The Kill Season

by Robin Mahle

“Well, we can’t go to the Americans with just this. There will have to be some proof of association.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That is why I am in search of discovering if these women were also at the nightclub. Then I will find someone who will talk. Someone who will tell me who the last person was with each of them. I will find out if it was an American.”

  “And when you do. What then, Pedro?”

  “Then we go to Brasilia.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Yes, sir. I think they would be interested to know if they have a group or an individual taking young Brazilian women—and either selling them—or killing them.”

  4

  When Francisca Dias roused, she had no recollection of anything since the moment she arrived at the vast, luxurious mansion. Her final memory being of the handsome American man who asked if she wished to attend a party at the home. Now, she found herself in a locked room, her hands and feet bound and sitting on a cold tile floor. There was a blanket nearby, a sofa against the wall, and no windows.

  “Socorro!” “Help!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, but this room appeared more like a vault. “Socorro! Socorro!” Still, no one came. Francisca had no idea of the time, or how long she had been here. It must’ve been the drinks. He put something in the drinks. What did he say his name was? Yes, that’s right. It was Scott. And there was someone else too. She knew nothing more and had come here alone, assuming the American could be trusted. He had money and was striking in his appearance and somehow, that made her feel safe.

  The door opened and the man known only as Scott entered. He pointed to the top corner. “Camera. No one can hear you, but I can see you.” He spoke in Portuguese.

  “Let me go. Please, let me go.” She pleaded to him. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear it.” Her eyes were swollen and her makeup smudged.

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry. He wants you for himself and there’s nothing I can do. You might as well calm down because you won’t be leaving, not until he’s done with you.” Scott left the room, closing the thick steel door behind him.

  He walked along the corridor and returned to the living room that revealed glass sliding doors which opened to a balcony that overlooked the ocean. “She’s fine.”

  Another man, yet more handsome and dressed in tailored fashion with a sculpted jawline and sparkling white teeth rested on the fine contemporary sofa sectional. With his back turned to Scott, he gazed through the glass doors at the moonlight that danced on the lapping waves. “And you’re sure no one saw you leave with her?”

  “No one cared,” he replied.

  “That seems to be a prerequisite here, doesn’t it, Scott?”

  “Yes, it does. Which is why we’re here. No one cares what happens to those from the favelas.” He approached a console table and poured two drinks. “How long do you plan on keeping this one?”

  “Depends on how cooperative she is. I would make arrangements for her to leave before dawn. That should give you enough time to appropriately dispose of her.”

  “Then if there’s nothing else, I can ensure those arrangements are set.”

  “Go. I’ll take care of things from here.” He tossed back the rest of his bourbon and got to his feet. He set his sights on the hall that led to the room where she waited. And as soon as Scott left, he started into that hall and arrived at the door that was deceptively welcoming.

  From the outside, the door appeared only to lead to another bedroom. The 4-inch-thick steel door required a code and fingerprint identification to open it. It had originally been designed as a panic room. Because for a man with his wealth and status, he was a target and especially here where crime was rampant not only from the criminal elements but from so-called law enforcement as well. They were notorious for taking bribes to turn the other cheek when crimes were committed. His crimes were no exception. Scott, his cohort in these crimes, made sure they were paid handsomely for their troubles.

  So this once safe room was anything but for the women who had entered, which to date, had numbered into the teens. It was all too easy for him and he saw no end in sight unless of course, boredom set in.

  He entered the room and she was there. Where else would she be? “Boa noite.” “Good evening.”

  “Let me go, please!” Francisca again pleaded.

  “You’ll go home soon enough.” He closed the door behind him.

  The Ford Fiesta that integrated well inside the favela wound through the narrow roads to the top where the verdant hillside met the end of the pavement. Scott stepped out of the car with the man who had helped him before. A local who had been well paid to prepare the bodies and drop them into the fields. He never asked questions.

  “Open the hatchback and pull her out.” Scott walked toward the spot where the others were buried and peeled back the top layer of soil, the leaves and branches that were used as cover and exposed the gravesite.

  Francisca Dias had been a beautiful twenty-year old woman from Rocinha who, like the others, had been in search of a good time and found the devil instead. But the only ones who would miss her would be her family, and maybe friends. And when they went to the police, the report would be filed and never looked at again. Francisca would become another in a long line of unsolved missing persons because this was Rocinha. A place where people were disposable and the immoral ran the streets.

  Scott tossed the soil atop the makeshift burial grounds and replaced the leafy camouflage covering. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I can see the sun on the horizon.” He stepped back into the rundown Ford and when his partner entered, he started the engine.

  The path down the hill was rough and the car bounced over the jutting rocks and crumbling asphalt. The headlights caught the attention of a young man, not more than twenty-five who was taking his morning run through the hills. He instinctively crouched down behind a tree and watched as the Ford travelled down the road and when it was out of sight, he stood upright again. He had seen this car before and wondered why it was here. There were no homes higher in the hills, only wooded areas that were mostly inaccessible to cars.

  The young man was no stranger to the ways inside the favela and if he were to show concern and inquire about the mysterious vehicle, it could mean danger for him and his family. His elderly parents were unable to work and he supported them with his meager wage working for a nearby luxury hotel. He took note of the car’s description and plate before continuing up the hill to where the path ended. Upon reaching the area, he scrutinized the grounds. “What are you doing here?” he asked no one in particular. Nothing stood out to him, so he moved to higher ground and something appeared out of place. He clenched his jaw and climbed the hillside just a few more feet.

  Miguel Silva was born and raised in Rocinha. He had seen it for what it once was, which was a beautiful and prosperous community. And what it had now become, which was nothing short of wicked. Bad things happened here, there was no question, but when he stopped and noticed the mound covered with loose branches and leaves, there was little doubt in his mind what lay beneath. He couldn’t look. He might find his friends. But maybe he could do something about it, if he was willing to risk his life to speak out. It was in his best interest to keep quiet, but then Miguel never was one to fall in line.

  Pedro Sosa sat in his kitchen with files spread out on his dining table. It was almost four in the morning and he had done nothing but mull over the cases in search of clues.

  “Pedro, why have you not gone to bed?” His wife of twelve years, Maria, shuffled into the kitchen. “It is nearly morning and you have work.”

  He set his sights on her. “I am working. I’ve been working all night. Why are you up so early, my darling?”

  “Because you were not in bed. I couldn’t sleep.” She approached the coffee maker. “Do you want any coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She put on a pot and returned to him. “What is all this?”

  “I need answers, Maria. I must know what hap
pened to these young women. No one else seems to care.”

  “And what of those who run Rocinha? Will they care if you find answers?” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “I am worried something might happen if you do, Pedro. You of all people understand the way things work here. Why are you doing this now?”

  “Maybe I am ashamed of who I have become. I no longer enforce the laws of our city. I enforce the laws of the lawless.”

  “And have you made progress on this?” She asked.

  “Possibly. Varela is even in my corner, for now. If I am able to point the finger at a potential suspect, he is willing to pursue this with me.” The sound of socked feet padding along the tiled floor caught Pedro’s attention. “Elias, it is so early. Why are you awake, boy?”

  The 6-year-old with a thick head of black hair and eyes so blue they could have been mistaken for the ocean rubbed his eyes. “I could hear you both talking.”

  Maria stood from the chair. “Meu filho.” “My son.” She walked into the kitchen and retrieved a bowl. “Since you are awake, would you like breakfast?”

  His face lit up. “Sim, por favor.” “Yes, please.”

  Agent Cameron Fisher stood in the doorway of Scarborough’s office. He pushed his hand through his thick salty hair and leaned against the opening and when he caught the eye of his senior unit agent, he entered. “Hey, are you busy?”

  “Usually. What’s going on?”

  “Listen, I know things have been tense around here since we got back from Boston and I just want to say that I think Cole made the right call.”

  “Sit down.” Scarborough waited for him to take a seat. “The report came from internal investigations. I don’t know how much input Cole had, but regardless, I’d like to put it behind us and move on. There are still cases that need to be examined and it’s time we come together as a team.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. In fact, the reason I’m here is because I got a call and need to head to Miami.”

  “Miami? What’s happening there?”

  “The field office has been working an investigation regarding a string of hate crimes. And now it’s looking like they could be connected. They want me to take a look at the file and offer suggestions.”

  “Of course. Go. Do what you need to do.”

  Fisher appeared cautious. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Scarborough didn’t respond, only waited for him to continue.

  “I’ve been mulling this over for a while. Not sure how to broach the topic, but figured if I didn’t, it would end up biting me in the ass.”

  “What is it, Fisher?”

  “It’s about Duncan. About Duncan and me, specifically. We’ve been seeing each other for a while.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I was hesitant to say anything, but if I don’t, I think I could lose her and that is the last thing I want to happen. Look, I feel weird even discussing this with you, but there are protocols in place for dating a colleague and I need to make sure we’re following the rules here.”

  “First of all, I think it’s great. I mean, she could do better, but you, you hit the jackpot.” Scarborough smiled.

  Fisher appeared more at ease. “Don’t I know it. Anyway, I needed to tell you because, well because if we need to have it noted in our personnel files, then that’s what I want to do. I want to try to make this work with her.”

  “Sure, man. I get it. Get with HR, both of you, and do what you have to do. But I have no problem with it. I’ll back you both up if necessary.”

  “That means a lot.” He pushed up from his chair. “I’ll take care of it when I get back from Miami. Should be a couple of days at the most, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay. Hey, Fisher.”

  He stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for coming to me. With everything that’s happened, and the fact that we’re all still getting to know each other, your confidence in the team means something.”

  Fisher nodded. “See you later, Scarborough.” As he walked out of his office, he headed straight to Eva Duncan’s. “Knock, knock.”

  “Morning. Come in.” A smile spread on her lips.

  “I came to let you know that I just left Scarborough’s office. I told him about us.”

  An air of uncertainty now crossed her brow. “You did? What did he say?”

  Fisher continued inside and sat down. “He gave us the thumbs-up. Not that I had any doubt. He said we needed to get with HR and fill out some paperwork but that he would back us.”

  “Thank you, Cam. This is a big step for us.”

  “Yes, it is. I wanted to do it. I’ve wanted to for a while but couldn’t seem to find the confidence. I guess I feared changing the way things were between us would somehow upset the balance, you know?”

  “I know. But nothing’s going to change. Except that we won’t have to keep the secret any more. We’re free now.”

  “I do love you, Eva.” He held her gaze. “I hope you know that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Listen, I’m heading to Miami this afternoon, but I should be back in a couple of days. I’ll call you when I arrive.”

  Investigator Sosa held the phone to his ear. “And you’re sure he was an American?” He listened as the caller verified the statement. “Thank you. No, you will not have to come here and file a report. I promise you, no one will know who you are. Obrigado. Tchau.” “Thank you, Goodbye.” Sosa turned back to the wall of missing people and for the first time felt encouraged. The caller had assured him he’d seen an American at the club around the time the missing women had been seen. The tip was anonymous, though he suspected it was the bartender. Sosa approached Varela’s. “May I come in, sir?”

  “Yes. What is it, Pedro?”

  “Sir, I just received a phone call. The caller verified the man last seen with Adriana Santos was an American. As well as a few of the others.”

  Varela sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Anonymous?”

  “Yes, sir. He was afraid and I don’t blame him.”

  “No. But how can we be sure he is telling us the truth? How do we know he isn’t working for AdA and is attempting to steer our efforts away from them? How would this individual even know we are working such an investigation?”

  “I have to trust he is telling the truth, whatever his reasons for doing so. Sir, we have no other leads. I spent all night in search of anything else that could connect these women to each other or anyone else. I could not.”

  “Can this caller provide a description of the American?”

  “All he said was that he was well-dressed, slim, average height, and attractive.”

  “Pedro, that describes many people.”

  “He heard the man speak, too. He knows enough English to understand some words.”

  “And what did he hear this American say?” Varela persisted.

  “That he wanted to take her to a party where there were other rich Americans.”

  “Does this anonymous caller work at the nightclub?”

  “I suspect so.”

  Varela appeared to contemplate the information. “This isn’t a lot to take to the FBI, Pedro. They might laugh in our faces and tell us to come back when we have a proper eyewitness. And if word got out that we went to Brasilia…”

  “I know what’s at stake, Inspector. This is all we have. We cannot wait for more of our young women to be taken. I am sure they are all dead or have been taken back to America. Please, sir. All we have to do is talk to them—the Americans. They can decide if it is worth their time.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then we get more until it is. But can we at least try?”

  Varela picked up his phone. “Close the door.” He began to dial. “Olá. I wish to speak to one of your agents regarding a possible American suspect in a missing persons investigation.”

  Sosa sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes glued
to Varela.

  “I do not have a name; however, I have an anonymous tip and several missing women in our community. This is an important investigation that I believe is in your office’s best interest to entertain.” He eyed Sosa. “Thank you. We won’t take up much of your time. We would just like to understand what position the FBI wishes to take. Yes, sir. Tomorrow, sir. We will be on the first flight. Tchau.”

  Sosa waited for Varela, barely able to contain his excitement. “They agreed?”

  “They agreed to hear us out. Nothing more. We will have to arrange a flight to Brasilia tomorrow. But you must understand, Pedro, if we go there, people will find out. People who pay us for our loyalty.”

  “If we tell them it is in search of an American, they will lose interest. We can make them understand we are not in pursuit of anything they are doing.”

  “You might be right. Unless they are working with the Americans. In which case, we might not make a safe return.”

  5

  Inside of 24 hours, Inspector Gustavo Varela and Investigator Pedro Sosa were descending into the Brasilia International Airport. The city of roughly 2.5 million was Brazil’s capital and was where the US Embassy was located. Inside the embassy was one of several legal attaché offices that fell under the direction of the FBI International Operations Division. All in all, the FBI had 63 of these offices worldwide. They operated in conjunction with Interpol and other foreign law enforcement entities. This was the place where they would seek help in locating the alleged American who was the last person seen with at least two of the missing women from Rocinha.

  The white two-story building appeared ahead and was rather dated, likely having been built around the 1970s with a flourishing garden surround. They arrived by taxi to meet the man with whom Varela had conversed. Upon their entry inside the embassy, it was Inspector Varela who led the way. “Boa tarde.” “Good afternoon.”

  The official at the security desk, an intense thirty-something man who appeared ready to fire upon anyone who crossed him, eyed the gentlemen who were in plain-clothes. “Como posso ajudá-lo?” “How can I help you?”