MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)

by James Schannep

  Maria may have just saved your lives, but you still slam into the ground with jaw-wrenching force and are momentarily stunned as a result. She took you to the largest clearing available—the middle of the Sugar Highway.

  You look around the cabin, stunned. The other two shake their heads, in a similar daze.

  “We’re alive?” you say.

  “Don’t forget about those bullet holes, Hotshot,” Bertram says, claiming his assault rifle. “Now let’s go, they’ll come to investigate soon.”

  “Maybe I can refund the whole trip after all! Hope the boss has grileiros insurance…” Maria says, popping open the canopy.

  After you step out of the helicopter, you can hear a car engine approaching in the distance.

  “We should get off the road,” you say.

  “Be careful of the sugarcane, that is a place for serpente.”

  “Snakes?” Bertram asks.

  “Yes, that is the word. Snakes are in the fields.”

  Great, you think.

  “Okay, fuck that,” Bertram says.

  He drops to one knee in the road and wraps the strap of the rifle around his forearm. The agent puts the rifle butt snugly against his shoulder and takes aim down the road. From around the bend, two vehicles appear: the first is a jeep and the second is a light pickup truck. Both are overloaded with grileiros and you can see the silhouettes of the firearms they hold in the air.

  Crack. Bertram takes a shot. Crack, crack, crack. He puts four rounds into the engine block of the jeep, disabling the vehicle with trained efficiency. Bertram rises and starts to walk forward, never lowering the weapon from his line of sight. Three armed grileiros exit the jeep, ready to do combat, but Bertram puts them down with one shot each.

  The pickup truck does a quick u-turn and burns down the road, fleeing at top speed. The three of you walk over toward the jeep, Agent Bertram keeping his rifle at the ready.

  “Dead,” Maria confirms when you arrive. “All three.”

  “So’s the jeep,” Bertram says. “We’ll have to walk.”

  You say nothing.

  “They drew first blood with the ‘chopper,” Bertram explains. “Once shots are fired, deadly force is authorized.”

  “The world is better without scum like that,” Maria says. She spits on the dirt for emphasis, then adds, “There will be more coming. The helicopter was meant to be a warning, I think. Next will be war.”

  You look down at the bodies of the three dead men. One had a pump-action shotgun and the other two each carried a revolver. They were probably used to intimidating locals without so much as a shot fired in resistance. Now, against an elite DSS agent, they didn’t stand a chance.

  “Arm up,” Bertram commands. “Hotshot, go for the shotgun. You’re on snake patrol.”

  Maria takes both revolvers, one in each hand. You and Bertram both look incredulous.

  She smiles. “Helicopter piloting requires many tasks of our hands and we often become—umm—both-handed, yes?”

  “Ambidextrous,” you say.

  She nods, pointing the pistols at the dead men. You look away, assessing the situation. The fire causes a ruby glow on the eastern horizon, and the setting sun brings a similar resplendent light to the west, so that the whole sky is bathed in red.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” you say, adding:

  • “We should hide out in the cane.”

  • “Let’s seek refuge at the plantation.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Getaway

  You follow Agent Bertram as he jogs down the hallway of the Energy Summit conference grounds. He’s constantly stopping, checking rooms, coveys, and alcoves for signs of the RSO or any other law-enforcement presence.

  Then an explosion rocks the building.

  Agent Bertram unholsters his handgun, carries it high, and sprints toward the chaos while terrified civilians run in the opposite direction. In the confusion, you barely notice one man fleeing—a bespectacled scientist wearing a backpack and running away from the explosion. When he throws a quick glance over his shoulder, you notice his haunting blue eyes.

  “Viktor!” you shout.

  In reflex, he looks back, giving you and Bertram a good look and a positive ID.

  “Stop right there!” Bertram cries.

  Instead, Viktor crashes through an emergency exit and out of the conference grounds. Bertram barrels towards the suspect, flying down the hallway at top speed, ready to apprehend him and end this thing once and for all.

  You’re right behind him, losing yourself in the samba-fueled dance party that is Carnaval. People are everywhere—if Viktor gets even a ten-second lead on you, he’ll be lost in the crowd and will most certainly escape.

  People on the street don’t seem to notice you, and those who do try their best to avoid the armed American and his prey. Except for one: a devil. A hulking man in glimmering black body paint, his body firm and muscular like an MMA champion fighter’s. His face is painted white over black, like a bleached skull (the only color on his otherwise black painted body) and his shaved head is topped with long, twisted ram’s horns. A thick scar covers his chin.

  His great bulk and musculature first catch your attention, but the fact that he’s jogging toward you is what keeps it. Then his eyes move in two different directions.

  “Devil Ray!” you shout.

  Bertram looks back. The assassin, who apparently takes his nickname quite literally, holds a pitchfork and removes the outer two prongs—which were actually affixed handguns.

  Like an Old West draw in the crowded streets, there’s a second-long eternity where the men size one another up, neither willing to make the first move. Then, lightning-fast, both gunmen go for the attack—Agent Bertram raises his handgun just as the assassin aims his own weapons. It’s to be a photo-finish, and gunshots ring out in stereo.

  Your mind dully recognizes the boom of the handguns, but no one’s moving. They just stand there, pistols raised as if nothing ever happened. Did they actually shoot? Has time stopped? Smoke curling off the gun barrels belies the truth and the men fall to the ground in unison.

  You rush over to Agent Bertram’s side. He’s wounded, but appears to be alive. O Jamanta, on the other hand, is no more. The assassin is dead. Bertram groans in pain.

  Viktor—the real Viktor—has stopped and now looks at you. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes off again, sprinting through the crowd.

  • Take Bertram’s handgun—go get the bastard!

  • Stay to make sure Bertram lives.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  A Ghost of the Past

  Viktor doles out his first bribe and asks the question. Accepting the money, Tinho looks up at a crack in the ceiling, thinking before he answers.

  “Narcotraficantes,” he says, “de cocaína.”

  “Drug traffickers,” Viktor translates.

  “Ask him why,” you suggest. “And ask how he knows.”

  Tinho explains to Viktor, but you see Viktor’s brow furrow. “Como?” Viktor starts yelling, the conversation growing heated.

  Turning to you, he says, “This guy’s feeding us bullshit. I think he’s pumping us for money and just making it up as he goes along. He says ‘because her brother came looking for her.’ Jane didn’t have a brother. He doesn’t know anything, let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Well, I have an idea, but it’s dangerous. Each favela has at least one cop on the payroll. We find out which dirty cop works the territory of the warehouse crime scene, and we bribe him for information.”

  “How do we find that out?” you ask.

  “There are two professions here where paying off cops is part of their business insurance. Drug traffickers and prostitutes.”

  • “Wait, let’s hear him out. Why does he think traffickers did it?”

  • “I don’t trust him, either. Okay, how do we find a drug trafficker?”

  • “Yeah, this guy gives me the creeps. Let’s talk to a working gi
rl.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Ghosts in the Present

  Viktor doles out his first bribe and asks the question. Accepting the money, Tinho smiles.

  “He says of course they’re after us. That we’re smart to have bought weapons.”

  “Who? Who is after us?” you ask.

  Tinho looks to the ceiling and scratches his chin before answering. Viktor translates, “Police, gangs, everyone.”

  “How does he know?”

  Tinho explains to Viktor, but you see Viktor’s brow furrow. “Como?” Viktor starts yelling, the conversation growing heated.

  Turning to you, he says, “This guy’s feeding us bullshit. I think he’s pumping us for money and just making it up as he goes along. He says ‘because ‘the colonel’ put a bounty my head.’ But I called his bluff, he doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know anything, let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Well, I have an idea, but it’s dangerous. Each favela has at least one cop on the payroll. We find out which dirty cop works the territory of the warehouse crime scene, and we bribe him for information.”

  “How do we find that out?” you ask.

  “There are two professions here where paying off cops is part of their business insurance. Drug traffickers and prostitutes.”

  • “Wait, let’s hear him out. Why does he think there’s a bounty?”

  • “I don’t trust him, either. Okay, how do we find a drug trafficker?”

  • “Yeah, this guy gives me the creeps. Let’s talk to a working girl.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Ghost Yet to Come

  Viktor doles out his first bribe and then describes your would-be assassin to the man. For the first time, Tinho’s smile fades. “Jamanta?” he asks.

  He shares a brief, impassioned conversation with your partner, and you wait for the translation.

  “We’re in more trouble than I thought,” Viktor says. “This is a well-known assassin. Some say he’s an American operative, some say he’s former Elite Squad, some say both. The more superstitious think he’s the Angel of Death. They call him the Stingray or Devil Ray, and they say once he has you in his sights, you’re already dead—you just don’t know it yet.”

  With a thick feeling of dread, you say, “Who does he work for?”

  Viktor asks and soon gets an answer. “He says Jamanta is out for revenge, for what we’ve done.”

  “Which is…?

  Tinho explains to Viktor, but you see Viktor’s brow furrow. “Como?” Viktor starts yelling, the conversation growing heated.

  Turning to you, he says, “This guy’s feeding us bullshit. I think he’s pumping us for money and just making it up as he goes along. He says ‘because we killed that girl.’ He doesn’t know anything, let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Well, I have an idea, but it’s dangerous. Each favela has at least one cop on the payroll. We find out which dirty cop works the territory of the warehouse crime scene, and we bribe him for information.”

  “How do we find that out?” you ask.

  “There are two professions here where paying off cops is part of their business insurance. Drug traffickers and prostitutes.”

  • “Wait, let’s hear him out. Why does he think we did it?”

  • “I don’t trust him, either. Okay, how do we find a drug trafficker?”

  • “Yeah, this guy gives me the creeps. Let’s talk to a working girl.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Going Green

  Bertram nods with a resigned smile and bids you goodnight. The next morning, over breakfast, you meet with the hotel’s business relations manager. It’s no coincidence that DS put you up at the Copacabana Palace, one of the most prestigious five-star hotels in the world. This is the spot for all visiting dignitaries, billionaire investors, and corporate CEOs who will be in attendance at the Energy Summit. Though the main conference center will be in a theater down the street, the Copacabana Palace’s many ballrooms are reserved for “high-level” private presentations. Come Friday, the DSS agents will help provide security for these dignitaries—though the agents themselves must sleep in their own apartments or less exotic (i.e., less expensive) hotels.

  “You speak Portuguese, yes?” the man asks.

  He’s middle-aged, well-dressed, with salt-and-pepper hair in a friar’s crown, and has a pot belly despite his spindly arms and legs. Probably from all the drinks he shares with potential clients.

  “I do. But my friend here does not,” Agent Bertram replies.

  “Ah, English it is, then. No matter, most of our clients don’t speak the language. I don’t often get to have a professional conversation in my own tongue, so I thought….Anyway, how can I be of help?”

  “What can you tell us about the Energy Summit?”

  “Oh, I could talk your ear off for days!” he chuckles. “What do you want to know? The Copacabana has made strident green energy efforts over the last few years to become the most modernly powered hotel in all of South America. It was the ideal choice to host this conference on new energy.”

  “So that’s what this is all about? Use less water, make more efficient light bulbs, that kind of thing?”

  “No, no, no. Think bigger, much bigger. Changing the world—that’s the goal of this conference.”

  “Solar and wind power?” you ask.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the specifics. I’m just the event coordinator; you’d need to talk with someone more involved in the conference itself.”

  Bertram readies his pen and paper. “Who’s the man in charge of presentations?”

  “His name is Italo Fellini and he runs a São Paulo based think-tank, Futuro Verdejante. The entire summit is his baby.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Bertram says, shaking the man’s hand. He then looks to you and says, “Time for a road trip.”

  * * *

  With an overnight bag packed, and a quick call to Agent Danly to let him know you’re headed out, you ride with David Bertram to the mega-city of São Paulo in search of answers.

  If the murdered woman’s fiance was banned from the Energy Summit, surely the conference chairman would know why. Perhaps the man even ordered the blacklisting himself. Maybe this Italo Fellini is the man you saw at the crime scene, exacting his final revenge for some (as of yet unclear) slight. If you want to destroy a man, taking away both his job and the woman he loves ought to do it. That would bring just about anybody to their knees. If this unknown enemy is willing to do that, while leaving the man unharmed, he must really hate him, and he must not be afraid of retaliation.

  “I’ve got a good feeling we’ll find the guy here,” you say.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that, Hotshot?”

  “He looked like a scientist. It would make sense if he’s somebody from the conference.”

  “We’re only seeing the chairman today, but still—that’s a good point. We should make it a priority for you to be at that conference. The subject would have a hard time skipping such an event. Most of these guys live for their work.”

  It’s a fair point. There’s no certainty that the guy is anything more than a fellow attendee. Yet this fiance—this Viktor—was blacklisted, so there must be an enemy in power. Sure, maybe the guy you saw at the crime scene was only an underling, but if that’s the case, this thing must be bigger than one man…

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” he says. “Hear me out. This guy was going places, right? His career was on a rocket’s trajectory, but then something changed all that. Blacklisted from the Summit, and by association the entire green-energy industry, he’s left more or less unemployed. An office tech can’t support a family on her salary alone, so she dumps the guy. But he can’t let her do that—some guys are just animals and won’t let a girl walk out on them—so he kills her. Or maybe it was just an argument gone too far; that happens all the time. He kills her, accidentally or otherwise, then dumps her off to try and make it look li
ke a mugging gone wrong!”

  “Then who’s the guy at the crime scene? It’s not the fiance, so who is it?”

  Bertram scratches his beard, thinking. Finally, he says, “It is another scientist, like you said. Somebody Viktor trusts and brought in to help him once he had killed the girl. BOOM—crime solved. All we have to do is ID the guy, and the nerd will crack in interrogation.”

  “Seems flimsy,” you say. “He calls in a coworker to set up the body? Isn’t that incredibly risky? Aren’t there better dump spots in Rio?”

  At length, Bertram says, “Okay, the ideal dumping ground is the landfills, but this guy is no repeat offender—he doesn’t know the ins and outs of the criminal underbelly. Trust me, most of these book-smart guys have no street smarts. Nine times out of ten, the killer is the husband or boyfriend.”

  “Couldn’t it just as easily be that she was having an affair with one of his coworkers?”

  “Hey… that’s not bad. But then which one killed her? The fiance or the fling?”

  “Whichever one she was going to break off.”

  “Now you’re thinking, Hotshot!”

  * * *

  You’ve made it to the outskirts of São Paulo. The last four hours were wide-open highway, similar to what you might find in the western United States. There aren’t too many countries with massive swaths of unused land, but that’s a feature your two nations share in common.

  The transformation from rural highway to mega-city starts as you enter the suburbs. The highway goes to four lanes, and traffic flows in thick streams. When you drive out from under an overpass, you get your first skyscraper views. The billboards double and triple their population while traffic swells to levels seen in Los Angeles at rush hour, slowing your pace to a crawl.

  A pleasant amount of greenery lines the side of the road, where cranes look for food in the flooded ditch, but just as many construction sites fill the scene. São Paulo is one of the world’s fastest-growing cities (even though it’s already the largest in the southern hemisphere) and there’s hardly a mile stretch where you don’t see some kind of development. It’s enough of an effect that the city’s official bird could be the crane—the construction crane, that is.