Leighton Gage - A vine in the blood

“In fact, Senhor Campos, we do.”

“Where?”

“At a sitio near Riberao Preto. The owner rents the place, but hardly ever visits. A caseiro works there. He was paid to feed and care for the birds, but he knows nothing. He wasn’t involved in the plot.”

“Chief Inspector, are you aware of the fact that those birds have to be conditioned from the time they start moving around on their own?”

“We know that, yes.”

“That’s why nobody buys or sells fully-grown carrier pigeons. It would make no sense. Once they were released, they’d just fly home to wherever they were raised.”

“So we’ve been told.”

Campos started pacing back and forth. “The birds would have to be at least three months old before they could fly the distance you’re describing. It would be nothing for a fullygrown bird, but it’s a long way for a young one.”

“Conclusion?”

Campos ran a hand through his hair. “This thing must have been planned months in advance.” He stopped pacing and turned and looked at Silva. “You mean to tell me that the people who supplied the birds didn’t go back, at least once, to make sure they were being properly conditioned by this caseiro? And, if the caseiro wasn’t involved in the plot, someone else would have had to have made the pickup, right?”

“Someone did. She’s-”

“She?”

“It was a woman.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“We’re sure.”

Silva took him through it, step by step. He told him about the jeweler, told him about Tancredo Candido, told him how the woman had threatened Tancredo with grave bodily harm if he didn’t follow instructions. By the time he’d finished, Edson Campos had come over to their side and entered into the spirit of the chase.

“So you’ve got a description of this woman?” he said. “You know what she looks like?”

“We have a description, but it’s a sketchy one.”

“Don’t you people normally do an artist’s rendition in a case like this?”

“We’re trying. We’re not being very successful. The witness doesn’t have a good memory for faces.”

“Tell me your sketchy description.”

“About thirty-five years of age, of average height, with curly, brown hair, a somewhat abrasive attitude, a foul mouth and what the cut-out described as a nice ass.”

“Brown eyes?”

“Why? Does the description suggest someone to you?”

“You may think this is a weird question, but was she wearing Promesse?”

“What?”

“Promesse, from Cacharel. It’s a perfume, a springtime scent, more for teenagers than for a woman of her age. But that’s beside the point. The question is was she wearing perfume?”

“As a matter of fact,” Silva said, “she was.”

“Holy Crap.”

“Holy Crap what?”

“Holy Crap,” Edson Campos said, “I know who you’re looking for.”

The kidnapper was too anxious to eat, too excited to watch television, too agitated, even, to sit down. He put all of his nervous energy into digging the grave. From the time his partner left until he heard the sound of her car crunching gravel in the driveway, all he’d done was dig.

But here she was, back at last. He threw the shovel aside, climbed out of the hole and circled the house at a run. She saw him coming, grinned, and held up her leather bag like it was the World Cup and she’d just brought it home.

He reached her, wrapped his arms around her, held her close.

She dropped the bag and pushed him away with the heels of her hands.

“You’re filthy,” she said.

“I can get dirtier than this,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “Want a demonstration?”

“Mmmm,” she said. “Let’s go inside. But not without this.”

She picked up the bag.

He took her hand and led her to the house. She’d shed her blouse before he’d locked the front door, was out of her panties before he’d removed his shirt.

They made frenzied love on the couch. But she didn’t linger when it was done. Still wearing her socks, and nothing else, she grabbed the bag, opened it, and turned it upside down over his naked belly.

The banknotes tumbled out, six bundles, bound together by rubber bands.

“How much?” he said.

“Thirty thousand.”

“Thirty thousand? That’s all? Thirty thousand for all six rings? The bastards cheated you.”

“Sure they did. Every one of them. And I don’t care.”

“Because that makes it all the more likely they’ll keep their mouths shut?”

“Exactly. Did you finish?”

“It’s not deep enough. I want to go down another thirty centimeters or so. When are you going to do it?”

“As soon as you’re done. I’ll need your help to carry her. That bitch is fat. I won’t be able to get her up the stairs on my own.”

“Why don’t we just walk her to the hole? You could pop her there. Then all we’d have to do is pitch her in.”

“Noise,” she said. “Suppose she starts screaming?”

“Nobody’s gonna hear her. Not out there.”

“Never can tell.”

“There you go again,” he said. “The Queen of Caution.”

“That’s me. Did you pack?”

He stepped into his pants, then shook his head. “I’ve been digging.”

“Ever since I left?”

“Ground is hard as a rock.”

“I’ll pack for both of us then.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, “you won’t. We don’t have to leave for the airport until seven. I’ll finish digging, you pop her, and then we’ll pack.”

“How come?”

“Because, I’m not going to take hardly anything, and you aren’t either. The days of me being your pack animal, lugging stuff you’re never gonna wear, are over. From here on in, every place we go, you can afford to buy new clothes.”

“Goody,” she said. “Paris, here we come.”

“Her name, ” Edson Campos said, “is Vitoria Pitanguy.”

“Vitoria Pitanguy?” Goncalves said. “The pharmacist?”

“She’s not a pharmacist. Her boss is the pharmacist. She just manages the place. Doctor Polo thinks the world of her. I’ve always thought she was a bitch.”

Goncalves smacked his forehead.

“What?” Silva said.

“When we were looking at that list you put up on the wall, studying the description? And it wouldn’t come to me? Well, it just did! She’s the one I was trying to remember. I met her in the pharmacy. She came in using this perfume that smelled like berries, berries and… something else.

“Bergamot,” Campos said.

Silva looked at him. “What?”

“Bergamot. That perfume I was talking about. Promesse. It smells like bergamot and berries. Vitoria drenches herself in it, calls it her signature scent.”

“She’s got a boyfriend,” Goncalves said. “The girl in her shop said she has a boyfriend.”

Edson nodded. “Samuel Arns, the locksmith. His shop is next door.”

“Damn,” Hector said.

Silva turned to his nephew. “I don’t believe this. You met her too? When you were talking to Arns?”

“She dropped by his shop when I was interviewing him. We weren’t introduced. But the perfume? I remember that.”

“How come you didn’t mention it before?” Arnaldo said.

“Why should I? Lots of women wear perfume. It wasn’t until Campos here mentioned bergamot that-”

“Wait a minute. You know what bergamot is?”

“Sure. It’s a citrus fruit, like an orange.”

“And you happen to know that because?”

“They use it to flavor tea. Earl Grey tea. Gilda drinks the stuff.”

Arnaldo might have said more, but Silva put a hand on his arm. “It’s all coming together,” he said. “Vitoria is Arns’s girlfriend, and Arns makes the keys for Juraci.” He turned to Hector. “Have you got the telephone number of his shop?”