She took her phone out of her purse, switched it off, and leaned over to show him the blank screen. He reminded her of someone she'd seen somewhere before but she couldn't recall where or when.
And then she remembered. "Weren't you at the league encampment on the Muniz fazenda? Weren't you feeding a little girl with rickets?"
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
"I think you have me confused with someone else," he said. "We're going to follow a roundabout route. It will take some time to get where we're going. In the meantime, we're not supposed to talk."
"Who says so? Who says we're not supposed to talk?"
He didn't respond.
They drove into the countryside. He stopped at the top of a hill where there was a view for kilometers in every direction. He must have been pleased with what he saw, or didn't see, because he gave a grunt of satisfaction, made a U-turn, and started back toward the city. Less than two kilometers later he came to a sudden stop and put the car into reverse. He'd missed the turnoff. It was a dirt road-not much more than a track, really-and almost obscured by vegetation. There was a sign, barely legible white paint on a wooden board: SEM SAIDA, it said. Dead end.
They drove through a little forest with tree trunks no thicker than her arm, and emerged into tobacco fields where leaves from the plants brushed both sides of the car as they passed. The track ended at a cylindrical structure, a standpipe or silo, with riveted metal walls and a domed roof. The driver stopped, got out, and opened her door.
"Edson will be along directly," he said, speaking for the first time in many minutes.
None of the tobacco plants in the neighboring fields were taller than knee-high. There was no trace of another human being.
"You'll be taking me back?" she asked, nervous now at the isolation.
He nodded. "But I can't stay here. This yellow car is too visible." He returned to the taxi and drove back the way he'd come, the wheels throwing up red dust. She watched the retreating vehicle until it vanished into the trees.
Behind her, someone cleared his throat.
Her heart skipped a beat. She put her hand to her breast and spun around.
"Don't be afraid," the young man said. He must have been hiding behind the tall metal cylinder.
Chapter Thirty-three
"They ran the ID from that guy who lives with the priest," Arnaldo said, handing Silva the printout of an email he'd picked up at the hotel's reception desk.
"Euclides Garcia?" Silva asked, reaching for it.
"Yeah, him."
They were in Silva's suite, waiting for news from Vicenza.
"And?" Hector asked while Silva read.
"One minor charge for assault," Arnaldo said. "It happened during his army days."
"Compulsory military service?"
"Nope. Volunteer. Before that, he was a street kid. He used the military to get himself off the street, but once he was in he didn't like it. He took a swing at a superior officer. They gave him six months in the stockade and chucked him out. Other than that, nothing."
"Any news from your sister?"
"Yup. Marly and the kids are safe and sound in Riberao, and I was wrong. She really has no idea where Edson is. I talked to her by telephone."
"Too bad we haven't got a way to let the kid know his mother's safe," Silva said. "He knows that, he might come in."
"I've got the number of Vicenza's cell phone," Hector blurted out.
The two men turned to look at him.
"Really?" Silva said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you now?"
"I… I asked her for it. Just in case," Hector said, flushing.
"So call her."
Hector tried. But there was no response.
Vicenza Pelosi sensed that Edson was holding something back, but it didn't bother her overmuch. She had enough for a great story. All she had to do now was to figure out how to present it without getting the network sued for libel. She believed everything the kid had told her but he hadn't a shred of evidence to back him up. And then, to make it worse, he pricked her balloon.
"I'll say goodbye now," he said and pointed. "He'll take you back."
She heard the sound of an engine, turned, and saw the taxi appearing from among the trees.
"No, no, no," she said. "I need to get your story on tape. You have to come with me."
"With Ferraz out there?" The kid looked at her as if she had some kind of mental deficiency. "No way! I'll come in when he's locked up. Not before."
"A chief inspector from the Federal Police is in town. I'll get him to protect you."
The kid shook his head stubbornly. "It's not safe," he said.
"What if Ferraz finds you?"
"He won't. I've got friends."
"But… but without you there's no proof."
The kid met her eyes. "And with me, there's no proof. Just my word against his."
"No, it's not like that. It's-"
"It's exactly like that, Senhorita Pelosi. But now that I've clued you in on what's happening, all you need to do is to prove it."
He made it sound easy.
"Edson, listen to me. I'm a reporter, not a cop. It's the cops who have to get the proof, and you have to help."
"I already helped. I called you didn't I? You'd better leave now. Your car's here."
"But-"
"No, Senhorita Pelosi, I'm sorry, but if Ferraz gets his hands on me, he's gonna kill me."
The kid turned his back on her and started walking away.
"How will I get in touch with you?"
He stopped and turned around. "Like you did before. On television. From here on in, I'm going to watch all your broadcasts."
Behind her, she heard the sound of the taxi's door being opened.
On the drive back to town she applied all her skills to extract something from the driver. She got no response. Not a shake of the head. Not a smile. Nothing.
As they turned into Republic Square, she gave it one more try. "You must be one of those friends Edson was telling me about."
"There's a taxi stand over there on the Rua Garibaldi," he said, giving the first sign that he hadn't suddenly become a deaf mute.
"Why don't you just bring me to my hotel?" she said, trying to get more time to work on him.
He shook his head and pulled over to the curb.
The registration number, she thought as he pulled away. I'll make a note of it. Silva can trace it.
But he'd thought of that, too.
The rear end of the taxi had been liberally smeared with mud. The license plate was completely illegible.
Chapter Thirty-four
Colonel Ferraz's private line rang a little before six.
"That you, Palmas?"
"Yes, Colonel. Mission accomplished."
Ferraz grinned.
"I'm on my way."
The colonel hung up, took his holster from the hook on the wall and went out to his car. His driver opened the rear door, but Ferraz shook his head.
"I'll drive myself. Get a patrol car to take you home."
"As ordens, Coronel."
Corporal Sanches showed no sign of surprise. It was a badly kept secret that the boss had frequent romantic engagements with a certain married lady of the town. On those nights, he drove himself.
Ferraz's tobacco shed was more than a kilometer from the main road, well removed from the other buildings on his fazenda.
The colonel no longer grew tobacco; he'd switched over to sugarcane. So the building was seldom visited. It was an oblong, wooden structure with a peaked roof and a fading coat of white paint.
Darkness had fallen by the time Ferraz arrived. His headlights illuminated the figure of his deputy, a dark silhouette against the white wall. Palmas stood with his hands on his hips and stared into the glare.
Ferraz didn't waste any time with pleasantries. "How did you nail her?"
"Stroke of luck, really," Palmas said, somehow managing to convey that it wasn't luck at all. "One of the guys I posted saw her get out of a taxi on Republic Square. He called me, and then followed her over to the Rua Garibaldi. I got there in three minutes flat, just in time to see her get into another taxi. I flashed my badge, waved the driver down, and told him to come here."