1

  The phone beeped, indicating a message's arrival. Isaías grabbed the device and mechanically inserted the address into the app. He didn't ask the driver to start, however.

  The instruction was to wait twenty minutes before beginning the journey. It made sense. At that point, it was natural that the team hired by the dean would want to ensure the man killed in Imbituba had no accomplices, and that no one had been sent to the residence to rescue the woman.

  In twenty minutes, they'd have that answer.

  Isaías noticed the driver was looking at the hostage with increasing frequency. He hoped the rookie just found the woman beautiful. If he was starting to feel pity for her, his career in clandestine work would be numbered.

  2

  Greta recognized the address on the GPS even without being able to read the street names. People memorize much more than they imagine every day, without even noticing: social security number, home zip code, ID number, birth dates, friends' and relatives' birthdays, phone numbers. She'd also memorized that map, where she came and went as part of her routine.

  Once inside the house, she'd only leave there by miracle. And Greta believed less and less in miracles.

  3

  Earlier that night, the men hired by the dean began arriving. The problem was they kept arriving. And arriving. At first, this gave Brito a sense of security, of having an army at his disposal. Now he wasn't so sure the men were there to protect the residence.

  He even wondered if they were there to ensure Valério's wife didn't survive. But how many men were needed to kill a woman? By the amount of blood the luminol revealed in the living room, maybe just one. The husband had almost accomplished the feat alone.

  That's why a torture scenario became increasingly clear.

  A man was serving himself a glass of water from the kitchen purifier. The guy greeted the commander with a quick wave, which Brito returned. The commander opened one of the counter's upper drawers, where the homeowners kept some flyers and menus from their favorite restaurants. He pulled out a random flyer, from a steakhouse. The image of blood on the meat made his stomach turn. He pulled out another flyer, which ended up being from a wood-fired pizzeria.

  Suddenly, the most famous among those men arrived. Pablo came through the door, turning sideways, as if that made him less fat. The belly cultivated by beer and impunity was the perfect portrait of a corrupt cop. Brito called him.

  "How about ordering a pizza? It's going to be a long night."

  " Mi casa es su casa," Pablo replied, with a smile dancing in his small eyes. To Brito, they were the eyes of a blackmailing toad. And no one better than him to recognize that type. In recent days, he'd met several.

  Pablo scratched his balls before advising:

  "But order something for the boys too. They're doing a good job, aren't they?"

  Yes, Brito imagined so. Thinking about the type of work they were doing almost ruined his appetite. The worst part was knowing the shift had barely begun.

  4

  The delivery guy carefully placed the eight pizzas in the bag. The customer still wanted ten. Of course. Rich people never know anything about the real world. They live inside a fucking soap bubble. Two medium pizzas fit on each platform and that's it, and that already destroys a guy's spine.

  He was arranging the boxes and shaking his head, disapproving of the whole thing. He was diabetic, always needing to pee. When he entered the pizzeria to pick up the order, he'd hoped to use the bathroom. He heard the usual disdainful refusal, explaining the bathroom was only for customers.

  Rich people were all the same. They kept the poor and the Black at a distance. They thought poverty and dark skin were contagious, like disease. He was less and less indignant about these things. People get used to even what they shouldn't.

  The delivery life had been worse. At first, when he worked by bicycle, he carried a lot of drinks on his back with ice. That hurt like hell. Now it was just endure a little longer. He'd pay for the security guard course and get out of that hell. At least, that was the plan.

  The comforting thought lasted only until the corner of Jo?o Caetano Street with Miosótis, where a police officer wearing a vest signaled for him to stop. Great, one more. Another white man in the way. More problems.

  5

  Lurdes barely disguised her nervousness on the other end of the line.

  "Where are you?"

  "On my way to Porto Alegre," Inácio answered, stroking Lenin's chest, who had stuck his face between the front seats.

  Hearing his own lie, the internal affairs officer grimaced.

  "Only if you're stopped somewhere, Inácio. You never answer the phone while driving. If dictionaries had photos, your face would be stamped on the definition of responsibility."

  "All right, I lied. It was impulsive. I didn't want to make you even more worried." Inácio sighed.

  "So let's start over: where are you?"

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  "I'm watching the professor's house."

  "Get out of there right now. I still don't have the warrants, and that's not your job. These people are dangerous."

  "I know, Lurdes, I know. I just need to see the girl arrive. I just want to see if she's safe. I... I owe this to Daros. For what he did for us."

  His wife was quiet for a while, absorbing what she'd just heard. Finally, she wanted to know:

  "Was he in love with her?"

  "Yup, he was."

  His eyes became blurred. He was becoming a weepy old man.

  "Right," Lurdes agreed, lowering her voice. "I'll try to find reinforcements, at least."

  "It's no use, love, I've thought and rethought a bunch of names. I just saw Pablo Meireles go in. The guy's very dirty. About ten minutes ago already. There's police in the mix, as I feared. I don't trust anyone one hundred percent."

  "Anyone else, you meant. Besides him. I understand. But I'll think of something. I'll call in a bit. Please don't get out of the car. And please, don't do anything. Just wait quietly there and I'll think of a name or two."

  "Right," he said, preferring not to promise anything. What he really wanted to have said was that he loved her. He was afraid he'd never have the chance to say that again.

  But at that point in the game, a declaration would only panic Lurdes. And with good reason. So he just ended the call. Minutes later, he opened the voice message scheduling app and started talking.

  "Lurdes, my love. Not now, Lenin! Go on, stay quiet back there!"

  Inácio settled the dog in the seat and continued.

  "Sorry, love. Lenin's got the devil in him. If you receive this message it's because shit happened. No use getting mad at me. I can't stand by in the face of wrong things, you know that better than anyone. So I'm going in. I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you alone in the world, and you can bet that... Well, I might have died, but I'll put up a fight."

  He paused to breathe. He also needed his voice to be steady so as not to sadden his wife. Lurdes would be devastated if she thought he'd felt afraid. He didn't. He just didn't want to leave yet.

  "To me you'll always be that beautiful angel full of light I saw at that courthouse for the first time. You know I don't believe in God or heaven or any of that, but today... Well, today I was kind of wanting to be wrong, you know? Maybe I'll meet Nando later. And maybe I'll meet Daros too. No, I think it's easier to see Daros with the devil. Yeah. I think I'm going downstairs too. But maybe Nando can visit. I'm talking nonsense already. I love you. I'll always love you. You're the strongest warrior this world has ever seen. You'll miss me for a while, but then you might enjoy not seeing wet towels on the bed anymore. Take care, my love. See you someday."

  His eyes were burning when he touched the button to end the message. He programmed the sending for a week, to give time for the worst to pass.

  6

  "I'm going to need to confiscate your motorcycle, sir," said the cop, opening his wallet and closing it too fast. He could only see some letters of a name and the badge. Not that knowing the guy's full name would make anything better.

  "Please, officer, it's my livelihood. There's nothing wrong with the bike, no. The tire's a bit bald, I know. I already scheduled to change it. And I need to finish this delivery, or the platform cuts me off. Then I'm screwed."

  The indifference on the vested man's face was all the response he got. The cop's look was cold, as if evaluating an insect. And an insect of those not even worth the effort to crush.

  When the man brought his hand to his pants waist, the delivery guy froze:

  "Easy there, no need for a gun, no, sir. You can take it."

  The cop didn't interrupt the movement. He didn't draw a gun. He'd pulled out a brown little package, like an envelope folded many times.

  "This should cover expenses. But I'll need your equipment, including the phone. I'll return the device later, don't worry."

  Yeah, sure he'd return it. The delivery guy wasn't born yesterday. Thing is, confronting a cop rarely ended well for people like him. He was lucky he didn't get a beating or shot. So he got off the vehicle with his hands raised and walked away to the sidewalk.

  The cop took off the vest and threw it away. He put on the confiscated jacket over his T-shirt and adjusted the helmet. Then he mounted the motorcycle and shot off toward the delivery. Good side: it seemed he intended to deliver the pizzas, though not even Lord Jesus knew why. Bad side: the guy wasn't a cop, not in a million years.

  He waited for the motorcycle to vanish from view to unroll the envelope the guy handed over. There was a lot of money inside. A lot indeed. If he had to guess, he'd say about thirty thousand.

  7

  The black Civic slowed down and stopped in front of Professor Galvani's garage. Inácio brought his hand to his waist by instinct, but didn't grab the gun. Instead, he looked at Lenin through the rearview mirror.

  "Something tells me this is where we part ways, boy. You were a good boy."

  He raised an accusatory finger in the air and added:

  "There are a few points that can be improved there, huh? If I don't come back, Lurdes will take care of you, you can be sure."

  It was just a dog. So why did it hurt so much to say goodbye to him? He doubted there was an ideal moment in life to play hero. After sixty, however, he'd risk saying the chances of success dropped drastically. A pity. Inácio sniffled before continuing:

  "Lurdes won't let you chew anything on the sofa. You can forget it. But other than that... she's a good person."

  Smiling at the figure with its tongue out, Inácio pulled the handle and stepped out into the windless night. He took care to leave a crack open in the window for Lenin until the reinforcements sent by his wife arrived.

  He marched with determination to the garage. He had no plan at all. Just the conviction of doing the right thing. He knew Greta was in that car. And if her fate was to die, at least she'd die with someone trying to prevent it.

  He interrupted his trajectory when he saw a delivery motorcycle approach at high speed and brake with a swerve in front of the garage about to close. Someone shouted something to the delivery guy, who walked to the pedestrian gate. The guy seemed to hear an order and wait. Inácio had no way of knowing, but inside the car Lenin started whimpering, scratching the door to get out. Agitated, the animal whined, recognizing and anticipating his friend's arrival.

  Inácio camouflaged himself behind a tree and observed the delivery guy standing with his back to him in front of the gate. The man's confident posture was different from the guys who rode motorcycles around delivering food. He doubted that in the richer neighborhoods delivery guys received different training, so...

  From afar, you could see the guard was armed. He was a brute with a closed face and hair fixed with gel that looked more like a gym instructor. He couldn't hear what the mountain of muscles was saying, but when the delivery guy took off his helmet, Inácio remembered the rule about not entering buildings or residences without removing the equipment.

  The guard ignored the delivery guy for a moment and focused on the motorcycle, evaluating the phone fixed between the handlebars with redoubled attention. When he was satisfied, he pointed to the garage for the motorcyclist, who headed there with the helmet still in hand.

  It was almost supernatural. Time stopped. The delivery guy looked at the tree where Inácio was, guessed his presence, and sketched a discreet smile that raised only one side of his mouth. Inácio would recognize that half-smile from any distance. It was a rehearsal of laughter that never fully opened.

  As quickly as he saw the hidden detective, the newcomer diverted his eyes to the garage opening again, disappearing inside.

  Inácio wanted to laugh and shout. He didn't know how, but the bastard was alive. He'd been trained by the Germans, for fuck's sake! The phone vibrated in his pants pocket, and he returned to the car as fast as he could.

  Closing the door, he slid the call button to green and spoke in a tone that conveyed the insane happiness he felt.

  "No need to rack your brain about special reinforcements, Lurdes. Just call the regular police. Say there's a woman in captivity and the husband is armed. Or anything that makes them get those suction-cup asses off the chair."

  "Inácio, for God's sake, what's happening? Does the professor have a gun?"

  "Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. But his guards are armed. Mention that in the call. But stay calm, everything's under control. Really, I swear. It's just that my team just arrived."

  There was a long silence on the other side.

  "It's Daros, honey. Daros just arrived."