Every Bitter Thing Read Free Page A

in an appearance otherwise.” They rounded the corner. “Look.”
    â€œJesus,” Arnaldo said. “So that’s why you took your time getting here.”
    Two television vans were pulled up in front of the murdered man’s building. Their masts were extended, their dishes pointed at some faraway satellite.
    A barrier of yellow crime-scene tape, supported by stanchions, ran in a wide arc around the front door. A crowd of reporters flocked like pigeons fighting for crumbs. Nelson Sampaio, bathed in the light of sun guns and camera strobes, stood in their midst. If Silva had arrived ten minutes earlier, those reporters would have been surrounding him .
    Silva parked between the director’s BMW and a Ford sedan with a staff of Asclepius affixed to the license plate. A young cop came over to shoo them away, but Arnaldo flashed his badge, and the youngster backed off.
    On their way to the front door, the two federal cops passed within a few meters of Sampaio’s impromptu press conference. They were close enough to see the expression on the director’s face, one of indignation mixed with sympathy, which even Silva had to admit was a neat trick. Sampaio was calling the reporters by name as he fielded their questions.
    Arnaldo held up the tape, Silva ducked under it, and they headed for the duo stationed in front of the entrance. One was sporting a red-and-gold uniform, a high-brimmed hat, and white gloves. It reminded Silva of costumes he’d seen at a performance of The Merry Widow .
    The other guy, in sharp contrast, wore a rumpled suit with a badge pinned to his lapel. For some reason, both of his shoes were untied. Silva and Arnaldo offered their warrant cards, but the guy in the suit waved them aside.
    â€œGood morning, Senhores ,” he said. “Third floor front.”
    Silva nodded his thanks. The guy in the uniform did what he was there to do: he opened the door. The two cops stepped into a marble-lined foyer. As they made for the elevator, the detective behind them murmured something into his radio.
    â€œCalling ahead,” Silva said.
    â€œSartorially challenged,” Arnaldo said, “but well trained. What’s with the shoes?”
    â€œLooked new,” Silva said. “Probably hurt his feet.”
    The elevator was descending, but he pushed the button anyway. The doors opened and Lucio Cavalcante, Brasília’s chief medical examiner, stepped out. The ME was carrying an aluminum case.
    â€œAll done up there, Lucio?” Silva asked.
    â€œWhat are you guys doing here?”
    â€œPolitical implications,” Silva said.
    â€œSon of a friend of The Clown, right?”
    â€œRight. What can you tell us?”
    â€œI just briefed Pereira. I’m busy. Get it from him.”
    â€œWhen’s the autopsy?”
    â€œTomorrow. Or maybe the day after.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Silva said.
    One of the ME’s eyebrows moved toward his hairline. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œYou’re going to get a call from someone. He’ll want you to finish this one before dinnertime.”
    â€œThe hell I will. Rivas waits his turn, just like everyone else.”
    â€œNot if the guy who’s calling is the minister of justice, he doesn’t.”
    â€œYou think that’s likely?”
    â€œI think it’s more than likely. He spent ten minutes on the telephone talking to my boss about this.”
    â€œFuck Pontes.” The ME bristled. “And fuck your boss.”
    â€œWhat a lovely thought,” Arnaldo said.
    â€œYour buddy, the ME in São Paulo,” Cavalcante said, addressing Silva. “What’s his name again?”
    â€œCouto. Paulo Couto.”
    â€œHim. I’ll bet he doesn’t have to put up with all this political shit.”
    â€œPerhaps not,” Silva said. “You considering a move?”
    â€œTo São Paulo? Ha! Besides, that’s where