The Panic Zone

by Rick Mofina

  And like the others, this image was transmitted immediately to his page at Onlinephotocapture.

  “My god!” Luiz said.

  “Unbelievable,” Gannon agreed. “Marcelo photographed the moment of his death.” He shook his head. “No one has seen these pictures, right, Luiz?”

  “No, no one knows they exist. None of the others here have thought to look for them as you did, Mr. Gannon.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. I need time to follow this up my way.”

  “But they’re so amazing. WPA’s news subscribers around the world would want these pictures.”

  “I know.”

  “And what about the police? Isn’t this evidence we should give to them?”

  “We’ll sort that out later. I need time to chase this lead. Swear to me you won’t tell anyone just yet, okay?”

  Luiz nodded.

  “Pass me that copy of the Jornal do Brasil, please.”

  Gannon spread the newspaper over the desk’s clutter so he and Luiz could study the ten victims of the bombing.

  “This one—” Luiz pressed his finger on one of the pictures “—her name is Maria Santo. She is the woman in Marcelo’s pictures, Gabriella’s source.”

  Gannon unfolded the floor plan Estralla had given him. It put Maria Santo at the table of architects and secretaries next to Gabriela, but her chair was flagged with a question mark, meaning the investigators were uncertain as to where exactly Santo was positioned.

  Marcelo’s photographs confirmed where she was seated.

  Luiz translated the newspaper’s small biography for her, telling him quickly that she was twenty-nine and had grown up in one of Rio’s harshest favelas. Her mother worked as a domestic for the wealthy, her father in a sheet-metal factory. Maria Santo had worked in shopping malls as she struggled to pursue her education, before finding work at various office jobs downtown.

  On the day she died Maria Santo was working as an office assistant at the international law firm, Worldwide Rio Advogados.

  “‘We’re saddened by this tragedy,’ said a spokesman for the firm, who would not elaborate or disclose his name,” Luiz finished reading.

  Worldwide Rio Advogados? It was familiar to Gannon from the papers he’d collected near the scene of the bombing.

  “Where are the copies of the documents I asked you to store?”

  Luiz got them from the supply room. Paging through the papers, Gannon found a few records on the letterhead of Worldwide Rio Advogados.

  These were the bloodied pages.

  Looking them over again it appeared that they held little information.

  A list of a dozen or so file numbers and a short note in Portuguese. As Luiz translated, the significance of the information dawned on Gannon.

  “Please ensure all versions of these noted files, hardcopy and electronic, are destroyed and that no record exists in the firm that makes mention of their existence, including this one which should be destroyed after these instructions are carried out.”

  Luiz looked at Gannon.

  “This woman was on to something,” Gannon said.

  Maria Santo’s eyes met Gannon’s from the front page of the Jornal do Brasil. As he stared into them, he wondered why she had needed to meet with a reporter from a global news agency.

  Why did the firm where she worked need their files to disappear?

  Were these the secrets Maria was planning to reveal in the moments before her death?

  “Luiz, I’m going to the law firm to see what I can find out.”

  14

  The offices of Worldwide Rio Advogados were in a skyscraper in Centro’s east side, near Guanabara Bay.

  As the elevator rose to the twenty-eighth floor, Gannon weighed the pros and cons of a cold visit.

  Sure, he risked being turned away. But the fact that the Jornal do Brasil had already reported the firm’s connection to the bombing might help—press interest would be expected.

  According to its Web site, Worldwide Rio Advogados was a global operation that practiced in international trade, labor, family law, international adoptions, banking, patents, corporate law and the list went on. The firm functioned in several languages, including English. Gannon had decided to go alone, realizing that his chances of obtaining new information were slim.

  Still, he had an edge.

  His agency and the law firm shared a common bond in the tragedy—they had both lost staff to the bombing.

  But it was the firm that had secrets linked to it.

  Gannon had to learn those secrets and he had to do it now because time was working against him. At any moment, someone could beat him to it. Or Estralla could force him back to New York.

  Gannon considered the bloodied pages he’d gathered from the street.

  Copies were now folded in his jacket pocket as he stepped from the elevator to a polished stone hallway and passed through the brass-plated doors of Worldwide Rio Advogados to the reception desk. The woman seated there finished a call.

  “May I help you,” she asked in English, then Portuguese.

  “Jack Gannon, from the World Press Alliance.” He placed his card on the counter. “I don’t have an appointment but I’d like to speak to Maria Santo’s supervisor. It will only take a moment.”

  “World Press Alliance?” She read his card, looked around her desk sadly as if searching for a response, then said, “Yes, please sit down. I will call someone.”

  She spoke softly into the phone as he went to the waiting area and sat in a thick-cushioned leather chair. To one side, a large window offered views of the bay and planes landing at Santos Dumont Airport. Down the hall, he saw a room with files.

  “This way, Mr. Gannon, please.” The receptionist led him to a door bearing the nameplate, Drake Stinson, then opened it for him.

  “Jack Gannon?” A tall, silver-haired, well-built man in his late fifties stood. He wore a tailored suit and a smile as he crushed Gannon’s hand in his. “Drake Stinson, I’m here by way of Washington, D.C. Always nice to see a fellow countryman—too bad about the circumstances. Have a seat. Are you hearing anything new on the investigation?”

  “Only that the victims’ names have been released. You know we lost two of our bureau people.”

  “Yes, terrible.” Stinson handed Gannon his card, and Gannon glimpsed Stinson’s title: special international counsel. “What were they doing there? Anything to do with the press reports that this was an execution in a drug war with the Colombians? Did your agency have an inside scoop?”

  Gannon cautioned himself.

  He was not there to reveal information, but to obtain it.

  “No, we think Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde just happened to be at the Café Amaldo for lunch. It’s a short walk from our bureau.”

  “I see,” Stinson said, “and I think that is how we lost Maria. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Which is why I’m here.” Gannon opened his notebook and pen.

  A hint of unease flickered across Stinson’s eyes.

  “We’re profiling the victims,” Gannon said, “and I was hoping you could tell me about Maria Santo.”

  “The firm won’t comment other than to say we are saddened by this horrible event and our thoughts go to the families of the victims.”

  “Can’t you elaborate? Both of our organizations lost people here. Can you tell me the kind of person she was?”

  Stinson shook his head.

  “Why not? You lost an employee—why not offer a few compassionate words to let people know just what kind of innocent person was murdered here?”

  “I can’t.” Stinson paused. “Would you consider going off the record?”

  “What’s the information?”

  “I have your word you will not attribute what I’m going to tell you to this firm in any way?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is terrible to say but Maria was going to be let go.”

  “Why?”

  “We think she was steal
ing files. One of the other girls saw her leave with case files in her bag and that’s a firing offence.”

  “Which files? Which case?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Any idea why she was stealing files?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she had thoughts of selling them to narco terrorists, corporate competitors of our clients, other law firms that were opposing us on cases?”

  “Would she want to go to the press about anything?”

  Stinson took a moment to assess the question.

  “You’re talking about the coincidence of Maria and your people being there at the same time?”

  “Just trying to get a sense of the files.”

  Stinson shook his head.

  “No, our files are legal mumbo jumbo, nothing newsworthy.”

  “I thought you didn’t know which case she was taking files from?”

  “I don’t, but I know the type of cases we handle and it’s really all contractual stuff.”

  “Contractual stuff—that is of interest to narco terrorists? You said she could’ve wanted to sell the files to narco terrorists.”

  “Look, the files contain personal information on some wealthy clients. Hostage-taking for ransom is a business down here. Bottom line—we really don’t know why she would be taking files,” Stinson said. “She had a rough up-bringing in one of the gang-controlled favelas. She’d been with us less than a year. Came to us through a temporary placement service, the Rio Sol Employment Agency. I hope this helps you understand our position.” Stinson stood. “And on behalf of the firm, our condolences for the loss your news organization suffered.”

  Gannon finished making notes and stood.

  “Thank you. Yes, this helps.”

  “We’re clear on quoting me then?” Stinson went to the door.

  “Right.” Gannon tucked his notebook in his jacket. “I’m curious, how did you come from Washington to be—” Gannon glanced at Stinson’s card “—special international counsel for this firm?”

  “Me?” Stinson smiled. “I’m from Connecticut—Hartford. I went to Yale, practiced in D.C. a lifetime ago. Dry government stuff, then I retired. Then my wife passed away. I couldn’t stand living alone. Submitted my CV to a global headhunting firm, got back into the game with a job here where the weather suits me. Coming from Buffalo, you’d know about winter weather.”

  Gannon stopped.

  Stinson smiled.

  “I checked you out online when we saw you on the Rio news channels. You used to write for the Buffalo Sentinel before you joined WPA. You were nominated for a Pulitzer. Interesting what you can find out about people on the Internet, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  Afterward, as he descended in the elevator, Gannon tapped his notebook to his leg trying to decide how much of what Stinson had told him was a twisted version of the truth and how much was a flat-out lie.

  In his taxi back to the bureau, he unfolded the blood-stained pages from the files Maria Santo had shown to Gabriela.

  There’s a story here, he told himself, looking off to the favelas blanketing the hillsides around Rio de Janeiro.

  15

  Big Cloud, Wyoming

  It was not the same house.

  How could it be?

  Three days after Emma had left with Joe and Tyler for a picnic by the Grizzly Tooth River, she’d returned home without them. Their ranch-style bungalow stood empty in the Bluffs, a suburb at Big Cloud’s edge.

  Emma stared at it from the car.

  Aunt Marsha squeezed her hand and hugged her tight as Uncle Ned eased the airport rental into the driveway. They sat without speaking for a long time.

  “It’s going to be hard, dear.” Her aunt smiled.

  Emma nodded.

  Uncle Ned fumbled with the house keys, the new ones he’d had cut at Gorten’s Hardware. Her aunt and uncle didn’t want her using the blood-speckled, scorched keys recovered from the SUV.

  The door opened and Emma caught her breath.

  A breeze tortured her with familiar smells: Joe’s cologne and Tyler’s sweetness. But they’re not here. She inched into the kitchen expecting the floor to collapse and drop her into a pit. She steadied herself.

  Their last moments together had been frozen in time.

  Here was Joe’s favorite coffee mug in the sink, the chipped one from Treeline Timber. He’d gulped one last cup before they’d left for the picnic. Emma traced its rim with her fingertips. And here was Tyler’s ring-toss game, the bright colored plastic donuts he’d played with before she’d bundled him up for the trip. Emma had piled the rings on the counter, on top of the flyer she’d pulled from their mailbox.

  She’d noted the sale on something they needed. She couldn’t remember what.

  How was she to know these would be the last moments of her happiness?

  Her hands were shaking.

  “Easy, honey.” Uncle Ned helped her to the sofa. Aunt Marsha got her a glass of water and pills rattling in a plastic bottle.

  “The doctor said these would help, Emma.”

  “No pills now.”

  Emma finished the water and sat motionless for a long time, listening to the clock ticking above the mantel, before she found herself walking through her home, room by room, expecting Joe and Tyler to be there.

  Wanting them to be there.

  Aching for them to be there as she touched Joe’s work shirts and thrust her face into Tyler’s blanket, muffling her screams. Bring them back. Please bring them back. She lay down on Joe’s side of the bed and questioned the distant snow-capped mountains.

  Why was God punishing her again? What had she done?

  The afternoon blurred into a flow of friends bearing salads, sandwiches and condolences, mourners in their Sunday best, smelling of perfume, mouthwash and alcohol. They touched her shoulder, kissed her cheek and embraced her, whispering words of sympathy and scripture.

  The men huddled in corners, spoke in low tones about Joe, Tyler and the “damned shame” of it all, while the women collected around Emma. These were people descended from pioneer stock, people who endured.

  Emma loved them for what they had done for her.

  But by early evening, after the majority of her visitors had left, she couldn’t remember a single word or face. A few of the women stayed behind and cleaned up. By nightfall the only people who remained were her aunt, uncle and her friend, Judy Mitchell, who taught at Emma’s school.

  “Sweetheart,” her aunt said, “Judy’s already helped us start with some of the arrangements.”

  “Arrangements?”

  “For the funerals, Em,” Judy said. “Tomorrow we’ll go with you to help finalize things.”

  Emma was numb.

  That night while Uncle Ned and Aunt Marsha slept in the spare bedroom, Emma lay alone in her bed for hours.

  She didn’t move.

  She didn’t breathe, as agony and darkness swallowed her.

  Do something.

  She went to Joe’s side of the closet and pulled out his heavy flannel shirt. The blue-and-black plaid one he wore to work each day. She slipped it on. Then she took Joe’s pillow, their bedspread and went to Tyler’s room. She stood before his empty crib. It glowed in the pure moonlight and she reached in for his stuffed bear.

  She lay on the floor, pulling Joe’s big shirt tight, feeling his warmth, his arms around her. Crushing Tyler’s bear to her face, she swore she could feel his tender cheek against hers. And in the furthest corner of her heart, Emma found a pinpoint of light.

  Hang on, she told herself. Hang on.

  The next day Emma, her aunt, her uncle and Judy Mitchell arrived at the Fenlon-Wilter Funeral Home, a grand Victorian mansion built in the late 1800s by a mining millionaire before it was sold during the Depression.

  Emma carried a small travel bag with the clothes she’d picked for Joe: faded jeans and a T-shirt, the clothes he loved. “Whatever you do, Em, don’t bury me in a damned suit. I hate them,” he’d joked t
o her one night.

  But she knew he’d meant it.

  Emma also brought Tyler’s shoes, which had been deemed his only remains and were to be placed in Tyler’s casket. She hadn’t slept and didn’t hear what the funeral director was saying.

  This is not real. I am not here. This isn’t happening.

  Emma’s aunt, uncle and Judy guided her with decisions, showed her where to sign.

  The funeral home had deep-pile carpet that absorbed sound as they moved to the viewing room where Emma agreed to a dark oak casket for Joe. She then heard the gentle strains of a harp wafting through hidden speakers as the director led them upstairs to the children’s viewing room.

  It was small, occupied with five small caskets, models for preteens, children and the pearl-white box for babies. The walls had sky-blue murals of cherubs frolicking amid clouds pierced by sunbeams.

  Emma stood there among the children’s coffins, holding Tyler’s stuffed bear, unable to think or breathe until finally she pressed her hand firmly on the Angel’s Wings model.

  That was the one.

  The funerals were at the Sun View Park Cemetery west of town.

  Two hearses and a long line of vehicles moved over the rolling range land that stretched to the mountains under an eternal blue sky. The procession, led by two deputy patrol cars from the county, came to a stop at two open graves next to mounds of dark, fresh earth. Abner Fenlon, the owner of the funeral home, and his assistants, helped the pallbearers, men who knew Joe—carpenters, electricians—and Emma’s uncle, position the caskets.

  About fifty mourners were gathered, as Reverend John Fitzgerald, who’d officiated at Emma and Joe’s wedding, produced a worn bible.

  In keeping with what Joe would have wanted, Reverend Fitzgerald spoke briefly of death and God’s love before moving on to the readings.

  Emma’s ears began ringing during the service. She did not hear Reverend Fitzgerald’s recitation of passages from Isaiah as she stared at the two caskets.

  Her breathing quickened.

  Earlier, at the funeral home, she was left alone to say goodbye to Joe before his casket was closed. His handsome face bore some scarring from the crash. A heavy coating of makeup muted his cuts and bruises. Her tears fell on him as she bent down to give him a final kiss. Emma knew and accepted that he was dead.