“Or petty criminal. It’s a common trick.”
“Hmmm. What else have you got?”
She removes a few 8x10 sheets, photos of footprints in the dust, spreading them out between the two of you. “There were at least two different men, possibly three. But the woman didn’t walk there—she was carried, alive.”
“How do you know?” you ask.
“There aren’t any traces of her flats. Bruising around her wrists, ankles, and mouth indicate she was bound and gagged and we know she was killed in the room because of the blood spatter. We also recovered the slug from the wall behind her; it was definitely fired from that revolver.”
“So why bring her there to kill her and leave the body? Aren’t there better dumping grounds?” Danly asks.
“Yes, we find most bodies from missing persons cases in the landfills. Well, the pickers find them, anyway. This room is new to us. It’s abandoned, and I’d guess it used to be locked, based on the amount of dust.”
“Okay, so who do we talk to? Is there a particular gang that controls that territory?”
“We? You want to go into the favelas?”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Slums. Very dangerous.”
“Yes, very dangerous,” the detective agrees. “Is this case personal to you, Agent Danly? Did you know the woman?”
“Anytime an American is killed on foreign soil, it’s personal. I take it you weren’t planning on questioning the druglords?”
“Drugs? You have reason to suspect it was drugs?”
“I didn’t say that. What about Elite Squad? Will they go in?”
She sighs, then shakes her head. “I can put in a request.”
“Elite Squad?” you ask.
“Basically police Special Forces. They’re the only ones willing to go all the way behind enemy lines. Anything else you’ve got to show us?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. We’ve got a team at her apartment, checking to see if the abduction might’ve taken place there. I’ll let you know what they say.”
“How about we go see for ourselves?” Danly says.
“Now? I was about to head over myself, but you can follow me or….?”
“You can ride with us if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
Detective Dos Santos rises, shuts off her computer monitor, and gestures for you to leave. The revolver and photos remain on her desk, but she locks the office door after the three of you exit.
* * *
The apartment complex is located just about halfway between the police station and the consulate, so you’re backtracking, but not too far. It’s a little further inland than either of those two landmarks, and the three locations form a triangle, with the Olympic stadium as its center.
You can tell as soon as Agent Danly pulls up to the police barricade that this is the kind of place you’d live in only if you had to, if it were all you could afford. There’s virtually no public green space, which says a lot in this country. It’s not seedy per se, at least not in the bright sunlight.
Staying close to your law enforcement escorts, you duck under the police tape. There’s the flush of I’m in the movies, a feeling that you can’t quite subdue. Irma Dos Santos shows her detective’s badge to the cop guarding the door and heads inside.
Agent Danly takes off his sunglasses and says, “I appreciate you not bringing up the drug angle. I want to look into it before we pin that as the motivation.”
You nod. He heads inside and you follow.
The small apartment is gravid with Rio cops. It’s the living room—where a coffee table sits midway between couch and television—that captures their attention. Police investigators flock around the coffee table, snapping pictures, taking notes, and collecting samples.
“Never mind,” Agent Danly says.
There on the table sits a stash of cocaine, several lines laid out neatly as if the party was just getting started.
“Whoa,” you breathe out.
“Yeah. Let’s ask some questions,” he says.
• “Okay, I’m right behind you.”
• “Actually, I’m gonna take a quick walk around.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Here There Be Monsters
You stand by the railing on the port side of the barge, the warmth of the sun beating down upon you, and enjoy the cool mist that rises up as the boat surges through the river. The brackish water is dull and murky on the surface, but teems with life beneath. It’s easy to think of the danger here, what with piranha, anaconda, and such, but what you soon see cruising through the water is truly shocking.
A large dorsal fin splits the surface, pressing up near the boat and rising high into the air. You see the dark outline of a creature swimming effortlessly, its tail a powerful paddle of swaying confidence. Easily ten feet in length, and probably 500 pounds of muscle and cartilage, the massive shark torpedoes downriver, unconcerned by the noisy engine of the barge.
You find your hands gripping the railing tightly out of fearsome awe, but you’re able to control yourself enough to take out your camera and snap a picture.
“Touro,” a local Brazilian says to you. “De bull. Eh, shark. Bull, yes?”
He has his index fingers extended at his temples as makeshift horns.
You smile and nod. “Bull shark.”
“Yes, bull shark. It is lucky to see her. At least from up here!” He laughs heartily.
“What is it doing here?” you ask. “Isn’t this fresh water?”
He shakes his head and chops his hand across the air. “She does not care. The bull swims from the sea to be Queen of the River.”
You frown. He frowns as he tries to think.
“I am professor, I study the animals. Hmmm, how to explain? She comes in, she goes back. River to sea, sea to river. This shark—it is the only kind like this, yes? Especial.” He pats his belly. “Keeps her salt.”
Making a mental note to tell Viktor about the other professor onboard, you look back at the water. There’s no sign of the shark.
Suddenly, from across the deck, a commotion draws your attention to the starboard side.
• Go find Viktor and see what’s going on.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Here’s Your Sign
The blaring T. Rex roar of the car horn sends the kids scattering, but once they realized you’re nothing more than a wounded lamb bleating for help, they come back. You duck down out of view in the back seat, but you can hear muffled sounds from the feral children outside through the car window. Little hands try the door handles, tugging over and over in frustration.
You hear the cluck, cluck, cluck of the spray paint can being shaken, followed by a hiss as the ruffians tag the car. Muffled shouting, then the paint can sounds stop. Then there’s silence. Maybe they’re done? Maybe they’ve gone away? The silence lasts so long, you’re about to leave the car and check to see if the coast is clear. Then you hear something metal in the lock and the door opens. You back away, ready to scream as the door opens—but it’s Agent Danly.
“What the fuck? Look at this shit!” he screams.
He opens the rear door, allowing you out, and shows you the colorful mural that has been spray-painted over the entire length of the car.
“You did say stay in the car, boss-man,” Muniz says.
“Do you have any idea how much paperwork will be involved? Ugh!”
Shaken, trying not to look like an idiot, you say, “Did you find anything out there?”
“No. Asshole here took us to a pacified slum,” he says. Then responding to your puzzled look, he adds, “That’s a slum that’s been cleaned up. Christ, those kids would’ve had guns in any other slum. Come on, we’re headed back to the station.”
• Return to the station.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hero
You lean against the wall of the long corridor to stabilize yourself, gather what little breath you can muster in your weakened state, and squeez
e the trigger.
Just before he can reach the emergency exit, the man leaps forward, only to drop abruptly on the carpeted hallway floor.
That’s it, it’s over.
* * *
Now it’s time for champagne. You’ve reconvened with Danly and Bertram at the hotel bar and the Ambassador and his team are with you. The Big Man thanks you personally for all your hard work.
“I’m going to nominate you for the Presidential Medal of Freedom,” he says. “That’s the highest honor that can be awarded to a civilian and I’m sure POTUS will approve. What you’ve done here is nothing short of miraculous. Unorthodox, maybe….”
The crowd laughs. Bertram blushes.
“I owe it all to the leadership of these two agents,” you say, indicating your former partners.
Now Danly blushes.
Ambassador Mays continues, “And I won’t forget it! You three brought a dangerous terrorist to justice and on behalf of a grateful nation, I thank you. Open bar tonight—on me!”
The room cheers. After shaking every hand in the growing party, you find a quiet corner to sit with the two agents.
“I thought you were just going to check out the newest scientific breakthroughs,” Danly says.
The edges of his mouth curve up in a smile. You give a modest shrug.
“Man, I really had the fiance pegged for this,” Bertram says.
“Still no ID?” you ask.
“They still need to run his prints and dental records, but we’ll find out who he was soon enough,” Danly says.
“What about that other assassin? The Jamanta?”
“You let us worry about that, Hotshot,” Bertram says. “Enjoy your moment in the sun!”
“No kidding. There’s always more police work to be done after a murderer is caught, but leave it to the police, for Chrissakes. Take comfort that you did your part.”
“The biggest part!” Bertram says. “You were the only one to see this guy, y’know? You found him hovering at the scene of the crime, and he escaped, but then it’s you that catches him later. I’d call that providence.”
You nod in silence. It’s hard to enjoy the party with so many loose threads. Just who was that guy? Why would he kill Jane Nightingale and make an attempt on the Ambassador’s life? Could he be a terrorist after all? Was it just a simple hatred of America that motivated the mystery man? And what kind of crazy pressure-bomb did he use on you?
Well, at least he’s dead. If nothing else, you can take comfort in that.
• Click to continue.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Hesitation
Waiting to see who it is you’re firing at is an intelligent decision that just about any rational, level-headed, sane person would make in an academic, stress-free environment. Pat yourself on the back; you just performed well under pressure.
Unfortunately, the drug traffickers who enter the house are neither sane nor rational. They start shooting immediately, one gunning for you and the other for Irma. If that woman and her baby were still in the house, they’d be dead too—such is the indiscriminate way these men retaliate against the screams of their comrade. You don’t have a chance. But at least the obscene amount of bullets they inject into you means yours will be a quick death.
THE END
Hide
The twin beds are bolted to the wall and there’s not much else in the room that could serve as a barricade. Still, there’s a lock on the door…maybe that will be enough? You secure the door and turn out the lights. Time to hide under the blankets until the monsters go away.
But there was one thing you didn’t exactly consider in your plan. These pirates are here for money, and the private cabins are generally reserved for the wealthier passengers. So yeah, they’ll be coming right for you.
The door explodes open as two of the pirates kick it in unison. The lights flicker on to reveal several young men with AK-47s and machetes tucked in their waistbands. Time to find out if they’re here to rape and murder or just rob and murder.
“Enough is enough,” Viktor says, his eyes glowing like cold steel.
The men shout at him in Portuguese.
“I’m sorry, Tourist.”
Viktor slings off his backpack and removes one of the tiny metal orbs; his “Manhattan Project,” as he called it. After twisting it a certain way, the device begins moving of its own accord. The pirates shout in nervous anger, punctuating their remarks with their weapons.
And then they can’t shout anymore.
Their breaths are drawn in toward the device. The door slams shut. Then you feel it too. The device collapses the room in on itself, sucking the air out of the cabin, depressurizing the area and causing each of your internal cavities to crush inward.
THE END
Higher Learning
It really isn’t far, despite the city’s constant, overwhelming traffic. Bertram skirts a highway, passing a massive soccer stadium and sports arena, and finally takes you to the university. At a traffic roundabout (sporting a modern-art totem sculpture in the center) you can see the first signs of the school.
It’s impressive in size, but unfortunately, not in aesthetics. The building is gray, old, dusty, and square. If anything, it looks like a mega-apartment complex. From out your window, you’d guess it’s maybe fourteen stories high and just as many city blocks wide. You can’t help but be impressed by the scale; it’s nearly as large as the soccer coliseum next door. Which, incidentally, is the largest in the world.
Bertram parks in a handicap spot, which you assume is another faux pas made kosher due to the diplomatic plates. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of students milling about the campus, which is called Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro and abbreviated to UERJ on many t-shirts. Agent Bertram’s Portuguese serves him well in this capacity, and after asking for directions, he leads you inside. To offset the bland buildings, there’s a green courtyard at the entrance filled with lush jungle trees—palms flitting peacefully against the slightest breeze. Well, that’s something.
The halls within are “tiled” with linoleum and bathed in fluorescent lights. Some of the classrooms are open and you can see students in connected chair-desks like those at grade schools back home. From here you move on toward the professors’ offices and lab stations, taking an elevator up to floor six. Once you get to a section labeled “engenharia,” Bertram starts asking around.
He shows his badge to a secretary, a 40-something woman who tries her hardest in fashion and makeup to look like she’s still college-age. Their words flow back and forth, unintelligible to you, but you’re becoming something of a body language expert (as it’s the only way to keep up with Portuguese conversation) and you can tell Bertram’s getting frustrated. The only thing you pull out is “Professor” and “Viktor Lucio de Ocampo.”
She shakes her head, her mouth in a frown, saying something that sounds like “now” over and over. He keeps asking, and so it’s her turn to get frustrated. She picks up the phone, and he produces his badge to check her move. She puts it back on the receiver, but keeps shaking her head.
“Excuse me, you are American?” a voice calls from behind.
You turn around to see a man with square, black-framed glasses, grey hair thinning at the top where dark freckles announce the sun’s conquest over his hairline. He’s clean-shaven, with deep grooves on his face and brow. He wears a white sweatshirt with the school’s logo—an Olympic torch, gold with a red flame, adorned with “UERJ” in royal blue.
“We’re looking for Professor Viktor Lucio de Ocampo,” Bertram says. “Maybe you can help us. I’m David Bertram, here on behalf of the US State Department with my associate here.”
The man smiles. “Viktor is not a professor here. That’s why Sofia couldn’t help you.”
“But you know him,” you say.
“Yes, our paths have crossed professionally. Is Viktor in some sort of trouble?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Bertram suggests.
* * *
The man leads you to the elevator, up to the top floor. The offices here are much larger, each with a view of the Rio skyline. Urban sprawl flows out nearly as far as the eye can see, but beyond that, lush green hills provide a pleasing backdrop. The man’s desk faces the door, so that his back is to the window, and two chairs await you in front of him.
Once you sit, he says, “I’m Dr. Agostinho Tavares-Silva, head of the Engineering Department here at Rio State.”
When he says his name, his words slur almost as if his tongue had suddenly swelled, but his English becomes flawless once more and you can tell he gets a kick out of Anglicizing the university’s name.
“We need to ask you a few questions about Viktor. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated, Doctor,” Bertram says.
“Am I speaking to you officially—on behalf of the university? Or off the record, as his friend?”
• “Listen, your ‘friend’ killed his fiancée. You need to help us before he kills again.”
• “We have reason to believe Viktor is in trouble. Anything you tell us could save his life.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
History Revisited
In a private charter plane like this one, there is no stewardess to block your entry to the cabin—you’re able to just walk right in.
Inside you find a lone pilot, a middle-aged, greying-at-the-temples man who wears jungle khakis and a US Air Force flight jacket with his old unit symbol and nametag still affixed to the aged brown leather.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Is it distracting to have me up here?”
“Not at all!” He shouts. “Take a seat and put on the headset.”
That’s much better. Over the radio, you can talk without the need to holler over the engine.
“So… do you know Viktor and Jane?”
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 16