.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was at the end of last year.”
“You live alone?”
Mello looked petulant. The interview had taken on overtones of an interrogation. “I live with my partner.”
“Where?”
“Granja Viana.”
Goncalves gave Mello his best suspicious stare. Marques would have been impressed.
“Juraci Santos lives in Granja Viana,” he said.
“A lot of people live in Granja Viana. What’s your point?”
“It wasn’t a point. It was an observation. What’s your partner’s name?”
Mello’s eyes got big. Outrage, maybe. Or fear?
“Edson Campos. Leave him out of it.”
“Why should I?”
“He has nothing to do with my work or my clients. He doesn’t know Cintia. He isn’t even involved in the entertainment industry.”
Mello’s voice had turned shrill. Goncalves decided it was outrage.
“No?”
“No. He’s a veterinary technician.”
“Tell me more about Senhorita Tadesco.”
Taking the spotlight off his partner had an immediate calming effect. Mello seemed to relax.
“What do you want to know?”
“Do you like her?”
“Do I what?”
“Like her. Not as a client. As a person.”
“What’s that got to do with-”
“Just answer the question, Senhor Mello.”
“Like her? Actually, I do.”
“The way I hear it, most people hate her.”
“I’m not most people. I find her candor and singlemindedness refreshing. I don’t hate her a bit, and she knows I don’t. She wouldn’t continue to retain me if I did.”
“How’s her relationship with her prospective mother-in-law?”
“Cintia doesn’t discuss her personal life with me.”
“Never?”
“Never!”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Senhor Mello? I don’t like lies.”
“I’m not lying, and I resent the implication that I am.”
“You don’t recall Cintia saying anything to you about Juraci Santos?”
“No.”
“How important to Cintia is her relationship with Tico Santos?”
“Very important. She loves him.”
“How can you possibly be sure?”
“What?”
“If, as you’ve just alleged, Cintia doesn’t discuss her personal life with you, how can you be sure she loves Tico?”
“It’s… it’s been in the newspapers, in the magazines.”
“And you believe everything you read in the magazines?”
“I… I…”
Mello’s gape reminded Goncalves of a fish. Goncalves disliked fish.
“He was nervous as hell.” Goncalves was on the street again, calling Silva to report. “I think he’s hiding something, and the dumb bastard isn’t good at it.”
“So you don’t think Mello is particularly intelligent?”
“Hell, no. He’s a dumb fuck. You think it’s true? That part about his being gay?”
“I think it must be. He’d know how easy it would be to check. He even encouraged you to do so.”
“Yeah, that’s true I guess.”
“And if he’s nervous, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s hiding something. Let’s put Mello on the back burner for a minute. Remember that postman?”
“The one Juraci’s neighbors saw her talking to?”
“Correct. The Sa woman has identified him from a photo. Come back to the office. You and Hector are going to pay a visit to the gentleman.”