Leighton Gage - A vine in the blood

“Meanwhile, the Minister has his teeth in one side of my ass and the President in the other. What are you smiling at?”

“The metaphor, Director. Only the metaphor.”

“If Captain Miranda found someone making inquiries about diamonds, how come you can’t?”

“We’re trying, Director. We have men on the street asking questions; we’ve been in contact with all of our confidential informants.”

“Why don’t you talk to your snitches?”

“Confidential informants, Director, are what we call snitches.”

“I know that, I know that,” Sampaio said, recovering quickly from the faux pas. “What I meant was, why don’t you talk to them instead of just being in contact with them?”

It made no sense. Nobody bought it, and Sampaio could see nobody bought it. He went on hurriedly.

“So what now?”

“Now,” Silva said, “we’re hoping for a break.”

“A break? What kind of break?”

“On the diamonds. We’ve circulated details of the weights, quality and cuts to law enforcement nationwide. We’ve asked them to get in touch with dealers and jewelers in their area.”

“You think they’ll do it?”

“All of them have their own problems to deal with, and most of them are understaffed. But, in this case, I think the response is likely to be better than usual.”

“Why?”

“They know the Artist won’t be doing his best unless we find his mother. And everyone in this country wants to see the Artist doing his best.”

“And you really think people are going to buy into the idea that finding the diamonds will help to find her?”

“I do.”

“I don’t. If this situation wasn’t so serious,” Sampaio said, “I’d laugh you right out of this conference room.”

If, in the summer of 1939, anyone in Salerno had suggested to Francesco Romanelli that he might emigrate to Brazil, he would have laughed them out of his shop.

Francesco had a prosperous jewelry business. He counted some of the leading families of Sicily among his customers. He had a strapping son of nineteen, Marcello, offspring of his union with Maria of Blessed Memory. He had a handsome new wife, Clara, eighteen years his junior, who tolerated his marital attentions and infidelities with equal stoicism. And for the first time he could remember, maybe for the first time ever, the trains all over Italy were running on time. Six years later, Marcello was dead, killed in that insanity in North Africa. Francesco’s business was in ruins. The country was an economic basket case, and Il Duce, the man who’d made the trains run on time, had been strung up on a lamppost in Milan.

Before the war, Francesco’s youngest cousin, Giuseppe, the one who stood to inherit the least, had picked up his family and moved to someplace in America called Brodowski. Francesco still had Giuseppe’s address somewhere. He found it, wrote a letter, and much to his surprise, got a reply within a month.

It turned out that this Brodowski was, indeed, in America, but it was South America, Brazil to be precise.

Giuseppe was happy with his life there. There were opportunities for Francesco as well. Giuseppe would be happy to have company from the old country. Francesco could stay with him for as long as he liked.

So Francesco, as soon as he’d saved enough for the fare, sold out, packed up his few remaining goods and took Clara off to Brazil. She was, by then, already pregnant with Luigi.

Francesco and Clara’s only son was born on a coffee plantation in the interior of the State of Sao Paulo. By the time he was eleven, his father had saved enough to set up a modest shop in the neighboring city of Riberao Preto, where he proceeded to teach his son, Luigi, everything he knew about jewelry and gemstones.

By the time Francesco died, in 1991, Luigi had surpassed his father in knowledge of precious stones, but he’d never held in his hand a stone more precious than the one he was holding now.

He looked across the counter of his shop, taking in the fellow who was offering it for sale. There was definitely something shifty about him, which immediately caused Luigi to remember the circular that some cabo from the Policia Militar had dropped off on the morning of the previous day.

He’d done no more than scan it, but he remembered where he’d put it: on the right-hand side of his worktable.

“I’ll have to take a closer look at this,” he said to the man who’d brought the stone. “Have you got a few minutes?”

The man said he did, so Luigi told Priscila, his sole employee, to keep an eye on things while he did an evaluation. He went into the back, switched on the light and read the circular, this time with care.

The police were looking for diamonds of exceptional quality and cut and weights between three and five carats. It was just such a stone that he held in his hand.

If he’d had any idea how little the shifty man knew of the gem’s true value, and for how little he’d have been willing to sell it, Luigi might not have called the police.

But he didn’t know, so he did.

Three days had passed since the disappearance of the birds, and in all that time there hadn’t been a single break in the case. True, Juraci Santos still hadn’t turned up dead, but that was little solace for Silva. He didn’t feel they were any closer to finding her, and he feared she might already have been murdered.

The call, therefore, came like a ray of hope breaking through dark clouds of despair. He and Arnaldo set out immediately for Riberao Preto.

Helio Fortunato, the delegado who’d called, was waiting to receive them.

“Where’s our perp?” Arnaldo said when introductions were complete.

“It’s not him,” Fortunato said. “He’s not part of it. But he can give you a description of the woman you’re looking for.”

“ Woman? ” Silva said. “We’re looking for a woman?”

“It seems you are.”

“That bitch,” Arnaldo said.

“What bitch?” Fortunato said.

“Cintia Tadesco,” Arnaldo said, “Tico’s girlfriend. It’s gotta be her.”

“That bombshell?” Fortunato said. “You figure?”

“More like wishful thinking,” Silva said. “My colleague here isn’t too fond of the lady. How about filling us in?”

“I think it would be better if you heard it from the man himself. Come on. It’s this way.”

Fortunato took them down a green-painted corridor to a windowless interview room, blue with cigarette smoke. There was a ring welded to the steel table, one to which a prisoner could be shackled, but the man seated there wasn’t handcuffed. He was smoking a cigarette, one of many by the looks of the overflowing ashtray. He looked nervous.

“I’m out of smokes,” he said to Fortunato. “Be a pal, Delegado, and see if you can’t get me a few more.”

Fortunato took a pack out of his pocket, removed four cigarettes and lined them up on the table. Then he made the introductions.

“Senhores, meet Tancredo Candido. Tancredo, this is Chief Inspector Silva, and this is Agent Nunes. They’re from the Federal Police. They want to know how the stone came into your possession.”

“Right. Right,” Candido said. He used his glowing butt to light one of Fortunato’s cigarettes, and took a deep drag. Then he launched into his story. “The woman who rented the place,” he said, “she was-”

“Wait. Stop,” Fortunato said. “Start by telling the officers about what you do for a living and where you do it.”

“Oh. Right. Right,” Candido had just taken another puff. He held it in while he said, “Well, it’s like this: I’m a caseiro. I take care of a sitio owned by Senhor Yakamura.” Then he exhaled the smoke.

“Who’s Yakamura?” Arnaldo asked.