question. “And you are?”
“Agente Arnaldo Nunes, federal police.”
Father Vitorio’s expression shifted from neutral to hostile.
“What do you want?”
“Your name came up at the police station,” Arnaldo said. “The chief referred to you as ‘that fucking priest,’ or words to that effect.”
The priest didn’t blanch. “So?” he said.
“So right now they’re probably referring to me as ‘that fucking federal cop.’ I figured we two fuckers should get acquainted.”
“The chief,” Father Vitorio said, “thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”
“And the feeling is mutual, eh?”
“I didn’t say that,” the priest snapped.
“No, Padre , you didn’t.”
Arnaldo looked around the room, seeking something to defuse the tension. His eye fell on some children’s drawings that were spiked onto nails driven into the unpainted wall. “What’s this?” he said, walking over to have a closer look.
“My art class.”
The priest followed Arnaldo and stood at his shoulder.
“I get discarded computer paper from an office in the duty-free zone,” he said. “The children make their drawings on the back. For the crayons . . . I accept contributions.”
Arnaldo could take a hint when he heard one. He reached for his wallet.
The priest performed a vanishing trick with Arnaldo’s ten-Real note. Then he gestured at the drawings.
“As you can see,” he said, “there’s a definite preference for gray, brown, and black. I offer them all the colors of the rainbow, but they choose gray, brown, and black.”
Arnaldo studied the kids’ pictures: stick figures holding guns, stick figures lying on the ground, houses with bullet holes in the walls. None of the kids showed any talent, and Father Vitorio, whatever else his abilities might have been, didn’t seem to have a vocation for teaching technique.
“They don’t draw bogeymen or monsters,” the priest said. “The things that frighten them are real. Take this one, for example.”
He put his finger on the drawing of a truck. Armed figures were leaning out of the windows. The figures were drawn in gray, the same gray as the uniforms worn by Chief Pinto and his men.
“Cops?” Arnaldo asked.
“Cops,” the priest confirmed. “Some say they’re trying to take over the city’s drug trade. Until a year or so ago, they were fighting for it with pistols. These days, they use assault rifles. The bullets go through the walls of the houses and kill innocent people. That, Agente, is the children’s experience of the men who are supposed to be protecting them. And it’s mine, too. So I ask you again, what do you want?”
Arnaldo reached into his breast pocket and took out two enhanced blowups cropped as head shots. One was of Andrea de Castro, the other of the man he believed to be Damião Rodrigues. Both had been lifted from the DVD Hector brought back from Amsterdam.
“You know these people?” he asked.
The priest studied the photos. “Why are you interested?” “You know what a snuff video is?”
“I’m not altogether ignorant, Agente. But snuff videos don’t exist. They’re an urban legend.”
“You’re wrong, Padre.”
“I don’t think so. But what do these people have to do with these so-called snuff videos?”
“The girl was snuffed. The man did it.”
“Special effects,” the priest said. “These days, anything’s possible.”
“All right, Padre, have it your way. Do you know them? Have you ever seen either one of them?”
“No,” the priest said. “And, now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” “Wait.”
Arnaldo took a card out of his wallet, clicked his ballpoint, and scrawled some numbers.
“This is my cell phone,” he said. “I’m at the Hotel Tropical. If you hear, see, or remember something that might help me, please call.”
The priest hesitated for a moment, then performed the same vanishing trick with the card as he had with the ten-Real note.
Chapter Fourteen
I T DIDN’T MATTER WHAT the girls
“Agente Arnaldo Nunes, federal police.”
Father Vitorio’s expression shifted from neutral to hostile.
“What do you want?”
“Your name came up at the police station,” Arnaldo said. “The chief referred to you as ‘that fucking priest,’ or words to that effect.”
The priest didn’t blanch. “So?” he said.
“So right now they’re probably referring to me as ‘that fucking federal cop.’ I figured we two fuckers should get acquainted.”
“The chief,” Father Vitorio said, “thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”
“And the feeling is mutual, eh?”
“I didn’t say that,” the priest snapped.
“No, Padre , you didn’t.”
Arnaldo looked around the room, seeking something to defuse the tension. His eye fell on some children’s drawings that were spiked onto nails driven into the unpainted wall. “What’s this?” he said, walking over to have a closer look.
“My art class.”
The priest followed Arnaldo and stood at his shoulder.
“I get discarded computer paper from an office in the duty-free zone,” he said. “The children make their drawings on the back. For the crayons . . . I accept contributions.”
Arnaldo could take a hint when he heard one. He reached for his wallet.
The priest performed a vanishing trick with Arnaldo’s ten-Real note. Then he gestured at the drawings.
“As you can see,” he said, “there’s a definite preference for gray, brown, and black. I offer them all the colors of the rainbow, but they choose gray, brown, and black.”
Arnaldo studied the kids’ pictures: stick figures holding guns, stick figures lying on the ground, houses with bullet holes in the walls. None of the kids showed any talent, and Father Vitorio, whatever else his abilities might have been, didn’t seem to have a vocation for teaching technique.
“They don’t draw bogeymen or monsters,” the priest said. “The things that frighten them are real. Take this one, for example.”
He put his finger on the drawing of a truck. Armed figures were leaning out of the windows. The figures were drawn in gray, the same gray as the uniforms worn by Chief Pinto and his men.
“Cops?” Arnaldo asked.
“Cops,” the priest confirmed. “Some say they’re trying to take over the city’s drug trade. Until a year or so ago, they were fighting for it with pistols. These days, they use assault rifles. The bullets go through the walls of the houses and kill innocent people. That, Agente, is the children’s experience of the men who are supposed to be protecting them. And it’s mine, too. So I ask you again, what do you want?”
Arnaldo reached into his breast pocket and took out two enhanced blowups cropped as head shots. One was of Andrea de Castro, the other of the man he believed to be Damião Rodrigues. Both had been lifted from the DVD Hector brought back from Amsterdam.
“You know these people?” he asked.
The priest studied the photos. “Why are you interested?” “You know what a snuff video is?”
“I’m not altogether ignorant, Agente. But snuff videos don’t exist. They’re an urban legend.”
“You’re wrong, Padre.”
“I don’t think so. But what do these people have to do with these so-called snuff videos?”
“The girl was snuffed. The man did it.”
“Special effects,” the priest said. “These days, anything’s possible.”
“All right, Padre, have it your way. Do you know them? Have you ever seen either one of them?”
“No,” the priest said. “And, now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” “Wait.”
Arnaldo took a card out of his wallet, clicked his ballpoint, and scrawled some numbers.
“This is my cell phone,” he said. “I’m at the Hotel Tropical. If you hear, see, or remember something that might help me, please call.”
The priest hesitated for a moment, then performed the same vanishing trick with the card as he had with the ten-Real note.
Chapter Fourteen
I T DIDN’T MATTER WHAT the girls
Similar Books
