“I’ve got ten, if you please,” the man says.
Danly nods. “Can we get the conference room?”
His forefingers extended, the RSO points at a young office worker, points to you, then the conference room. He steps back into his office.
“Meet you in ten minutes,” Danly says to you before stepping into his supervisor’s office and closing the door behind him.
“Exciting case, huh?” the office worker asks.
“Oh, yeah,” you say. “You wouldn’t believe the night I had last night.”
“I’ll bet,” he says, showing you into the conference room.
In quick, practiced moves he converts the room for video teleconferencing, wishes you good luck, then leaves you alone. A minute later, Danly arrives.
“We’re going to the embassy in Brasilia after this,” he says, logging into the computer.
“Why? I thought we were getting close?”
“We are, but the Ambassador wants a personal update. It’s fine—I wanted to look into the drug angle and I’ll need to review her records and talk to her supervisors there. But get ready for a long night; it’s about a twelve-hour drive into the interior and I’m exhausted, so you’ll need to take the wheel.”
Great, you think.
Suddenly the large, flatscreen TV flickers from “no input” to a crystal-clear picture. Agent Bertram is on the screen in his shirtsleeves, larger than life.
“Are we live? Hello?”
“Good to go,” Bertram replies. “Catch the guy yet?”
“Actually, I did have a major breakthrough last night, when I was visiting the favelas. We found—”
“Glad you’re still alive, by the way.”
Agent Danly’s face frowns with impatience. “As I was saying. We found a drug trafficker who claims his gang was the one to kill Jane Nightingale.”
Bertram’s eyes pop. “Whoa, really? You make an arrest?”
“Not yet. The interesting thing is, they say she wasn’t involved in drugs, even after what we found at her apartment. It looks like they were paid to kill her, plain and simple. It looks like…a hit. And—get this—I think I saw your ’merc; the Man in Black. I think he was tailing me.”
“The same guy, are you sure? Think he was the one who pulled the trigger?”
Danly shakes his head. “The traffickers have their own hit-men. I talked with Elite Squad, and they recognized the guy. They call him Jamanta.”
“As in—The Devil Ray?”
“The same,” Danly says. “A ridiculous urban legend, but apparently he’s a platinum-level assassin, way too big-budget for this kind of thing.”
“Fuck me,” Bertram says. “The kind of budget you might have behind you if you were a rock-star scientist. I think the fiance might’ve hired himself some protection, and if you saw the muscle, that means we’re getting close.”
“Who is the Jamanta?” you say. “I’d like to hear the legend.”
Bertram looks to make sure the door is secure, then leans in. In a low voice, he says, “Raymond Panoptes, AKA, ‘Devil’ Ray Panoptes, AKA, ‘The Devil Ray’, AKA, ‘O Jamanta.’ He’s supposedly an ex-DSS agent.”
“Bullshit, it’s just an urban legend,” Danly says, waving the suggestion away.
“He started off as a helicopter pilot, and that’s how you’ll recognize him; he has those wonky eyes.”
You scowl, so Danly elaborates. “Apache pilots’ helmets have a monocle resting in front of their right eye that feeds them flight and weapon information. The other eye looks outside the cockpit, scanning for threats and watching the terrain, so the pilots develop the ability to use their eyes independently. That much is true.”
“Right!” Bertram says. “I’ve even heard about some guys who can read two different books at once, so shooting at two targets is child’s play for somebody like this.”
“Apache pilots are real, and maybe he is one, but the Devil Ray doesn’t exist,” Danly says.
Bertram continues, “Supposedly, after he got out of the service, he joined the DSS. Many of our recruits are vets, so that much isn’t farfetched. Legend has it, he was an agent back in the early ’90s, when Ambassador Mays was an RSO, right here in Brazil, but Raymond had to be cut loose. He got a taste for killing and couldn’t give it up. He would shoot a ’perp when he could have simply arrested the guy, and he would take the law into his own hands when he couldn’t get a warrant. One day, when he was supposed to be tried for his illegal vigilantism, he just disappeared.”
Bertram waves his hands back and forth, his fingers waggling, as he says the final word.
“And… bullshit,” Danly coughs. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground on this Man in Black character, but he’s an effect, not a cause. Let’s stay focused on the case and the crime-world angle. I’ve got a real tangible lead here after last night.”
“Did you get a name on who pulled the trigger?” you ask.
Danly looks to you. “No, but this is bigger than some petty crime. We’ll get that lowlife, for sure, but what we really want to know is who ordered the hit. That’s the million-dollar question, Rookie.”
“We need tangible proof that the fiance paid somebody to kill his lady,” Bertram says.
Danly looks back to the screen. “The informant mentioned that it was backed with ‘sugar money.’ As in, the sugarcane mafia.”
Bertram pops out of his chair. “Jesus, we’re slurping on the same spaghetti noodle here.”
“What do you mean?” Agent Danly presses.
“As in, if we get any closer, we’ll be kissing.”
“No, what, goddammit, you know what I mean—what did you find?”
“Dr. Viktor, he’s made some discoveries that could put sugarcane out of business. And sugarcane is in big business.” Bertram scratches his beard. “Maybe our friend the good doctor made an illegal deal with the Sugar King, Nightingale got word of it, and he had to silence her before she reported him to the ol’ U-S of A.”
“Bingo,” Danly says. “He plants the drug evidence in her apartment—he’s no criminal, so it looks wrong—and the sugar lords agree to help silence his girlfriend. They hire drug traffickers to kill her, to keep the ruse, but they spend the real money on protection.”
“So you’re back on Team Fiance?” Bertram asks.
“I’ve always been on Team Evidence,” Danly says gruffly.
“It’s all connected…” you marvel.
Bertram puts his jacket back on. “There’s a gigantic sugarcane plantation between us and you. If he made an allegiance for money, it’s most likely there. That’s what I’ll check out.”
Danly nods. “Be careful. I’m going to the Embassy in Brasilia to put to bed this whole drug thing once and for all, and to share what we’ve found with the Ambassador. He’ll want to hear this.”
“Perfecto, Dano. Bertram out.” He severs the connection, and the screen goes back to blank.
Agent Danly shuts off the machinery on this end, then checks his watch. “You might want to grab some coffee. We’ll gas up and grab some energy drinks too. If we drive all night, we should be there just in time for the embassy to open.”
* * *
One of the few purpose-built metropolises in the world, Brasilia comes from nowhere—a modern city carved from jungle, built to be a utopia of logic and innovation. The periphery of the city struggles against the jungle’s attempts to reclaim the territory with green vines strangling the white buildings.
You arrive at Brazil’s capital just after sunrise, a soft light on the horizon and the electricity of the city still beaming. You’re exhausted and stiff from your all-nighter spent behind the wheel, but fortunately Danly wasn’t able to sleep much and offered to drive the last stretch while you napped.
Inside the über-organized interior of Brasilia, the city is sleek and clean, built from architecture that looks like 1950s sci-fi imaginings of the future. As part of this serial organization, a large chunk of the city is reserved for embassies and g
overnment offices, and that’s where Agent Danly heads now.
But first—breakfast. You head into a Portuguese bakery, its shelves lined with what looks to be…
“Doughnuts?” you say.
“Malasadas!” Danly replies, far too excited after the night you just shared. “You can get plain, cinnamon, or get them filled with custard, chocolate, coconut, guava, fruits—you name it.”
“So… jelly doughnuts?”
“Not hardly. You won’t get malasadas this good outside of Leonard’s in Hawaii. Go ahead, try one, you’ll change your tune.”
The fried bread is warm and rich, light and flaky on the outside, puffy just beneath the surface, and the gooey center sweet and creamy. From the look of seventh-heaven on your face, Danly says, “Told ya so.”
He orders two dozen malasadas and, of course, an enormous coffee. The city lights are now extinguished, the morning sun hangs low in the sky, and palms sway as you ride in the SUV toward the embassy.
With white-washed walls reaching high into the sky and razorwire-topped fences, the embassy looks more like a federal prison than a place of refuge. You proceed inside, the barrage of security procedures going by in a blur to your sleep-deprived mind.
You snap wide awake as you go down a long corridor past armed marines toward the office of the Ambassador—the most senior US official inside Brazil at any given moment, short of a Presidential visit.
There’s a large waiting room with several couches and a desk for the Ambassador’s assistant, who is short and thin with prematurely grey-flecked hair. He is wearing a finely tailored suit and speaks with three other men—each dwarfing his own slight stature. They all look toward you as you enter.
“Well, well, Stuart Danly,” the first of the three men says. He’s tall and square-jawed, his blond hair meticulously combed to one side and pressed down at the ears where his sunglasses normally rest.
“Howard,” Danly says in greeting.
The other men—both built like smokestacks—smile at Agent Danly’s grimace. One is black and the other an islander; they both look like they dropped out of the NFL and into private security. Which is entirely possible.
“If you’re done playing cowboy,” the blond man says with mock hand-pistols shooting in the air, “time to let the professionals take over.”
His two cronies chuckle. Danly does not.
“Are those malasadas? That’s one way to make yourself useful….”
“They’re not for you,” Danly says, swinging the box away from the man’s grasp like a spoiled child unwilling to share his ball.
“The Colonel will see you now,” the assistant says, his arm open toward the door.
“Sure would’ve helped your career if you’d solved this case before we showed up, huh?” Howard says as a parting shot. “Too bad….”
The assistant shows the three men in, closes the door behind them, then returns to the desk. As he sits, he says, “It will be just a few minutes, Agent Danly.”
You look to your partner for explanation. “Remember when I said there’d be an official investigation team here within 72 hours? Time’s up.”
“What does that mean for us?” you ask.
Danly sighs. “We’ll find out soon, I’m sure.”
“Maybe he’ll let you stay on the investigation once you share how much we’ve found out.”
“What exactly have we found out?” Danly snaps. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it just feels… over. Agent Howard is old Army buddies with the Ambassador, so he’s going to be lead investigator for sure.”
“Is that why they call him ‘the Colonel?’”
Danly nods. “He retired as a full-bird from the Army before getting into the Foreign Service.”
The assistant rises from his chair and says, “He’ll see you now, Agent Danly.”
“Stay here, Rookie. We’ll call you in soon.”
When the door opens, a voice booms out, “Paul, come take notes, will you?”
“And bring in those malasadas, Danly,” Howard calls.
With stooped shoulders, Danly proceeds. Paul, the assistant, rushes back to the desk, grabs a pad of paper, and enters the office behind Agent Danly.
The door closes; you’re alone. The Ambassador’s office is thick and insulated; you can’t hear anything above a murmur from within.
How to pass the time?
• Take a seat; just relax until I’m called in.
• Peruse the many plaques and awards on the wall.
• Take a peek at the assistant’s computer screen.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Interrogation
Not for nothing, you’re up and chasing a kid who wields an AK-47 while you hold only the knowledge that a child soldier typically has less remorse than a serial killer. You sprint away from the battle in the street, racing across the rooftop in an effort to catch up with a seventeen-year-old who spends his days and night fleeing from danger. So yeah, he’s faster than you.
Without even thinking about it, you’re on to the next rooftop as part of your pursuit. It’s conjoined, like most of the buildings in the favela, and allows you a bird’s-eye view of your prey. Even the buildings that aren’t connected are so close that you can easily hop from one to another, as you’re doing now. There are precious few streets as wide as the one behind you with the armored car in it.
Irma makes a leap across the alleyway—her legs outstretched like an Olympic hurdler’s—in an effort to cut off the boy, should he veer to the right. But he veers left. The detective waves at you, signaling you to try and cut him off.
Pushing yourself to your limit, you dash across the rooftop in a diagonal line. Before you know what’s happened, you’ve jumped off of the building and are careening toward the boy. You collide with him, both of you falling into one of the slum’s many trash heaps. That does slow the force of impact, but man, does it stink.
His eyes wide and terrified, the boy freezes. There’s an explosion from back in the street near Elite Squad and the armored car. You reflexively turn your head toward the sound, but you can’t see anything from here. Sensing your momentary distraction, the boy elbows you in the face. Stinging pain rises through your nose and sends a rush of tears to your eyes. While you shake off your daze, he scrambles to claim his assault rifle, only to find it firmly pressed against the pavement under a woman’s running shoe.
Looking past the shoe to a jean pant leg, then to a banana-yellow soccer jersey, he sees Detective Irma Dos Santos pointing a small service revolver at his head. The boy mutters something in Portuguese, then rolls back to sit up with his palms raised high.
“We need to get off the streets,” Irma says. “I can hold him, but if his friends show up, we’re in trouble.”
You stand, shake off the garbage, and look inside the nearest hovel where a young woman holds her baby tight. She cries, silently sobbing and shivering. Her upper lip trembles, shiny with mucous. She rocks back and forth, unable to take her eyes off you.
Irma shoves the boy inside, instructs the woman to leave, waits as she flees with her child, and then hands you the AK-47.
“Hold onto this,” she says. “Don’t worry, I told her to go stay with friends.”
She has a brief, impassioned conversation with the boy, who sits on the couch after Irma directs him to do so with her pistol. “His nickname is Falador —the mouth. If he got the name because he talks too much, you might be in luck. Ask your questions and I’ll translate.”
Another explosion rocks through the slums, this one even louder. You feel the impact; it’s like the tremor from an earthquake; dust cascades from a crack in the ceiling.
“Be quick; we want to be gone before his friends come looking.”
You nod. “Ask him if he’s heard of the murdered American woman; that’s a start.”
She asks him in Portuguese and he answers. At the end, he looks at you and spits on the ground. Irma translates: “He says the only murdered American around here is going to be you wh
en his friends show up.”
• “Ask him again, more forcefully.”
• “Tell him we’re not after him or his friends; just the truth. He must have lost someone….”
• “I don’t have the stomach for this; he’s not going to tell us anything. Let’s go before the others find us.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Intercepted
“Just tell the bus driver you need to go to the Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro,” Viktor tells you. “My place is within walking distance of the University.” After drawing a quick map and writing down the address for you, Viktor gives you the key to his unit and sends you on your way. 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.
You exit at the bus stop, look around to get your bearings, and unfold the map Viktor gave you. It’s written on that same checkered-green paper, and the boxes make his map uniform and—surprisingly—to perfect scale. Leave it to an engineer….
Using the soccer stadium as reference, you start on your route. Around the corner from the university, past the larger and more expensive houses, is a series of duplexes. They’re off the main road and appear to be spacious and new enough to be expensive in their own right. Coupled with an ideal location (it was a rather short walk), and the visual appeal of a lush, forested backdrop, you can assume Viktor must have been doing something right to afford such lodgings.
You had expected to see the apartment complex surrounded by police tape, with federal agents swarming like an ant hill of investigators, but this isn’t a television show. It’s not “cue the crime…and cut to the investigation” in real life. It’s probably too early for them to have pinpointed his address, but they’ll be here soon enough, so you’d better hurry.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 18
