“Kind of convenient that he gave us his last name, wouldn’t you say?”
“Could be. Or he could have thought we already knew it, or that we’d find out soon enough. You hungry?”
Without waiting for a response, he pulls over in front of a food cart, the angry honks of other vehicles punctuating the impetuousness of the decision. Bertram exits and you do the same. The SUV is still in a traffic lane and motorists have to swerve around you to continue down the road.
“I don’t think this is a parking spot,” you say.
“Diplomatic plates. You ever have a-car-jay?”
Again not waiting for you to answer, Bertram moves around to the front of the food cart. The middle-aged Afro-Brazilian woman working there looks concerned at your parking job for about two seconds, which is how long it takes Bertram to get his money roll out of his pocket. She’s wearing a white, billowy muumuu with layered, flowing sleeves and a turquoise head scarf.
He says something to her in Portuguese and she smiles through missing and rotted teeth. A food cart career doesn’t come with a dental plan, it would appear. You’re not sure what he said, but she laughs, and the two fingers he raises make it obvious he’s ordered lunch for you as well.
“How much do I owe you?” you ask.
“Don’t worry about it. They’re only a couple of reais a piece.”
It’s only a few more moments before she’s done, and he claims the food and thanks the woman. A park bench waits a few paces away and the agent stakes it out. Once you sit, he hands you your lunch. It basically looks like Pac-man OD’d, choked on his own vomit and died.
Noticing your look, Bertram says, “When in Rome—eat up.”
The dish, which is actually called Acarajé (despite the agent’s pronunciation of ‘a-car-jay’), is a ball of mashed black-eyed-peas, rolled, deep fried, then split open and filled with a paste consisting primarily—in this case—of shrimp, bread, and coconut milk.
You dig in and are pleasantly surprised at the taste. It’s kind of like something you might find in Creole New Orleans. During the shared moment of chewing and contemplative silence, you’re able to get a good study of Agent David Bertram.
He’s still quite young, and from either love of simplicity or a desire to save money, it appears he uses his own clippers on his beard and his buzzed, auburn hair. Black sunglasses and a suit complete the no-frills look, and by most estimates, he fits the “fade-into-the-background” appearance his job demands.
“Where did you learn Portuguese?” you ask.
“Here. All the agents have to go through a language course, but my Pops worked in the consulate and I grew up in São Paulo. Made it pretty easy to snag a job working in the State Department, but I didn’t want to be stuck in an office, so I went to the law enforcement side. Believe it or not, speaking the language doesn’t help much on the job. I rarely talk while on a security detail. But when ordering lunch….”
His cell phone chirps and Bertram checks the message. “We’ve got an address; let’s roll.”
“Close?” you ask.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes away. He lives within walking distance of the State University. Makes sense; we know he’s some kind of scientist, so he’s probably got connections there. We’ll want to check that out too.”
• “To his house! Hopefully we can get a look around before he gets back.”
• “It’s still early. Let’s check in at the University during business hours.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Team Danly
Paired with Agent Danly, you take a cab back to the consulate garage. The whole trip is spent in silence, and it isn’t until Danly checks out a second car that he finally speaks.
“All right, Rookie,” Danly says with a sigh. “We can team up—but no more tourist crap. We’re all business. Lest we forget our roles, I’m investigating a murder and you’re my Cooperating Witness.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” you say with a salute.
Danly glowers. “Mock professionalism is not professionalism. Agent Bertram gave you the wrong impression of the DSS, but we’ll soon remedy that. Now, c’mon. Daylight’s wasting.”
The agent tunes in the vehicle’s police scanner and you ride in silence toward the police station. You look out the window and take the time to soak up some scenery. It’s a nice day—the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the foliage is green. You’re near the ocean for the first part of the drive, but not close enough to see it. Instead, you’re greeted with construction and traffic. The city’s still trying to give itself a facelift for the Olympics, and the city workers are toiling around the clock.
You drive through a corridor where traffic thins, abating only momentarily, and high cinderblock walls box you in on both sides. Graffiti flows not as murals but simply as gang territory delineation, and the overall effect is mildly depressing. As you come to a stop light, you see a hansom cab pulling tourists in its horse-drawn carriage. That could be you right now, enjoying the sun and seeing the sights, but instead you’re here—ready to track down a killer.
Danly pulls into an inner-city neighborhood, complete with marketplaces, corner shops, a McDonald’s, and supermarkets with sky-rise apartments on top. You pass through a roundabout so large, it holds a city park in its center.
The precinct is in the midst of a housing area but evidently, living near a police station doesn’t do much for security. Even the neighboring apartment units have bars on their windows and barbed tips atop their fences. You can’t even fathom the level of crime that goes on here. The last time you visited this police station you were a little preoccupied with other thoughts and it was dark out, so you’re just now getting a good look at the neighborhood.
The precinct itself is rather striking. It sits raised off the street on a verdant, groomed lawn. Opposite the flowing flags at the entry, a palm tree waves its branches in greeting. A pleasing feat of architecture amongst the drab concrete jungle, the façade of the building is a false wall. As you walk along the path and step through the opening, you see the real wall up ahead—which has an impressive glass entrance.
Once you’re inside, the beauty fades and the “real” Rio meets you face-to-face. All those criminals you remember from your first time are still here—hell, even that poor tourist looking for his sister is still here. If you want to lose your faith in humanity, spend a few minutes in a metropolitan police station’s waiting room.
Detective Irma Dos Santos waves at Agent Danly and then leads the two of you into her office. Today must be some kind of “casual day,” because she wears jeans and a navy blue polo shirt with the precinct logo embroidered on the left just above her breast-line. Her office is small. Another police officer helps her wheel in two chairs for Danly and you.
She sits behind her desk, which is neat and sparse, with only a computer, a printer, and a single photograph. It’s of her in full Carnaval getup—that is to say, not wearing much more than a smile, bedazzled jewels, and feathers. In the photo she’s pert, ready for fun, and…rather attractive. Her computer mouse pad is a novelty custom-print of her and a young girl. Could be a daughter, could be a niece. She wears no wedding ring.
“Have you got anything for me?” Danly asks, sitting down.
“Not much, but some things. What about you?”
“Tit for tat?” he replies.
She raises an eyebrow. “No, professional courtesy. We have our own investigation.”
“Well that’s a relief. We were approached by the subject, who of course proclaims his innocence.”
“Really? We should—how do you say?—compare notes. Where was this?”
“He left a letter on our car,” Danly says. “I’ll have our office fax you over a copy. We ended up meeting him at the Redeemer statue. Rookie here figured that one out.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s all we’ve got.”
“He gave us the slip,” you say. “The other agent is tracking him down; we’re going to help
you focus on the crime scene evidence.”
She nods. “Grab a cup of coffee, I’ll have the evidence brought in.”
“Rookie—liquid creamer, sugar-free syrup, if they’ve got it.”
• “I’m still good from breakfast, thanks.”
• “Suuuuure. I’d love to get you some coffee.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
There’s Always Backup
“No!” Viktor shouts, too late.
You gun down all three policemen in cold blood. Your sub-machinegun sends wisps of smoke into the night air. Then you realize you’re not alone.
Gunshots ring out from a rooftop across the way and you look over to see Agent Danly and Detective Irma Dos Santos.
There’s a flicker of recognition, but that doesn’t stop them from firing. Both you and Viktor die in a hail of bullets.
THE END
This Stinks
You maneuver toward the street corner in an effort to cut off the dump truck at the pass. It has its blinker on as if it is going to turn toward the consulate; so far, so good. Jaywalking is common here, so you don’t arouse suspicion when you step out into the street between the lines of the cars. However, you do get some interesting stares from the car behind the trash truck when you jump in the back amongst the wet and fetid garbage.
If there is one repulsive substance in this world, it is trash juice. The collection of rotting food leftovers, tobacco spittle, diapers, and used condoms forms an unholy salve that coats the inside of the truck. You doubt if it ever gets washed—just dumped and reloaded.
You plug your nose and settle deep amongst the bags so you won’t be spotted. As the truck turns right around the corner, you can see the consulate disappear behind you. They didn’t turn inside. Damn!
Time to hop out and try it again, albeit a little smellier this time around. A banana peel rests comically upon your shoulder.
• Talk to the guard, tell him I forgot my ID. He’ll let me in; I’m an American.
• Plenty of motorcycles here in traffic; knock the driver off, swerve through the pylons, rush the gate!
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Time Bomb, Ticking
She nods, then turns back to the trafficker, ready to do her grim duty. She says something to him that you can only assume means “last chance,” and as he starts cursing at her again, she presses her revolver into the palm of his left hand and pulls the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening, but the ringing in your ears soon merges with the sounds of the teen’s screams. The detective shoves the hot barrel of the gun into his right palm and calls for him to answer your question. His wounded left hand gropes to get her away, but is powerless.
He’s in your hands now.
“He says he doesn’t know anything; all he knows is, the order came from way up the chain of command.”
“Why?” you say. “Ask him why she was killed.”
She does so. He shakes his head; he’s crying now.
“She must’ve pissed off somebody high up, a colonel in the organization. Something like that. Says that’s all he knows.”
• “Did she owe somebody money? Drugs? What?”
• “All right. Time to go.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Tiny Tinho
“He says he’s taking us to a place where we can talk,” Viktor explains. “I don’t trust him, but it can’t be worse than rooftop snipers and assassins, right?”
Tinho pushes aside a draped rug that covers a hole in a wall, and leads you inside someone’s makeshift house. Possibly his. Most likely it’s where people come to get high and congregate with hookers. Tinho offers you a seat on a dingy sofa, the fibers matted down from years of body oils, lotions, and God-knows-what-else, so you opt to stand.
Viktor speaks in Portuguese and you watch the body language of the two men. Tinho is thin, confident, ever-smiling, even smug, and doesn’t balk at the topic of murder. Such is life in the slums, you suppose.
“He says he knows everything about Jane and that all we have to do is ask… and pay.”
• “Okay, ask who killed her.”
• “See if he knows who the assassin is.”
• “Let’s see if we’re in any danger. Has he heard of anyone looking for us?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Too Much Sugar Can Make You Sick
You climb up the stairs to the landing and the main entrance. The wide double doors creak open when you push against them.
“Let’s try to keep in mind we’re entering the private property of the Governor of this territory,” Bertram says.
Despite his words, he keeps his assault rifle at the ready.
It’s dark inside. There are dull, umber-colored lights, but the generators must be straining to power such a large structure, and the effect illuminates the house like candlelight.
The interior, while certainly impressive, proves that the house isn’t a mansion after all. Everything here is utilitarian—serving a purpose instead of just putting on a show—as this is a modern place of business and not merely another display of wealth.
Two paces in, there’s a security guard in a booth, and upon seeing your drawn weapons, he activates an alarm. He’s enclosed in bullet-proof glass, so there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Soon, a security team arrives, shouting in Portuguese, with sub-machine guns aimed at you.
Bertram and Maria shout right back and the three of you draw down on the half-dozen guards in a Mexican standoff.
“So you’re the ones causing all the trouble,” a voice from behind booms in English.
You turn and see a large, middle-aged Brazilian man. Neither tall nor fat per se, but thick-limbed and possessing a sort of magnetic gravity you can’t quite place. His full face is clean-shaven and has deep creases where a stark smile now finds perch. His eyes are dark brown, with an intense intelligence.
The man wears tight blue jeans tucked into black cowboy boots, dusty and grey with age. He wears a blue workshirt and an orange scarf tied loosely about his neck. Not exactly how you’d picture a billionaire. His short, jet-black hair is slicked back and neatly arranged in such a way that you can be certain he has a comb tucked in his pocket.
“Agent David Bertram, Diplomatic Security Service,” your partner replies, fearsome gravity in his words. “Order your men to stand down, right now.”
“An American federal agent? So far from home?”
“Order your men to stand down!”
“No, I don’t think I will,” the man grins. “You’re inside my plantation, without proper clearance. Isn’t that correct, Agent…Bertram, is it?”
Bertram gulps hard, doubt flowing into his hard eyes.
“That is what I thought. Order your friends to turn over their weapons, do the same yourself, and we can talk as civilized men. You three will be my guests. I offer you no ill will; I don’t even know what brings you here, but I cannot abide people barging onto my property.”
The man waits while Bertram considers it.
“Don’t listen to him!” Maria hisses.
“Please don’t think you have any room to bargain. That would be a mistake.”
• “Let’s give up our weapons.”
• “Tell him to go to hell.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Trespassers
Along with a dozen other passengers, Viktor leans over the railing. When you call out to him, he looks back and waves you over.
“What’s going on?” you ask.
“River kids.”
You look out over the river where several wooden canoes push toward the barge from shore. The boat is moving substantially faster than the tiny canoes, so they have to time it well in order to intercept her course.
As the first canoe makes it close, you see it’s actually piloted by two children. Somewhere between nine and twelve years old, the boys paddle alongside the barge and the older of the two launches a grappling hook into one of the tires hanging from the side, effectively tethering the c
anoe to the larger ship.
Two children in another canoe do the same thing. These “river kids” are intentionally attaching their craft to the barge. Then you see why: The older child from the first boat scales the side of the barge with the practiced skill of a howler monkey. When he makes it to the top, the passengers pay him for his wares; the canoes are full of fresh fruit and jarred preserves.
Viktor gives the boy a real in exchange for a jar of candied sugarcane stalks. Once he’s paid, he pops the lid, pulls one out just like a pickle, and hands it to you. The treat is sweet and crisp.
There are shouts as a third canoe attempts to gain perch and fails. The two children in this vessel are pulled to the rear of the barge, where the surge from the engine sucks down their canoe and chews it to pieces. They jump out just in the nick of time.
“Not an easy way to make a living,” Viktor says, biting into one of the stalks.
There’s no time, no way to help the boys out. Their heads bob up and down in the water next to supplies and planks from the canoe. Within a few minutes, they’re out of sight.
Viktor licks sugarcane juice off his fingertips and says, “I’m going to head down below to get some sleep. Come wake me around midnight and we’ll switch.”
Before you can respond, he disappears below decks. Turning back, something catches your eye near the front of the boat—several white hammocks swaying under the sun. Yep, a nap sounds pretty good to you too.
* * *
You awaken under a cloudy sky in the dark of night. It’s chilly, despite the warm summer evening; your lingering afternoon sweat has cooled under the breeze of the speeding boat. Your eyes immediately adjust to the dark and you see that the other hammocks nearby are occupied by whole families bedding down for the evening.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 35