Dead Heat: BookShots (Book Shots) Read online

  ‘What the hell?’

  I shrug and she frowns.

  ‘Easiest missing-person case we’ve ever solved, I guess.’

  I glance back up to the screen, but Gilmore has gone. Instinctively I move forward from my seat and push up against the waist-high metal bars separating us from the arena. An official heads towards me, but I show him my badge and he backs off. Instinct tells me to keep my badge out, chained around my neck, as I sense Paz on my shoulder. We search out the Australian team and, in the distance, I can see Gilmore leading them towards us in the parade. Fifty yards away, maybe. He is holding the flag in one hand, and in the other he has his javelin, symbolically held aloft as he leads his team forward.

  ‘Is that even allowed?’ Paz asks.

  I shrug again, as my stomach starts to tighten slightly. As we watch, Gilmore hands his flag to a teammate. I can see that it’s Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower. Gilmore turns and looks our way and, with his javelin held aloft, steps away from his team and begins to jog slowly against the flow of the parade, directly towards us.

  Gilmore picks up pace, heading for the presidential party with his javelin held aloft. All at once, I am convinced something terrible is about to happen. I see his arm pull back into a throwing position, and finally the President and the crowd around her see the danger. Gilmore arches his back, ready to sling his javelin forward.

  A woman next to me screams, but the music pumps on. Suddenly I’m aware of the gun in my hand and the cold metal of the trigger on my finger. I do not choose to fire; I don’t make any conscious decision. It just happens. Three times, straight into the chest of Tim Gilmore. He twists and falls to the floor, and I watch a security team spill out from the VIP section and drag his lifeless body away out of sight. A huddle of nearby athletes watch on, horrified, but soon they are swept away in the tide of others. My gunshots were lost in the explosion of fireworks, and the TV cameras are pointing elsewhere. The show goes on.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Paz says, and I turn to find her right next to me, badge out and gun drawn. ‘What the hell just happened?’

  Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower, is walking against the tide of athletes and is staring straight at us. A tight scrum of security guards is moving the President away from the arena, but the parade continues and the fireworks still explode and the lights continue to flash. And the only thing that has changed in the world is that I’ve got a sinking feeling that Tim Gilmore is dead.

  CHAPTER 4

  ABOUT A MINUTE after Tim Gilmore hits the floor, a group of Policia Militar arrive and bundle Paz and me towards the exit. Paz twists back in time to see Juliana grab hold of Felipe, and then falls into line with me and the boots and the berets, because there is no point fighting them. Nobody says anything until we are deep enough into the bowels of the Maracanã that the fireworks are no more than muffled thuds and the crowd is a distant memory.

  ‘He’s Tim Gilmore,’ I say, looking at the tall military policeman leading the way.

  He stops walking and turns round to face me, his eyes shining with a potent cocktail of machismo and adrenalin.

  ‘He went missing yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘We’ve been investigating since five a.m. this morning.’

  The tall commander inches closer to me and puts a rough hand on my chest.

  ‘This is my stadium,’ he says. ‘My jurisdiction. And I didn’t ask you to talk, old-timer.’

  The commander is dressed for action, with his black protective vest over navy combat gear. He has a gun strapped to one thigh and another across his chest. None of it impresses me. I’m wondering whether Tim Gilmore is dead or alive, and this guy is worrying about the size of his jurisdiction. I ignore his guns and grandeur and look him in the eye.

  ‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to speak.’

  ‘You sure as hell need my permission to shoot in a restricted area,’ he says, jutting his chin and getting in my face to emphasise the point. ‘You’re lucky we didn’t fire back.’

  He pushes at my chest to see if I’ll yield. I don’t. Instead, I slowly bring my hand up and take hold of his thumb. He is twenty years younger than me, but one of nature’s laws says that if you bend a man’s thumb back, he has only two options, regardless of how tough he is. Either he moves with the pressure, or he waits for the bone to snap. Moving with the pressure goes something like this: you move your wrist to compensate for the pressure on your thumb. Then you’re forced to move your elbow to compensate for your wrist; your shoulder for your elbow; your hips for your shoulder; and eventually you’re on the floor in front of all the men in your unit.

  I see reality dawning in his eyes as he begins to yield to my pressure. Yielding to the old-timer. Our eyes are still locked when I sense the atmosphere change. A new team of tough guys break through the circle of men who are surrounding me and Paz. From within the new group the President emerges without breaking her stride. I let go of the commander’s thumb and he turns to face her.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he says, his voice laced with authority and crackling with ambition.

  She comes straight to the point.

  ‘Who was the guy with the spear?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure.’

  ‘His name is Tim Gilmore,’ I say, and everybody turns and looks at me. ‘He’s the Australian team captain. He was reported missing overnight by his coach, and we have been actively looking for him since about five a.m. this morning. His coach was concerned because he’s been suffering from some anxiety issues.’

  ‘And who are you?’ the President asks.

  ‘He’s the guy who shot the athlete,’ the tall commander says. ‘Don’t worry, we’re dealing with him.’

  The President raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re dealing with him?’

  ‘Ma’am, we have strict regulations that say we should shoot as a last resort. Two billion people around the world are watching on TV, and our protocols are designed to protect Brazil’s image and reputation.’

  The President shakes her head.

  ‘Your protocols nearly had me skewered.’

  She turns to me and takes hold of my hand.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Carvalho.’

  She turns away from me and holds my hand aloft, as if I’m Barão do Amazonas, the hero from classical legend, returning from Riachuelo. I’m not comfortable with it at all.

  ‘This man is a hero,’ she says. ‘Anyone who treats him differently will answer to me, understand?’

  She gives the commander a barbed look, before settling her gaze back on me.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘I want to know what happened to Tim Gilmore. He’s a young man and he’s trained his whole life to be here.’

  The presidential eyebrow rises in anticipation as she waits for the commander to speak.

  ‘Gilmore’s dead.’

  ‘There you go,’ the President says. ‘You did your job, Carvalho. And if you hadn’t, then I would be dead right now. Whatever happened was his choice, not yours.’

  Then she’s gone. I feel sick to my stomach, thinking about Gilmore lying dead in some other corridor nearby, while most of the people outside have no idea what has happened. I’ve shot plenty of people, but this one certainly doesn’t make me feel good.

  ‘Get a statement from Oscar Ryan,’ I tell the commander. ‘He was right next to Gilmore. Find out what he said.’

  The Policia Militar melt away without an apology and I am left facing Paz across the corridor.

  ‘Come on,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Let’s get home. At least we can beat the crowds.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘YOU JUST SAVED the President from being killed,’ Paz says as she drives us back across the city. ‘That’s pretty good work, Carvalho.’

  In the night sky behind us, a million fireworks are exploding above the Maracanã. As Paz puts some distance between us and the burning sky, I can feel a familiar post-traumatic gloom beginning to settle.

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p; ‘You can’t kill a president with a javelin, in full view of a packed stadium,’ I say. ‘It’s a hopeless plan. Doomed to failure. Tim Gilmore was on a suicide mission. He must have known that someone would shoot him. It just turned out to be me. The question is: why?’

  My phone beeps and I look at the screen.

  ‘It’s from Juliana,’ I tell Paz. ‘One of the guys took her and Felipe back home.’

  I breathe out and watch the streetlights pulsing rhythmically across the dashboard.

  ‘Are you feeling alright, Carvalho? You want to stop for a beer or something?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m all done with today.’

  Paz says nothing for a long minute.

  ‘You did what you had to do, Carvalho. You know that, right?’

  I look across at her.

  ‘It’s easy to justify,’ I tell her. ‘Harder to live with.’

  She drives another mile without saying a word. She grabs a box of Belmonts from the dashboard, pulls one out with her teeth and then offers me the pack, even though she knows I don’t smoke.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Paz looks across at me.

  ‘Are you?’

  Her voice is unusually soft, but before she can follow up, her phone bleeps. She shifts in her seat and pulls her phone from her back pocket. She holds it up and tries to read the text as she drives, and the car instantly veers towards the kerb.

  ‘I hate it when you do that,’ I tell her, and she shrugs, which is as close to an apology as I’m going to get. She hands me the phone and turns her eyes back on the road. She looks tired. It’s been a long day.

  ‘It’s from Vivo Movel,’ I tell her. ‘Gilmore’s phone records. He didn’t call the number we found at the apartment, but he rang another athlete last night.’

  Paz glances over impatiently.

  ‘Lucas Meyer. A South African wrestler. Heard of him?’

  Paz shakes her head.

  ‘Do you think he was involved in trying to kill the President?’

  ‘If Gilmore had told anyone what he was planning, they would have told him it was a hopeless idea. So no, I don’t imagine Meyer was involved. He can wait until the morning.’

  Paz rolls the Fiat to a halt on the kerb outside my house. Felipe is in the window waiting for her.

  ‘You’d better be right,’ Paz says. ‘Because otherwise I’m going to be retiring at the same time as you.’

  PART 2

  LUCAS MEYER

  CHAPTER 6

  I’VE PLAYED FRIDAY-NIGHT dominoes with Igor Morales in the back room here at Casas Pedro for the past twenty years, and I have been meeting Vitoria Paz here since the day she became my partner. This morning the old bar is full of worn-out partygoers, and it smells of last night’s beer. I take a coffee outside to a bright-red plastic chair that rocks on the uneven pavement when I sit.

  The bar is hidden in the labyrinth of streets behind the Botafogo high-rises, and most of the drinkers here are Brazilians who know how to party. Some of the women still have green-and-gold paint streaked across their faces. The TV is showing pictures of the opening ceremony, and pictures of Tim Gilmore being dragged into an ambulance at the back of the Maracanã. It’s not a great start to the day. I stir my coffee and mull over the events of the previous night. If I hadn’t shot Gilmore, somebody else would have done the job. And if nobody else had done the job, the President would be dead.

  None of it makes me feel any better.

  I’m halfway down the coffee when Paz slips into the seat in front of me, the red plastic legs scraping their complaint on the rough pavement. Her dark complexion can’t hide the rings under her eyes and she lets out a long sigh. She looks pretty much how I feel.

  ‘Problem?’

  She waves towards the bar, calling for coffee.

  ‘Not especially,’ she says, avoiding my eye.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Always start with the bad.’

  Paz is about to speak when the barman arrives. She orders the same mud-thick coffee as me, then shifts back in her chair and runs a hand through her mop of spiralling hair.

  ‘Captain’s not too happy.’

  I shrug. That’s nothing new.

  ‘He’s getting a lot of heat.’

  Despite the gloom, I laugh. I am genuinely surprised at his naivety.

  ‘What the hell did he expect?’

  Paz’s coffee arrives and she flashes the barman her broad smile. He melts for a moment, before backing away and stumbling into a plastic chair. Paz’s smile drops as she turns back to me.

  ‘He says you’d be suspended right now, if it wasn’t for the President stepping in.’

  I fold my copy of O Globo and place my empty coffee cup on top of it. I’m seriously considering having a proper drink.

  ‘What’s the good news?’

  Paz swilled the last of her espresso around her tiny cup.

  ‘I know where to find Lucas Meyer.’

  Half an hour later we’re muscling through the crowds at the Carioca Arena, on our way to ask Lucas Meyer why Tim Gilmore phoned him the night before he died. The Carioca is a utopian dreamscape; everything is brand new and gleaming, and every pair of eyes is shining with excitement.

  ‘Makes you proud, huh?’ Paz says as we push along the concourse towards the stands. We pass thriving soda concessions and food stalls, and the noise of the crowd grows as we get to the hall itself. We emerge high in the stands, surrounded by thousands of fans. The arena floor is bright blue, and men are fighting inside bright-yellow competition rings. We head down the stairs. The closer we get to the wrestlers, the bigger and tougher they look. Paz puts a friendly hand on my back as we approach.

  ‘Just like looking in the mirror, eh, Carvalho?’

  I smile.

  ‘Back in the day, Vitoria. Back in the day.’

  I flash my badge and Paz flashes a smile, and a steward directs us underneath the grandstand to a cavernous warm-up area where the teams are preparing for each bout. The place smells of ointment and reminds me of my school locker room. Colossal men are stretching and grappling in every corner. There are no crowds, but the floor is covered with matting and the same circular fighting areas are drawn out in various colours. We find the South Africans in a huddle at the far side of the room and they break apart as we approach. There are six of them, three in Lycra and three in tracksuits. A man who is older than the others steps forward.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  His voice is rough, and his bulbous blue eyes bore into me. He’s chewing gum at an alarming rate and I can trace the outline of his jugular, pulsing under his skin.

  ‘Rafael Carvalho,’ I say, holding up my badge again. ‘And this is Detective Paz. We’re looking for Lucas Meyer.’

  The coach stops chewing for a moment.

  ‘Me, too.’

  He adjusts his stance and holds out a huge hand. It feels like sandpaper as I clasp it.

  ‘I’m Aiden Nel,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m pretty stressed right now. Lucas is supposed to be on the mat in an hour and he’s disappeared.’

  Paz and I exchange glances. A loud slam echoes up towards the ceiling girders, as an athlete is thrown to the floor by a teammate.

  ‘Disappeared since when, Mr Nel?’ Paz asks.

  Nel’s bulging eyes flick to her and his brow furrows.

  ‘He was at breakfast this morning. That was four hours ago.’

  ‘How was he behaving at breakfast?’

  Aiden Nel shrugged.

  ‘Quiet. Watching the TV.’

  The coach has lungs the size of oil drums and his voice is deep and rich. All the same, he sounds tight and pensive as he answers Paz’s questions.

  ‘Is that unusual? Don’t people always get nervous before a big competition?’

  ‘Not Lucas.’

  As Paz asks the questions, I watch Aiden Nel’s eyes drift slowly past her, and I follow his ga
ze. He’s watching a girl heading towards the Russian team on the far side of the room. She’s half the size of the wrestlers, with peroxide-blonde hair and a white tracksuit. She spots us looking at her and raises a delicate hand in greeting. By the time I look back, Aiden Nel’s eyes are back on Paz.

  ‘I supposed he was sleeping,’ he says. ‘Sleeping is a big part of our regime, so I wasn’t worried.’

  ‘But you’re worried now?’

  Nel glances nervously at his watch.

  ‘He should have been here ninety minutes ago. He’s not answering his phone and there was no answer when I banged on his door.’

  I look at Aiden Nel’s fists. I guess that most people would wake up if he hammered on their door.

  ‘Does he have a room-mate?’

  I remember Oscar Ryan glaring at us when we woke him up at Tim Gilmore’s place, and make a mental note to check his witness statement when we get back to the precinct – assuming the Policia Militar took one, as I requested.

  Nel shakes his huge head slowly.

  ‘Lucas doesn’t have a roomie. He’s the kind of guy who needs a bit of space. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

  He looks uncomfortable, as if he’s betraying a confidence.

  ‘Not really. Could you be more specific?’

  ‘He has a temper. Life’s a bit easier if we give him a place of his own.’

  Paz’s phone rings and she steps away from us to take the call. Behind her, the tiny blonde is making her way back across the room. Maybe Nel knows that I caught him staring before, because this time I get the impression he’s making a point of keeping his eyes on me.