The Panic Zone

10

The officers took Gannon to a patrol car in front of the building.

They took his cell phone, his bag, searched it for weapons, locked it in the trunk, then held the rear door open for him. The back reeked of lemon-scented cleaner, perspiration and vomit.

The officers laughed at a private joke as they drove.

The radio issued coded transmissions. As the cop in the passenger seat worked on the keyboard of the car’s small computer terminal, Gannon studied himself in the rearview mirror. Day two in Brazil and here he was in the backseat of a Rio police car. The officers didn’t speak to him as they sailed through Centro’s traffic. He had spent enough time on the crime beat in Buffalo to know that he was nothing more than a package to be delivered. They hadn’t put him in cuffs. They hadn’t been rough. This had to be about last night, or something about Gabriela and Marcelo.

He’d find out soon enough.

They went several blocks before turning onto Rua da Relacao and stopping in front of a fourteen-story building-Gannon counted the levels-that looked like an attempt at 1970s Soviet disco-era architecture.

The sign in front said, Policia Civil.

The officers got his bag and escorted him into a packed elevator. He’d lost track of the floors by the time they reached their destination.

They went down a hall to the squad room. Plainclothes detectives were talking on the phone, reading reports or interviewing people. Gannon’s escorts stopped at an empty desk and put him in a folding hard-back chair beside it.

“Don’t move.”

“What about my passport and bag?”

They ignored him and walked away.

Gannon looked at the desk pushed against the wall to the left that displayed a framed degree from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. He couldn’t read the name on it.

Under the degree was a corkboard with a calendar, along with memos and an enlarged photograph of a man and boy holding up fish by a mountain lake. The man held up a tiny fish while the boy struggled with a catch that was over two feet long.

Gannon recognized the man as Roberto Estralla. The boy looked to be about ten and had Estralla’s smile. Gannon glanced at the desk, a copy of today’s Jornal do Brasil with the ten victims, file folders, a notebook, and something titled Cafe Amaldo, which looked like a floor plan.

Gannon was about to lean in for a better view when a hand reached across him from behind and snapped a business card on the table for Hotel de nove palmas.

His hotel.

Estralla then dropped Gannon’s bag and cell phone on his desk before he deposited himself into his chair. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, his ID and a shoulder holster holding a pistol.

He set Gannon’s passport on the desk, then tossed a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing hard as he assessed Gannon.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Gannon?”

“I’d like to know what’s happening. My bureau in New York will be notifying the U.S. consulate.”

“Last night,” Estralla said, “officers at the bomb scene chased a man acting suspiciously in an alley. This hotel card fell from his pocket as he fled. They saw him get into a taxi then contacted the company. After further investigation at your hotel this morning, and by the description and time, we’ve concluded it was you, Jack Gannon.”

Estralla leaned forward.

“What were you doing at the crime scene?”

Gannon’s pulse quickened as the circumstances rose around him. No matter what explanation he offered, he would lose. The threat of expulsion was real. He glanced at Estralla’s fishing photo, reasoning Estralla had a human side. All he could do was play to it.

“When I met you at the scene,” Gannon said, “and later watching the TV news reports, I noticed the wind was scattering papers from the explosion. So I went to the alleys nearby and collected all the papers I could find.”

“These are the papers?”

Estralla removed the originals from Gannon’s bag and began flipping through them carefully.

“I am seizing these.”

“But they’re mine.”

Estralla shrugged.

“I don’t understand why your crime scene people did not protect this kind of potential evidence,” Gannon said.

“They did.”

“Did they? Their work was sloppy. It’s probably why you have trouble clearing crimes down here. That and the reputation Brazilian police have with human rights groups.”

Estralla’s eyes narrowed at Gannon.

“Are the LAPD and the NYPD without sin? And didn’t London police shoot dead an innocent man? A Brazilian student, they wrongly suspected of being a terrorist? All police should not be judged by the actions of a few.”

Gannon chided himself for saying something so asinine to the cop holding his passport.

“I apologize-I was out of line,” Gannon said. “Maybe it’s the stress of two murdered colleagues and of flying down here on short notice where I don’t know the language or the culture, or much else.”

Estralla resumed chewing his gum and reappraised Gannon.

“We had nets on the scene, but removed them to take photographs and give the dog unit access. We were slow to return them.”

“Look,” said Gannon. “Now that I’ve explained everything, may I leave with my belongings?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have the impression you know more about why Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde were at the cafe, more than you’re telling me.”

“If I help you, will you help me? Not as cop to reporter, but as two men trying to learn the truth about the murders?”

“We make no deals with journalists.”

“I think you do.” Gannon tapped the Jornal do Brasil.

Estralla’s chewing slowed as he thought.

Gannon took his shot at the cop’s human side.

“So, how did you come to attend John Jay in Manhattan?”

“My father was a diplomat at the UN. We lived in New York for ten years.”

“Then you know the city better than I do. I moved there from Buffalo a few months ago.”

“Home of the Bills.”

“You a Bills fan? You like American football?”

Estralla shifted his weight in his chair and changed the subject.

“At this moment, my partner is preparing the documentation for your expulsion. You should tell me what you know now.”

Gannon let a few moments pass. This was it.

“There’s a small recorder in my bag, may I play it for you?”

Estralla nodded and Gannon played Gabriela’s last message.

“We were aware of the message,” Estralla said. “Gabriela’s husband transcribed it for us but said that in his grief he accidentally erased it.”

“That may be, but he forwarded it to a WPA colleague. I recorded it.”

Gannon played it again for Estralla who listened intently.

“The part about documents is important,” Gannon said. “I think these documents can lead us to the source. Her source could have been among the dead or injured. Did you create a seating map, showing where everyone was sitting at the time of the blast?”

Estralla thought, then placed a call, speaking quickly in Portuguese before coming back to Gannon.

“Nothing we discuss must be published. We can charge you with tampering with a crime scene. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“There are many theories we and the DFP are following. Because Angella Roho-Ruiz is among the victims, the narco-terrorist link is one. But criminal intelligence from the favelas to Bogota has yielded nothing to back it up.”

“What are the other theories?”

“An employee who was fired last month for stealing cash threatened to come back to the cafe and kill everyone. We have yet to find this ex-worker and confirm his whereabouts.”

“That’s it?”

“The restaurant was badly managed and carrying massive debts. But it was heavily insured. We received a tip that one of the owners had made inquires to criminals about arson bombs.”

“Does the physical evidence point to anything, the type of bomb? The materials used? Is there a signature?”

“We’ve found nothing conclusive so far. It was very professional.”

“And the seating map?”

Estralla opened a folder and showed him the detailed diagram.

“This was composed based upon where we found the bodies, food orders and our subsequent interviews with the survivors.”

Gannon saw circles representing the tables, and the names, as Estralla explained the symbols for the dead and the injured.

“Marcelo Verde was here, alone.” Estralla touched the table by the window overlooking the patio. “We found his camera. It was destroyed by flying debris and the fire. And Gabriela was here.”

Estralla pointed at the square representing her table. No other names were assigned to it.

“She was alone?” he asked.

“No one can place anyone there at the time of the blast. Some recalled seeing a woman with Gabriela, others contradicted them. It means we still have a lot of work to do.”

Estralla passed Gannon his bag and stood.

“The officers will return you to your bureau.”

“May I have my passport?”

“No. Your visit remains under police scrutiny.”

“How about a copy of that floor plan?”

Estralla looked at it, chewing his gum thoughtfully.

“From one Bills fan to another?” Gannon asked.