Free A Vine in the Blood by Leighton Gage

we’ll be late.”
    Before he could, his cell phone burst into life. The ID came up as private . Silva, averse to the practice, took the call with some reluctance.
    “Silva.”
    “Chief Inspector, it’s me, Tico.”
    Silva’s objections vanished. Tico, of course, had to confine himself to telephones free of caller IDs. If he didn’t, his contact numbers would soon become common knowledge—and he’d be deluged by calls from fans.
    “Good morning, Senhor Santos.”
    “Tico.”
    “What can I do for you, Tico?”
    “You know those keys you asked about?”
    “Yes?”
    “Cintia found them.”
    “Where?”
    “In a drawer, in the bedroom.”
    “Are you at home?”
    “Yeah. I don’t like to go out. There’s a gang of reporters at the front door. More, even, than last night.”
    “We’ll need those keys, Tico. I’ll send someone over to pick them up.”
    “Okay.”
    “One thing puzzles me. You’ve been in training with the team in Curitiba, right?”
    “Right.”
    “But your mother only got those keys last Thursday, and you said she delivered them to you personally.”
    “She did. When I came for the party.”
    “Party? You broke training for a party?”
    There was a long pause. When Tico finally spoke, he sounded sheepish.
    “Cintia got this big perfume contract. She wanted to celebrate, said it wouldn’t be the same without me, so I went to talk to Dumbo about it.”
    “And he agreed.”
    “No. He …”
    “He what?”
    “He got mad. He said some things about Cintia that I didn’t like.”
    “And you told Cintia?”
    Silence.
    “Tico?”
    “Yeah. I told her.”
    “And she convinced you to come to São Paulo, despite Dumbo’s objections?”
    “It wasn’t like she had to convince me. I wanted to come.”
    “When was the party?”
    “Saturday night. It was no big deal. I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, and I was in São Paulo for less than forty-eight hours. I came up on Saturday morning and went back to Curitiba on Sunday morning. And the team doesn’t practice on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings.”
    “Why didn’t you tell us about coming to São Paulo when last we spoke?”
    “I didn’t think it was important.”
    “Listen to me, Tico. At this stage, there’s no way of knowing
    what’s important and what isn’t. You have to tell me everything, you understand?”
    “I understand. I did tell you everything … except for that.”
    “I want you to think long and hard about how those keys got from your pocket to a drawer in the bedroom.”
    “I already did. I thought about it, and I got no idea.”
    “Are you going to be there tomorrow?”
    “I’m not going anywhere until you get me my mother back.”
    “Good. Agent Nunes and I will be paying you another visit. I’ll call before we come.”
    After Silva hung up, he called Mara and asked her to send one of her people to pick up the keys.
    “Is Cintia Tadesco with him?” Mara asked.
    “Probably. She was last night. Why?”
    “I’ll go myself. I want to see her skin.”
    “Her skin?”
    “I can’t believe anybody has skin that perfect. I think all her photos must be retouched. Is she nice?”
    “No,” Silva said.

    O NCE AGAIN , Hector’s trip to Granja Viana was against the flow of traffic. Forty minutes was all it took from his home in Pacaembu to the strip mall where Samuel Arns had his shop.
    Arns’s place of business was tiny, dwarfed by a pharmacy on the left and a veterinary clinic on the right. Gold letters on the glass window informed passers-by that he dealt in hardware and alarm systems as well as keys and locks.
    When Hector entered, a two-tone chime heralded his arrival.
    “Samuel Arns?”
    “Mmmm,” the man behind the counter said. Hector took it to be an acknowldgment, but the locksmith, concentrating on his work, didn’t look up. He was putting the finishing touches on a key for an elderly gentleman wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
    The bright brass of the blank was almost invisible between