“He looks a little roughed up,” said Conley.
“He resisted arrest,” said Siqueira. “We had no choice but to use force. And he ended up volunteering the location of the second one. Caught a big fish, just sitting on his ass at home watching soccer. In and out, no fuss, no problems. And we’ve got some valuable information from him. It looks like there’s a new coke supplier in town.”
“Interesting,” said Conley. “Where from?” Cocaine was a truly globalized business, and suppliers came from all over the world.
“He said the guy was alemão. German. But to these assholes, every European is German, so that doesn’t tell us jack shit. Anyway, apparently this gringo’s got a big shipment coming in, and made some interesting demands in how he wants it done. Wants it shipped to Miami, every gram of it. Nothing is supposed to get sold here, or even used by any member of the gang.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Conley.
“Only how insistent he was. I mean, usually, it’s all about the money with these guys. As long as they get paid, they’ll give the gang a sample, let them turn over the merchandise if they’re willing to pay. But this one wants it to go directly there, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“Huh,” said Conley. “Got anything you can use to get to this guy?”
“Not yet,” said Siqueira. “But we’ll get him.”
“All right,” said Conley. “Keep me posted if there are any new developments.”
“Even if I don’t, somehow you always find out.”
Conley went back to his apartment, where he called up some more contacts, some in law enforcement, others on the criminal side. He took a break to watch a novela, one of the daily soap operas that he had gotten hooked on while in town. He had dinner, and it was well into the night when his phone rang.
“Hey, Cougar? It’s Chico. You said to call you if something happened. Well, something happened. I’m not sure what it is yet, but it’s strange. Real strange. It’s over near you. I’m going to give you an address. Just one second.”
Chico gave him the address, and Conley walked out the door. He walked back in his door two hours later. The first thing he did was to pick up the phone and dial.
“Bloch here.”
“Look, I don’t even know what the hell this is supposed to be about. But it seems weird enough that I felt I should call it in right away.”
“What is it?”
“A bunch of people—I guess the term is ‘ripped each other apart’—in a fancy apartment.”
“What do you mean, ripped each other apart?” Conley might have expected morbid curiosity, but Bloch’s tone was one of keen interest.
“Well, it’s pretty gruesome. At first, they thought it had been murder—revenge, serial killer, something like that. But if you take a look at the scene, a lot of the bodies have attack wounds. Mostly, they didn’t even use weapons, just their bare hands and teeth.”
“Were they mental patients? Were they under the influence of something . . . unusual?”
“Not as far as I could tell. They seemed like normal people, but I mean, who knows? I sure as hell don’t know what to make of it.”
“I might,” said Bloch. “Can you lay down a quarantine on the location?”
“Might be tough, but I think I can.”
“Don’t think. Do. Use whatever means necessary. Keep the scene secure. If you can, take charge and don’t let anyone in or out. Keep the media out of it, and the local police as much as possible.”
“What’s this all about?”
“You stay put, get inside that scene, and make sure that it doesn’t get contaminated and is changed as little as possible. Cobra will be there by morning.”
CHAPTER 41
Rio de Janeiro, February 15
Morgan arrived in Rio de Janeiro just past 9 A.M., and the first thing to hit him was the heat, thick and muggy, even inside the airport. He had come by chartered jet, since time, apparently, had been of the essence. Morgan had already been in bed when he got the call from Bloch. She hadn’t been too generous with the details. She’d told him that there was a bit of violence down in Rio, and that it might be somehow connected to Novokoff, but not much else. Because of his familiarity with both Conley, and the case, he’d been shipped off to Brazil.
He took a taxi, whose driver was definitely overcharging him. He drove like a maniac. Traffic was definitely not the worst he had seen—it was far, far better than Kabul, for one—but it was much worse than even Boston.
Morgan took the opportunity to get a look at the city. A good stretch of the city, specifically the areas closer to the sea, was perfectly flat. But farther inland, as well as at certain outcroppings near the water, the terrain was steeper, with tall hills that loomed large in the distance. On many of these hills grew favelas, organic and chaotic, even beautiful in their own strange way.