Rick Mofina: The Panic Zone

“Frank, do the police have any leads on who’s behind the attack?”

“The strongest theory is that it’s narco terrorism. Globo, the TV network, is reporting that a Colombian drug lord’s daughter is one of the victims. There’s speculation she was the target in a vendetta with a Rio drug network.”

“What’s the thinking on Gabriela’s being at the cafe?”

“That’s a mystery, for now.”

“I understand she left a message for John that she was meeting a source.”

“She did.” Archer turned to his phone and pressed numbers. “John gave me his access code. It’s not much, listen. It’s in English.”

After a few tones, Gabriela Rosa’s last words to her husband played through the speaker, her voice filling the darkened bureau.

“Hey, it’s me. Finished that story about pickpockets on the metro, you’ve got it. Meanwhile, I got a call from an anonymous woman who claims to have a big story and documents for us. I set up a meeting at the Cafe Amaldo for this afternoon, with Marcelo to back me up. Hope Sao Paulo was fun. Did you say hi to Archer for me? Tell him I found a girl for him. Have a safe flight home, catch you later. I love you.”

Gannon fished his small digital recorder from his laptop bag and Archer replayed the message so he could record it.

“Do you think Gabriela’s source could have wanted to tip her to the narco attack and something went wrong with the timing?” Gannon asked.

“I don’t know. It seems unlikely since Gabriela picked the location.”

“Has the bureau here written anything recently that threatened any of the criminal networks?”

“Not really-the crime gangs usually target the local press.” Archer glanced at his watch. “You flew overnight, you must want to drop off your bags at your hotel, wash up. Get something to eat, right?”

“I could use a coffee and a hot shower.”

“We got you a room at the Nine Palms Hotel. It’s a good place and nearby.” Archer handed Gannon a large envelope. “The address is in here. Tell the taxi driver ‘hotel de nove palmas.’ You got some cash? You want Luiz to go with you?”

“I have cash and the company card.” Gannon peered in the envelope. “I should go myself.”

Archer’s phone rang. He answered, saying something quickly in Portuguese before cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Jack, I have to interview a source with Public Safety, then the cafe owner. Meet me back here in ninety minutes. I’ll have something for you.”

The Nine Palms was three kilometers away, off a busy thoroughfare, hidden atop a narrow cobbled street. The greenery was so lush Gannon almost missed seeing the hotel behind a set of wrought-iron gates.

It was a modernized massive nineteenth-century colonial mansion with shuttered windows, ceiling fans and dark mahogany floors. In his room, he ordered food then took a hot shower before it came-a plate of fruit, fresh baked bread, juice and coffee.

It recharged him.

As he ate, Gannon struggled to comprehend coverage of the Cafe Amaldo bombing in Rio’s newspapers but didn’t get far before someone knocked on his door. Through the peephole, he saw Luiz Piquet.

“Sorry to disturb you, Jack, but Mr. Archer sent me. He’s had to change his plan because he’s going to be tied up on calls while putting the latest story together with the other WPA correspondents. He said to tell you that senior editors Beland Stone and Melody Lyon are flying to Miami to attend Gabriela’s funeral. George Wilson is flying to Sao Bento do Norte, to assist Marcelo’s family with his service there.”

“So what does Frank want me to do?”

“He wants me to take you to the Cafe Amaldo, now.”

“The crime scene?”

“Yes, his instructions are for me to help you to talk to the lead investigators, to push them for more information. Then go directly to the bureau, to help update the story.”

“Let’s go.”

An eerie quiet enveloped the air around the cafe.

Rio’s Centro traffic had been diverted around the blast area or, what one newspaper called “A Zona da Matanca.”

“It means the Zone of the Slaughter,” Luiz translated for Gannon as they left their taxi and walked to the inner perimeter.

Knots of police vehicles, their emergency lights flashing, secured the street. Farther along, where the satellite trucks and news crews had parked, it was cordoned by barricades and tape, and several dozen people were rubbernecking the investigation.

Beyond the police lines, Gannon saw the office buildings and shops smashed by the blast. The awning of a boutique drooped above its shattered windows. Mangled chairs, tables and debris littered the street. The sign above the cafe had split, both pieces swaying now in the breeze, signifying the wound in the aftermath of the attack.

Stick to the basics, keep your notebook out of sight and observe. Gannon knew how to work a scene.

As they drew near, he indicated to Luiz that they should go to the far end of the barricade away from the other news people.

From there, they saw the technicians in their white coveralls, yellow shoe covers and latex gloves picking through wreckage on the patio and sidewalk, collecting evidence. Others photographed the devastation, took measurements and made notes. A police dog, its snout to the ground, sniffed for trace material, while a soft wind carried flakes of ash and papers down the avenue and alleys.

“Nao aqui! Voce deve mover-se!” An unsmiling uniformed officer appeared before them.

“He wants us to move, to join the other reporters,” Luiz said.

“Tell him I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance from New York and that two of my colleagues were killed here. Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde. Tell him I need to speak to the lead investigator, possibly, to share information. Stress possibly.”

As Luiz translated, Gannon held up his WPA identification. After listening and looking at it, the cop spoke into his radio.

A moment passed and a response crackled back.

Gannon saw another uniformed officer amid the scene talk into his radio, then to the two men in polo shirts and jeans beside him. One of them looked from his notebook to Gannon, then waved him through. Gannon had figured the plain-clothed men for detectives. The first one held out his latex-gloved hand before him and spoke in English.

“Give me your passport, please.”

The man reviewed it and wrote down Gannon’s passport number while his partner took Gannon’s picture with a small camera.

“Am I to understand that you have information on this crime, Mr. Jack Gannon?”

Gannon glimpsed the cop’s ID on the chain around his neck and the words Policia and Roberto something Investigador. His face was somber as if the weight of the world were pressing on him. A tiny scar meandered down his left cheek as his hooded brown eyes measured Gannon.

“I would like to discuss things first,” Gannon said.

“No discussion, if you have information relating to this crime, you must tell me.” The detective angled Gannon’s passport so his heavyset, pock-faced partner could read Gannon’s passport number. Then he spoke in rapid Portuguese and his partner nodded and made a phone call. “If you interfere with our investigation we can revoke your visa and send you back to New York.”

“What?”

“Or we can arrest you.”

“Hold on a second.”

“Do you have information relating to this crime?”

Gannon heard the partner say “Jack Gannon” into his phone and grew uneasy. This was not like a crime scene in Buffalo. What had he stepped into? Sweat rolled down his back. His mind blurred with the reports he’d read on the plane of how elements of the Brazilian police were feared for alleged corruption, brutality and, according to human-rights groups, executing criminal suspects.