The Panic Zone (6 page)

T
he 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 Relação 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,
Polícia 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 Café 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 café, 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 Bogotá 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 café 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.

Big Cloud, Wyoming

E
mma didn't know how long the sedative had made her sleep.

She woke up alone to battle her grief.

It's a dream. Wake up.

If she could stop thinking she could stop it from being real.

Emma stared at the ceiling, at the corners where the drab paint had dried and fractured. Suddenly those tiny lines of cracked paint moved, growing until they raced down the walls like fingers of lightning and pierced her heart, forcing her to tense with pain.

My husband. My son.

It can't be.

She could still feel Joe's hand; his shirt, his favorite faded denim shirt, softened by a thousand washings. She could feel his skin, smell his cologne. She still tasted his cheek on her lips.

And Tyler.

Her angel laughing in the brilliant sun before everything exploded. Emma smelled gas, heard Tyler screaming, and in the chaos, she saw someone take him to safety.

She saw it!

Then the ground shook, the air ignited and everything burned.

It can't be happening again.

Fire had first devastated Emma's world all those years ago, when she finished college in Chicago. Her mother and father had driven from Iowa for her graduation.

“We're so proud of you, kiddo.” Her mother's hug was crushing.

The day after graduating, Emma flew to Boston to start her new job with a travel agency while her parents took a vacation drive home. They'd stopped in Wisconsin at an older motel. Her dad loved them. “They've got character, not like the chains. All clones.”

But at this one the owner had scrimped on repairs. The new air conditioners strained the outdated wiring, which resulted in a fire that killed Emma's mother, father, and a family with three children from North Dakota.

After the tragedy, Emma went through the motions of living, thinking she would not survive. Friends encouraged her to keep going and she used the insurance money to travel and write articles.

If she kept moving, she could stay ahead of her pain.

She did that for nearly ten years before she met Joe Lane, a carpenter in Big Cloud, Wyoming, where she'd come to write a travel story for the
Boston Globe.
They'd met at a diner, had a beer at a bar and a month later she found a reason to return. Emma was taken by Joe's strong gentle way, and the bittersweet sadness in his eyes. His mother had died when he was nine. His father, an electrician with the state, had died of a heart attack just the previous winter.

Joe was a loner.

But being with him made her feel like she was in the place she needed to be. They got married and Emma, who'd minored in education at college, got a job as a teacher.

She loved her new life in Big Cloud.

It was as if she'd been reborn.

Joe was her rock and Tyler was their gift.

But now Joe is dead and Tyler is gone.

“No!”

Emma pulled her fingers into a fist and pounded the stand at her bedside, toppling the tray. The water jug splashed to the floor. She brought her fist down again, and the stand crashed against the wall and equipment cart.

Nooooo.

Emma's heart rate soared, the monitor beeped. Alarmed nurses rushed into her room.

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed, “it's my fault!” Her hands flew up to her mouth. “I'm the one who said we should drive to the river for a picnic. It's my fault!”

“No, it's okay, Emma.” The nurses lowered her head back. “It's okay.”

The next sedative put her down for hours.

* * *

Emma woke in dim light to several silhouettes.

Her aunt Marsha, her uncle Ned, Dr. Kendrix, a nurse and several other people were gathered in her room.

She heard the soft chink of keys, the leathery squeak of a utility belt then the whiz of a nylon club jacket and nervous throat clearing.

“Emma,” Kendrix said, “you know Lyle and Darnell.”

As her eyes adjusted, she recognized Lyle Spencer with the Big Cloud County Fire & Emergency Services and Darnell Horn, a deputy with the county sheriff's office. Both had made safety presentations at her school many times. She knew their wives, their children.

“Yes.”

“They were both at the scene, do you remember?”

“No.”

“We're so damned sorry,” Lyle said. “Most of the guys at the department knew Joe. They're taking up a collection.”

“Ruthie sends her love,” Darnell said. “If there's anything we can do.”

“What have you done with my son?”

Keys chimed. Darnell shifted his weight as he braced to explain.

“Emma, I'm so sorry but he didn't make it. Tyler and Joe didn't make it.”

“You're a liar!”

“We were called to the scene.” Darnell cleared his throat. “We helped the highway patrol. Joe lost control. The guys at Joe's site said he'd been putting in long hours, we figured he drifted off.”

“No! Someone swerved into our lane!”

“There were no other witnesses, no skid marks. The people that stopped afterward to help you did not report seeing anyone.”

“I'm your witness! A car was coming at us and Joe swerved.”

“Do you remember the color? The make?”

“No, dammit, it was all too fast!”

“Emma, some of the guys at Joe's job site said that in the past few days he would sleep at lunch or fall asleep in his truck before heading home.”

“No.”

“He was working god-awful long hours.”

“Don't you dare blame him! You can't blame him, I was there!”

“Emma,” Lyle said. “The doctors said you had a concussion.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“We're trying to help you.”

“You're all lying! Is it because of Tyler? Where is he?”

“Emma, sweetheart,” her aunt said. “Everyone understands this is a horrible time. They're only trying to help.”

“What did they do with my son? I saw someone rescue my son!”

Kendrix sat in the chair beside her and positioned it nearer.

“Sometimes,” he started, “Emma, sometimes the mind
will create—fabricate—scenarios, such as rescue scenarios. It's a psychological defense mechanism, a means of coping with the unbearable. Perhaps your rescue scenario is representative of angels pulling Tyler free from being consumed by the fire, to give you solace.”

“No, no.”

Kendrix nodded at Darnell.

“Emma,” Darnell said, “you were thrown from your vehicle. Joe was partially ejected, then thrown clear by the explosion and fire. But Tyler—” Darnell glanced at the others, and Kendrix urged him on “—Tyler remained inside.”

She started shaking her head.

“Why are you doing this, Darnell? Why, Lyle? You knew Joe. You're both fathers. I know your children. I know Joe died.
I felt him die.
But why are you lying to me about Tyler?”

“No one is lying,” Lyle said. “This is the hardest thing I'm going to have to tell you. The fire was intense.” Lyle paused. “It consumed Tyler. The heat was so ferocious he was incinerated. I'm so sorry, there was nothing left.”

“Nothing left?”

Lyle brought out a small brown paper bag from his pocket and placed it in her lap.

“This is all we recovered.”

Emma stared at it.

It weighed nothing. It was a new lunch bag. She wondered if Lyle brought it from his home. When she opened it, it crackled, exhaling a whiff of smoky air as she peered inside at two small shoes.

Tyler's little sneakers.

Charred.

“It's proof, Emma,” Kendrix said.

She touched them to her face, and her tears streaked over the toes, making tracks along the scorched canvas.