They went for her at eight o’clock in the evening. She’d been home for more than an hour by then.
Durval Kallos, one of Hector’s men, was stationed within sight of Aline’s front door. He’d found a convenient bench at a bus stop, and stood up when he saw the brass approaching.
“Evening, Durval,” Hector said. “Who’s in the rear of the building?”
“Serginho, Senhor.”
“Your radios working?” Silva asked.
“Sim, Senhor.”
“We’re going to take her. You stay here, tell Serginho to stay there. Neither one of you is to leave his post for any reason. If she comes out of that door, and we’re not with her, bring her down.”
Durval looked shocked. “Use my gun, Senhor?”
Silva nodded. “The only way she’s going to get out of there alone is to shoot her way out. And she’ll be looking to shoot you.”
“You’re certain, then? Certain she’s the one we’re looking for?”
“Not a hundred percent. More like ninety-nine.”
“How many security guards covering the building?” Arnaldo said.
Durval pointed with his chin. “Just those two over there, the fat one and the thin one.”
The other four cops turned to look.
“Like Laurel and Hardy,” Goncalves said.
Hector snapped his fingers. “I knew that fat guy reminded me of somebody.”
The rent-a-cop who came to meet them was the fat one. Silva held up his warrant card for inspection. The guard studied it carefully before he opened the gate.
“You’ve seen my name,” Silva said. “What’s yours?”
“Virgilio, Chief Inspector. Virgilio Ycaza.”
“Okay, Virgilio, listen up. We’re going to arrest Senhora Aline Arriaga. You’re going to help.”
Virgilio looked mystified. “The four of you need help? With her? But she’s just a little thing. No taller than that.”
Virgilio held a hand below his double chin.
“It’s not muscle we need, Virgilio. Come along. I’ll explain on the way.”
Halfway to the front door, Virgilio waddling next to Silva, they were intercepted by the other guard.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re federal cops,” Virgilio said. “They’re going to arrest Senhora Arriaga.”
“Why? What did she do?”
“Maybe nothing,” Silva said. “Maybe she killed eight people.”
The thin guard blinked, looked at his companion, back at Silva. “Why?” he said. “Why would she do a thing like that?”
“Revenge,” Silva said.
“For her son?”
Silva nodded.
“He was nice kid,” the thin guard said. “But eight people?”
“Six of whom didn’t have a damned thing to do with it,” Silva said. He pointed to the Taurus. 38 lodged in a holster suspended from the guard’s belt. “You know how to use that?”
“We’re Policia Militar,” the man said and stood up a little straighter. “Both of us are.”
Silva had suspected as much. Most rent-a-cops were moonlighting policemen. If you were in the ranks, it was a stretch to live on your salary.
“Good,” he said. “You stay here and cover the stairwell. If she comes down, tell her to lie down with her face to the floor. If she doesn’t, or if she tries to get up, shoot her.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
The guard’s face paled. His hand went to the butt of his gun.
“And me?” Virgilio asked.
“You’re coming with us.”
In the elevator, Silva explained what he wanted Virgilio to do: “You ring her bell. You tell her you’ve got a delivery. When she opens the door, you step back. Not left. Not right. Back. Leave the rest to us.”
Virgilio swallowed.
“We don’t deliver packages,” he said. “People pick them up downstairs.”
“This time, you decided to do her a favor. She knows you, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Senhor. She knows me.”
“So there’s no reason for her to suspect anything. She’ll probably think you’re after a tip.”
The elevator stopped on Aline’s floor. All of them stepped out. Virgilio lowered his voice to a whisper. “What if she asks to see it through the peephole? The package, I mean.”
“Then it will mean she’s suspicious.”
“What if she is? What if she starts shooting through the door?”
“I don’t think she’ll do that.”
“You don’t think?”
“Are the doors steel?”
The guard shook his head. “Wood.”
“Good,” Silva said. “Let’s go.”
Virgilio grasped his arm. “ Good? A bullet goes through wood like a whore goes through condoms.”
“I’m not thinking about bullets. I’m thinking about getting into that apartment. Let’s go.”
Virgilio didn’t say anything else, followed along meekly, but Silva could see the tendons standing out on his fat neck.
The sound of a television program, one of the evening soaps, was coming from inside Aline Arriaga’s apartment.
The federal cops drew their pistols and took up positions, two on each side of the frame. Silva nodded to Virgilio. Virgilio pressed the doorbell, a harsh, loud buzzer. Someone turned down the volume on the television set. They heard a woman’s footsteps, approaching the door, coming to a stop on the other side.
“Who’s there?”
“Virgilio, from downstairs, Senhora. I’ve got a package.”
The chain came off. The door started to swing open. Virgilio stepped back. Hector stepped in front of him, holding his Glock in both hands.
Aline Arriaga was still in her work clothes. The laser sight from Hector’s pistol painted a dot of red light on her white blouse.
She put a hand to her mouth. For a moment they all stood there, frozen. Then Aline’s shoulders slumped.
“Put the gun away,” she said. “I’m not going to give you any trouble.”
But Hector didn’t put the gun away.
“Take a step backward,” he said. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”
She complied. Arnaldo stepped forward with his handcuffs, shackled her wrists.
“So soon,” she said. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
Her remark irritated Silva. He didn’t think it was soon at all. Not soon enough for Bruna Nascimento, not soon enough for any of the innocent victims. He blamed himself for not having gotten to the bottom of it earlier. It seemed so obvious now.
“This is about Rivas, isn’t it?” she asked.
“No, Senhora, it’s about guilt and innocence. Someone is guilty of the murder of a number of perfectly innocent people. We think it was you.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about guilt and innocence! My son was innocent. Someone is guilty of killing him. And how much effort did you put into finding that person? None at all, that’s how much!”
She leaned forward, trying to get closer to Silva.
Arnaldo pulled her away, forced her into a chair and held her there. She tried, at first, to shake him off, but when she realized how strong he was, she stopped struggling.
“You say this isn’t about Rivas,” she said, “but you’re lying through your goddamned teeth. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know how things work in this country? How the rich and powerful get justice and the rest of us can go to hell? Rivas is an important man. Your superiors are on your necks. You need someone to blame. It’s a simple as that.”
“No, Senhora,” Silva said, “it’s not as simple as that.”
But she wasn’t listening.
“None of you gives a good goddamn about people like me,” she said. “You’d sing a different tune if you’d ever lost a child.”
At that, Hector, Arnaldo, and Goncalves all looked at Silva. But Silva had eyes only for Aline.
“I had a son, Senhora,” he said. “We lost him when he was eight years old.”
Her mouth went slack, aggression replaced by pity in the space of a heartbeat.
“Did you have other children?”
“No, Senhora. We never did. He was our only child.”
“Your wife…”
“Never got over it. Neither one of us did.”
“It’s worse for the mothers,” she said. And then: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“No. You’re right. It is. It’s worse for the mothers.”
“What was his name?”
“Mario. Like mine.”
“And he…”
“Leukemia.”
“Leu… kem… ia. I don’t know what I’d have done if Julio had died of leukemia. I mean, it isn’t even contagious. There’s no one to blame.”
“No. No one to blame.”
“But there is when your child is murdered.”
“Yes. Then.”
“And what do you think the murderer of a child deserves?” she said. The manic glint was coming back into her eyes.
Silva looked at his colleagues, then at his hands. “There’s no death penalty in this country,” he said.
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked you what a murderer of a child deserves.”
Silva met her eyes. “Death,” he said.