MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)
Page 9
You sit in silence, unsure how to respond.
She sighs. “Okay, how do I explain? Would you trust a butcher who is a vegetarian?”
You shrug.
“You just come from a different world, Americano. No one will admit it if you ask them, but everyone takes payoffs. Even the Chief.”
“So why are you admitting it?”
She stares straight ahead. “I want to prepare you for what you’re about to see. Ah, good, there’s his car.”
The detective pulls off onto the side street and parks the car under a streetlight just as it flickers on. She closes the door and without a word jogs off in the direction Muniz’s car faces. You run to catch up.
Irma stops at the end of the road, and you soon hear why: voices come from the next intersection. Not daring to go out into the open, she instead stops and looks around the sides of the brick and concrete buildings that surround the small street. In a quick, athletic move, she climbs atop a crate, uses a rain gutter to stabilize herself, then steps atop and off a dumpster to arrive on the rooftop.
Trying to keep quiet, you make the same ascent. One you’ve scaled the building, you follow Irma Dos Santos on your hands and knees to the roof’s edge. There, just below you, is Detective Lucio Muniz with two uniformed policemen. They speak in Portuguese, just loud enough that Irma can make it out. Muniz looks at his watch.
“They say the payoff is supposed to arrive just after the streetlights power on. They’re wondering where he is,” she whispers to you.
In the umber glow of the streetlight, their black uniforms look darker than ever. One of the cops lights a cigarette, the flint strike of his lighter the only sound in the still air. Smoke curls up towards the streetlight in a wisp. That’s when the payoff arrives.
Even in the low orange light, his eyes glow blue.
It’s the man from the warehouse! In a hushed but urgent voice, you say as much to Irma while the primary suspect walks toward the three policemen. She lays a calm hand on your wrist to hush you—she wants to see what they’ll do next.
The bespectacled suspect wears a backpack over a light jacket (despite the summer heat), with his hands in his pockets. The police seem threatened by this. You can’t tell what they’re saying because none of it is in English, but the body language is clear enough. The three cops go for their handguns while Muniz shouts tersely.
The man with the icy-blue eyes takes his right hand from his pocket, revealing a wad of cash. Now Muniz laughs and the cops leave their weapons holstered. The detective makes a grand speech with arms spread wide.
“He commends this man for the size of his balls,” she translates, “and asks what information he wants to purchase.”
“He won’t arrest him?”
She shakes her head.
“What information?”
“He says he wants to know what gang controls the territory where the girl was found. And he wants the name of an informant.”
“Why? To make sure he’s covered his tracks?”
She frowns, leaving your question lingering. The men continue talking while the suspect waves the money in the air, the tension from the moment seemingly gone. After a moment, the man tosses the cash towards the cops, seemingly satisfied, and then disappears down an alley.
“Where is he going? We’ve got to chase him!” you plead through hushed urgency.
She shakes her head. “We can’t expose our position. If Lucio learns we know about this—consorting with a murderer is not a simple payoff—we’ll be in grave danger. It’s best if we stay hidden.”
“Can’t we slip off the back of the roof and go around?”
“We could, but we could also learn something here.”
• “You’re right, let’s listen. What are they saying now?”
• “Let’s go!”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Double Agent
Somehow you convince him that you’ll work the agents for information, getting in their good graces, and then funnel all that knowledge back to him. In reality, you don’t trust him. Obviously, the cops are the good guys—the mysterious note disappearance notwithstanding—and you’ll help them bring this guy in.
On your way back to the hostel, you call Agent Bertram and set up a meeting for tomorrow. He suggests Capricciosa, a nearby pizza joint in Ipanema. Sounds just fine.
* * *
The next day, you ditch your friends and snake your way through the streets, turning a five-minute walk into fifteen minutes. Still, you can’t help but feel you’re being watched. When you finally arrive, the restaurant’s red flag sails above the entry to hail your arrival. You find the pair of agents waiting for you inside.
The building’s exterior walls are all glass, giving a panorama of street life while saving you from the sounds of traffic and the smell of the street vendors’ food offerings. You sit down at the agents’ table, right next to the window. The waiter presents you a menu, a round of water for all, then leaves you to decide.
“We already ordered,” the bearded Agent Bertram says. “The thin-crust pepperoni here is fan-damn-tastic.”
“So, you have something for us?” Danly asks.
“Do I?” you say with a grin. “The guy from yesterday found me. He wants me to help him.”
“What? You talked with him?” Bertram asks in disbelief.
“Yep. He thinks I’m helping clear his name, says that he’s been framed.”
“They all say that,” Danly says.
A teenager walks up to your table wearing clean, crisp, kitchen whites. He sets down a large tray covered in a room-service style serving dome—the kind usually reserved for gourmet restaurants. “Compliments of the chef,” he says with a twinge of nervousness.
He bows slightly, and then leaves in an awkward hurry.
“First day?” you wonder aloud.
“The federal-agent-look has that effect on people,” Bertram says.
“Probably a dopehead,” Danly adds, lifting the dome off the tray.
Sitting there, where a fan-damn-tastic pepperoni pizza should be, is a metal ball about the size of a grapefruit. It’s mechanical, looking much like a tiny “Death Star” from Star Wars.
The teenager sprints by outside the restaurant, shedding his kitchen whites and fleeing the scene as fast as his scrawny legs will carry him. Agent Bertram leaps from his chair, draws his pistol, and prepares to pursue, but is stopped when you yell, “Wait!”
The device has begun moving, rearranging itself like a Rubik’s Cube, expanding in some places and contracting in others. There’s a note beneath the device, and Agent Danly snaps it out from underneath.
The note reads:
“ I thought we had a deal? ”
It’s written in a new, third person’s handwriting. Maybe the teenager’s?
“What the fuck is this?” Danly demands.
Bertram tries to answer, but his breath is sucked out of him by the device. You feel it too, your insides collapsing as the tiny thing turns into something akin to a miniature black hole and sucks out all the air from the room. Windows shatter inward, the ceiling threatens to collapse, and every patron in the restaurant dies when the strange bomb implodes.
THE END
Double Back
Leaving the teenage drug trafficker in the broken home, you head back into the alley. It hasn’t been too long since you abandoned your stake-out of the armored vehicle, so maybe it’s still there? Detective Dos Santos tucks her service revolver into an ankle holster, then holds an open palm toward you.
“You don’t want to get caught out in the open with a weapon. Elite Squad will see the AK first, then they’ll notice you’re American after they’ve shot you.”
Can’t argue with that; so you hand Irma the weapon. She dashes forward and hurls the rifle atop one of the buildings, then ducks into a different alley—trying to randomize her movements—and jogs back toward the main street. Through labored, running breaths, you realize that you no longer hear gunshots.
Every few steps, the Rio cop looks back to ensure you’re still behind her. She suddenly stops, her running shoes skidding against the tiny mortar fragments that litter the ground. Then Irma turns back, whispers a husky, “Trust me,” then presses you into a corner and slides her tongue into your mouth.
She takes your hand, guides it under her shirt and atop her breast, and with an amorous intensity, runs her hands over your body. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you notice two armed drug traffickers run past.
She continues to kiss you deeply and passionately. When she finally stops and pulls away, you open your eyes. You didn’t even realize they were closed.
“That was a close one,” she says with a sigh of relief.
Still in a daze, you blink and say, “Yeah.”
“You can let go of my breast now.”
Embarrassed, you quickly drop your hand. You try to apologize, but end up stammering. She smirks and says, “Come on.”
You continue down the alleyway. Using a telephone pole for cover when you reach the end, you peer into the street. The armored car sits in the middle of the road, its engine turned off, a pair of Elite Squad members guarding either side of the vehicle.
The caveirão looks empty on the inside.
“Damn, where’s Agent Danly?” you ask.
“They must be pursuing on foot.”
“Let’s go ask the guys where he went!”
She puts out a hand to stay you, then shakes her head fiercely, hoop earrings jangling. “I didn’t bring my badge. To them, I’d look like some favela-girl coming out to harass them.”
“They wouldn’t recognize you?”
She shakes her head. “Elite Squad keeps to themselves. I just have my one contact and it’s a big department.”
A shout comes from the street. You look back to see one of the Elite Squad members walking toward you, his assault rifle raised and lethally aimed. Irma raises her hands.
Out of the side of her mouth, she whispers, “Run.”
“What?”
“Run. NOW!”
• Turn and sprint, but keep an eye out for traffickers.
• Remember the “Lost Tourist” plan? Seems like a good time to invoke it.
• Try and weave past him—you’ve got to find Danly!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Dropped
With the quick severity that only comes from training, the two rush in and subdue you. Their movements are fluid, unconscious. “You an American?” the woman asks with a scowl. She’s slammed you against a wall and handcuffs your arms behind your back.
“Are you guys cops?” you return.
“Lucky for you,” the man answers. “Now why don’t you tell us what the hell you’re doing here?”
“I—I don’t know. I was lost and….Look, I just want to leave,” you say. “My friends will be wondering where I am.”
“So will hers,” the woman continues, indicating the body on the floor. “And I’m guessing once the consulate hears of this, you’ll have some questions to answer. Muniz, call it in.”
Muniz—the man with the teal shirt—nods, holsters his pistol, and takes out a cell phone. He steps out into the alleyway as he dials. Your heart sinks and you feel as though you might vomit.
The woman picks up on your distress, holsters her own weapon, and produces a badge. “I’m Detective Irma Dos Santos and that was my partner, Lucio Muniz. If you didn’t do anything wrong, you should have nothing to worry about. Now, please, step outside so we can take you to the police station. We don’t need you contaminating the crime scene further.”
“You think I’m innocent?”
“We’ll see.”
• Get escorted to the police station.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Drug-addled
“Detective, can you translate? What happened here?” Danly asks.
Irma Dos Santos nods, then talks with the policemen in Portuguese. While they converse in the alien tongue, you look at the strict lines of cocaine. Three lines, perfectly set up, with a rolled-up Brazilian Real. It has the tell-tale red ink of an $R50.
“Looks like the door was kicked in,” Irma says, directing your attention to the busted door jamb.
The wood is cracked and frayed out around the door latch, spreading forth from under the paint. The chain lock dangles higher up. Undamaged.
“They say there’s no other sign of a struggle, which would lead to the conclusion that she was either passed out or they held her at gunpoint and she cooperated.”
Danly shakes his head. “Anything else in the house?”
“No other illicit substances. Not much of anything, actually. Doesn’t look like she spent very much time here—either that or she sold her personal belongings, spent her whole paycheck on cocaine, and was quite the housekeeper when she was high. She have a drug history?”
Through a frown, he says, “No. This amount of cocaine would affect someone’s work performance and all of our employees are drug-tested. I don’t like it.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve seen a lot of users and their apartments are usually filthy.”
“We’ll look into her bank accounts, see if she had any outstanding debts or any savings. For now, this is the best lead we have.” Agent Danly says. “I’ll be by tomorrow to see about a trip into the favelas. We should get to the bottom of this drug angle.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” she replies with a nod.
“Come on, Rookie, I want to get back to the hotel and review Ms. Nightingale’s files.”
Danly puts his sunglasses back on as you leave the apartment. Once you’re in the SUV and driving back, he says, “Listen, you’re doing great, but I’m not sure you should stay with me. I aim to get to the bottom of this, even if that means coming head-to-head with the drug cartels in the favelas. You can’t even imagine what it’s like in there—gangsters dance in the clubs while shooting AK-47s in the air. Even the kids are armed and they won’t hesitate to shoot you if they think it’s worth a laugh. I can’t put your life in jeopardy like that.
“Tonight we’ll meet up with Agent Bertram and decide how to proceed.”
• Head to the DSS hotel.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
DSS
The RSO gives a curt smile, then heads out. The other agents head to their respective interview rooms, leaving you with a junior agent—an office worker who looks young enough be an intern, though you’re not sure if they have interns here. His gelled hair is orange-red, parted to the right in a failing effort to hide a bright red blemish on his forehead. His freckled cheeks dimple with a smile.
The two of you introduce yourselves. He takes over the conference room computer, loads up a slideshow and powers up the projector. You make small talk. He asks how you like Brazil, that kind of thing.
“How long have you been an agent?” you ask.
“This is my first post,” he admits. “I was a philosophy major in college and did some volunteer law enforcement work. Joining the State Department seemed like a great way to help the world in a real, tangible sense, y’know? Plus, I still have a lot of college debt.”
Finally, the computer is ready. “Ah, here we go.”
The first slide on the PowerPoint presentation reads, “Welcome to US Soil,” with the subtitle, “Brought to you by the Bureau of Diplomatic Security.”
He reads the next slide verbatim, “The Diplomatic Security Service, or DSS, is the Department of State’s security and law enforcement arm. These quiet professionals do not dictate foreign policy, but rather provide a secure environment through which diplomacy may occur.
“Our 2000 Special Agents have myriad responsibilities, including providing security for embassies, ensuring border protection, investigating passport and visa fraud, performing high-risk search warrants, tracking and capturing known terrorists, and creating a protective bubble around foreign dignitaries and the Secretary of State.
“To uphold these enormous responsibilities, our agent
s receive Military Special Operations and Law Enforcement training, and many learn foreign languages. All of our Special Agents in Brazil attend a Portuguese language course. These highly trained and highly motivated men and women stay out of the public eye, but are ready for action at a moment’s notice….”
He sighs. “You know, really, there’s a program that the Military Channel did—you should check that out. It’s a bit dramatized, but not bad. The rest of this stuff is pretty dry; talks about how we formed in 1916, officially cemented as our own organization in 1985, then expanded after September 11th.”
“Give me the condensed version,” you say.
“You’ve heard of the Secret Service? The guys who protect the President?”
You nod.
“It’s basically a cross between that and FBI Agents, but don’t tell the other guys I said so. Agents hate it when we’re confused with Secret Service. Although when I was in training, one of my instructors said he used to hand out business cards with the SS phone numbers on it, so that way they’d get a call and have to say, ‘Sorry, sir, you’re thinking of the DS guys.’ Hilarious.”
He grins.
“Thanks, I think I get the gist of it,” you say.
• Meet up with the agents.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Easy Street
“Good thinking,” he says.
The two of you casually stroll over to the police barricade the policeman standing there puts out his hand to stop you. He says something in Portuguese while shaking his head “no.”
“We’re reporters,” Viktor tells the young man, removing his notebook. “What’s the going rate for an inside scoop? R$200?”
The man’s eyes widen, and you think he might balk, but then he smiles. “R$300.”
“R$350, you don’t mention this to your supervisor, and I’ll look forward to working with you again.”