Graveyard Samba (Devil Barnett Detective Series Book 4) Read online

  A Devil Barnett detective novel

  by

  Teddy Hayes

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was almost three in the afternoon and the sun was blazing in Rio de Janeiro. Duncan Lamont left his hotel and walked out onto the street. He stood looking at the tourists and business people who made up the backdrop of the Copacabana district. He took a deep breath, wiped away the sweat from his upper lip and smiled to himself. He could feel the blood rushing to his head from the excitement of what he was thinking.

  After twenty five years of ups and downs, ins and outs, arounds and throughs, he was finally about to hit it big. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. Today he would write the story that would catapult him from the obscurity of the back pages to the front pages of the world’s big city newspapers. Up until now he had just been a hardworking investigative reporter with a certain amount of respect garnered through long hours and dedication. Never before did he have a story like he had now. He checked his watch. It was 2:55. Just five minutes to go before embarking on the interview that he knew would change his life. Now all the doubters who had always told him that he had wasted his life chasing the big one would have to eat shit. He had already called Chuck Rodgers, the International Editor at the Eastern Times. Ordinarily, Rodgers was a smug, jaded bastard who had held the job for almost thirty years. When he had hinted what he was on to, Rodgers had nearly dropped the phone. Usually it was “Yeah Lamont, send me what you got and I’ll let someone have a look,” in his “I’m doing you so big a goddamn favor just speaking to you” tone of voice.

  This time it was different. This time it was “Duncan, my boy, if you can get me an exclusive on this, I’ll really make it worth your while. This is the kind of stuff careers are made with.” Duncan smiled to himself again, thinking of the expression on his ex-wife’s face when he accepted his Pulitzer Prize. 2:56 in the afternoon. Just four more minutes to go.

  Across the road a group of four street vendors sold coconuts, mineral water and caqui from cardboard boxes, as they listened to the latest sounds of Rio being played through their portable radios. Duncan watched them blankly as he thought about the way he would start his story. He quickly checked his tape recorder and his digital camera for the third time since lunch just to make sure everything was operational. Then he made sure he had extra batteries in the bottom of his shoulder bag. He suddenly felt like a refreshing drink and headed towards the vendor’s stand across the street. He bought a freshly cut coconut and drank the juice with a straw. 2:58. Two more minutes to go.

  “Blahhh,” the car horn sounded above the traffic as a small white van pulled up to the curb opposite where the freelance unlicensed fruit venders were doing business. Military Police was written on the side of the van. The vendors immediately began packing up as four armed men wearing bluish grey uniforms got out and walked over to the sellers. One of the policemen pulled his gun from his holster and held it along the side of his leg while two other policemen began loading the sellers’ goods into their van.

  No doubt, they would be arrested and fined for unlawfully selling in a commercial district. Their arrest was courtesy of the local shopkeepers, no doubt, because the shopkeepers paid expensive rents to be on the Copacabana Road. In addition they paid money to some of the military police for protection from local thugs and street vendor competition. To the shopkeepers, the freelance street vendors with their cheaper prices and sometimes fresher goods represented eventual financial ruin. Their presence was considered by the shopkeepers as grounds for war. Duncan had seen it all before.

  “Vamos,” one of the men said to Duncan, who was standing just a few yards from the sellers.

  “Pardon?” Duncan responded.

  “Vamos,” only louder this time.

  “I’m a tourist,” Duncan said.

  Another policeman joined the conversation.

  “Your identification, please,” he said.

  Duncan pulled out his passport.

  “From America, huh?” the Brazilian policeman said in English as he studied the document closely.

  The policeman then turned his attention to the vendors being rousted. He said something quickly in Portuguese and turned back to Duncan.

  “Your first time in Rio, sir?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said.

  “Sorry about the mistake, sir, have a good holiday. But I must say that you need to be careful around this area. There are many people around, especially prostitutes looking to take advantage of tourists. If you happen to want a woman just make sure that your documents are locked in the hotel safe.”

  “Thank you sir, I will,” Duncan said.

  The policeman turned and joined his fellow police, who by this time had cleared the sidewalk of the vendors’ boxes.

  When the police van drove away it was three minutes after three. Shit. Mario was three minutes late. Duncan refused to panic. The stakes were too high. Instead he lit a cigarette and turned his attention to watching the beautiful women who walked along the street.

  Even though he tried to concentrate on the women—they seemed to come in all shapes, sizes and colors—all he could think about was what Mario had told him.

  He had met Mario through Gui Perira, a Brazilian friend who worked as a musician.

  The conversation leading to this moment had taken place in New York six months before. Gui, who was working in New York jazz clubs at the time, promised to put him onto somebody in Brazil who could lead him to information that would blow open a can of worms—not only embarrassing the Brazilian government, but also making him an international hero journalist.

  He had lied to the policeman. Actually he had been to Brazil before. He had lived here for two months. The only difference was then he was using another name and a fake passport. Then he was Simon Bernard, a musician from New York. Duncan had gone to Peru to follow up a lead on the story and came back under his own name. Now he was ready. One more meeting and the final nail would be in the coffin. He could finish the story he had been working on for the past five months. The story that was going to turn Duncan Lamont from a run of the mill hack into a real somebody worthy of worldwide recognition.

  Finally, at 3:10, a blue Mercedes pulled up and Mario stepped out.

  “Sorry my friend, but the traffic was horrible today,” Mario said.

  “Everything set?” Duncan asked.

  “Yes, the person you need to meet is ready and waiting to meet you. Please understand that this took a lot of arranging and not only would she lose her job if the authorities knew she was talking to you, but she would lose her life as well,” Mario said.

  “I’m aware of
that.”

  Duncan stepped into the air-conditioned Mercedes and Mario pulled off.

  “I just want you to understand that she may be reluctant to say certain things.”

  “If it’s a question of money, how much?” Duncan said with irritation.

  “Listen Duncan, we have known each other for what, four months now and in that time have you ever known me to try and hustle or take advantage of you?”

  “No.”

  “Then please don’t insult me. What I do, I do because I feel it’s the right thing to do, not for money,” Mario snapped.

  “I’m sorry, I just thought. . . .”

  “I know what you thought. You thought all Brazilians are on the hustle from Americans. You think all I want is your money because I see you as my ticket out of the poverty of Brazil, into the land of the rich United States of America.”

  “No I didn’t say that.”

  “No, not in those exact words,” Mario said.

  “Well I didn’t mean that at all. I’m just very excited about the possibility of breaking this story. A story that I wouldn’t have been able to get without your help. And by the way, the meeting that you set up last night in the restaurant worked out great,” Duncan said.

  “Okay, let’s not talk about this anymore,” Mario said and turned the car into another street.

  Without warning a white van zoomed in front of the Mercedes and blocked the road. Three military policemen jumped out holding submachine guns.

  “Step out of the car, now,” one of the men ordered Mario.

  Mario immediately complied.

  “You too,” a policeman with blond hair said, pointing the gun at Duncan’s head.

  “Let’s see your identity papers,” the other policeman asked Mario.

  Mario reached into his front pants pockets and retrieved a plastic wallet with a photo I D.

  “Your I D.” the blond one said to Duncan.

  “I’m an American citizen. Please take me to my embassy, there’s obviously been a mistake of some kind,” Duncan said in a high-handed tone that he sometimes used to get him out of sticky situations.

  Duncan was well aware that nobody wanted an international incident, especially the military police, who often worked protecting the interests of American companies. After a quick flurry of words in Portuguese among themselves, two of the policemen used their weapons as prods and moved Mario into their van.

  “Where are you taking him?” Duncan asked.

  No one answered him. The blond one spoke Portuguese into his radio and within seconds a green sedan pulled along side the Mercedes.

  “Get in, Mr. Lamont,” the blond man said.

  Duncan wanted to resist, but what could he do? He just looked sadly as the van with Mario pulled away.

  “Listen, my embassy will straighten this all out,” Duncan insisted as he was being pushed into the car.

  Suddenly someone was pressing a chloroformed rag to Duncan’s face. Foul Darkness.

  “Ahhhgggg, ” the sound of his voice screaming rang through Duncan’s head as a fiery pain seared his scrotum.

  He nearly passed out. In fact he wished he could have. But every time he almost did, there was a giant splash of ice cold water against his naked body to revive him. Somewhere inside all the pain, Duncan realized he was naked and tied to a metal chair that left him at the mercy of whoever was torturing him. His blurred vision swept the enormous room—bare of furnishings except for a small shaft of light that shone through a window in the high ceiling.

  “Have you ever smelled death, Mr. Lamont?” a voice asked from the darkness in heavily accented English.

  “Please, I’m just a tourist,” Duncan managed to say.

  “Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. Lamont. I know who you are and why you are here. You are looking to buy information. Information so that you can write newspaper stories.”

  Duncan reached for strength. He imagined himself billeted behind a large impregnable brick wall that protected him against what was happening even though fear had a stranglehold on his mind.

  The man who owned the voice stepped into the light. He was medium height with flat features on a smooth face that owned a pair of eyes spaced too far apart. He pulled a straight razor from his pocket and without another word, slashed Duncan three times across the face, opening gashes deep enough to see the bone. As the blood began to pour the man stepped back and took out a clean white handkerchief. He slowly wiped the razor clean of blood.

  “Now that you know I’m a serious man, let’s have a decent conversation. Exactly who did you speak to last night in the restaurant and what name did they tell you they would put you in contact with?”

  The fear rose inside of him and the imaginary brick wall inside his mind started to weaken one brick at a time.

  “I spoke to someone, but they didn’t tell me the name only that . . .”

  “I know that you met with a man and also know you have also been asking questions about a priest.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a well known man, an American.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately he has disappeared. I’ll tell you a little secret. There are some who say this priest fell in love with an Indian woman and went to live with her in the forests of the Amazon. Ha hah hah,” he laughed.

  “I swear if you let me go I’ll stop asking questions. I’ll leave the country tonight.” Duncan was more afraid than he ever imagined he could be.

  “What did this man tell you about the priest?”

  “He said that maybe he could get me to meet someone who could tell me why he disappeared,” Duncan said.

  “Is that all?” the man with the razor asked.

  “I swear,” Duncan said.

  The Brazilian raised his razor again but this time he slashed lower on Duncan’s body. Below his waist and between his legs. Duncan felt the top of his penis open. The Brazilian stopped and leaned forward. His face was just inches from his victim.

  “Would you like for me to cut off your dick?”

  “No, please.”

  “Okay, about the man?” the Brazilian said.

  Duncan wanted to live. He wanted the fame and fortune of being a great success too, but he wanted to live even more. Even though his instincts told him he was going to die no matter what he said, he still managed to convince himself that if he told everything he knew, he just might still live.

  As the bricks began to crumble one by one. . . .

  “The man’s name was Renard,” Duncan said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  “The man you met with in the restaurant last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you find this man?”

  “Through someone who worked at the priest’s church.”

  “The name of this man?”

  “Mario, Mario da Silva,” Duncan said.

  Bricks crumbling two by two . . .

  He didn’t mean to give up Mario but he had no choice if he wanted to live.

  “How much did you pay Mario da Silva?”

  “I didn’t pay him. He wouldn’t take money. I offered him one thousand but he didn’t take the money.”

  “Did you pay Renard?”

  “Yes, five hundred U. S. dollars.”

  “So you are a man with money to spend?” the Brazilian said.

  “My newspaper, the Eastern Times in New York, they will pay you to release me. Please don’t kill me. They will pay, I know they will,” Duncan said.

  The fear began to choke the reporter as he felt his imaginary brick wall crumble while the blackness closed in on him.

  “That’s a very interesting thought,” was all the Brazilian said as he watched Duncan pass out.

  When Duncan woke, he was lying on a mattress but now instead of being tied to the metal chair, he had one hand chained to the back of it in a way so that the chair and he were one. Duncan figured it must be night because no light passed through the window in the ce
iling now. The room was almost pitch black. He was still in pain. Especially his face. Suddenly, fear of castration made him use his free hand to grab for his penis. Thank God it was still there. Duncan managed to sit up in the dark. He prayed if he had to die that God allow it to be quick, merciful and painless. Duncan drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed forever, until the door of the room swung outward and the man with the razor entered.

  “It seems that you were wrong about how important your newspaper thinks you are,” the razor man said.

  “They didn’t offer a reward?” Duncan whimpered.

  “No they did, but not nearly what we hoped an American journalist with your experience was worth.”

  “I don’t understand,” Duncan said.

  “No matter, we still have business to discuss,” the man half smiled as he pulled out the razor again.

  “I’ve told you everything I know, I swear to God in heaven,” Duncan cried.

  “Yes about the priest, but what about the other thing?”

  “What other thing?”

  “We know your friend Renard and we also know what he knows.”

  “I swear I’ve told you all I know, I just wanted to find out what happened to the priest. He’s the brother of a famous Cardinal in New York, Cardinal Catalano, that’s all I know, honest.”

  Then like a striking snake, the Brazilian’s left hand grabbed Duncan’s flaccid penis as his right hand began to slash again and again. As Duncan jerked forward to avoid his worst nightmare, his head collided with the razor man’s and black spots rushed in to share the pain in his loins and claim his vision. When he opened his eyes he saw the razor man holding his bloodied penis in his left hand.

  Duncan looked at the blood gushing from his crotch.

  Something inside him welled up. A combination of defiance, crazy fear and the belligerence propelled him forward all his life. If he was going to die . . . he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. . . .

  Then like a shot, and from somewhere unknown Duncan Lamont gathered the strength of a wild bull and bolted towards his attacker so hard and fast that the razor man was knocked off his feet. Still carrying the chair behind him, Duncan hit the door with such force that the cheap door lock buckled and the door flew open. Duncan felt the night air. He was free. Though castrated and bleeding profusely, Duncan Lamont pushed forward with the chair attached to his arm and stumbled into a street filled with people.