Free Every Bitter Thing by Leighton Gage Page A

indicating some dried bloodstains just inside the front door.
    â€œMust have shot him right here,” Hector said.
    â€œUh-huh,” Seixas agreed. He pointed to a much larger bloodstain near the sofa. “And beat him to death over there.” One side of the blood pool had a straight edge. “There was a carpet,” Seixas said. “They took it for analysis.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œLots of fibers and stuff. Some interesting blond hairs, so they tell me, but we’ve got nothing to compare them with, so they’re all pretty useless at this stage.”
    â€œI take it Neves’s girlfriend is not blond.”
    â€œYou take it right. She’s a brunette.”
    The downstairs area was small, the furnishings sparse. The kitchen had all of the modern conveniences, including a dishwasher, but everything in miniature. The apartment was spacious enough for a couple, but not for a couple with kids. Telltale smudges of black fingerprint powder showed on many of the surfaces.
    â€œWhat’s upstairs?” Hector asked.
    â€œA bed and a bathroom. Go ahead. Have a look. I’ll stay here. I’ve seen it already, and I have bad knees.”
    Hector climbed the stairs, stood at a metal rail, and took in the view of the city. Beyond the urban sprawl, a mountain range showed bluish in the haze.
    Seixas looked up at him from below. “The shades were down when Neves was found,” he said. “He’d probably closed them for the night.”
    Closets with sliding doors lined the far side of the sleeping area. Next to the bed was a small table with a clock radio, a reading lamp, and a copy of a novel written by Paulo Coelho. Hector picked up the book and absently flipped through the pages. A bookmark slipped out and fell to the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, and went downstairs to show it to Seixas.

    â€œN EVES WAS reading Guerreiro da Luz . He left it on the nightstand next to his bed. Guess what he was using for a bookmark?”
    â€œTell me,” Silva said.
    â€œA boarding pass for a flight from Miami International to São Paulo Guarulhos. Neves’s name was on it. He was in Miami last November.”
    â€œAnd so was Rivas. Is that what you’re getting at?”
    â€œA long shot, I know—”
    â€œA very long shot.” Silva grabbed a ballpoint from the porcelain mug on his desk. “Date?”
    â€œThe twenty-second of November.”
    â€œAirline?”
    â€œTAB.”
    â€œFlight number?”
    â€œ8101.”
    â€œGot it. Did you get a chance to speak to Janus?”
    â€œI did.”
    Janus Prado was the head of São Paulo’s homicide squad.
    â€œDid he have anything more on that thug João Girotti?”
    â€œHe was busted on a burglary charge, but in the end they couldn’t hold him. The witness, the only witness, recanted.”
    â€œBought off?”
    â€œOr scared off. Girotti was released on the afternoon of the day he was killed. If he’d stayed in jail, he might still be alive. The term ‘protective custody’ comes to mind.”
    â€œDon’t be a wiseass. You’re starting to sound like Arnaldo.”
    â€œHeaven forbid.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œPrado’s guys are doing no more than go through the motions. Their feeling is that whoever killed Girotti did the city a favor.”
    â€œDid they question the people in the bar?”
    â€œOnly briefly. Girotti was there celebrating his release. He drank nonstop from about five in the afternoon until nine or nine thirty at night. Then he left. His body was discovered fifteen minutes later.”
    â€œHe left alone?”
    â€œNo. With a woman.”
    â€œThat kind of a bar, eh?”
    â€œThat kind of a bar.”
    â€œMaybe the killer got the woman to lure him outside.”
    â€œYou don’t think Girotti is a dead end? Somebody else’s victim?”
    â€œYou saw the