Dead Heat (3 page)

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.

‘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 gaze. 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.

‘Has Lucas ever gone missing before?’ I ask.

‘Nope.’

‘Does the name Tim Gilmore mean anything to you?’

‘He’s the Australian guy, isn’t he?’

I nod.

‘The one who got shot.’

I nod again.

‘Ever run into him?’

‘Nope.’

‘Did Lucas?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

I check my ancient Casio. It’s almost 11 a.m. I decide we’ll head over to Meyer’s apartment, once Paz finishes on the phone.

‘One more thing,’ I ask Nel, mostly to kill the time while I’m waiting for Paz to finish up. ‘Did you notice what he was watching on the TV this morning?’

He rolls his shoulders and scrunches his face in thought.

‘Same as the rest of us,’ Nel says slowly. ‘He was watching the news reports. The reports about Tim Gilmore.’

CHAPTER 7

IT TAKES US
ten minutes to walk the purpose-built route to Lucas Meyer’s place. The sun is high in the sky and I’m sweating as we hurry towards the high-rise blocks.

‘Who called you?’

‘Vivo Movel,’ Paz says. ‘The mystery number in Tim Gilmore’s apartment is an unregistered mobile. Untraceable.’

I’m disappointed, but not surprised.

Meyer’s apartment block is pretty much identical to the one we visited yesterday morning. Inside, we find the building supervisor. He looks leathery, with curled nails and yellow teeth. He’s wearing a smart shirt, but his hands are gnarled and scarred, and I wonder what he did for a living before the Olympics rolled into town.

‘We need to get into Lucas Meyer’s room,’ I tell him. ‘He’s not opening up.’

I’m expecting the supervisor to have a weighty bunch of keys, but instead he pulls out a single plastic card.

‘Access all areas,’ he says with a toothy grin.

The world has changed, and I can feel my retirement looming.

We take the lift to the thirteenth floor, and the doors open onto a corridor just like the one Tim Gilmore was living on. Lucas Meyer’s front door is identical, too. I don’t like the feeling of déjà vu.

‘Television,’ the supervisor says, as we hear the burbling noise from behind Meyer’s door. Pleased at his own helpfulness, he exposes his yellow teeth again. Paz bangs hard on the door and, when there’s no response, she kicks at it hard enough to bring Meyer’s neighbour out into the corridor. A tall, bleary-eyed man in his mid-twenties leans around his door and asks us what’s going on.

‘Police business,’ Paz says. ‘Go back inside.’

The neighbour is twelve inches taller than Paz, but Paz is in full flow. Her eyes are a mix of adrenalin and authority, and the athlete does exactly what he’s told.

We wait. I hear no movement behind Meyer’s door, and nobody opens it up. I turn to the supervisor, who pre-empts my request and leans in to swipe his card. I catch a smell of rot on his breath, and suddenly his teeth remind me of the seeds from an overripe melon. I have a primal urge to keep him at arm’s length.

‘Stay here,’ I tell him, as Paz and I sweep inside. There’s a short, dark corridor from the front door to the lounge, tight enough that we need to walk in single file. An alcove on the left leads to a kitchenette. There’s nothing on the stove, and a single mug is draining near the sink. I pull open the nearest cupboard. It’s packed with pasta and rice. There are eggs and meat in the humming refrigerator.

‘Hungry guy,’ Paz mutters, joining me in the doorway. ‘Nothing in the bathroom, by the way.’

As we push further along the corridor, I’m vaguely aware of the supervisor’s rotten breath and I realise he’s ignored my instructions to wait outside. Paz pushes through the door at the end of the short corridor and moves slowly into the lounge. The blinds are drawn and the room is dark, except for the television that is sending flickering shadows against the far wall. Nobody is watching. I look at Paz, who looks back at me and shrugs. The television is uncomfortably loud, making it hard to think straight. I can’t find the remote and eventually pull the plug out of the wall. Paz takes a minute to breathe.