Leighton Gage - A vine in the blood

“Back out,” Silva said. “We’ll park at the shopping center.”

They weren’t the only ones with that idea. The lot behind the Ibirapuera Shopping Center was nearly full, but they managed to snag one of the few remaining slots. They locked the car and set out for the Artist’s apartment on foot.

“I read in Veja that a one-bedroom goes for over a million,” Arnaldo said as they rounded the corner and came within sight of the building.

“And he has five bedrooms. I read the same article.”

“What’s an unmarried guy do with five bedrooms?”

“One to sleep in and four to keep his money. When he moves to Madrid, four won’t be enough.”

“Don’t remind me about Madrid,” Arnaldo said.

Wooden barriers had been put up to hold back the crowd. When Arnaldo made a move to shove one aside, a uniformed cop blew a blast on his whistle and ran over to stop him.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” he said.

Silva flashed his badge. “We’ve got an appointment with the Artist.”

Silva’s badge was gold trimmed with blue enamel, a sign of high rank. In a flash, the cop’s expression went from indignation to respect.

“Let me help, Senhor.”

He completed the shoving, stepped aside-and saluted.

The salute was a tip-off to the reporters. Strobe lights flashed, only a few at first, then by the score. The people not operating cameras started shouting questions.

Silva detested attention from the media. He forced himself not to break into a run.

“I’ve got a new one for you,” Arnaldo said, taking the reporters in stride, as he did most things.

“Later.”

“You might want to reconsider that. It’s about football.”

“About football? Okay, tell me.”

Arnaldo waited until they’d gained sanctuary in the lobby, then:

“This guy is sitting in the second row, center field, during the final game of the World Cup. Just below him, there’s an empty seat.”

Silva hit the button on the elevator.

“An empty seat? At the World Cup Final? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Of course I am. It’s a joke. Next to the empty seat is an old geezer who’s got his stuff all over it, program, beer, spare pair of eyeglasses, binoculars. A guy just above him, in the third row, figures he’s holding it for somebody. Halftime comes. Nobody shows up. By this time, everybody is looking at that empty seat and thinking how nice it would be if their girlfriends, sisters, parents, or whatever, could be there, sitting in it. Finally, the guy in the third row taps the geezer on the shoulder.

“‘Mind if I ask you a question?’

“The geezer turns around. ‘What?’

“‘Did you pay for that seat?’

“‘I did,’ the geezer says, ‘I bought it for my beloved wife of fifty-eight years.’

“‘And?’

“‘She died.’

“‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that, but, um… this is the World Cup, after all. Surely, you’ve got some relative, or maybe a friend, you could have offered it to?’

“‘I do,’ the geezer says. ‘I’ve got a lot of relatives, and I’ve got a lot of friends, and one after the other, I offered it to every last one of them.’

“‘And no takers?’

“‘Nope.’

“‘That’s amazing.’

“‘I thought so too,’ the geezer says. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought it was downright crazy. Can you imagine? They all decided to go to her funeral instead.’”

Silva was till chuckling when they reached Tico Santos’s front door. Somewhat to his surprise, the Artist answered the door himself.

“Which one of you is Chief Inspector Silva?” he said.

“I’m Silva. This is Agent Nunes.”

“Thanks for coming,” Tico said, as if he’d issued an invitation. “The living room’s this way.” He pointed with his chin. “Follow me.”

When Tico turned his back, Arnaldo whispered into Silva’s ear, “ Football giant, my ass.”

Tico was a head shorter than Arnaldo and probably fifty kilograms lighter.

“They mean it figuratively,” Silva said.

Tico heard him say something, but it was clear he hadn’t understood what it was. Without stopping, he spoke over his shoulder, answering a question Silva hadn’t asked.

“Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “I hired a private plane to get here.”

He didn’t bother to explain where he’d come from; he assumed Silva would know. And Silva did. Tico had been in Curitiba, in training, with the rest of the Brazilian team.

They entered a space about the size of a small ballroom. The far wall was windows, nothing but windows, floor to ceiling. Beyond them, a thousand lights sparkled in the mansions sprinkled over the hills of Morumbi.

The view was nothing less than spectacular.

So was the woman who was sitting on one of the white leather couches. She didn’t bother to get up.

“Cintia Tadesco,” the Artist said, “my fiancee. Cintia, this is Chief Inspector Silva and… sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Agent Nunes.”

Side by side, Tico and his girlfriend were a study in contrasts. Both were in their mid-twenties, but it was there that any similarity stopped. One of Tico’s brown eyes was noticeably darker than the other. His irregularly-spaced teeth were crooked; his forehead was a little too short; his chin a little too long; his nose a little too wide.

Cintia, on the other hand, was stunningly beautiful, taller than her boyfriend, taller than most men, with a figure that would stop traffic on Avenida Paulista at rush hour. The word statuesque popped into Silva’s mind. He recalled some things his wife, Irene, an inveterate consumer of gossip magazines, had told him about Cintia.

Cintia was not just a beautiful face; she was a prima donna, generally disliked by the photographers and art directors with whom she spent her days. Tico followed her around like a lapdog. They were due to marry in the spring. A few of Tico’s friends suggested she might be a gold-digger. Those that did were no longer Tico’s friends.

She gave the cops an appraising look. “I hope,” she said, “you’ve got some good news.”

“I wish we did,” Silva said. “At the moment, all we’ve got is questions.”

“In that case,” she said, taking charge, “Let me say this: Tico has had a long day. There’s nothing more he can tell you. He’s tired. He’s stressed. He needs sleep. How about you come back tomorrow morning?”

“The first few hours are always crucial. We’ll try to take up as little of his time as possible. Yours, too, Senhorita Tadesco.”

“I’m not too tired,” the Artist said. “This is my mother we’re talking about. I want to do everything I can to help. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Cops one, Tadesco zero, Silva thought as he took a seat.

“Discounting the ransom,” he said. “Can you think of any reason why someone might have kidnapped your mother?”

“You don’t think five million dollars is reason enough?” Cintia said.

If she couldn’t get rid of them, she apparently intended to make her presence felt.

“It’s a good one, Senhorita Tadesco, and it may be the only one, but we shouldn’t fail to consider other possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“A group of Argentineans so focused on winning the Cup they kidnapped Senhora Santos to put Tico off his game.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It probably is. How about this: someone thinks he has star quality, but Tico outshines him. He kidnaps Tico’s mother. Tico doesn’t play, and the kidnapper has a chance to be the big star of the Cup.”

Silva put as little faith in that possibility as he had in the first. He expected Cintia to reject it out of hand.

But she didn’t.

“Romario de Barros!” she said.