"Edson Souza.I'll be damned!" Hector exclaimed after the priest had gone.
"And I asked Ferraz to help us find him," Silva said. "Damn it!"
"You didn't tell Ferraz anything he wouldn't have learned by questioning Diana."
Silva thought about it.
"True," he said.
"Maybe Souza didn't call the bishop about Azevedo's murder. Maybe he called about Ferran."
"I don't think-" Silva's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. "Silva."
"I just heard about the Poli girl," the director began without preamble. "Have you any idea whose daughter she was?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Dionisio Poli, that's who. In addition to about half the land in the State of Parana, he also owns Editora Julho."
Editora Julho was the largest magazine publishing combine in the country.
"Merda!" Silva said.
"I couldn't have put it better myself. Don't they murder unknowns in Cascatas?"
"I'm sorry to say they do. They kill street kids."
But the director wasn't listening. He was talking. "Jesus Christ. A bishop, then Muniz's son, and now Poli's daughter. The obituaries in that town are beginning to read like a social column. And now the papers here in Brasilia are beginning to pick up on it. The headlines are bad enough, Mario, but the editorials are going to be even worse. You've got to do something. The minister's watching. He's watching both of us. We need results and we need them fast."
"Yes, Director, I'm aware of that. I'm doing my best."
"Any progress?"
"Not yet."
"Jesus Christ," the director said again, this time with an inflection of disgust. "Call me again at six, as usual." He hung up without saying goodbye.
"Him again?" Hector asked.
Silva nodded glumly.
They sat in silence for a while. A chocolate-skinned woman in a red dress went by, swinging her hips. Hector's eyes were still fixed on her retreating derriere when he said, "The minute this Pipoca hears about Diana Poli he's going to panic and try to disappear down some sewer hole."
Hector was decidedly not fond of street kids. Less than a month earlier his former girlfriend, Angela Pires, had been brutally slashed by a thirteen-year-old who was trying to steal her wristwatch. The kid had done the job with a piece of window glass. It had taken five stitches to close the wound on her arm, and she'd bear the scar for the rest of her life.
"With the exception of the sewer-hole part," Silva said, "I agree with you. Look, there's Arnaldo."
Arnaldo scurried across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by an oncoming truck loaded with rattling, silverpainted gas canisters. He started talking even before he took the seat Brouwer had vacated.
"Empty as my bank account," he said. "Not a damn thing there. Carmen says we owe the bank a hundred-and-fifty reais for a new box. I paid the locksmith. He charged twenty five reais. I hate to see little guys getting stiffed."
"I gather your generosity doesn't extend to the bank?" Hector said.
"What generosity? I got a receipt. I'm gonna declare it."
"And I'm going to approve it," Silva said. "Now go back across the street and settle with the bank. We need some friends in this town."
Arnaldo shrugged and got up.
Silva and Hector ordered more coffee.
"So what's next?" Hector asked.
"You and I will look into the league. We'll go out to that encampment of theirs, the one they set up on Muniz's fazenda, and ask a few questions."
"You really think they're going to tell us anything?"
"Probably not, but we've got to start somewhere. The league is as good a place as any."
"We were interrupted when the director called. Let's get back to that. What if Souza went to the bishop about Ferraz, and Ferraz killed the bishop to keep him quiet?"
"Unlikely. Souza was already talking to Brouwer and Diana Poli. What did he need the bishop for?"
Hector scratched his head. "Yeah, you're right. So I guess our first hypothesis is the most likely one. Souza must know who killed Azevedo."
"Or thinks he does."
"Or thinks he does. Either way, we've got to find him before Ferraz does. We'll leave it to Arnaldo. He excels at that kind of street stuff."
The waiter arrived with two cups of espresso. Hector added some sugar from the dispenser and picked up one of the tiny spoons.
"What do you make of Brouwer?"
"I'm not sure. Remember Father Angelo?"
"The old guy you told me about? The one who lives with Brouwer?"
"Him." Silva took a sip of his coffee. "He said Brouwer was incapable of spilling innocent blood. That's the way he put it, "spilling innocent blood."
"There's just one problem with that."
"What?"
Hector drained his cup.
"Suppose Brouwer doesn't think the blood he's spilling is innocent?"