Girl In The Water Part 20

Mrs. Frieseke began. "I was at the hospital with one of the girls who broke her arm while they were playing basketball outside."

"Did all the girls come in after the accident?" Daniela asked.

"No, they stayed to finish the game. Pierre was watching them."

Pierre Avy, a Frenchman in his early twenties-with the kind of too symmetrical, unlined puppy face Hollywood was so fond of-nodded, making love to Daniela with his eyes, showing way too many teeth. Ian wondered if the guy would still be that confident with a couple of those teeth knocked out.

"When it's not raining here," Pierre said in an irritating French accent, "it drizzles. So anytime we have a dry court, we take advantage of it. Mornings are great for games, before the worst of the heat hits."

According to the police report, Mrs. Frieseke's presence at the hospital had been confirmed. The ER had a sign-in sheet. And the girl she took also backed up the site manager's alibi. All the other girls were either playing basketball or watching the game. According to them, as was well-doc.u.mented in the police report, Pierre Avy hadn't left the court the entire time.

For now, tentatively, Ian was prepared to cross Mrs. Frieseke and Monsieur Avy off the suspect list.

Daniela turned her attention to a pregnant woman who'd introduced herself as Carol Peterson. She was blonde and tall, very Midwestern, from Wisconsin, according to the report Ian had.

"I had post office duty," Carol said. "I volunteer to go into the city, since I like the walk. Helps to work the kinks out of my back. I want to do as much as I can now before the baby is born. And I like going out in the relative cool of the morning. The post office is nearby."

"Will you be staying here for the baby's birth?" Daniela asked.

"Of course." Carol patted her belly. She carried a smile around the table. "These people are my family."

According to the report Ian had, she'd begun working at See-Love-Aid with her husband two years ago. Seven months ago, her husband had died of a snakebite he'd suffered on a fis.h.i.+ng trip upriver. Neither of them had family back home. Carol stayed.

She looked drawn, exhausted, still grieving, but putting on a brave face.

Back when Linda had been pregnant, this had been Ian's worst fear. If he had been killed in the army, Linda would have been left alone to raise the babies. Never had he imagined that it could be the other way around, his family gone and he still here.

"It's important to have people you care about around you," he told Carol. And because she reminded him of Linda too much for comfort, he focused on the two middle-aged women who sat next to her-thin noses, thin lips, short brownish hair. Hannah and Heather. Sisters.

"We were having breakfast in our room," Hannah said.

And Heather added, stricken, "We had the door open to a crack to listen in case the baby cried. She never made a sound."

The second male staff member was the only person who hadn't talked yet. Early thirties, nearly white-blond, tall, Scandinavian looking, from Cleveland, Ohio. His name was Henry Stubner.

"I was fixing the dripping faucet in the men's room. My room is right next to it, and the dripping kept me up at night." Henry barely glanced at Ian. His full attention was on Daniela, who was smiling at him.

"Sounds like you're very handy to have around," she said.

He flashed a grin that was decidedly not modest. "I do what I can. I'm here to help."

He kept holding Daniela's gaze.

Ian cleared his throat. "What does everybody think of the parents?"

For crimes of murder and disappearance, investigators always looked at the family first.

Several people began to speak at once.

"They're heartbroken, and so are we." Mrs. Frieseke was the loudest, or maybe she was heard over the din because her voice carried the most authority. "I never could have imagined anything like this happening here. In our dormitory. We haven't even needed security beyond Henry and Pierre."

Her mouth drew tight. She probably blamed herself, at least partially. She confirmed that by saying, "If I had thought to put at least one security guard into the budget..." She shook her head. "But we have Pierre and Henry. They're strong young men. I never thought..."

Carol put her arm around her and hugged her, as much as she could with her giant belly.

Both Henry and Pierre drew themselves straighter in their chairs, everything about them resolute, from their hardening gazes to the angle of their chins, as if saying, it might have happened once, but we're alert now; nothing like this is ever going to happen again.

As the only two men on staff, they probably felt responsible too, probably fancied themselves the protectors of the others. Ian wasn't impressed. They'd done a s.h.i.+ta.s.s job at protection.

Of course, the repurposed warehouse held no riches and was always full of people, so it probably didn't draw thieves. And as far as taking one of the girls for trafficking went, the city was full of girls just like them, living on the streets. n.o.body would notice if they went missing. So the traffickers didn't need to court trouble by coming here and tangling with an international aid organization.

Ian sat back and let Daniela conduct the interview since she was good at it. She seemed to know instinctively just what tone to use when asking a question, how to respond, whether with admiration or understanding or commiserating. She excelled at handling people.

And he hated to think where she might have learned that, back at Rosa's, where reading a client right would have meant the difference between life and death.

For the past few years, Ian had barely thought of Daniela's past. Her past had nothing to do with her present, would have nothing to do with her bright future. But since they'd been back in Brazil, the past kept pus.h.i.+ng into his thoughts. And what he hated even more was that Daniela probably experienced the same.

He watched her ask her questions to the people around the table. They all responded. n.o.body seemed to be holding anything back. But as good as Daniela was, the group interview didn't net any new, actionable information.

After they finished, Mrs. Frieseke took them to see the older girls and talk to them. Work was in progress in the three separate workrooms, and they visited each in turn.

The girls worked, laughing, chatting, listening to music. They didn't put their work down even while answering questions. They worked hard. Most of them had come from the streets, so they knew the alternative.

None of them had been in the visiting volunteers section of the building. They weren't allowed up there, a rule that Ian thought sensible.

They visited the young girls' schoolroom next and received the same eager-to-please but unhelpful answers.

"Maybe you could conduct one-on-one interviews tomorrow," he told Daniela when they were back in their small room after a surprisingly satisfying cafeteria dinner of fish and fruit, settling in for the evening.

She sat on her bed, watching him with what he thought was a guarded expression. They had the lights off to keep the bugs away from the screen that had a small tear in it. Moonlight dusted her with silver.

"I want you to tell me why you're going back to Rio," she said. "Please don't treat me like a child."

She wore a thin, strappy nightgown.

He lay on his bed, on his side, wis.h.i.+ng for air-conditioning. He was immensely grateful for that five feet of distance between them. No, she was most definitely not a child.

So he told her about Lavras Sugar and Ethanol. "Finch was working for Lavras in Rio at the time he got in trouble. Maybe the trouble he got in was at Lavras. If I interview, I'll probably meet the head of security, the guy Finch worked for. I want to find out what happened."

"Whoever Finch ticked off either killed Finch or had him killed," she pointed out. "I don't like it that you'll be going into possible danger alone." She rubbed a narrow hand over her eyes. "You didn't see him."

Finch's body. Tortured.

She dropped her hand but was still for only a second or two before her fingers began worrying the edge of her nightgown.

Ian hated that he'd made her upset. "They're not going to knock me off in the middle of the HR department. It's a professional building, headquarters of an international corporation. I'll be safe. I'll poke around, then I'll be out of there before they can so much as come up with a plan."

"I wish I could come with you."

"We came to Brazil to investigate baby Lila. Even I shouldn't be going. I'll make up for the missed time when I get back."

"I don't want you to stay in Rio overnight." She fixed him with a hard look. "Pierre asked me out. He wants to take me to the opera. If you don't come back, I'm going to go with him."

No way was Monsieur French Casanova getting anywhere near Daniela. "I won't stay the night."

He couldn't tell for sure in the semidarkness, but she looked a little on the smug side. Probably was. She was probably playing him like a fricking fiddle.

Chapter Thirteen.

Ian "So you and Senhor Finch were close friends?" Marcos Morais, the head of security at Lavras Sugar and Ethanol asked. He was almost as tall as Ian, freshly cut dark hair, expensive suit, s.h.i.+fty eyes.

"Finch and I were in the US Army together," Ian said. "Last I talked to him, he liked it here in Rio. When I lost my job back home, I figured I might as well head down here. He kind of disappeared. Maybe I'll track him down."

"You used to talk with him often?"

"Called each other once a month or so. You know, checking in."

"Have you been in Brazil before?"

"Not recently."

They'd already discussed Ian's qualifications and were just shooting the breeze as the interview was winding down.

"Seems like Lavras is a great place," Ian said. "I bet you've been here forever. What's not to like about sugar, right?"

"Easy job." Marcos stayed laid-back, twirling his pen on the desk. He played the whole interview that way. Hey, we're all friends here. "I had a small company protecting diamond mines before this. Believe me, you wouldn't like that."

Ian had some understanding of the private armies that protected diamond mines. "I believe you. Guarding an air-conditioned office beats being out at the mines, in malaria-infested backwoods, doing cavity searches on laborers to make sure they aren't stealing anything."

Marcos's hand stilled on the pen. "Been in the business?"

"Had friends who were."

"Here?"

"Africa."

Marcos nodded as he pushed to his feet and held out his hand to signal that the interview was over. "Thank you for coming in. You'll be hearing from us shortly. Make sure your contact information is correct."

"Definitely. If you think of any other questions, just call," Ian said as he left the man.

He walked out to the elevators, didn't accidentally-on-purpose get lost this time. He had what he'd come for. Whatever had happened to Finch, Marcos had been part of it. He'd brought up Ian's friends.h.i.+p with Finch way more times than was necessary. And every time they talked about Finch, the pulse in Marcos's neck beat a little faster, his gaze turned a little sharper.

Once baby Lila was safely back with her parents and Ian returned to Rio, he'd start his investigation with Marcos Morais.

He walked out of the building, thinking about various ways he could dig into Morais. Then he reached the sidewalk and scanned the street. He didn't have to wait long for a cab.

"Airport," he told the cabbie, then relaxed back in his seat.

"Big accident on the highway, senhor. You American?" When Ian nodded, the guy cranked up the air-conditioning. He grinned in the rearview mirror. "I want to be New York City cabbie someday." He looked as eager to please as if Ian had the power to make the guy's ambitions come true. "I'll take the backroads. Sim?"

"Sim." Ian's mind was on other things.

What did Finch find at Lavras? What did he take?

Was Lavras doing something illegal? Did Finch find proof? But then why not take it to the authorities? Was Finch blackmailing Lavras with whatever he found? Finch was a good kid, but he'd always been impulsive. And he hadn't had the best track record at resisting temptation.

He'd almost gotten court-martialed in the army when he'd crushed a beer bottle with his bare hand on a bet and cut his palm to shreds. Destruction of government property.

Finch had gotten in trouble more than once for drinking and doing stupid s.h.i.+t. Once, in the middle of the night, he'd colored their superior officer's uniform pink with Kool-Aid.

As Finch's past fiascos circled in Ian's head, he failed to notice that the cab wasn't going towards the airport at all, until they were on a single-lane road somewhere in the outer suburbs and the cabbie drove into a weed-infested tunnel.

A white van blocked the cracked concrete of the road ahead of them.

Ian reached for the gun tucked into his waistband.

The cab stopped.

Another white van stopped behind them, blocking them in.

The cabbie jumped out and ran from the short tunnel, scrambling up the embankment to their left, then disappearing over the rise.

s.h.i.+t.

Ian dove for the front seat. Too late. Bullets were flying already.

"Throw your gun out," somebody was shouting.

He had no other choice. He was hemmed in. Enemy before him, enemy behind him. He had no real cover. And if one of the idiots. .h.i.t the fuel tank...

Ian tossed his weapon, an old Taurus .357 Magnum, through the open driver's side door. Hadn't had it long, dammit. He'd bought it off a kid on the edge of the favelas after he'd gotten into Rio this morning. He'd planned on stas.h.i.+ng it someplace safe before he flew back to Manaus. Couldn't take a gun on an airplane these days.

As soon as he tossed the revolver, the shooting stopped.

"Get out of the car. Hands in the air."

He did as they told him. If they wanted him dead, they would have blown his head off already.

Right now, right here, he'd been outmaneuvered, plain and simple. He needed to gain time, and he needed to gain a sense of the enemy he was facing.

Marcos Morais, head of security at Lavras, got out of the van behind the taxi and strode forward, a Taurus PT92-Brazil's response to the Beretta 92-in hand. Better by a long shot than Ian's weapon had been. Next time, he'd buy a gun off someone like Morais instead of a street kid.