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

  “Yes. I am supposed to be arranging the return of a body of an American who died here. I need to have his body shipped back to his family in the States. The person I talked to said your office would arrange it.”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t have any details of that. I only have here that you called and to return your call. The subject of your conversation with our office was not passed on to me.”

  “What would you suggest I do then?”

  “You will need to sign a number of forms to have a body released to you, so I suggest that you come in to our offices and talk to Mr. Sosa or Ms Santos who is in charge.” She paused, then continued, “ I’m sorry, Mr. Sosa is on sick leave so it would have to Ms Santos but she doesn’t come in until later. You can see someone else if you’d like.”

  “Can I come today?”

  “Yes, we are open until five o’clock,” she said pleasantly.

  “In case I can’t find the per . . .” I was saying, when I heard her disconnect before I could finish my sentence. Shit. Bureaucracy. It was the same all over the world.

  I dressed and headed for the address that I had been given: Instituto Medical Legal. Rua dos Invalidos 152, third floor.

  At first, I talked to a guy who couldn’t find a record of my conversation but at least he did have the name of Duncan Lamont. I waited a half hour more before someone authorized me to go into the area where I could identify the body based on the description I had gotten from Jim.

  The guy who accompanied me there was a tall man dressed in a technician’s jacket.

  “Wait here, you want to see Carlinhos,” was all he said then disappeared.

  To me the walls looked pale and lifeless like all places where sick and dead people resided. I watched a few people moving back and forth between rooms, pushing dead bodies on gurneys with no more emotion than if they were pushing stack of office supplies. I had that feeling or lack of feeling many times. I blanked death for so many years that now I realized I sometimes tried to force myself to feel its significance even when there was no reason. Like now. I guess it was part of my therapy for becoming sensitive to life again. A kind of self rejuvenation.

  Carlinhos was a dark, Mediterranean-looking, slightly built man in his mid to late twenties with a sour face and blond streaked hair. “Hello Mr. Barnett, how can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Duncan Lamont. I’m supposed to I D him, then fill out some papers to have his body shipped to America.”

  “You from America?” Carlinhos smiled. Surprisingly, when he smiled his sour face actually turned somewhat sweet.

  “Yes, New York. Harlem New York.”

  “I heard of that place. I got a cousin who lives in New York. He calls it the city so nice they had to name it twice. He invited me to come, but it’s very hard getting a visa to the U. S. for Brazilians now.”

  “Yeah that’s what I heard, too,” I said.

  “Anyway one day, I’ll visit your country.”

  “If you ever come to Harlem, look me up,” I said, and then fished in my wallet and gave him a business card from the Be Bop Tavern, a jazz bar and restaurant in Harlem of which I was the proud owner.

  “Wait here, I’ll go get him.” he said.

  I waited another fifteen minutes before Carlinhos returned with a confused look.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not here,” he said

  “Where else could he be?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, the strange thing is, I know he was here last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Cause a guy called and asked me to check on the same guy yesterday.”

  “What guy?

  “A cop. Uhh, a cop named Vianna. He was supposed to call back but I guess he found what he wanted from somewhere else,” Carlinhos said.

  “You sure it was the same guy, Duncan Lamont?” I asked

  “Definitely. It’s not everyday you get a guy who has been sliced up with a razor like a pig at slaughtering time and had his manhood sliced off. That is the kind of guy you remember, believe me,” Carlinhos explained with a pained expression.

  He promised to call me later at my hotel, as soon as he found out where the body had been moved to. I gave him a twenty dollar bill to help his memory and then left the IML building. As I walked back out into the sunshine, my head was swimming with questions.

  Who was the cop who had inquired about Lamont and why? Where was the body of Duncan Lamont? And above all, what had Duncan Lamont done to make somebody mad enough to torture him, then chop off his dick?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was obvious there was a lot more happening than I knew about, or for that matter wanted to know about. I just wanted to keep my word to Jim and get his brother’s body back on the plane. I decided to see some more of the downtown area before I went back to the hotel to await Carlinhos’call. I turned in the direction of a busy intersection, all the while still trying to clear my mind of the issues surrounding a dead guy named Duncan Lamont. I needed space to clear my head. So I did what I often did in New York. I took the train and rode a while. For some reason, the train stop President Vargas seemed to summon me. I got off, went up to the street and decided to walk around and see another part of Rio while I mulled over events. I turned off President Vargas, which was the main road, and then down a street called Ave Marechal Floriano where the people and the look of the shops reminded me of Spanish Harlem. Here the Du Mirro Restaurant sold food by the kilo and announced Rabada, Feijoada, Strogonoff, Bacalhao, Camarao and Laznha on a large sign. Close by, the furniture store blared rap music through a single big speaker to help attract customers.

  I was particularly drawn to a shop with a sign reading Palacio das Velas (Candle Palace). I immediately recognized it as the Brazilian version of a New York Botanica, where mostly Latino people go to buy candles and incense to burn for saints as well as other things that bring magical protection against the invisible forces of the world. This shop sold not only incense and candles, but they also had statues of various saints and books about the mysteries of African religions like Candomble, Umbanda , and Pretos Velhos, as well as tambourines, walking sticks and various natural grains. Further down, a shoe store called Sousa caught my eye because of a cool-looking pair of tan suede shoes in their window. As I moved closer, the window caught the reflection of a man standing behind me.

  I sized him up quickly with a glance. He was middle aged, plump with thinning hair. Maybe fifty to fifty five years old. He wore a yellow short sleeve shirt black pants and tan shoes. Very ordinary looking.

  The man moved to my side and spoke in a very low voice.“ I am a friend of Duncan Lamont’s. I would like to tell you what I know.” His accent was thick but his English was perfectly understandable. “But if you want to talk I must take you to a safe place,” he said, looking and talking into the store window.

  The way he moved and acted, he gave the impression someone might be watching. I kept looking at the shoes in the window without turning my head.

  “Yeah, OK.” I said.

  I figured if he knew anything at all, it was a helluva lot more than I did.

  “There is a restaurant in Botafogo, called Yoruba, it’s in Rua Anarldo Quintela. Meet me there at 7:30 this evening,” he said, and moved off down the street.

  Suddenly I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Not because I sensed fear or even danger but because I realized that the survival mechanism that kept me alive all those years when I was an agent was still on automatic.

  I spent the rest of the day soaking up the local atmosphere until it was time to meet the man who had appeared in the reflection of the window.

  At 7:27, I turned into the street, Rua Arnaldo Quintela and walked about two minutes until I reached number 94 and saw Yoruba, the name of the restaurant the man had mentioned.

  The restaurant was done up with blue-tinted windows, African sculptures on the walls and green leaves spread on the polished wood floor. Combined with the wrought iron chairs and the marbled top tables, it gave the place a cool exotic look. A quick look at the prices on the menu told me this had to be a first-class joint. The choices on the menu looked incredibly interesting and reading the menu made my mouth water. The specialities of the house were African Brazilian and my eye seemed glued to something called ebubu-fulo, which was fish cooked in coconut milk and bananas. But I didn’t want to get too comfortable. At least, not until I had heard what this joker had to say, so I just ordered a caparainha and waited for him to show.

  I was only halfway through my drink when one of the waiters came up and discreetly asked that I follow him. We walked up the stairs in the middle of the restaurant to a second floor. The waiter opened a door to another room for me and I went inside. The man I had seen at the shoe store window sat at a dining table set up for two people.

  “You’re my guest tonight, Mr. Barnett, please have a seat. The food here is excellent. The cook, Neide, is from Baiha and she is a genius. Order what you like, my treat,” the man at the table said.

  Here I was in a city I had never been to before, being treated to dinner by a man whose name I didn’t even know. I was ready for anything so I glanced around the room for something I could pick up and use as a weapon. I noticed the forks laid nicely on the tables as well as to a sharp wooden stick within reach standing in a nearby vase. OK, now I felt more relaxed and was ready to talk.

  “Excuse me for the clandestine way in which I arranged this meeting, but once I explain, I’m sure you will understand. By the way my name is Ramón Morriera,” the plump man said extending his hand as I sat down to the table and calculated how far I’d have to reach to grab the sharp stick, just in case.

  I ordered the ebubu-fulo and he ordered moqueca de peixe. I had to give it to
the man, he was right. The food was delicious.

  As we ate he told me why he had asked to meet.

  “Duncan Lamont was a friend of mine. Not the best of friends but a good friend and a good man.”

  ”And now he’s a dead friend.”

  “Yes, because, well, I believe that he had started getting too close to some people involved in a very dirty and dangerous business.”

  “Like?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard of this or not, but many people come to Rio because they want to have sex with children. Children as young as eight or nine years old. Some of these children are used for sex and others are sold to people who want their transplantable body parts or even to use for laboratory experiments the same way that an animal might be used,” Ramón said.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “To put it as best as I know how to, we think that Duncan was about to make contact with a priest who knows the truth behind one of the biggest child prostitution rings in Brazil. This priest is someone who has been defying these gangs by sabotaging the selling and exploitation of impoverished and homeless children.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “By rescuing children from brothels and orphanages and adoption agencies set up by the gangs as fronts and then sending them to families with money in other countries who are without children. He is called the Robin Hood priest but so far only a few people have ever seen him.”

  “What does he do with them once he’s rescued them?”

  “They say he has his own orphanage where he takes the kids. Thank God, to date no one has been able to find it or him. At least not the people who would like to find him and kill him.”

  “Kill him, why?”

  “Because he is said to have list of names of the top people involved.”

  “And how long has this priest been around?”

  “A few years.”

  “So you think that’s why Duncan was tortured, in order to make him tell what he knew about this priest?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “Before you mentioned we. Who is we?”

  “Duncan was helped in this country by people like myself who are trying to end this horrible business in Brazil. We are an underground organization made up of private citizens. Many of us who are working to stop this kind of thing have lost children to these people. A lot of our children have been kidnapped and sold into prostitution, while others have been enticed and made dependent on drugs and some have even been taken away by the state, and sent to institutions where our children were then sold on or corrupted for a few American dollars. In a poor country like Brazil, even a little amount of money and a few days of regular meals is more than some children have ever known. It’s like the whole world to them, Mr. Barnett.”

  “I can see that,” I said, recalling some of the stark poverty I had seen since being here. “So why do you think his body has disappeared?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Because if you identify the body, then as an American you can complain to the American Embassy and that could create a very uncomfortable climate for some of the people who are involved with this dirty business. Especially since Duncan was a well-known newspaper reporter. As a result this could create a scare as well as an outcry against Brazil which could stop people from coming here as tourists. Don’t you think that this is possible, especially with all of the anti-terrorist sentiment going on in America at the moment?”

  “I could see that.”

  “Well that’s what the powers that be are afraid of, Mr. Barnett.”

  “This is all very interesting, and very sad, but to be honest, and I don’t mean to be insensitive or harsh, I just I want to get Duncan Lamont’s body on a plane and leave Rio. What I need to know from you is, can you help me find it?”

  Ramón sighed, then was still for what seemed a long time before he answered.

  “Yes I think I can help, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But it’s more complicated that you might think. As I said, a lot of people very high up are involved in this business. Government people, military people, I have to be very careful as to how I go about this or I might suffer the same fate as my friend Mr. Lamont.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Oh I don’t mind helping you, in fact I want to, that’s why I contacted you. It’s just that I have to be very careful not to let people know that I know you or that I am too interested in Duncan’s corpse.“

  What I didn’t tell him was I had already asked Carlinhos for help. I figured it was better to play my cards as close to my chest as possible and see what he would propose.

  “What do you think they plan to do with it, destroy the evidence of his torture?” I asked.

  “No they can’t go that far. Duncan was too well known for that, but I’m sure whoever arranged for the body to disappear is planning to do something that will cover up the real cause of his death. If you don’t mind, I can contact someone I know who works in the police department. He is a friend of our cause.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  “I can call him now and try to arrange for a meeting later tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Ramón made a call on his cell phone. He spoke in Portuguese too fast for me to follow every word, but I did understand a meeting was being set up.

  “Mr. Barnett, my friend can meet us in an hour.” Ramón told me.

  “Let’s go.”

  Rio has a metro, but unlike New York City metro, it only has two lines. The number 1 (the green line) and number 2 (the red line). The station we went to was Cinelandia, on the train Line 1. It took us about twenty minutes from Botafogo

  I had heard about this section of Rio but had never been there. Cinelandia was part of old Rio in the heart of the theatre district, designed to be reminiscent of 18th century France. At the end of the square was a building with Municipal Theatre carved into the stone.

  We exited from Line 1 onto an avenue named Rio Branco. The bar where the meeting was scheduled was right across from the station. A large yellow and green awning announced Amarelinhos and Founded in 1921. Adroitly taking orders, waiters dressed in yellow vests paraded among at least fifty tables. There were more tables inside. The man we sought waited at a small table in a semi-lit corner of the bar. He looked about thirty-five, was tall with light brown hair and was wearing a stylish aqua blue suit. He introduced himself to me as Luis Vargas, detective with the Rio police department.

  Ramón went over the story of my trying to find Duncan Lamont’s missing corpse.

  “As I’m sure Ramón might have told you, Mr. Barnett, in Rio there are lots of people in high places with dirty hands. So we have to be very careful when we start asking questions. If this corpse has been hidden because someone bigger has something to hide, it’s going to be very difficult, but if it was just an administrative error then that’s quite something else. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll ask around inside the department to see if I can come up with anything. I’ll contact you as soon as I know something. It shouldn’t be longer than twenty-four hours. But in case I can’t, then the only thing you may be able to do is to resort to your old contacts,” Vargas said.

  “And what contacts do you think those might be?” I asked.

  Both Vargas and Ramón looked at each other.

  “Mr. Barnett, that call that you made to IML, the one that you had with the woman, the same one they said that they had no record of. Well that was a lie. As soon as the call had ended, certain people went to work checking out who you were,” Ramón said.

  “Surprise, surprise, and what did they find out?”

  Vargas answered. “That you are a good friend of Duncan’s brother who works for the CIA and also that you, Mr. Barnett, are considered a very dangerous man.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Aaaaaah,” the man cried as he felt the pleasure of orgasm surge through his body like an electric shock. His energy depleted, he relaxed in a heap on top of the woman who still writhed in ecstasy. When the sensations from her own pleasure stilled, the pair lay satiated and bathed in the bliss of fornication’s sweet afterglow.