Page 94 of The Secret Dinner

Since Miguel’s death, he’d been a different person, acting increasingly strange and distant. He’d been growing out his blond beard, lumberjack-style, like he wanted to show he was a boss now and didn’t have to play by anyone’s rules. He walked around with a snobbish attitude and rarely stopped to talk to us. If it were up to him, we’d just look the other way and keep cashing in on the dinners.

There was no way I was going to do that, and neither was Piglet.

“I emailed you a list of all the people who’ve attended a dinner,” he said, gobbling another slice of pizza. “There’s over three hundred total, but I was able to eliminate some of them. At least twenty have died in recent months. That’s over five percent. I guess considering all the old folks who’ve become regulars, that’s not surprising. Apparently, it’s a prerequisite to have one foot in the grave.”

I smiled at Piglet. It was rare for a young person to have that kind of money to spend on a dinner.

“Who else did you eliminate?”

“I hacked into some social media profiles and bank accounts. I eliminated everyone who’s broke and just living off the family name.”

“Like Umberto.”

“Right,” said Piglet. “By the way, I poked around in the old man’s bank records. He transfers a good portion of the money he earns from the dinners to an offshore account.”

“Whose account?”

“Probably Vladimir’s,” said Piglet, shrugging. “It’s our best shot … but it’s all under tight security. I’ve been trying to decrypt the data.”

“And…?”

“Nothing yet. But I mean yet. There’s some other less … conventional methods. I’ve got some contacts on the deep web. Sooner or later, we’ll get our answers.”

“Awesome. Can I have a slice?” I asked before he polished off the whole pizza.

“Okay,” he replied grudgingly. Piglet hated sharing food.

“I hitched a ride and went by the police station yesterday. That detective wasn’t around,” said Cora. “I made friends with the officers there, I’ve been flirting with one of them.”

She handed me her phone. She was texting with Paulão, a guy with a round face and stocky build, judging by his profile picture. I vaguely remembered seeing him in the middle of that horrific standoff. The two of them were exchanging affectionate messages and spicy voice notes. Unwittingly, the guy had been giving her information about how the station operated, but of course he hadn’t mentioned anything about taking bribes or that bloodbath.

“Did you see anyone named Antunes there?” I asked, taking a bite of pizza. It was cold and doughy, but it took the edge off my hunger.

“Yeah, but that guy’s a hard-ass. He barely looked at me.”

“He’s the one who controls the killing.”

“Soon I’ll have Paulão eating out of my hand,” she said, licking her palm like a kitten. “I have my methods.”

Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:

HAVING TALENT ISN’T LUCK

LUCK REQUIRES TALENT

“What about you, Dante?” asked Piglet. “You put us to work and just kicked back?”

“I want to check who owns the house in Jardim Botânico. I have to pass by the property appraiser’s office.”

“Vladimir wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“I mean, eventually the guy has to mess up…”

“I made a list of the registered slaughterhouses in the area. There are six.”

“Do you have the list?”

“Also in your inbox, dopehead.”