Every Bitter Thing by Leighton Gage Page B

excessive association with homicide detectives.”
    Silva chose another file on the computer’s desktop and opened it. The image on the screen showed the body of a young man. His blond ponytail looked like a mop used to soak up blood. The blood was his; it had dried and was more brown than red.
    â€œVictor Neves,” Silva said, “twenty-six years old, exporter of leather goods, lived in Campinas, engaged to the same woman for over three years. Murder was”—he checked his notes—“almost a month ago. The vic’s mother found the body. He was her only child. She’s been under sedation ever since.”
    â€œSuspects?”
    â€œThe cops in Campinas like Neves’s partner for it. He has no alibi, and they say there’s something shifty about him.”
    â€œYou sending someone?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œOkay. Number three?”
    Silva clicked the mouse. “Paulo Cruz.”
    â€œ That Paulo Cruz?” Pereira said. “The guy who wrote the sex books?”
    â€œThat Paulo Cruz. He lived in Brodowski. It’s a little town near Ribeirão Prêto.”
    â€œI know where Brodowski is. Everybody does. Portinari came from there. You ever read any of Cruz’s stuff?”
    â€œNo. You?”
    â€œEvery single one.”
    â€œThere were only three,” Arnaldo said.
    â€œSo I read three.”
    Again, Silva clicked the mouse. The upper part of Cruz’s body now filled the screen.
    â€œAre those little white things what I think they are?”
    â€œThat, Walter, would depend upon which little white things you’re referring to.”
    The next photo was even tighter. It framed the victim from the middle of his chest to the crown of his head. Some of Cruz’s teeth were lying on the rug. There were smaller objects as well, not quite as white.
    â€œMaggots,” Silva said.
    Pereira pinched his nose, as if the smell was there in the meeting room with them. “Yuck,” he said. “Took a while before they found him, huh?”
    â€œOver a week. He was working on a book. His girlfriend was away in Bahia.”
    â€œNo maid?”
    â€œHe had one, but she was on vacation.”
    â€œLive-in girlfriend?”
    â€œShe wasn’t live-in. But they did have three kids.”
    â€œAnd he never married her? Betcha she did it. Hell hath no fury and all that.”
    â€œShe didn’t do it,” Silva said. “I told you. She was in Bahia.”
    â€œShe got any proof of that?”
    â€œPlenty.”
    â€œIf it was me, I’d take a closer look at that proof. She’s a natural for it.”
    â€œThe cops in Brodowski thought so too. But her alibi is rock-solid.”
    â€œNo other suspects?”
    Silva shook his head. “And Brodowski isn’t exactly an epicenter of violent crime. The locals are well out of their depth. They’d already filed a request for help.”
    â€œYou said four. Who’s the fourth?”
    Silva frowned. “That one confuses me.”
    He clicked the mouse. A black man in knee-length shorts was staring at the camera with one eye. The other was mashed to a pulp. His bloodstained polo shirt bore the Lacoste crocodile emblem.
    â€œNice shirt,” Pereira said. “Who’s he?”
    â€œHe’s The Man Who Doesn’t Fit. João Girotti, a thug with three convictions, one for armed robbery, one for burglary, one for auto theft.”
    â€œA man still in search of his vocation,” Arnaldo said.
    â€œGood riddance,” Pereira said. “Where did this punk end his days?”
    â€œIn an alley, in back of a bar, in Brasilândia.”
    â€œBrasilândia?”
    â€œA suburb of São Paulo,” Silva said. “A slum. Girotti lived there whenever he wasn’t a guest of the state.”
    â€œWas he gay?”
    â€œNot as far as we know.”
    â€œAnd the other three you just showed me all had girlfriends. How do we