Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage

Author:Leighton Gage
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Brazil, Police Procedural, Police, Mystery & Detective, Silva, Crimes Against, General, Politicians, Hard-Boiled, Fiction, Mario (Fictitious Character)
ISBN: 1616951761
Publisher: Soho Crime
Published: 2012-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Marca Zero, THE BRASS-TOPPED monument from which distances to all corners of the State of São Paulo are measured, stands on the Praça da Sé, in the heart of the capital.

From there to the ferry dock on the island of Ilhabela is a mere 197 kilometers, but getting from one to other can be an ordeal.

The city is famous for its gridlocks. Kilometer-long congestion arises for no apparent reason. The roads leading to the coast are potholed, narrow, hairpinned and steep. The descent from the highland plateau to sea level often involves passing through low-lying clouds that can reduce visibility to a few meters. And there’s often a long wait for the boat. The journey, three hours on a good day, can stretch to eight on a bad one. Yet even on holiday weekends, when the traffic is heaviest, many Paulistas think the time it takes is time well spent.

Six times the size of Manhattan, and seven kilometers from the mainland, the island is ringed by 41 beaches. Inland the terrain rises, through rainforest lush with vegetation, to a granite peak topping-out at 1,400 meters. Ilhabela abounds with freshwater streams and waterfalls, and the encircling ocean teems with fish.

None of which mattered a damn to Orlando Muniz.

There was only one thing about the island that attracted him: the opportunity it offered to kill Zanon Parma.

The operation against the public prosecutor began with a call from the Colonel’s intelligence expert.

“He’s here,” Aldo reported. “Conditions are perfect. I suggest we do it tonight.”

Muniz felt his pulse quicken. “Excellent,” he said. “What’s the next step?”

“Drive to São Sebastião, Senhor, and wait for a call. Expect it shortly after sunset. Everything you need will be provided.”

“A gun as well?”

They were speaking over an unsecured line. Aldo expressed his disapproval of the question with a long pause, and said, “It’s my understanding, Senhor, that the Colonel already informed you about that part of the arrangements.”

Muniz didn’t like being chastised by the help, but he swallowed his irritation. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you’re right. He did.”

“Cell phone reception in the region can be spotty. Please be sure to choose a location where you have a signal.”

“Understood,” Muniz said. “I’ll leave now.”

He dressed himself in island gear—a T-shirt, shorts and sandals—grabbed his wallet and sunglasses, and took the elevator down to the garage.

Most of the holiday traffic had left the day before. His progress was rapid. He stopped at a churrascaria between the Via Dutra and Caraguatatuba, ate a leisurely lunch, drank two caipirinhas, and still managed to arrive well before dark. He checked his cell phone, confirmed he had a signal, and waited.

The call came ten minutes after sunset.

“Where are you, Senhor?” The high, squeaky voice was unmistakable. It was Careca.

“Parked on the road,” Muniz said, “between the ferry dock and the tanker port.”

“Turn around and go back. Less than a kilometer beyond the entry to the port you’ll see a path to the beach. Walk down to the water. It’s unlikely you’ll meet anyone. The area is generally deserted after sundown.

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