On the street in front of the Artist’s building, media people had settled in for the duration.
Canopies now afforded protection from inclement weather; tents and chairs had been set up; the smell of cigarettes and coffee was in the air; high wooden platforms supported longlensed cameras.
Silva, as before, ignored the questions that assailed him from every side. This time, many were in English. The international press had arrived in force.
Upstairs, roiling grey clouds hung mere meters above the Artist’s windows. Rain was beginning to sprinkle on the panes.
Cintia was curled up on an L-shaped divan, a fashion magazine on her lap. She raised her eyes and gave the two cops a blank stare. Then she went back to the article she was reading. The Artist was more cordial.
“How about those keys?” he said. “Did they fit?”
“They did,” Silva said. “Still no idea how they wound up in that drawer?”
The Artist shook his head.
Cintia turned a page “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist,” she said, without looking up, “to figure that out.”
“You have a theory?”
Now, she did look up. But it was with the air of someone being put upon.
“When Tico empties his pockets,” she said, “everything goes on the dresser. His wallet, small change, everything. A maid picked the keys and put them in a drawer. End of mystery.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Why are you wasting your time on a set of keys?”
“Because it could be important. Please answer the question.”
For a moment, he didn’t think she would. Then she said, “Tico’s maids are too lazy to put things where they belong. When they tidy up, they just shove things out of sight.”
The Artist looked shamefaced. “I didn’t grow up with maids, so I don’t know how to handle them. That’s what Cintia says.”
“And it’s true,” she said, closing the magazine and tossing it aside. “But now they’ve got me to deal with. And they’ll either get with the program, or be looking for new jobs.”
“Tell me this,” Silva said. “Has anyone other than yourselves, or your servants, had access to that drawer?”
“You think we invite people to come and inspect the contents of our drawers? You think-” She broke off in midsentence and blinked as if something had just occurred to her.
“Senhorita Tadesco?” Silva prompted.
She shook her head.
“Nothing,” she said.
“The drawer in which you found the keys, what do you use it for?”
“Underwear.”
“Tico’s or yours?”
“Mine. And the answer is no.”
She was back to her usual unsympathetic self.
Silva frowned.
“The answer to what is no?”
“You may not look in my drawer. I hate the idea of people pawing through my things, particularly my underwear.”
“I had no intention of asking,” Silva said.
“No?”
“No. When we spoke on the phone Tico mentioned a party you held on Saturday evening.”
“What of it?”
“I’d appreciate it if you and Tico would make a list of the people who attended.”
“No problem,” Tico said.
“I’d also like to know if you’ve received more than one visit from anyone between Friday and the day of the kidnapping.”
“Wait a minute,” Cintia said. “Are you suggesting someone came up here, took those keys and later returned them?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. But we can’t discount the possibility.”
“Oh, yes, we can. We can discount it right now. We didn’t get more than one visit from anybody.”
“Except for my mother,” Tico said. “She came on Friday for dinner and again on Saturday, for the party.”
“On which of those two occasions did she give you the keys?”
“Friday,” Cintia said, answering for him.
“Did your guests on Saturday include Jordan Talafero?”
“Yes.”
“How about your agent, Tarso Mello?”
“Yes. Ex-agent.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Tarso doesn’t know it yet, but he’s no longer my agent. I’m going to fire him.”
“Rather sudden, isn’t it? Saturday you invite him to a party, and now you intend to fire him? Why the sudden change of heart?”
“That, Chief Inspector, is none of your business.”
The Artist looked at her. “You didn’t tell me you had a problem with Mello,” he said.
“Didn’t I? I thought I did.”
Silva cleared his throat. “Does the name Edson Campos mean anything to you?”
“He’s Tarso’s boyfriend,” she said.
“What, if anything, can you tell me about him?”
“Not a thing. I’ve only heard the name. I never met him.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“No idea.”
“He’s a veterinary technician.”
“So?”
“Do you know what Ketamine is?”
“What?”
“Ketamine. Ever heard of it?”
“No. Where are you going with all of this?”
“We found a syringe in Senhora Santos’s bedroom. It contained traces of Ketamine, a drug used in veterinary medicine.”
“Used for what?”
“To anesthetize animals.”
“Animals?” Tico said, shocked. “And the bastards used it on my mom?”
“We think they did,” Silva said.
“Could it… could it have hurt her?”
“We don’t think so. It was originally developed for human use.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Tico said.
“I can’t see that wimp Tarso getting involved in something like this,” Cintia said. “He wouldn’t have the balls. You done?”
Silva got to his feet. He’d had quite enough of Cintia Tadesco for one day.
“We’re done,” he said.
“Good,” she said, and picked up her magazine.