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

by James Schannep

  Whatever it reminds you of, you’re blown away by this presentation. Truly, you wouldn’t have expected such a show from the Sugar King. If anything, you had a feeling of dread as you entered this room, but now you see only power and beauty.

  Until the guards lock the door.

  “What the hell is going on?” Maria demands.

  “You’re to be a part of the show,” the Governor, Mateo Ferro, says. “It will be more fun that way.”

  “Like hell—” Bertram starts, only to be cut short when a flying kick comes at his face.

  Instinctually, he brings his arms up so his forearms block the force of the kick. The federal agent has had his own unarmed combat training, which now comes to the fore. You swing a fist at one of the men, but he dodges it with preternaturally fast reflexes, almost anticipatory in speed.

  Maria tries to kick at one of the fighters, but he does the same windmill move—only faster. He batters the pilot across the side of her torso, knocking the breath out of her and sending her to the ground, possibly breaking a rib.

  Agent Bertram moves full into action and deftly dodges one man’s kick only to deliver a blow to a second performer. He slams the meat of his palm into the man’s nose, crushing it up into his skull in a fatal blow.

  Now the capoeira artists are furious. Seeing Bertram as the most immediate threat, they concentrate on him and rightly so. Still, a DSS agent is trained in many different disciplines, and while his unarmed combat skills might defeat the average criminal with ease, a martial arts master is a different beast altogether.

  As they congregate upon him, Bertram has no chance.

  “What are you doing?” you scream at the Sugar King. “This isn’t a game!”

  The man simply smiles. “Sure it is. You’re my plaything. Don’t you realize you’re already dead? Your helicopter crashed and no one has heard from you! Beating you to death isn’t only fun, but it will be consistent with the injuries expected from someone who fell from the sky in a metal box. Enjoy your last few minutes of life.”

  You turn back to see both Maria and Agent Bertram lying lifeless on the floor. The fighters all look to you. Gritting your teeth, you raise your fists. You don’t stand a chance, but you don’t go down without a fight.

  THE END

  Bug Out

  You turn and run back the way you came, in spite of the shouted protests from the Elite Squad member behind you. You flee, praying he’s going to stay and guard the vehicle. Your legs windmill beneath you from pure adrenaline, and eventually you emerge from the alley into another wide street like the one where the armored car battle took place. Looking down each side of the road, you see several Elite Squad figures blocking each egress route. If those are traffickers bearing down behind you, you’re about to get stuck in another gun battle.

  “What now?” you ask in desperation.

  She looks around, equally frightened. Then something catches her eye. She points ahead at a graffiti sign reading, Albergue.

  “It’s a hostel!” she cries. “Come on!”

  • Flee to the hostel.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bye-Bye

  What the hell did you just stumble upon? It’s possible, in your shock, that you just let the murderer escape. Damn, should’ve snapped a picture. It won’t do much to exonerate you or help the police, but you won’t soon forget the man’s face. Or those crystalline, piercing eyes. The kind of eyes that look like they were carved from an ice cave or lifted from a lightning-infused Norse god.

  “Stay where you are,” a woman’s voice commands from behind.

  “Turn around slowly, hands where we can see them,” a man adds.

  Both have thick Brazilian accents. You turn slowly, ready to face whoever it might be.

  The woman is thin, tall, with skin like soy milk and shimmering raven hair pulled back in a bun. She looks professional, like an American businesswoman, save for her oversized hoop earrings and long, lustrous eyelashes. The other is an average-looking man, skin bronzed, hair bleached to match.

  They both wear suits, but the man’s shirt is shimmering silk, teal green like the walls in the alley.

  Both hold revolvers, and both weapons are aimed at you.

  “You an American?” the woman asks with a scowl.

  “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

  Can You Hear Me Now?

  “Agent Bertram,” he says into the phone.

  You hold the pistol, scanning the cane for any signs of movement.

  “Negative, I’m still on scene.”

  It should be pretty easy to spot someone in here, what with the large gaps in the rows.

  “Sir, all due respect, that’s bullshit. I haven’t even—”

  You spot something. Far down the line of sugarcane, a shadow drops to the ground.

  “Yes, sir… yes, sir.” He hangs up.

  You squint to see the shadow. The thing would be impossible to hit from this range with the pistol, but….

  You fall onto your back, with a tremendous pain in your chest, unable to breathe. You’ve been shot. Bertram crouches to help you, but then suddenly falls dead from a rifle shot. Lesson learned, too little too late: using a pistol against a sniper rifle is a bit like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

  Damn, that guy is good.

  THE END

  Carnaval

  “Good choice, Rookie,” Danly says. “There may be hope for you yet.”

  “Before you go, I’ve got a joke,” Bertram says.

  “Okay…” you reply.

  “How do you spell Carnaval?”

  You think about it for a moment, then say, “What, like with an ‘i’ or an ‘a’? This some kind of spelling test?”

  “You’re overthinking it. Just—how do you spell Carnaval?”

  “C-A-R-N—”

  “Nope, wrong,” Bertram interrupts. “It’s spelled T-N-A.”

  He grins. Finally, Danly jumps in. “As in, tits and ass.”

  “Because that’s what Carnaval is all about. Good luck, Hotshot! Take lots of pictures.”

  You share one more toast with the agents, then head outside. The massive parade flotillas will go through the Sambadrome arena, but since you don’t have a several-hundred-dollar ticket, you’re left to the streets. Still, the party is ubiquitous and extreme.

  Inside every bar, restaurant, and hotel, costume balls are held, all of them spilling out noisily onto the streets, and free open-air concerts pump samba into the night air. Drinking, dancing, and revelry pervade the entire city, without a bore or nudnik to be seen.

  People dance, grind, and sweat. Drunken, smiling women grope and kiss strange men. Half the populace wears costumes or body paint. Some men dress like women, some women dress like men, and some you can’t tell how they started or where they end.

  Someone hands you a drink. Sure, why not? Tastes like more of tha
t sugarcane liquor. Soon the streets swell and buzz and the bright lights swirl about you. People pair off into alleyways, looking to feel alive together after the end of the restrictions of Catholic Lent. That’s what this five-day party is kicking off, after all.

  A group of three women draw your eye. They have peacock feathers attached to the back of elaborately designed corsets, as well as peacock “eyes” painted over their own. The look is finished by peach, skin-toned string bikinis complete with nipples. Wait, those are tan lines. There are no bikinis.

  These women wear nothing other than feathers, body paint, tiny corsets, and a smile. And they wear them proudly. This place is insane! You snap some pictures of the street and the crowd with your digital camera.

  Carnal, that’s what you should have told Agent Bertram. C-A-R-N-A-L, as in, sex. Because that’s what Carnaval is all about.

  Another costume catches your attention: it’s 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. The paint is all-encompassing, and with his carved frame and intricate costume, you’d think he would be at the Sambadrome, leading an underworld team.

  Then his eyes move in two different directions.

  Is it—could it be—is this the Jamanta? There, you see it again! His eyes move independently and catalog separate information on their own. They move briefly over you, quickly scanning your details before they continue their search. Thankfully, you seem to blend in with the enormous crowd.

  The devil turns to reveal a back covered with black feathers in a nightmarish blending of raven and hedgehog. He holds a pitchfork, and when you step forward to get a better look, you see that the two outer prongs on the pitchfork are actually handguns, long and slender, with silencers on the barrels.

  Without a doubt, this is the Jamanta, the Devil Ray.

  You raise your camera to take a picture, but in a blur he starts to move—fast. Your eyes dart ahead to see who he’s following. You’re even more blown away now: it’s the suspect, the man from the beginning, the bespectacled “perp” with the icy-blue eyes, and he’s sprinting through the crowd.

  The assassin picks up to a run in hot pursuit. Why is he chasing the man he’s supposed to be protecting? Is he fleeing from the assassin or chasing someone else?

  You shake your head free of the alcohol and party buzz, willing yourself to be lucid enough to think. How long have you been out here? An hour? Two? More? Is it worth chasing them down? How far have you come? Do you have time to get the agents?

  Your head swirls, but you have to make a decision.

  • Go get the agents!

  • Follow the assassin!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Clueless

  “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Too risky… but if all the cops are here, then maybe we can return to the warehouse where you—”

  Found her body. He can’t even say it.

  “Okay, good idea.”

  Viktor nods, then slowly backs away from the apartment complex, remaining invisible to the policeman just ahead.

  * * *

  The alley looks completely different in the light of day. You stop at the graffiti mural that held your attention only the night before, but now the colors seem washed out under the brilliant summer sun. Still, the dark angel has a severity in his features surprisingly lifelike for a two-dimensional image. Again, his caption speaks out to you and says, “Vou testemunhar.”

  “What does that mean?” you ask.

  Viktor, who has been looking in the alley’s detritus for some kind of clue, now examines the mural. In his hand, he holds a scrap of paper. “In this context, something like, ‘I shall bear witness.’ Life here is a cruel existence for the impoverished people of my country, and many of them turn to God for their justice—if not in this world, then in the next. It’s hard to tell if this fresco is speaking with cynicism or sincerity, but the pain of society’s abandonment is there nonetheless. I had hoped to give the people of Brazil something special with my work, but now…only God knows if that will come to pass.”

  “What’s that?” you say, indicating the paper.

  “It was on the ground here. It’s probably nothing; a bilingual tourist cheat-sheet. See? It has common phrases with their English translations and you can point to various questions like ‘What is in this dish?’ or ‘How much does this cost?’ in Portuguese and then waiters can point to the answer. It wouldn’t have belonged to my Jane. Her Portuguese is—was—almost as good as my English.”

  He glowers and tosses the paper back into the alley trash. You can’t imagine how he must feel inside, pining over his lost love and forced to relive the tragedy at the very spot of her death. Without any words to comfort him, you head into the warehouse.

  Police tape cordons off the entrance and no one is here. The room is dark and cold, an urban cave in the midst of heat and oppression. Dried blood still stains the floor and evidence cards mark the sepulcher—like flowers on a grave. You look around but don’t see anything that wasn’t here last night. You turn back to the entrance, where Viktor stands, looking aghast and nauseated.

  “I can’t do this!” he cries and flees back into the alley.

  You rush out, but he’s already vomiting in a trash bin.

  “Please step back into the warehouse,” says a gravelly voice behind you.

  Shocked, you turn around. The man is tall, well-built, his black hair close-cropped like a combat soldier’s. Clean-shaven, but there’s a thick scar along the front of his chin like you’d expect to see on someone who flew over the handlebar of a motorcycle. He wears aviator-style shooting-range glasses and his face is as pale as a skull sun-bleached in the desert. He wears all black—combat boots, tactical cargo pants, a vest to match, and skin-tight long-sleeved under-armor. He holds dual-handguns and wears black motorcycle gloves.

  In short, he’s terrifying.

  He keeps one pistol aimed on you and motions toward the door with the other pistol. His right eye follows his hand, looking off to the side, while his left eye stays staring at you. With hands raised, you sidestep gingerly toward the door.

  You duck instinctively as a trash can flies past your head. The man fires into the bin while vomit curls around the alley in a wide arc that graciously misses you.

  “Run!” Viktor shouts, shoving you inside.

  You sprint back into the crime scene and out through the same back door Viktor used last night. A bullet slams into the doorway just as you pass through it. Back on the streets, you rush into traffic and crowds of pedestrians.

  Viktor gets onto a bus and bids you to follow. With one final look back, you see your would-be assassin melt again into the shadows of the warehouse, his pistols still trained forward.

  • Get on the bus, quickly!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Cocktail Hour of Need

  Back at the hotel, he leaves you to your own devices, so you swim, shower, and then take a nap. Later that night, you head down to the hotel lobby bar to re-convene with both agents. The bar is modern and elegant, if a little small for the number of guests. There are a few tables, some Internet kiosk stations, and the bar itself. The counter is smooth and cool, with an illuminated trim that changes color in a pattern both soothing and psychedelic. Atop the bar is a mirrored bowl filled with chilling champagne—though it’s just a bit premature for celebration.

  You’re the first to arrive, so you order a drink, pointing to the sign that reads “Happy Hour Special,” followed by Portuguese words. The bartender nods and starts to prepare your libation. When it arrives, you’re taken aback by its appearance. The glass, filled with a vibrant red punch, is large enough to double as a flower vase and is garnished with a skewered orange slice, a grape, and a cherry. When you draw in on the double-large straw, you’re
greeted with a sickly sweet surge of sugar and alcohol. You pay, then carry your drink to one of the Internet kiosks.

  You’ve just signed in to your personal email account when the two agents arrive. Agent Danly heads to the bar to order. Bertram shows his badge to a table of Brazilian tourists and commandeers the table, saying, “Negócios officiais,” which causes them to clear out.

  Bertram then orders from the bartender simply by raising his pointer finger. Danly leaves a few bills on the bar, then comes to the table and sits across from Bertram. You sign off the computer and take a seat between them.

  “Nice drink, Hotshot,” Bertram scoffs.

  Unfazed, you sip on your fruit punch while the bartender brings out their orders—a glass of port wine for Danly and caipirinha for Bertram. He takes the sugarcane liquor from the server and replaces it with a folded bill.

  Sipping his drink, Bertram says, “How was your day, dear?”

  “Didn’t get too much, actually,” Danly replies, ignoring the joke. “The Brazilian police, unsurprisingly, have fuck-all for intel—and the revolver found at the crime scene has no serial number.”

  “Of course.”

  The day apart appears to have done them well, and you hope alcohol won’t spoil the camaraderie.

  “One interesting tidbit, though,” Agent Danly says. “Evidence shows Ms. Nightingale was brought into that room and left there—by multiple perps.”

  Bertram rubs his beard. “So our guy had help. Maybe the guy our Cooperating Witness spotted at the scene was an accomplice to the nutjob fiancé?”

  “I think it’s more than that. Detective dos Santos took me to Nightingale’s apartment and we found a major stash of cocaine, but something was…off. It looks like the set of a Hollywood movie, or like what someone imagines a rich white-girl party should look like. The whole thing reads like a Potemkin Village, created to discredit someone.”