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

by James Schannep

  Clunk. Something slams against the starboard side of the boat. Out of curiosity and the need to stretch your legs, you go investigate. The canoes are long gone but under the dim night you see that another boat has attached itself to the side of the barge. Only this one is much larger, and instead of children with groceries, this skiff has a dozen masked men wielding firearms.

  • Run! Go find Viktor.

  • Untie that tire they’ve grappled onto.

  • Look for a weapon. Knock them off as they pop up.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Trust

  You hand her the rifle, hoping you’re not about to become the fourth body on the floor of this shanty home. It seems your faith is to be rewarded. Irma turns to the interrogated drug trafficker, placing the AK-47 back in his bloodied hands.

  “There,” she says. “They all killed each other, case closed. You and I both share in the guilt, so we know I can trust you and you can trust me. Right?”

  “We’ve both got blood on our hands,” you say.

  She looks at her palms; apparently the idiom doesn’t translate. You take her hands in yours and she looks up. “It means I trust you.”

  “Okay, but we’d better get out of here fast; the cover story only holds up so well when I’m standing here with three spent casings in my revolver.”

  You nod; time to go. Stepping over the bodies, you make your way back into the alley. There’s something ironic about killing three people while trying to catch the murderer of one person—even if the three were drug traffickers.

  As if reading your mind, Irma says, “They would have killed us if we didn’t get them first, you know that, right? The world is better off without scum like this in it.”

  Without response, you walk with her through the favela, still somewhat numb from the experience. Your trance is quickly broken by shouts and footsteps thundering down the alleyway.

  Irma takes off running and you follow. 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

  Uncovered

  You shiver under the dim glow of the city lights, though it’s plenty warm outside. This is a mistake, a voice inside whispers again and again as you walk the five minutes down to the shore. Eventually the walk is over and you stand at the border between concrete and sand, hesitating.

  Like you’re crossing a portal into another world, you force yourself through the perceived threshold and onto the beach. You’re hardly alone. Couples walk hand in hand down the shoreline and a few homeless sleep under the stars. It’s a bright night, made even brighter by the city lights behind you.

  “Do you know who that girl was?” a voice from behind asks.

  You turn to see the man from before, from the crime scene; the man with the beautiful blue eyes. Masking your apprehension, you simply shake your head “no.”

  “Didn’t you see her? I couldn’t see her face, but I’m afraid… afraid it was my Jane.” He speaks fluent English, with barely the hint of an accent. He’s Brazilian, the kind with light, almond-colored skin and black hair, the kind whose Portuguese ancestry shines through with little hint of Native or African intermingling. His blue eyes glitter with sadness and starlight. “My fiancée, my… everything. I was going to meet her there, but then…”

  “Why there? What was that room?”

  “Just a room. I thought they wanted a peace offering, to meet and…but it was all bullshit. I think they meant to kill me. I think they…I think she…” He’s rambling and his voice cracks with emotion.

  “I’m sorry,” you say. “I just don’t get it. Who is ‘they’? The agents?”

  His eyes narrow. “Who are you? What were you doing there?”

  You hesitate, then decide to be honest. “Wrong place, wrong time. I’m just a tourist.”

  “Hmm. I…shouldn’t have contacted you. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Tourist.”

  “Wait!” you shout, stopping him as he turns away. “Tell me what this is all about—please.”

  “I was hoping you’d be able to do the same. I thought you were there on purpose, that you spoiled things for them, that you were…a player. I was hoping you could lead me to Jane’s killer.”

  “They think it’s you! Let’s go tell the agents, or the police. I’m sure they could help.”

  He smiles a sad, feeling-sorry-for-you smile, then shakes his head. “You really are clueless, aren’t you? If you get in the way, they’ll kill you too. And the police? Corruption is part of everyday life here.”

  You stand in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. Then you see his face fold in thought, those blue eyes flickering back and forth over an internal argument.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “But I cannot let you tell them you saw me. Too risky.”

  You see him put a hand into his coat pocket and grab something within. Raising your hands to plead with him, you say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on there.”

  “I’m not a killer, not yet. But I will kill for Jane. I will find out who did it, I will find proof to clear my name, then I will kill them. And if you try to flee now, I’ll kill you too. I’m already wanted for murder, so what have I got to lose?”

  • “Please, we’re in this together. If they want to kill you, I’m not safe either. I can help you find your fiancée.”

  • “I’ll head back to the States, never to speak of this again. I swear it.”

  • Lie. Tell him what he wants to hear, then tell the agents the first chance you get.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Undone

  Thinking quickly, you rush over to the side and look to untie their anchor point. Bad news: all you find is smooth rope. The rope must be knotted down by the tire itself, and so you’ve got no way to untie it.

  You turn, looking to run, but you’re met by alarmed, panicky faces. Now the other passengers are awake and come to see the source of the commotion. The boat’s cook arrives with a kitchen knife held defensively, but clearly he’s too frightened to help. Families hide behind the fathers, who in turn press back against their families. Looks like you’re on your own.

  You reach out to get the knife from the cook, but he recoils in fear. You mime sawing using the edge of a flattened hand against your opposite forearm, then point to the rope. Cookie gets it and hands you the knife.

  There isn’t much time. You slide down against the rail, sawing furiously at the rope. The knife is dulled from overuse, but the rope is brittle. Strands leap away from each other as you set them free, one by one.

  The first pirate makes it to the top, smiling greedily at the throngs of terrified passengers. It’s their eyes that give you away. They can’t help it; they all look to you, sawing away at the rope.

  The pirate looks down, curious for an instant, but then screams at you in words you don’t understand. Just as he raises his AK-47, the rope finally gives and yanks him off the rail just as it snaps off the boat.

  There’s a large crash below, and looking over the side, you see that you didn’t just cut off one tire, but the entire set that hung on this side. Ropes and tires and an anchor all crash onto the pirate skiff, ensnaring the smaller boat and crippling it long enough to prevent further pursuit.

  The angry pirates fire their rifles at the barge, but the cheering of the passengers drowns them out. You look back; the terror of the growing crowd is now completely replaced by joy. You step forward to give the cook his knife back, but instead the man crushes you in a bear hug.

>   You’re a hero.

  The Captain arrives, all smiles, congratulates and thanks you in Portuguese and offers a hearty handshake. The ship’s crew rushes in and raises you on their shoulders. Cheering and jubilation begins as samba music blares over the ship’s radio and bottles of liquor are opened and passed around. Babies are placed before you to be kissed. People reach out and touch your clothes, just to be part of the moment.

  At length, Viktor arrives. “Way to go, Tourist, you’ve saved the day. But you may want to wear a cape and a mask next time; we’re trying to lay low, remember?”

  All you can do is grin.

  “I suppose we might as well enjoy ourselves,” he says.

  Viktor finds two glasses overflowing with caipirinha, puts one in your hand, and toasts to you.

  • Drink down the sugarcane liquor and dance the night away.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Unreasonable

  You tuck the laptop under one arm, scoop a stack of papers under the other, and let out a hesitant, “H-hello?”

  A man swoops into the room, handgun raised and pointed at you. Gulp. He shouts in Portuguese and another man appears in the doorway behind him. They wear black suits and gloves and have handguns drawn, but these are neither American agents nor Brazilian police, you can tell that much. These men have the look of cold, hard killers. Brazilian mafia, maybe?

  While the first man keeps his handgun trained on you, the second searches your pockets. They find the map, the key to the unit, and your American passport.

  “I’m Viktor’s lab assist—”

  The one searching you slaps his pistol across your cheek, silencing you. He takes the laptop and the papers. The other man raises his handgun to your forehead. He marches you out in front of the house, where there’s a moving van, its interior lined with plastic. It’s the last thing you’ll ever see.

  THE END

  (Un)Resolved

  You rush back to the hotel bar, flying through the streets and zigzagging past revelers. When you burst through the front door, Danly and Bertram are still here; the table is covered in empty glasses.

  The two look up at you, their eyes glassy from booze.

  “They’re here,” you say.

  “Who?” the agents ask in unison.

  “The suspect…and the Jamanta,” you huff out.

  The men shoot to their feet and Bertram removes a set of car keys from his pocket.

  “Whoa, you’re not good to drive,” Danly says. “Let’s take a cab.”

  “We’ll never get through the crowds without the sirens. Hotshot?”

  You feel a cold sweat clinging to your spine. Despite having tossed a few back tonight, you were stone-cold sober the minute you saw the blue-eyed suspect run through the crowd. You put out your palm for the keys.

  “This will get us more than suspended,” Danly says, yet he doesn’t resist.

  In an instant, the three of you are out the door and piled into the SUV with diplomatic plates. Bertram flips the sirens on and you drive through the crowd in the direction you just came from.

  “Just don’t hit anybody,” Danly says.

  People yield to the vehicle, but it’s very slow going, sort of like fording a river on horseback.

  “Can’t you just shoot in the air or something?” you ask.

  “Ummm, no. We still need a job after this,” Danly says.

  Finally, the road clears, and you start to get excited—until you see why it’s open up ahead. The road ends with a brick wall as its backboard, and there’s already a crime-scene barrier in place. A dead body lays in the center—a man. Without a doubt, it’s the suspect. His blue eyes are now a pale, ghostly white.

  The three of you get out of the SUV and approach the police tape. Detective Irma Dos Santos of the Rio police comes over to greet you.

  “What’s happened?” Danly asks.

  “It’s him,” she says, looking to you. “We got him.”

  “You shot him? What about the assassin?” you ask.

  Her eyebrow rises in confusion. “The other American agents, they….”

  She points back to the rear of the crime scene, where the replacement investigators, led by Agent Howard, mill around the body.

  “Christ,” Danly mutters.

  “The killer made an attempt on the Ambassador’s life,” she continues. “They pursued him from the Energy Summit, cornered him down here, and when he hit a dead end, he drew on the agents.”

  “He was alone?” you ask.

  The detective nods.

  “And we still don’t have an ID?” Agent Bertram asks.

  “We’ll run his prints and dental records. We’ll find out who he was.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Danly says.

  She nods again and steps back into the crime scene, leaving the three of you alone.

  “Damn, my money was on the fiance,” Bertram says. “But he just disappeared after we saw him up by Christ the Redeemer.”

  “I don’t get it,” you say. “Where the hell did Jamanta go?”

  Danly shakes his head. “The other agents must have spooked him. Their first fucking night here and they solve the goddamned murder…”

  “That’s it? Case closed?” you say.

  “What more do you want?” Danly replies. “You all but caught this guy red-handed; now he gets caught again, only this time the good guys win.”

  “It must have been politically motivated. Most of our training deals with terrorist threats like this,” Bertram says. “This guy kidnapped and interrogated Nightingale, found out where the Ambassador would be at the Energy Summit, disposed of her, and waited until tonight to go for his real target. I’d say we got lucky, Hotshot.”

  You shake your head. “That doesn’t make sense. What about Viktor? Where does he fit in? And why was an assassin—lying in wait in costume, no less—chasing the bad guy? Isn’t Jamanta a bad guy?”

  “The Devil Ray goes where there’s money,” Bertram says. “You don’t know he was chasing him; maybe he was protecting the subject? Or, if he really was chasing him, maybe the guy tried to back out and stiff Jamanta on his fees. Who knows?”

  “Listen up, Rookie. I’ve never worked on a case that doesn’t have some loose ends. Justice was served; that’s the end of it as far as we’re concerned. The official investigation team will still scrub the case file, find out who this guy was and what motivated him, and we’ll learn from it for future ops. Other than that, job well done.”

  “I guess so…” you say.

  “Know it,” Bertram adds. “You’re a hero.”

  You nod, but it feels like a hollow victory.

  • Click to Continue…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Value

  The three drug traffickers look like you just handed them a bar of gold bullion, and in a sense you did. A cheap passport forgery will cost about $300, while a high-quality job can run as high as $5K. But a used, already-in-the-system, genuine article? You might have just given these teens a year’s salary in the Rio drug trade.

  Your passport will most likely be used by terrorists or…yeah, let’s just stick with terrorists, BUT—you just handed something so valuable over that the criminals are now debating whether or not to let you go. You can always claim you lost it, and you may have just bought your life back.

  Suddenly the three men turn silent, looking toward the curtained door. Then you hear it too—a powerful engine growling close. One of the teens peers out.

  “BOPE! Tropa de Elite!” he reports.

  “Elite Squad,” Viktor translates. “Police special forces. Easily one of the most extreme combat forces on the planet. They’re pacifying this favela! We need to get out of here, now.”

  The three young drug lords are equally terrified. With a great BOOM, the favela is rocked by an explosion. In panic, one of them flees. The other two watch him go, deciding if it’s a worthy choice, and eventually decide that it is.

  You pounce on Falador, ready to attack and ge
t your passport back, but the young man is so frightened that he drops not only that, but his AK-47 as well. He trips over his own feet running out of the hovel, leaving the two of you alone.

  As you pick up your passport, Viktor claims the assault rifle. He checks to see if it’s loaded, then gives you a knowing nod. You put your passport away and claim the sub-machinegun from Viktor’s pack.

  • Escape the slums!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Victory Pizza

  The restaurant’s red flag sails above the entry to hail your arrival. You find Viktor in a rear booth, waiting for you. The building’s exterior walls are all glass, giving a panorama of street life while saving you from the sounds of traffic and the smell of the street vendors’ food offerings.

  You sit down across from Viktor, feeling the smooth pleather/vinyl seat beneath you, its surface polished by a thousand rear ends. The waiter gives you a menu and a glass of water, then leaves.

  “How did it go on your end?” Viktor asks.

  You grin, lean back, and tuck your hands behind your head. “Nothing to it.”

  “Deposited the note and nobody saw you?”

  You shrug. “How’d your side go?”

  His shoulders sink. “‘I was too late. Mafia cleanup crew was already packing the place up. It would have been nice to have my laptop, but it’s not essential. They’ll never crack my computer security. The garage was the important step; well-done.”

  “So what’s next?” you ask.

  “Lunch. Take a look at the menu; everything’s good here. I recommend the Gino’s Combo if you’re torn.”

  The waiter returns and you order a pizza and a pint of their finest beer on tap. After a moment, you ask the burning question in your mind. “So who do you think killed her, and why?”