Every Bitter Thing by Leighton Gage Page A

you. Give me half an hour.”
    â€œAsk for Arnaldo.”
    Pereira groaned. “Not Nunes again! What a crummy day this is turning out to be.”

    A RNALDO MET Pereira in the reception area at Federal Police headquarters and led him to a windowless conference room. The furnishings consisted of a round wooden table, four chairs, and nothing else. There was a hole in the ceiling where some kind of repair had taken place to the pipes or conduits. A notebook computer was plugged into a socket halfway up one of the walls. The only other objects on the table were an overloaded ashtray and a pad of paper with a few notes. The stench of ten thousand dead cigarettes hung in the air.
    â€œChrist,” Pereira said, “what a dump.”
    â€œThis is the VIP room,” Arnaldo said. “You should see the new one.”
    â€œWorse than this?”
    â€œIt will be. The coffee staining of the carpet and the filling of the ashtrays are scheduled for tomorrow.”
    â€œWhy aren’t we meeting in your office, Mario?”
    â€œSecurity reasons.”
    â€œHiding from your boss?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œSo you’re still keeping him in the dark?”
    â€œIf Sampaio was a portobello,” Arnaldo said, “he’d be the size of this table.”
    â€œHave a look at this,” Silva said. He moved the mouse, and the computer’s screen came to life. It showed the image of a horribly mutilated corpse.
    â€œJonas Palhares,” Silva said, “petroleum engineer, thirty-four years old, divorced, no children, lived alone.”
    â€œLived where?”
    â€œRio de Janeiro.”
    Silva clicked the mouse. The next photo was also of Palhares, taken from a slightly different angle.
    â€œWhen did it happen?” Pereira said.
    â€œAbout two weeks before Christmas.”
    â€œSuspects?”
    â€œOne. His girlfriend, Chantal Pires.”
    â€œYou sound like you doubt it.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Silva pointed at the screen. “Look at him. Women are into poison and pistols; they don’t do things like that.”
    â€œDepends on the woman.”
    â€œFor once,” Arnaldo said, “I agree with Pereira. Take my mother-in-law.”
    Pereira ignored him. “No chance it could have been a robbery?”
    â€œNo,” Silva said. “Palhares’s wallet was still in his pocket, his watch was still on his wrist. There was no sign of a break-in.”
    â€œJust like Rivas.”
    â€œJust like Rivas.”
    â€œThat girlfriend you mentioned. She live-in?”
    â€œNo. And she’s one of the few people he knew in Rio. He’s from Belo Horizonte originally, only been in Rio for about a year.”
    â€œShe a local?”
    Silva nodded. “They met on the beach.”
    â€œShe have a key to his place?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd this guy … what’s his name again?”
    â€œPalhares.”
    â€œPalhares was also shot in the gut?”
    â€œHe was.”
    â€œWho called it in?”
    â€œThe girlfriend. And long after the murder.”
    â€œAnother reason to believe she didn’t do it.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œYou guys going to talk to her?”
    â€œWe are. I sent a man from São Paulo.” Silva glanced at his watch. “He should be arriving there as we speak.”
    â€œWhy? You’ve got a field office in Rio, haven’t you?”
    â€œYeah,” Arnaldo said. “But we haven’t got Babyface.”
    â€œBabyface?”
    â€œHaraldo Gonçalves,” Silva said. “We call him Babyface.”
    â€œI’ll bet he loves that.”
    â€œHates it,” Silva said. “But that’s beside the point. When it comes to females, he’s our secret weapon. Women open up to him.”
    â€œIn every way you can imagine,” Arnaldo said.
    â€œYou got a dirty mind, Nunes.”
    â€œIt comes,” Arnaldo said, “from