THE END
Jamanta
You tear down the alley to the right, occasionally glancing to the rooftop where the assassin might be. Still, you have to be vigilant and focus on the here and now. There are plenty of recesses through which the blue-eyed man might escape. Irma doesn’t follow you. She just shakes her head, backs into the other alley, and lets you go it alone.
Fear be damned; you’re not going to let this guy get away again. There’s a feeling of nakedness, being in this war zone without a weapon, but you know that the suspect left his AK-47 back in the previous alley, so he’s in the same defenseless state.
Most of the shops are barred up or sealed with roll-away metal doors, so you keep running. The barred windows and barbed gates are evidence of the measures one is required to take to have safety in the favelas.
Up ahead, the alley snakes around two blind corners. After you pass the second one, you see you’ve caught up with the suspect! He’s working on a gate and nearly has it open, but you arrive just in time to tackle him.
He tries wrestling free, but you’ve got him pinned. In an unconscious burst of excitement, you exclaim, “I’ve got you!”
He looks up at you, then past you, over your shoulder. The first thing you see are those blue eyes, which glow almost purple under the amber streetlights. There is the fear in his eyes and then, turning around, you see its source.
The assassin, the Man in Black, is there too. One of his handguns points at the suspect, and as you stand up, the other handgun rises to greet you. You see something else, something strange—he’s looking at you, but he’s also looking at the suspect…
Behind his shooting-range aviators, the man’s eyes are moving independently of one another.
At first you think he’s cross-eyed. But his right eye looks you up and down, scanning for threats, while his left eye is trained on your bespectacled rival, darting carefully over him as he stands with his hands raised in surrender. You lift your palms as well, his right eye watching as you do.
Seeing you’re both unarmed, he smiles. In a simultaneous motion, he squeezes the triggers of each pistol and ends both your lives.
THE END
Jane’s Addiction
The agents reconvene at the coffee station to fuel up before heading out. The coffee is tasteless and burnt, with powdered creamer, which means it’s government standard, but the men drink it down in ample quantities nonetheless. There’s a brief silent moment while the men prepare their coffee—Bertram takes cream and two sugars, Danly drinks his with the liquid hazelnut additive only.
“Find anything?” Bertram asks.
“Nightingale had a fiance named ‘Viktor’ with a ‘k.’ No last name yet.”
“Didn’t find a ring on the body, did we?”
“No, but it was a recent engagement, so the killer could have taken it without needing to cut off the finger,” Danly says. Noticing your grimace, he adds, “Wedding rings tend to become permanent, as fingers swell up over the years. So when someone kills a married woman and steals her ring, the finger goes with it.”
“Gross,” you say.
Danly ignores the comment. “No idea where we can find the guy, but it’s a good starting point. What about you?”
“Not much,” Agent Bertram says. “She specifically asked for this post a few months back, but that’s not unusual, especially if the fiance is from around here.”
“We should check in with the police station. See where they’re at in their investigation.”
Using a red bought-in-bulk straw to stir his coffee, Agent Bertram turns to you and says, “Identify all the possibilities, all the ‘what-if’ scenarios, then rule them out one-by-one until all that remains is what actually happened—that’s how we’ll solve the case.”
“No, it’s not,” Danly quips. “We’ll solve the case by following the evidence. Standard police work, none of that ‘gut instinct’ crap.”
Bertram looks at Danly, who blows on the edge of his Styrofoam coffee cup, cooling it. You can’t be sure, but it looks like throwing the hot coffee into his partner’s smug face is crossing Bertram’s mind right now. Instead, the RSO’s approach diffuses the moment. With no jacket on this time, he holds out a sheet of paper as if the document physically leads him to you.
“This fax just came in from Embassy records. Evidently your girl had failed a drug test.”
The agents scan the paper, brows furrowed, heads shaking.
“Look into the drug angle,” their supervisor continues. “Maybe she got in over her head?”
“Will do, sir,” Danly says. “Do you think we should put the subject’s sketch into the Rewards for Justice Program?”
The RSO shakes his head. “That’s a big negative. He doesn’t know we’re onto him yet. The only witness he’s looking out for is our new friend here, so we don’t want to scare him off by plastering his face on matchbooks.”
“In Rio, you might have better results just offering up a bounty,” Bertram grumbles.
Danly glares at him.
“Listen up, boys. The new investigation team will be here before the opening night of the Energy Summit. That’s Friday night, the start of Carnaval, when you guys will be transferred to conference security. That means you’ve got three days—seventy-two hours—and I want some results. The Ambassador has made a by-name request of the new investigators, so you can bet your ass he’s going to be eyes-on this whole time. If you can solve it before they get here, I’ll bake some goddamned brownies. Got me?”
The men nod in solemn understanding. The RSO leaves and the three of you do the same, walking back toward the parking garage and the government SUV.
“Since when do we give warnings for piss test failures?” Bertram asks.
“Good question. Might be worth a trip up there to talk to her supervisor.”
When you reach the SUV, you find a note tucked under the windshield wiper.
“What’s this, a parking ticket?” you ask, grabbing it. You open the note, which was folded into fourths, curious as to what it might hold. The paper is the color of pale chlorophyll and covered with cross-hatched lines. The effect divides the sheet into tiny, uniform boxes.
“Engineering paper,” Agent Danly informs.
Written in the center, in a simple script very different from the note last night, is:
“No doubt you’re looking for me.
Let’s meet where we can do so with open arms.”
“What does it mean?” you ask, showing the note to the agents.
Both men draw their handguns.
“It means he was here,” Bertram says, looking everywhere but at you.
“Who?”
“The killer!” Danly hisses, sweeping over the SUV for bombs. “Jesus Christ.”
* * *
There was no sign of the guy, nor of any tampering to the vehicle, so you leave the consulate security to sweep the garage and turn in the note to be analyzed by the FISH system: Forensic Information System for Handwriting—a database, Agent Danly explains, that the State Department keeps to compare every threatening note the US government has ever received.
Now you’re riding in the back of the SUV.
“Where’s a place where you can meet with open arms?” Danly asks.
“Certainly not a police station,” Bertram says. “He’d be cuffed, for sure.”
“It could mean something else, like maybe ‘arms’ means ‘guns,’” you suggest.
“So ‘open arms’ means what? He wants to meet with guns drawn, like a shootout?” Bertram asks.
“Doubt it,” Danly replies.
“Open arms means ‘on good terms,’ maybe,” you try.
“Yeah, but where’s that? It’s not exactly like there’s some kind of neutral ground we can meet on,” Bertram says.
“He could be a—” you say, trying to think of the right term. Not quite “witness” or “informant,” but… “source. The note was written in a different hand than the other one; it might
not be the killer.”
“What other one?” Bertram asks.
“The note I found at the crime scene.”
“You mean the one that no one else saw,” Danly says. “The one that mysteriously disappeared.”
“It was there,” you say.
You look out the window, watching traffic and the people walking on the streets. You see boutique shops/stands, created overnight from plywood and scrap metal in an effort to capitalize on the population boom that accompanies Carnaval. So many people, and one of them is the killer.
Finally, Agent Bertram says, “Okay, so you saw a note and it’s different. But that doesn’t mean anything. He could have written one or the other. Or neither. Or both—one with his dominant hand, one with his weaker hand, maybe even in all caps, to throw us off.”
“The first note was in all caps,” you admit.
“There you go. And an experienced killer, one who knows what he’s doing, can distort his own handwriting. He could’ve even paid off one of the Brazilian guards to write and plant the note for him.”
Danly shakes his head, then scoffs. “He was right there, right under our noses, maybe even following us! Christ.”
Looking out the window again, you see Him—up on the mountainside. Christ, that is. All 130 concrete feet of Him, overlooking the city from His perch atop Corcovado Mountain, His arms widespread in a gesture of magnanimous acceptance.
“The statue!” you say. “Christ the Redeemer—a place with open arms!”
“Not bad,” Danly says. “It’s very public, and he knows we can’t arrest him without cause.”
“But what he doesn’t realize, is that we’ve got somebody who can ID him. As soon as you say it’s him, we take the guy in. Have you made it up to the statue yet?” Bertram asks.
“I have not.”
“Cool, let’s take the cog train. The guy can wait on us a bit.”
“What are you, nuts?” Danly asks. “Let’s just drive up there. It’s time to nail the bastard.”
“Hold on now. Have you ever taken the train? It’s nice. And we won’t spook the guy if we take the tourist route. But if we show up in a patrol car….”
“You’re an idiot, the guy invited us, let’s go!”
• “Hang on now, I think I’d like the cog train.”
• “I can see the sights later, let’s go!”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Journo
“Oh! Of course. I’m so sorry.” He hands you a press badge. Maybe you can keep it and use it on someone else later? You clip it to your collar. “So, where should we start?”
“I’m writing a piece on new energy,” you say.
“You’ve come to the right place! Acting with social and environmental responsibility, to us, is a commitment to people and the planet,” he says, reciting the company line.
His hands are folded in front of him and he practically beams with excitement. Espresso much?
“Meaning what, exactly?” you say. “That you try to keep your oil production as clean as possible?”
“Certainly, yes, but we have a whole branch dedicated to alternative fuels. Petrobras Biocombustível works with ethanol and biodiesel, both of which reduce our dependency on foreign oil.”
“Then I assume you’re familiar with the work of Dr. Viktor Lucio de Ocampo?”
The plastic smile falls away. “I can’t say I know the name.”
“Really? The foremost researcher, scheduled as the keynote speaker at the Energy Summit here in Brazil? I understand many of his patents could make him a national treasure—his name doesn’t ring a bell?”
He picks up a manila folder from the lobby coffee table. “My schedule shows a different name for keynote speaker. We’re actually really excited to hear the new updates on solar energy from Doctor—”
“Why did your company force Dr. Ocampo off the speakers’ list? Had he pledged to share his results with foreign investors?”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea—”
“Lying won’t help!” you snap, trying to badger him into cooperating.
Your plan fails. He snaps the press badge back from you and points to the door. “Okay, this interview is over! I’ll call your ride. Please wait outside or I’ll be forced to call security.”
• Go wait for Agent Bertram.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Jungle Fruit
The three of you each take a glass of wine and the Governor raises his glass in a toast.
“Saúde!” he says. “To your health.”
The wine begins sweet, with a tangy, bitter, not unpleasant finish. The glasses are filled to the top.
“Now then,” he continues. “Why are you here? Please, tell me quickly before we proceed.”
Agent Bertram swirls the wine in his glass. “Honestly, Governor, I had only come as a curiosity. To ask you a few questions about the Energy Summit and Dr. Viktor Lucio de Ocampo. Things turned hostile when your men shot down our helicopter.”
“That was unfortunate, but you should have called first. I would have gladly seen you.”
“So you admit it!” you say. “Those thugs are on your payroll! Do you have the balls to admit you’re starting these fires? Grilling up the rainforest to plant more farmland?”
The Governor smiles. “With pleasure. What do you think your early Americans did, hmmm? You cut down your forests for industry and now you’re the wealthiest nation on Earth. We may be starting late, but why should we be the only ones with restrictions on our growth? If you want clean rainforests, pay us the same money we could make on sugarcane and I’d gladly let the toucans be.”
Bertram stirs uncomfortably. His brow furrows and he says, “Why would you admit all this? Surely you wouldn’t, unless…”
The agent looks at his wine glass.
“Eu estou doente,” Maria says, just before dropping her glass and collapsing to the floor.
Bertram catches her right before she hits the tile, lowering her gently with one arm. He seems to have lost control of his other arm.
Then you feel it too. Cramps rip at the center of your body, more terrible pain than anything you’ve ever felt. You drop to one knee. You can’t control your limbs anymore. The wine glass falls from your grasp, breaks on the floor, and bleeds out across the tile.
“You…you can’t do this,” you groan.
“Clearly, you don’t know who I am. I can do anything I want.”
Your vision fades to black, sounds go dull, and you slip into unconsciousness, never to awaken again.
THE END
Just the Facts, Ma’am, err, Sir
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Suffice it to say this: Viktor has made incomparable leaps and bounds in the arena of new energy. He’s found a way to make ethanol profitable without subsidies. Without relying on just one cash-crop to monopolize the harvest. Without the billionaire-owned sugarcane industry. Five percent of the population here owns eighty percent of the land.
“I can’t say for sure because I wasn’t involved, but if you want to learn who could possibly want to shut out the discoveries of a brilliant scientist—perhaps you should expand your weltanschauung and pay a visit to a sugarcane plantation. The Governor of this territory, Mateo Ferro, owns every sugarcane plantation within five hundred miles.”
“The so-called Sugar King?” Bertram asks.
“As you say, sir.”
“Why are you helping us?” you ask.
“Because first and foremost, I’m a scientist. I want to live on a planet where discoveries push mankind ahead, not where greed and corruption keep us back. But be wary, the deeper you press into the jungle, the further you’ll be from the shelter of man’s laws, and these plantations tend to ‘crop up’ very deep indeed.”
Agent Bertram closes his notebook, extends his hand, and says, “Thank you for your time.”
Upon leaving, he adds to you, “If we were looking for someone who hates Viktor, we might have a motive, but why the girl? Something doesn’t add u
p. Let’s check in at the local consulate and see if Danly has reported in from last night. I’m afraid we might’ve hit a dead end with this whole Viktor thing. Hopefully Danly’s got something.”
• Head to the consulate.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Keep Moving
With a good distance between herself and the three men, Irma Dos Santos follows the crooked cops across the street and over toward another alley. She stops, looking for a way to scale the wall.
“Another rooftop?” you grumble.
She smiles and finds an iron gate to climb. Shaking your head, you follow her up. This rooftop is higher than the last and you have to shimmy up an intermediary ledge before you make it all the way to the top. You try to keep quiet and to ignore the vertigo that accompanies the precarious handholds, only succeeding in the former goal.
Looking down the alley, you’re met with a grisly sight. Even removed from it by height, it’s all you can do not to gag. The alley is lined with old car tires and one of the cops is hunched over a stack of tires, vomiting into the center cavern. The other two cops look down at the blackened image on the pavement—as seared into the concrete as it is into your retinas.
Lying prone with arms outstretched in a permanent crawl for help is a skeletal body. This poor soul has been burned beyond recognition; only a charred corpse is left behind. You can’t tell gender, age, or even ethnicity.
Detective Muniz and the strong-stomached cop are having a heated discussion. You look to Irma. “They’re discussing whether or not to move the body. That guy is saying that it’s already been called in. Lucio says unless they can solve the crime and arrest a suspect, they’re better off dumping the body in a different precinct and letting somebody else deal with an unsolved murder on their watch.”
“My God,” you breathe out.
“I had no idea he was this bad, I promise.”
Behind several gas cans, Detective Lucio Muniz finds a rolled-up tarp and spreads it out on the ground.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 20