{"product_id":"a-vine-in-the-blood-isbn-9781616951726","title":"A Vine in the Blood","description":"It is the eve of the FIFA World Cup, the globe’s premier sporting event. The host country is Brazil. A victory for the home team is inextricably linked to the skills of the country’s principal striker, Tico “The Artist” Santos, the greatest player in the history of the sport. All the politicians in Brasilia, from the President of the Republic on down, have their seats squared-away for the finale, when they hope to see Argentina, Brazil’s bitterest rival, humbled by the Brazilian eleven. But then, just three weeks before the first game, Juraci Santos, Tico’s mother, is kidnapped. The star is distraught. The public is appalled. The politicians are outraged. And the pressure is on Chief Inspector Mario Silva to get her back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuspects aren’t lacking. Among them, are a cabal of Argentineans, suspected of having spirited the lady away to put Tico off his game, the star’s gold-digging, top-model girlfriend, whom his mother dislikes and has been trying to get out of his life, his principal rival, who wants to play in the World Cup in Tico’s place, and the man whose leg Tico broke during a match, thereby destroying his career. In the end, Silva and his crew discover that the solution to the mystery is less complex - but entirely unexpected.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eA Vine in the Blood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hard-hitting, atmospheric… Despite their social conscience and ambitious reach, there's nothing stiff or programmatic about Mr. Gage's lively, action-filled chronicles. They have finely sketched characters, vivid geographical detail and their own brutal sort of humor. The vast size of Brazil, with its great economic and topographic differences, affords a diversity of locales. Each book is a bit of adventure-travel, with Silva and crew often feeling like tourists within their own country. Yet the Silva investigations have all the step-by-step excitement of a world-class procedural series… The books' greatest appeal, though, is Silva. Even after five books and many glimpses into his past and present, he remains an enigma. The reader never knows what the detective might or might not do in order to balance the scales of justice.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Silva, a tough, compassionate cop with an alcoholic wife and an unerring instinct for working the system, tackles this highly spiced case with his usual aplomb. Rising above Brazilian brutality, corruption, and bribery with uncommon wit and the help of his colorful, appealing colleagues, he scores a winning goal in an enormously complex kidnap payoff scheme.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gage knows Brazil well and has a cast of characters so amusing and so skillfully constructed that this novel is irresistible.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eToronto Globe and Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A brisk, colorful police thriller with much interesting information about contemporary Brazil. As usual, the strong and disparate personalities of Silva's detectives add spice to their fifth case.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book, like all of the titles in Gage’s \u003ci\u003eChief Inspector Mario Silva\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eInvestigations\u003c\/i\u003e series, throws a spotlight on the society and politics of contemporary Brazil. \u003ci\u003eA Vine in the Blood \u003c\/i\u003eattests to that country’s intense involvement with the game of soccer…. Gage effectively increases the suspense of his latest work by creating a variety of characters, each with a valid motive for the crime.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eExaminer.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With humorous banter and situations throughout, the plot becomes convoluted as Silva and his team believe the crime is relatively straightforward, but the press promotes theories that are more complicated and elaborate—more fitting to a national superstar. The pace of the story is steady and rhythmic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe News-Gazette \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whether it's characterization, plot or setting, \u003ci\u003eA Vine in the Blood\u003c\/i\u003e is possibly the best book in this series. If you have yet to sample it, fear not. This book stands on its own very well. My personal recommendation would be to read the entire series. Each book is a window into a fascinating country.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eCrimespace\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mr. Gage is a master of the procedural who paints with a fine brush, using the tools he needs to craft a fine novel—and no more.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Leighton Gage’s skill is that he imparts a lot of information as an integral part of the exciting narrative, or the smart and frequently amusing dialogue between his characters. Everything flows along so smoothly that suddenly you have read 300 pages and are eagerly awaiting the next investigation. You can start with number five in the series as each of the stories is self contained, but if you do you will certainly want to go back and read the rest of this top quality crime fiction series.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eCrime Scraps Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Silva himself is something of a homebody, sticking to his familiar Sao Paolo turf, but that doesn’t stop Gage from conveying a strong sense of place and Brazilian culture…. an engaging and fast-paced mystery.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This is a fine series and one that readers would do well to seek out.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eDeadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e Mystery Book Club “favorite.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Enthralling…. The plotting is amazing; the finale will leave the reader a little stunned but the motivation is so true that it all makes sense.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eMysterEbook\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“The series offers a tour of the hemisphere’s largest and most populated country and a hint of its future…. a great stocking stuffer for the reader on your holiday list.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eThe Big Thrill\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“When the final break comes, it's a perfectly believable insight rather than the strained coincidence that we sometimes see in crime fiction. All in all, the Silva series just gets better and better.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eInternational Noir Fiction\u003c\/b\u003eLeighton Gage is the author of five novels in the Mario Silva series: \u003ci\u003eBlood of the Wicked, Buried Strangers, Dying Gasp, Every Bitter Thing\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eA Vine in the Blood\u003c\/i\u003e. He spends part of each year in Santana do Parnaiba, Brazil, and divides the rest of the year between Florida and the Netherlands. He is married with four daughters.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLess than an hour after Juraci Santos was unceremoniously\u003cbr\u003edumped into the back seat of her kidnappers’ getaway\u003cbr\u003ecar, Luca Vaz crept through her front gate and poisoned her\u003cbr\u003ebougainvilleas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way he figured it, he didn’t have a choice. And it\u003cbr\u003ewasn’t his fault. It was the fault of that lying lowlife, Mateo\u003cbr\u003eLima.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re sure about the color of these bougainvilleas?”\u003cbr\u003eJuraci had asked when he was planting them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sure, Senhora,” he’d assured her. “Blood red, like you\u003cbr\u003etold me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Guaranteed?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Guaranteed, Senhora.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right, Luca. But you’d better be right. Because, if they\u003cbr\u003eflower in any other color. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe left the threat unspecified. But a threat it was—and\u003cbr\u003ehe knew it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree weeks later, the roof fell in: Luca learned that those\u003cbr\u003enew plants of hers were about to flower in a color his wife,\u003cbr\u003eAmanda, had described as the palest purple I’ve ever seen on a\u003cbr\u003ebougainvillea. If Juraci Santos, a woman known to be as vindictive\u003cbr\u003eas she was distrustful, discovered the truth, he’d be in\u003cbr\u003ebig trouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuca’s advance notice of the situation stemmed from the\u003cbr\u003efact that he’d swiped one of the cuttings and planted it to\u003cbr\u003ethe right of his front door. Unlike the bougainvilleas along\u003cbr\u003eJuraci’s wall, it had been standing in strong sunshine for the\u003cbr\u003elast three weeks and Amanda, with her sharp eyes, had spotted\u003cbr\u003ethe first little bud. She’d taken him by the arm, led him\u003cbr\u003eover to the plant and pointed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Isn’t this bougainvillea supposed to be red?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not red?” he asked with a sense of foreboding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t told him. Luca\u003cbr\u003ewasn’t just color blind; he suffered from the most severe and\u003cbr\u003erarest form of the malady: achromatopsia. He saw the world\u003cbr\u003ein black, white and shades of gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSix people in the world, and only six, knew about his condition.\u003cbr\u003eUnfortunately, one of them was Amanda’s no-good\u003cbr\u003ebrother, Mateo, who owned a flower and shrub business, and\u003cbr\u003ewhom Luca blamed for his current troubles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe truth of the matter was that Mateo Lima was a nasty\u003cbr\u003eson of a bitch, and there weren’t many people in Carapicuiba,\u003cbr\u003eor the surrounding communities either, who were willing to\u003cbr\u003ebuy flowers and shrubs from the likes of him.\u003cbr\u003eNor were there many people willing to hire a guy who was\u003cbr\u003ecolor blind to care for their flowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo there they were, Luca and Mateo, stuck with each other.\u003cbr\u003eThe survival of Mateo’s flower and shrub nursery depended\u003cbr\u003eupon Luca’s work as a gardener. And Luca’s continued\u003cbr\u003eemployment depended on Mateo keeping his mouth shut\u003cbr\u003eabout Luca’s condition, which Mateo, the blackmailing\u003cbr\u003ebastard, had made clear he’d do only if he became Luca’s\u003cbr\u003eexclusive supplier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was remotely possible, of course, that Mateo had made\u003cbr\u003ean honest mistake about those supposedly blood-red bougainvilleas.\u003cbr\u003eBut Luca didn’t think so. The most likely possibility\u003cbr\u003ewas that Mateo was trying to pull a fast one because\u003cbr\u003ehe had no blood-red bougainvilleas in stock.\u003cbr\u003eThe other possibility was that Mateo had been having a\u003cbr\u003ejoke at Luca’s expense. He found color blindness funny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEither way, Mateo had underestimated the consequences\u003cbr\u003efor both of them. If Juraci saw those bougainvilleas flowering\u003cbr\u003ein pale purple, she’d have a fit. And then she’d shoot her\u003cbr\u003emouth off to all of her neighbors. Luca would wind up losing\u003cbr\u003ehis customers; Mateo would be stuck with his flowers and\u003cbr\u003eshrubs, and both of them would soon be scratching to make\u003cbr\u003ea living. That was why the bougainvilleas had to go before\u003cbr\u003ethey brought flowers into the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKilling bougainvilleas, as any gardener will tell you, is a\u003cbr\u003etough proposition. The normal technique is to dig them out\u003cbr\u003eby the roots. Luca would have to be subtler than that. He’d\u003cbr\u003ehave to make it appear they’d fallen victims to some mysterious\u003cbr\u003eblight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter giving the problem some thought, he decided on\u003cbr\u003ehis instrument of death: herbicide coupled with industrialstrength\u003cbr\u003ebleach. He mixed up the concoction in a four-liter\u003cbr\u003ejug, set his alarm clock for quarter to five in the morning, and\u003cbr\u003eby five-thirty on the day of the kidnapping he was creeping\u003cbr\u003ethrough Juraci’s gate. He missed encountering her abductors by\u003cbr\u003eabout fifty-five minutes, a fact that undoubtedly saved his life.\u003cbr\u003eHe, like the kidnappers, had chosen his time with care.\u003cbr\u003eOne of her maids had mentioned that Juraci was a night owl,\u003cbr\u003eand that she seldom retired before two or three in the morning.\u003cbr\u003eBut Luca always smelled freshly-brewed coffee when he\u003cbr\u003earrived, which was usually around 7:00, sometimes as early\u003cbr\u003eas 6:45. That led him to believe that the maids were up and\u003cbr\u003eabout by 6:30 at the latest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis plan was a simple one, and he was convinced he’d be\u003cbr\u003eable to pull it off without a hitch. The only imponderable was\u003cbr\u003ethat yappy little poodle of Juraci’s, the one she called Twiggy.\u003cbr\u003eHe prayed the dog would keep her mouth shut, because if\u003cbr\u003ethe little bitch didn’t, she might wake up the big bitch, her\u003cbr\u003emistress, and then Luca’s fat would be in the fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d brought a flashlight, but, as it turned out, he didn’t\u003cbr\u003eneed it. The moonlight was bright enough to work by. With\u003cbr\u003egloved and practiced fingers, Luca dug down to expose the\u003cbr\u003eroots of each plant, severed them with his grafting knife,\u003cbr\u003epoured in a healthy dose of the poisonous liquid and packed\u003cbr\u003ethe earth back into place. With any kind of luck at all, the\u003cbr\u003eheat of the sun would cause the sap to rise, thereby drawing\u003cbr\u003ethe poison upward into the twigs and leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt quarter past six, after a celebratory cigarette, Luca\u003cbr\u003ebegan his normal workday. He went, first, to the shed at the\u003cbr\u003efoot of the garden. From there, he took a plastic trash bag\u003cbr\u003eand started working his way up the slope toward the house.\u003cbr\u003eJuraci’s slovenly guests were in the habit of leaving paper\u003cbr\u003ecups, paper plates, and gnawed-upon bones scattered about\u003cbr\u003ethe lawn after every barbecue—and she gave a lot of barbecues.\u003cbr\u003eIt was one of his tasks to gather them up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6:30 passed, then 6:40 without a single sign of life from\u003cbr\u003ethe house; no yappy little Twiggy running around the garden\u003cbr\u003epissing on the plants; no smell of coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt 6:45, curiosity and a craving for a café com leite getting\u003cbr\u003ethe better of him, Luca decided to investigate. Up to that\u003cbr\u003epoint, he hadn’t been alarmed. But when he rounded the\u003cbr\u003ecorner and caught sight of the kitchen, he stopped dead in\u003cbr\u003ehis tracks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door had been smashed—not just forced open, but\u003cbr\u003ecompletely destroyed. Pieces of solid, varnished wood were\u003cbr\u003eeverywhere, a few of them still hanging from the hinges.\u003cbr\u003eBurglars, he thought. And then: Already gone . . . or maybe\u003cbr\u003enot. He started moving again, more cautiously this time. A\u003cbr\u003erat in the kitchen reacted to the sound of his footsteps by\u003cbr\u003escuttling out of the door to take refuge under a nearby hedge.\u003cbr\u003eLuca had no fear of rats. He’d killed dozens in his time.\u003cbr\u003eHe quickened his pace. From somewhere beyond the dim\u003cbr\u003eopening, he could hear the buzzing of flies. When he reached\u003cbr\u003ethe doorway, he stopped again, letting his eyes adjust to the\u003cbr\u003elight, getting his first glimpse of the situation inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe flies, hundreds of them, had been attracted by a pool\u003cbr\u003eof liquid on the white tile floor. They were over it, around it,\u003cbr\u003esome were even in it, trapped, as if they’d landed on flypaper.\u003cbr\u003eA few survivors waved their wings, making futile efforts to\u003cbr\u003eescape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuca, at first, saw the liquid as dark grey. But then, he caught\u003cbr\u003ea whiff of the steely smell, saw the two corpses from which it\u003cbr\u003eoozed to form a single pool, and realized it must be red.\u003cbr\u003eBlood red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter Two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe downpour menacing Brasilia for the past hour\u003cbr\u003ewas finally making good on its threat. Raindrops splashed on\u003cbr\u003ethe Director’s window panes. Mario Silva suppressed a sigh.\u003cbr\u003eHe’d left his umbrella at home. He’d get soaked on the way\u003cbr\u003eto the airport.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let me have a closer look at that,” Nelson Sampaio said.\u003cbr\u003eHe leaned over his desk to snatch the photo from his chief\u003cbr\u003einspector’s hand. Then he put on his gold-rimmed reading\u003cbr\u003eglasses and squinted at the headline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArtist’s Mother Abducted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could have read it without the glasses. The typeface\u003cbr\u003ewas that big.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the photograph, Juraci Santos looked terrified. Her\u003cbr\u003eface was dirty, her hair unkempt; her upper body, as much\u003cbr\u003eof it as could be seen in the shot, was clad in a dark green\u003cbr\u003esweatshirt several sizes too small. She had been photographed\u003cbr\u003eholding up a late edition of that morning’s Cidado\u003cbr\u003ede São Paulo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSampaio tossed the photo onto a pile of newspapers, all\u003cbr\u003ewith headlines echoing the one he’d been squinting at.\u003cbr\u003e“Proof of life, my ass,” he said. “These days they can fake\u003cbr\u003eanything. Why diamonds?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cash is too bulky,” Silva said. “A bank transfer could be\u003cbr\u003etraced. Diamonds have universal value. It’s a good choice.”\u003cbr\u003eSampaio took off his glasses and rubbed the indentations\u003cbr\u003eon the bridge of his nose. “How did those damned radio\u003cbr\u003epeople get the news before we did?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where’s Arnaldo Nunes?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In São Paulo, visiting family.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good! Saves us a plane ticket.” Sampaio, when he wasn’t\u003cbr\u003eflattering a superior, or planning the overthrow of an enemy,\u003cbr\u003ekept a sharp eye on expenses. “Pry him loose from his bloody\u003cbr\u003efamily. I need every available man, I need results fast. Timing\u003cbr\u003eis critical.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor once, Sampaio was right. Timing was critical.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe felons who’d snatched the Artist’s mother could\u003cbr\u003ehardly have picked a worse time to do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe beginning of the FIFA World Cup was thirteen days\u003cbr\u003eaway. The nation, as it did every four years, had gone football\u003cbr\u003ecrazy. And, in the upcoming conflict, no player was more\u003cbr\u003ecrucial to Brazil’s success than the Artist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat Beethoven was to music, Rembrandt to painting,\u003cbr\u003eTico “The Artist” Santos was to the art of futebol. He was the\u003cbr\u003enew Pelé. Some alleged he was better than Pelé. With Tico\u003cbr\u003ein form, his team was expected to go on to glory. With Tico\u003cbr\u003edepressed and worried about the fate of his mother, Brazil ran\u003cbr\u003ea grave risk of suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of\u003cbr\u003ethe country’s most bitter rival—Argentina.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven that wasn’t the worst of it. Brazil, the only country to\u003cbr\u003ehave won the Cup five times, was hosting the series for the\u003cbr\u003efirst time in more than sixty years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery important government official, from the President\u003cbr\u003eof the Republic on down, had acquired tickets to the games.\u003cbr\u003eAnd every one of them had been looking forward to the\u003cbr\u003egrand finale, where they’d rub elbows, mid-field, in the great\u003cbr\u003estadium of Maracanã, and watch Brazil crush the opposition.\u003cbr\u003eOpposition that would, according to the bookmakers in\u003cbr\u003eLondon, most likely be wearing the blue and white of the\u003cbr\u003eArgentinean national team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now, the great elbow-rubbing fest had been thrown\u003cbr\u003einto jeopardy. A serious risk had arisen that Argentina might\u003cbr\u003erub dirt into Brazilian faces. And, indignity of indignities,\u003cbr\u003ethat dirt might be Brazilian dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe task of finding the Artist’s mother had fallen to the\u003cbr\u003eBrazilian Federal Police. If Juraci Santos wasn’t quickly—and\u003cbr\u003esafely—returned, there was no one more likely to be targeted\u003cbr\u003eby the witch hunt that would surely follow than the Director\u003cbr\u003ein charge of that organization.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNelson Sampaio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Argentineans have a club in São Paulo,” he said, biting\u003cbr\u003eone of his nails. “That’s as good a place as any to start.”\u003cbr\u003eSilva eyed him warily. “Start what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Interviewing Argentineans, of course. It’s a question\u003cbr\u003eof cui bono. If Tico can’t do his stuff, who benefits? The\u003cbr\u003eArgentineans! That could be it right there! That could be\u003cbr\u003ethe motive.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWariness crystallized into disbelief, but Silva was careful to\u003cbr\u003ekeep his voice neutral.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You think a cabal of Argentineans snatched the Artist’s\u003cbr\u003emother?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Honestly, Director, I don’t think—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Call Nunes. I don’t want him sitting around on his\u003cbr\u003eass waiting for you to get there. I want him over at that\u003cbr\u003eArgentinean club questioning suspects. Tell him that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilva suppressed a sigh. “I’ll tell him, Director.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSampaio stabbed the photo with a forefinger. “Did this\u003cbr\u003ecome by email?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilva nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We can trace emails, can’t we?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not in this case.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why the hell not?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They used a free, web-based account and logged in through\u003cbr\u003ean unsecured wireless link.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whatever the fuck that means.” Sampaio’s language\u003cbr\u003etended to get saltier when he was under pressure. “Have you\u003cbr\u003ebooked your flight?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilva nodded and looked at his watch. “It leaves in fifty-five\u003cbr\u003eminutes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get a move on then.” Sampaio took another bite of nail.\u003cbr\u003e“We’ll continue this conversation when I get there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilva raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming to São Paulo?”\u003cbr\u003e“Are you hard of hearing, Chief Inspector?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Director loved to throw his weight around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnfortunately for his subordinates, he generally threw it in\u003cbr\u003ethe wrong direction. Allowing him to go to São Paulo would\u003cbr\u003ehinder, not help, the investigation. Silva acted immediately\u003cbr\u003eto defuse the threat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sure Minister Pontes will be pleased with your personal\u003cbr\u003einvolvement,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAntonio Pontes, the Minister of Justice, was the government’s\u003cbr\u003eWitch Hunter-in-Chief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a while, Sampaio didn’t reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilva knew what he was up to. He was turning it over\u003cbr\u003ein his head: Go to São Paulo and assume all responsibility, or\u003cbr\u003estay in Brasilia and blame Mario Silva and his team in case of\u003cbr\u003efailure?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Sampaio, a political appointee and a political animal,\u003cbr\u003eit really wasn’t much of a choice. He did exactly what Silva\u003cbr\u003eexpected him to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Damn,” he said, “I forgot about the corruption hearings.\u003cbr\u003eI’ll have to stay here. I could be called upon to testify.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was not the least chance of Sampaio being called\u003cbr\u003eupon to testify. The congressional corruption hearings were\u003cbr\u003edead in the water. The politicians charged with conducting\u003cbr\u003ethem were stonewalling, some to protect their buddies, some\u003cbr\u003eto protect themselves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Silva nodded, as if what the Director said made perfect\u003cbr\u003esense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mind you,” Sampaio added, “You’ll be calling me with\u003cbr\u003eupdates at least twice a day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course,” Silva said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had no intention of doing any such thing.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304433930469,"sku":"NP9781616951726","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951726.jpg?v=1767720902","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-vine-in-the-blood-isbn-9781616951726","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}