1

  The driver recognized the dog's owner right away. It was Inácio Mancini, a legend in the system. Incorruptible and fair. For that very reason, implacable.

  He saw when Isaías discreetly placed his hand on the gun barrel. He hoped Mancini had seen it too.

  He'd accepted that job to pay the bills for his sick mother. Bacterial pneumonia, the doctor said. She'd gotten hospitalization through SUS, but without being able to do cleaning work, the bills for her house were piling up. It didn't seem like a bad thing to help capture a couple of blackmailers and give the money to his mother. However, the bruised face of the woman in the trunk made him change his mind. No woman deserved to be treated that way.

  Now he finally received the last sign he was waiting for. If a man like Inácio entered a war, the other side was the enemy. Fact. If Isaías pulled his gun to shoot the detective, Isaías would be the next to die.

  The driver touched his own gun at his waist.

  At the same time, he prayed quietly for the woman to scream.

  2

  It was Inácio out there. And Lenin was with him. Hope crossed Greta's chest with the force of a shooting star. Then it went out in the mud of a dark memory. The memory of the killer's dry question outside.

  Haven't you gotten enough people killed already, lady?

  He wasn't alone. There was a second man in the car, and Inácio had no way of knowing that. The windows were dark.

  Because of her, Daros had died. Because of her ingratitude, her inability to trust him. Greta realized she didn't want, couldn't be responsible for Inácio's death. She also didn't want to hurt Lenin. The painful decision she made made her eyes burn. She chose silence.

  For her, the relief of knowing the detective hadn't lied to her on the beach was enough. He'd told the truth when he said Greta wasn't alone. Now there were people looking for her. That was more than enough to convince her not to scream.

  3

  Inácio was wondering what kind of clown that was. Why get so irritated because of a damn dog? Sure, Lenin had behaved like a savage that night, but it didn't justify that fit. And he'd already apologized. What the fuck was the guy's problem?

  Without responding to the pit bull shit, he examined the car behind the guy, the solitary Civic registered as soon as he arrived at the gas station. It seemed in order. Everything indicated the hysterical man was its only occupant. He could bet his thinning hair that if he looked inside that trunk, he'd find drugs.

  That would explain the irritation. He seriously considered a search, just to put that clown back in the circus, but he'd already wasted too much time. It was the hothead's lucky night. Inácio needed to get to Porto Alegre and find a way to get into the wife-abusing professor's house.

  Satisfied with the decision, he noticed his phone vibrating in his pocket. With a dismissive wave in the air, he dismissed the guy and guided Lenin back to the car. That son of a bitch could go on his shitty way to nowhere.

  4

  Normally, Isaías wouldn't have thought twice. He would have aimed at that idiot's nape with the cop face and ended his miserable little life, but there was a place he needed to be. Besides, another dead cop on the same day would light up all the warning lights in Rio Grande do Sul too, and that wouldn't be good at all. He got in the car, slammed the door, and told the driver to start it.

  Was it his imagination or was the rookie sweating like a pig? He found it funny. He bet the guy was scared to see blood. But he would. Not at that moment, but they had a long night ahead.

  When they arrived in Cap?o da Canoa, he instructed the driver.

  "Turn here. We're getting off the main highway."

  The Coastal Road would lead to the same destination, with far fewer police along the way. But he didn't bother explaining that to the rookie.

  The next time Isaías's path crossed with Inácio's, soon, one of them would be agonizing while the other would be under a policeman's gun sights.

  5

  The man on the other end of the line identified himself as the detective from the Civil Police of Imbituba. He asked Inácio to confirm his badge number. Not satisfied, he asked some questions to probe whether he really was who he claimed to be and if he actually belonged to the force.

  Far from being irritated, Inácio appreciated the colleague's dedication and professionalism. In his place, he would have done the same thing. So he cooperated in every possible way to answer the officer's questions. When the man was finally satisfied, he softened his tone.

  "I don't want to make your life difficult or anything like that, but we're walking on eggshells here. From a distance, the most I can do is verify your identity."

  "No problem, I know it's not personal."

  He really knew. But he felt sweat running down his back. He was racing against time to get information. Each headlight that illuminated the rearview mirror of Inácio's car, stopped on the roadside, reminded him of the hand of an invisible clock advancing toward tragedy.

  "Right," the Imbituba detective continued. "Very well, I need to know how you found out about the incident."

  That was the complicated part. Inácio needed the cooperation of Santa Catarina police to find out how Daros had died. On the other hand, he couldn't talk about his friend at all. It was part of the deal between them. The only person who suspected the boy's clandestine activities was Lurdes and, by the nature of her work, she preferred not to ask questions so she wouldn't have anything to investigate. The rest of the world couldn't in any way associate Daros Fischer with anything other than software engineering.

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  Inácio had been expecting the question, precisely because of how complicated it was. Omission was usually just another kind of lie. But this time, it was a lifesaver.

  "It's a long story. If I shorten it too much, it won't make sense to you," he warned the police chief.

  "Then don't shorten it. We have time."

  It wasn’t quite true, but Inácio didn’t argue. He said he’d taken a few days off in Torres, where he came across a woman on the beach bearing clear signs of violence, possibly domestic. He felt for her and gave her his card.

  The woman was old enough to be his daughter, and he didn't like to imagine a daughter alone and in danger. The stranger took the offered card, but he didn't think she'd call. He was wrong: she called three days later. However, she didn't get to say anything before he heard her screams, followed by several shots.

  "I see. Do you know her full name?"

  "She never told me." And it was true. Daros was the one who had shared that information.

  "Did the woman say anything before the attack started?"

  "No."

  "Do you know if she was alone?"

  "No, I don’t." Inácio in fact didn't know. He imagined Daros was with her, but found himself hoping more and more that wasn't the case. He couldn't imagine his friend leaving the woman behind, but if he had, he'd be alive. However, he wasn't answering his phone, and that was a fact.

  "Do you have any suspicion about the attacker?"

  "The woman's partner or something like that, but it's just a guess."

  "Right. We're still working on identifying the cabin's occupant. The woman rented the property under the name Ana Terra, but she probably made up the name. It might have been a great idea to escape from her partner or something, but it doesn't help at all in the task of finding her now that she's in danger."

  Inácio felt like laughing when he heard the name Ana Terra, but remained silent. He didn't intend to share what he knew about Greta. The official approach could put the husband and the dean on alert, and that would only make everything more difficult.

  "And do you have any hunch about who the man shot outside the house might be?" the detective continued.

  "I have no idea," Inácio lied. "But I'd like to be informed about his identification when it happens. If you can do that as a favor for a colleague, I'll be very grateful."

  The other paused before answering.

  I can do that, but could you clarify something for me first?

  "Sure, anything."

  "What's your interest in the case?"

  "Simple. I told that woman she wasn't alone, that she could call me. And it was true. I want to help however necessary.".

  "Got it. I'll let you know, it's a promise. I recognize one of the good ones when I see one. Don't worry. It's just that it might take time. The bunch of on-duty onlookers at the crime scene doesn't help."

  The officer added that there was even a vehicle theft near the cabin. The team credited it as the work of a druggie or something, because the old car was abandoned on the border with Rio Grande do Sul. Inácio couldn't care less about stolen vehicles, but was sympathetic anyway.

  "I know how it is. These people don't respect even tragedy."

  Inácio thanked him for the cooperation, knowing there was no reason for tranquility. He returned to the car and buckled Lenin in the back seat with the adapted seatbelt. On the GPS, he typed Valério Galvani's address. His investigator's instinct rarely failed. Now, instinct said Greta's destination was precisely the house, in an upscale neighborhood, where it had all begun.

  6

  The rest of the journey to Porto Alegre occurred quickly and without obstacles. The Coastal Road was almost empty, as Isaías had imagined. The woman proved cooperative in an unimaginable way until then. She remained quiet the whole time, only moving from time to time, possibly to avoid muscle pain. Isaías had no idea what had caused the change in attitude, but was grateful for it.

  According to Pablo's prior instruction, once in Porto Alegre they should go to Encol Square, notify about their arrival, and then wait for the final address to be sent by phone. It wasn't hard to park. Nilópolis Avenue was full of commercial establishments, but at that time of night, most were already closed.

  7

  Greta recognized the capital by one building or another she saw pass. She recognized the usual graffiti on buildings, the right-angled characters that helped compose Porto Alegre's air of abandonment.

  She wasn't surprised to be back. She'd felt a constant fear since leaving Valério behind. Now she realized the only moments when she hadn't felt the urge to look over her shoulder were those she'd shared with Daros. He wasn't by her side now. He never would be again.

  She decided not to let herself be shaken by the thought. There were still people beside her. She needed to be alive when she was found.

  But optimism gave way to a sudden memory. In recent months, Valério had invested heavily in renovating a hidden room inside the closet. Later, she'd discovered it was a panic room.

  It had cameras that looked at the front and back doors of the residence. Also a minibar whose contents were renewed from time to time, plus a sliding cabinet with provisions and a phone charger.

  Her husband had been preparing for the worst for a long time. And why had she never asked herself what scenario of terror that was? Maybe she dreamed so much of that man out of her life that she thought nothing about Valério was, in fact, her problem.

  Although the panic room hadn't worried her since she'd hit the road, now it consumed her. What if she ended up there? What if that place became her concrete tomb? What if no one ever found her?

  8

  Inácio was lost when he entered Balduino Roehring Street, and the GPS had nothing to do with it. The trees gave a lugubrious appearance to streets that exuded charm in daylight.

  He’d never worked alone on off-the-books assignments before. Daros was usually the one beside him, handling the dirty work: breaking into houses, disabling surveillance systems, neutralizing guards. As he moved past the sumptuous homes in the heart of Três Figueiras, he ran through his colleagues’ names, searching for someone he could trust to help.

  He couldn't select a single name. The truth is that most police officers ended up giving in to pressure from earning little. Some ended up corrupting themselves. At first, it was just to cover one or another household expense, but the short detour soon turned into a habit.

  Others followed the path of providing security services on the side, going to work at nightclubs or being at the disposal of rich people. This path was particularly without return. When someone starts having to close their eyes to the countless irregularities they see, it becomes impossible to find the door back to duty and justice.

  He stopped in front of a high wall covered with vines. A residence that hid its luxuries from the world's eyes. The wall must have been two meters high. As if that weren't enough, sharp bars ending in spears rose to the sky for another meter.

  He wondered if a university professor's salary was enough to pay for a mansion like that. Even Lenin would doubt it. Inácio racked his brain thinking about how he could get in there when shadows under the garage gate caught his attention. He started the car and parked a block later. He returned on foot, taking Lenin alongside. A man and his dog was more than a perfect disguise, so it wouldn't attract attention.

  As he approached Valério's residence, he sharpened his ears while taking a bag from his pocket to pick up an imaginary poop from the dog. There were footsteps going back and forth on the property's gravel. He stood up and continued walking, letting Lenin smell the posts at will.

  The conclusion was clear. There were armed men spread throughout the property. That was a very bad sign. Entering the house clandestinely would be impossible. Once the car with Greta arrived, and it would, the chances of the woman leaving there alive were minimal. He would need reinforcements, all he could find.

  He returned to the car and settled into the driver's seat. He opened the message from Valério's internet provider employee. The girl had sent the data he'd asked for, the ones Daros wanted. He clicked forward.

  "Sorry for acting too late, son."

  The message was sent to Daros's phone. But it wasn't read. With a regretful sigh, Inácio tossed his phone onto the seat beside him.