Buried Strangers by Leighton Gage

absolutely straightforward when he says his concern is tourism—”
    “Sounds like bullshit to me.”
    “The second is that he’s protecting someone.”
    “Who?”
    “His daughter.”
    “Why?”
    “She’s a Wiccan.”
    “What the hell is a Wiccan?”
    “A witch.”
    “Huh?”
    “A witch. You know, black cats, broomsticks, magic potions.” “You’re putting me on, right?”
    “I’m not.”
    “And how did you—”
    “Tarcisio Mello.”
    “Ah. Him. And you think—”
    “I don’t think anything. I know the girl’s a Wiccan. I know her father is aware of it. I suspect he believes that she and her coven—”
    “Coven?”
    “A group of witches, generally thirteen in number.”
    “Where are you getting this stuff?”
    “The Internet. Now, as I was saying, I suspect that Cavalcante believes his daughter and her coven might be murdering people for ritual purposes.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I have no opinion one way or another. I’m not even sure Boceta’s right about a cult being responsible for the deaths. But we have to check it out. And that’s where you come in. The girl’s a contemporary of yours. She’s twenty-six and—”
    “She’s not. She’s not a contemporary. I’m almost thirty-five.”
    “And she works as a disc jockey in a club by the name of Banana Banana. You know it?”
    “Everybody knows Banana Banana.”
    “Wrong,” Arnaldo said. “I don’t.”
    “Because you’re a fucking dinosaur,” Gonçalves said.
    “And neither do I,” Silva said.
    “Probably because you live in Brasilia, Senhor,” Gonçalves said, without missing a beat. “It’s the place to see and be seen in this town. They say the decor alone cost a million reais. They’ve got a sound system with speakers even bigger than my dick.”
    “Tweeters?” Arnaldo said.
    Gonçalves continued, undeterred: “The bouncers are all Neanderthal types with low foreheads like Arnaldo Nunes. Unlike him, they’re smart enough to separate glitterati from riffraff, maybe because they’re riffraff themselves, again like Nunes.”
    “But you,” Silva said, “being a handsome and person-able young man, should have no trouble getting past those bouncers and turning your considerable charms onto the minister’s daughter.”
    “What if she’s got a boyfriend?”
    “She hasn’t. Tarcisio checked. She’s unattached and lives alone.”
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    “You don’t think being a witch might be an impediment to forming relationships?”
    “Not if she’s hot.”
    “That’s the trouble with kids,” Arnaldo said. “Their dicks speak louder than their brains, even when the dicks have tiny, little voices.”
    “Hey,” Gonçalves said, “at your age I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. I’ll bet your dick hasn’t talked to you for forty years.”
    “The girl’s name,” Silva said, “is Randi Calvacante.”
    “Randi? What kind of a name is that?”
    “Short for Miranda.”
    “Okay. Suppose I get in there and make her acquaintance. Then what?”
    “Before you even approach her, you do what I did. You get on the Internet and learn all about Wicca. Then you strike up an acquaintance, find a way to steer the conversation around to religion and express an interest. If she bites, you get her to introduce you to her coreligionists, find out if there are any grounds for us to be concerned.”
    “In other words, I’m supposed to find out if these . . .”
    “Wiccans.”
    “ . . . these Wiccans are mass murderers?”
    “Exactly.”
    “What if they are? What if they come after me?”
    “You want to wear a wire?”
    “Hell, no. What if she finds it?”
    “How would she find it? What do you have in mind?”
    “You want me to get close to her don’t you?”
    “See?” Arnaldo said. “What did I tell you? Kid’s already thinking about how he can get her into her pants, and he hasn’t even met her yet.”
    “It’s purely professional,” Gonçalves sniffed. “How else do you