Every Bitter Thing Read Free

to a scowl. “Yes, yes,” he said rudely, “put him on.”
    A second passed. The smile returned.
    Silva couldn’t hear what was being said, but the gravelly voice and the imperious tone were unmistakable. It was Pontes, all right. The director, sycophant that he was, sat listening to the minister as if he was hearing the Voice of God.
    After almost a full minute’s harangue, Pontes stopped to draw breath.
    Sampaio leaped into the breach. “I have to tell you, Minister,” he said, “that I’m truly shocked.” His voice, if not his expression, carried complete conviction. “I’ve just arrived at the office. This is the first I’ve heard of this.” Sampaio was a consummate liar, a fact he didn’t bother to conceal from his subordinates. “His apartment, you say?”
    The minister droned on. Like Sampaio, he’d rather talk than listen.
    â€œI’ll give it first priority,” Sampaio said when the droning stopped, “and put my best man on the case.” Sampaio didn’t mention Silva by name. He never did. “And I’ll go there personally to give impetus to the investigation. Give me an hour or two, and I’ll call you with a firsthand report.”
    Sampaio seldom missed an opportunity to rub shoulders with the Great and Powerful, even if the shoulder rubbing was only via telephone.
    The minister dealt out more advice, this time about ten seconds’ worth.
    â€œYes, Minister. Of course, Minister. Goodbye, Minister.”
    Sampaio’s scowl was back before the telephone hit the cradle.
    â€œYou’ll do the grunt work, of course,” he said to Silva without missing a beat, “but I’ll be giving you my full support. You have my cell number. If you need advice, feel free to call, twenty-four seven.”
    Silva let his eyes drift to the window. A cloud, harbinger of an oncoming storm, was just emerging from behind the Ministry of Culture.
    â€œAna has the address,” Sampaio concluded. “We’ll go separately.”
    He stood and went into his private bathroom. The audience was over.
    In the outer office, Ana Tavares, Sampaio’s long-suffering personal assistant, was extending a sheet of paper.
    â€œCrime-scene address,” she said. “I called Arnaldo. He’s on his way to your office.”
    â€œThanks, Ana. Efficient as always.”
    She ignored the compliment.
    â€œMind if I ask you a question?”
    â€œYou can ask,” she said. “I may not answer.”
    â€œDo you always make Sampaio jump through hoops, make him talk to the minister’s secretary first? I can’t recall a single occasion—”
    â€œI have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ana Tavares said.

Chapter Four
    L UCIO C OSTA HAD PROJECTED Brasília as a city of two hundred thousand people and not a single traffic light. Brazil’s brand-new federal capital was to be a city designed around the automobile, a place where roads fed into roads, and where the flow of vehicles would never stop.
    Six decades later, the population was pushing three million, there were traffic lights galore, and the city’s traffic problem was a national scandal.
    â€œGoddamn it,” Silva said, as his car bumped over a pothole.
    Arnaldo, accustomed to both the condition of Brasília’s streets and the asperity of Silva’s complaints about them, ignored the outburst. “How come Sampaio didn’t offer us a ride?” he wanted to know.
    â€œSteals his thunder,” Silva said, signaling a left turn and glancing in the rearview mirror.
    They were in Silva’s twelve-year-old Fiat. Agente Arnaldo Nunes was Silva’s longtime sidekick. Silva had just finished telling him the little he knew about the case.
    â€œYou figure Sampaio tipped the media?” Arnaldo asked.
    â€œTipped them, or knew they’d been tipped,” Silva said. “No reason for him to put