A Vine in the Blood by Leighton Gage Read Free Book Online

up. By this time, everybody is looking at that empty seat and thinking how nice it would be if their girlfriends, sisters, parents, or whatever, could be there, sitting in it. Finally, the guy in the third row taps the geezer on the shoulder.
    “‘Mind if I ask you a question?’
    “The geezer turns around. ‘What?’
    “‘Did you pay for that seat?’
    “‘I did,’ the geezer says, ‘I bought it for my beloved wife of fifty-eight years.’
    “‘And?’
    “‘She died.’
    “‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that, but, um … this is the World Cup, after all. Surely, you’ve got some relative, or maybe a friend, you could have offered it to?’
    “‘I do,’ the geezer says. ‘I’ve got a lot of relatives, and I’ve got a lot of friends, and one after the other, I offered it to every last one of them.’
    “‘And no takers?’
    “‘Nope.’
    “‘That’s amazing.’
    “‘I thought so too,’ the geezer says. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought it was downright crazy. Can you imagine? They all decided to go to her funeral instead.’”

    S ILVA WAS till chuckling when they reached Tico Santos’s front door. Somewhat to his surprise, the Artist answered the door himself.
    “Which one of you is Chief Inspector Silva?” he said.
    “I’m Silva. This is Agent Nunes.”
    “Thanks for coming,” Tico said, as if he’d issued an invitation. “The living room’s this way.” He pointed with his chin. “Follow me.”
    When Tico turned his back, Arnaldo whispered into Silva’s ear, “ Football giant , my ass.”
    Tico was a head shorter than Arnaldo and probably fifty kilograms lighter.
    “They mean it figuratively,” Silva said.
    Tico heard him say something, but it was clear he hadn’t understood what it was. Without stopping, he spoke over his shoulder, answering a question Silva hadn’t asked.
    “Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “I hired a private plane to get here.”
    He didn’t bother to explain where he’d come from; he assumed Silva would know. And Silva did. Tico had been in Curitiba, in training, with the rest of the Brazilian team.
    They entered a space about the size of a small ballroom. The far wall was windows, nothing but windows, floor to ceiling. Beyond them, a thousand lights sparkled in the mansions sprinkled over the hills of Morumbi.
    The view was nothing less than spectacular.
    So was the woman who was sitting on one of the white leather couches. She didn’t bother to get up.
    “Cintia Tadesco,” the Artist said, “my fiancée. Cintia, this is Chief Inspector Silva and … sorry, I forgot your name.”
    “Agent Nunes.”
    Side by side, Tico and his girlfriend were a study in contrasts. Both were in their mid-twenties, but it was there that any similarity stopped. One of Tico’s brown eyes was noticeably darker than the other. His irregularly-spaced teeth were crooked; his forehead was a little too short; his chin a little too long; his nose a little too wide.
    Cintia, on the other hand, was stunningly beautiful, taller than her boyfriend, taller than most men, with a figure that would stop traffic on Avenida Paulista at rush hour. The word statuesque popped into Silva’s mind. He recalled some things his wife, Irene, an inveterate consumer of gossip magazines, had told him about Cintia.
    Cintia was not just a beautiful face; she was a prima donna, generally disliked by the photographers and art directors with whom she spent her days. Tico followed her around like a lapdog. They were due to marry in the spring. A few of Tico’s friends suggested she might be a gold-digger. Those that did were no longer Tico’s friends.
    She gave the cops an appraising look. “I hope,” she said, “you’ve got some good news.”
    “I wish we did,” Silva said. “At the moment, all we’ve got is questions.”
    “In that case,” she said, taking charge, “Let me say this: Tico has had a long day. There’s nothing more he can tell you. He’s tired. He’s stressed. He needs