“Franco did.” Letitia Franco, Lettie to her family, was Lefkowitz’s assistant. The crime scene techs in Sao Paulo seemed to have a thing about calling each other by their last names. “The neighbor over there”-Lefkowitz hooked a thumb over his shoulder-“and the one across the street, didn’t hear, or see, a thing. That one”-he pointed in the direction of the nearest house-“heard some commotion. You’d best have a chat with him.”

“Name?”

“Sa. Rodolfo Sa.”

“What kind of commotion? Screams? Shouts?”

“No screams. No shouts. Just a loud noise. Something else: I think they sedated the victim. We found an empty syringe in her bedroom.”

“Containing?”

“A few drops of a pale yellow fluid. We’re analyzing it.”

“How big is this condominium?”

“You’re thinking house-to-house search?”

“Uh huh.”

“Forget it. It’s huge. It stretches over two municipalities. You’d need a hundred men, and it would take a month.”

“Have you gone through her papers?”

“We have.”

“And?”

“Juraci had a private investigator following the Artist’s girlfriend around.”

“Interesting. Got a name?”

“Prado. Caio Prado. I got an address, too. Rua Augusta, 296, second floor.”

“You find any of his reports?”

“Receipts, mostly. Only one report.”

“Interesting?”

“Boring. But the investigation was ongoing.”

“Who’s the girlfriend?”

“Cintia Tadesco.”

“The model?”

“Actress, she calls herself these days.”

“I saw her in one of the nighttime soaps. She can’t act worth a damn.”

“Who cares? Watch her with the sound off. That’s what I do.”

“She is, I agree, a knockout. A splendid example of womanhood. Drawn to the Artist, no doubt, by his great physical beauty and awesome intellectual capacity.”

“Sarcasm, Hector, does not become you.”