Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage

pleasure to work with you, Chief Inspector,” he said.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, just before ten, Hector got a call from São Paulo’s Head of Homicide.
    “Late last night,” Janus began without preamble, “this salesman for a media company got back from a trip to Rio and found his wife dead in their apartment.”
“And this is significant because?” Hector asked.
    “Because they had a baby, a son about four months old— and he’s missing.”
Hector grabbed his pen. “Name?” he said.
“Adnan Chehab.” Janus spelled it. “His wife was Carlotta with two Ts.”
“Chehab? What kind of a name is that?”
“Lebanese, I think. Anyway, the guy sells space in magazines, has a number of clients in Rio and goes there once a week. Yesterday morning, at around quarter past seven, he kissed his wife goodbye and left. When he got home, at ten that night, he found a bloodbath, and she was in the middle of it. Somebody cut her throat and left her body on the living room floor.”
“The father’s story check out?”
“He had ticket stubs for the shuttle. He met a colleague at Congonhas. They flew together. We called his business contacts, had a look at the passenger lists. He was in Rio all right.”
“Could he have killed her before he left?”
“The M.E. says he could have, but the first responders found him sitting on the floor, with her head in his lap, babbling like an idiot. If he was putting on a performance, they said, he deserves an Academy Award. So I don’t think it’s likely.”
“Yesterday, Lefkowitz told me he might be able to recover DNA from the baby. We’ll need a sample of the woman’s blood.”
“I’ll get one for you. But I’m not finished.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Chehab kept getting more and more hysterical, and the paramedics finally had to shoot him full of sedatives. But, before they did, my guys got him to take them around his apartment.”
“And?”
“And it wasn’t a robbery. Other than the kid, nothing was missing.”
“Nothing?”
“You’re about to ask me about a baby carriage, right?”
“I was, yes.”
“Like I said, nothing. The Chenabs’ carriage was still there, and they only had the one.”
“Where is Chehab now?”
“At the Sírio-Libanês Hospital. We won’t get any more access to him until sometime this afternoon, if that.”
“You have people there?”
“Two. Sitting just outside his room.”
“How about the Chehabs’ neighbors?”
“My guys held off until this morning before they did the canvassing. They wanted to do it at the same time of day the wife had her throat cut.”
“And?”
“They struck pay dirt. It’s a small building, only twentytwo apartments. A lady who lives on the floor above goes out every morning to buy fresh bread. Yesterday, Adnan joined her when she was going down in the elevator. He was off to Rio, he said. She wished him a pleasant trip and went to the padaria on the corner. It isn’t fifty meters from the front door of her building. When she got back a young guy, pushing a baby carriage, was talking to Chehab’s wife on the intercom.”
“Description?”
“Dark-skinned, she said. A middle-eastern type.”
“Your man show her a photograph of the bomber?”
“The damned fool wasn’t expecting to get lucky, so he didn’t have one with him. I chewed up one side of his ass and down the other. He’s on his way back as we speak, but I haven’t got much doubt about what she’s going to tell him. You?”
“No. Did she hear their exchange? Over the intercom?”
“Carlotta seemed to know him and had no qualms about buzzing him in, only that.”
“Did she introduce herself to him? Get a name?”
“They rode up together in the elevator, and she tried to initiate some friendly chitchat, but he wouldn’t have it. His attitude put her nose out of joint. She thought he was rude.”
“Baby in the carriage?”
“No baby. The carriage was new. She thought the guy was delivering it.”
    The Centro Islamico , on the