Free Every Bitter Thing by Leighton Gage

isn’t?”
    â€œNo, Senhor. But she sure as hell looks like one.”
    â€œSo he bought it.”
    â€œHe bought it. She let him tell her long, boring stories about oil rigs, fed his ego, waited on him hand and foot, fucked him until he was cross-eyed. And, apparently, things were going just fine, and she was already thinking of herself as Senhora Palhares.”
    â€œAnd then someone came along and killed him.”
    â€œAnd then someone did. And if Chantal knew who it was, she’d kill him with her bare hands.”

Chapter Nine
    H ECTOR C OSTA WAS BOTH the head of the federal police’s São Paulo field office and Mario Silva’s nephew. Late the following morning, he drove from São Paulo to Campinas. It was a pleasant drive through verdant hills studded with small farms, and he made good progress until he reached the outskirts of the city. But then things started to go wrong.
    Campinas, now numbering over three million inhabitants, had recently introduced a number of one-way streets. He was in town for more than an hour before he located the precinct housing the homicide squad.
    But he’d called ahead, and when he gave his name to the desk sergeant, he was immediately directed to the office of Delegado Artur Seixas.
    Seixas was a man pushing sixty. On the wall behind his desk was a small blackboard with a label. Days Until Retirement , it said. The number 27 was scrawled in white chalk.
    â€œFrom today?” Hector asked.
    â€œIncluding weekends,” Seixas said. “First thing I do every morning is pick up the chalk and change the number.” He stuck out a hand and Hector shook it. “It was my wife’s idea. She keeps telling me how great it’s going to be, and I go along with the game. But the truth is I hate the idea. You’d think thirty-five years would be enough, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, it isn’t. Not for me. I don’t fish, I don’t hunt, I got no hobbies at all. I’m afraid I’m gonna go nuts. You want to go get some lunch?”

    T HEY SAT at a counter and ate sandwiches.
    â€œI understand you have a suspect,” Hector said when the conversation turned to the Neves case.
    â€œYou talking about Eduardo Coruja, his business partner?”
    â€œHim.”
    â€œNah! That turned out to be a dead end.”
    â€œNo other suspects?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAny forensics that might help?”
    â€œWe got the bullet and sent it to Brasília. My understanding is you’re going to compare it to the one you took out of that Venezuelan.”
    â€œWe are. Anything else?”
    â€œNothing else. And our forensics people are first-class.”
    â€œUnicamp, huh?”
    Seixas opened his hands, as if the answer was obvious. And indeed it was. Unicamp, the Campinas branch of the University of São Paulo, trained the best criminal forensics people in the country. The professors who worked there were often called upon, nationwide, to consult on difficult cases.
    â€œNo offense,” Hector said, “but I’d still like to have a look at that apartment.”
    â€œNone taken,” Seixas said. “We can go over there right now. I brought the key.”

    N EVES HAD lived in a high-rise bordering the university’s campus. The neighborhood was packed with bars, boutiques, and trendy restaurants. The building’s security guard recognized the grizzled cop from previous visits and buzzed them through at once.
    An elevator was waiting. The indicator panel skipped every other number. “Lofts,” Seixas said. “Every apartment takes up two floors.”
    Victor Neves’s place was on seventeen. His front door opened onto a living area backed by windows rising two stories to the ceiling. A counter divided the living/dining area from the kitchen. An open door led to a guest bathroom. A stairway curved upward.
    â€œWatch your feet,” Seixas said,