Chapter 42. Kidnapped
Branco holstered his gun and walked back down the floor to his private office. Branco picked up the phone and called his cousin, Julio Cezanne, who was on his private jet heading from Guadalajara, Mexico to Natal, Brazil.
“Julio, we got a little problem,” said Branco.
Cezanne took his cigar out of his mouth, annoyed.
“What kinda problem?”
“Got a little infestation problem. Two stray cats got into the warehouse. We had to put ‘em down.” Branco thought this code language was stupid. They were on an encrypted satellite phone, after all. But Cezanne insisted on it.
Julio Cezanne was angry. “Davy, you know how much I got ridin’ on this? How did you let ‘em get into your warehouse? Don’t you have any kinda security down there? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Davy, I trusted you with the simplest part of this fuckin’ operation.”
“We don’t have a big security perimeter because we are trying not to attract attention.”
“How did the, uh, cats get in?”
“They showed up right after I made it back to the warehouse, so they must have just tailed me back.” Davy was nervous. When his cousin got angry, people got dead.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Davy, what are you, in third grade?”
“I did everything you told me. Somehow they followed me the whole way, I guess.”
“Is the factory getting any complaints for noise disturbance?” Cezanne was worried neighbors might have heard the shots.
“No. We are in a warehouse district. There is nothing down here. No way anybody hears anything down here. That’s not a problem. And we monitored the police band. Nothing.”
“But what happens when the owners of these cats find them missing? What are you doing about that?”
“Not a problem. I gotta guy who thinks that’s under control.” Branco had an associate who was former Brazilian police. Branco knew that most of the older police cars did not have GPS, and the car they had shot up appeared to be an older one.
“He thinks? He thinks? Davy, you gotta know. I am not restin’ my whole operation on what one of your monkeys thinks.”
“He knows, Julio. He told me he is sure and I trust him. We’re good.”
Julio Cezanne chewed on his cigar. He didn’t like this. If the police found that warehouse, the whole operation would go up in flames, and he didn’t trust his cousin not to give him up.
“God damn it, Davy! When I get down there, I am going fuckin’ kill somebody! This is a fuckin’ disaster!” Cezanne paused to consider his options. “You got anybody inside?”
“One or two guys. But I don’t want to call them, because they are not going to be happy. I wouldn’t trust them with this.”
“How many units are ready to go?”
“We got about one hundred boxes. Each box has 24 units. So that’s 2,400. That should be plenty.”
“What about the workers there? Do they know anything?”
“We got about twenty workers. They don’t know anything about the units, but unfortunately they all saw the cat get exterminated.”
Cezanne thought his head was going to explode. “What the fuck?! Are you kidding me? Davy, what kinda marbles are in your head? I want a plan to fix this, and I want it by the time I land!”
Davy Branco was getting very nervous. If he didn’t fix this, he was going to be included within the body pile.
“Look, I can fix this. I will explain it to you when you get here.”
“Davy, listen to me very closely. I want you to pack up that operation and go underground. When I land, send someone you trust to let me know your location. Other than that, no further communication by anyone, anywhere. Total silence, you get me? Clean up whatever pest infestation you have at the warehouse, and leave that place clean, you got me? I will see you in a couple hours.”
“Got ya.” Branco hung up. He had a couple of metal storage containers down by the docks. The storage containers were owned by dummy corporations, which could not be traced back to Branco. He could get rid of all the workers here in the warehouse, drive them in a truck to the docks, and then dump the bodies in the storage containers. By the time anybody found them, he would be long gone. Then he would torch the warehouse.
Up on his Gulfstream jet, Cezanne was furious. There were a hell of a lot of loose ends now. He never should have trusted this operation to his cousin. Cezanne made a few more calls on his encrypted phone. He wanted to know which detective on the Natal Police Department would be assigned the case of looking into the mysterious disappearances of the two police officers. He needed some leverage, and he needed it quickly. Cezanne could not believe how badly Branco had fucked things up. Cezanne would have to get rid of him eventually. It was a shame. The kid meant well, but business is business, he thought.
The following day, 55 year-old Natal Homicide Detective Manuel Rosario stood on the edge of San Juan Lake, watching a crane lift a bullet-riddled police car out of the water by the rear bumper. Water poured out of the bullet holes like a sieve. AK-47s, most likely. Rosario frowned. The two officers had not called in after their last reported position near the Soccer Stadium. Rosario was grim. He knew both men and their families. Rosario thought of the patrolmen. Each had young children. Anger welled within him. Rosario would find the killers who did this. The crane lowered the police car on the bank, and then a police mechanic unhooked the large yellow hook from bumper. Rosario went over to the vehicle and peered inside.
Rosario was tall and thin, with short curly black hair and green eyes. He was a runner, which was how he stayed in shape. His first wife had died several years ago from ovarian cancer. His teenage daughter Amy was all he had left. He was only ten years from retirement, and he couldn’t wait. He was sick of the drug dealer killings and the gang violence. He was happiest when he was helping his daughter with homework or attending her soccer games. But recently, the volume of work was interfering with his parental plans. And he knew this case involving the missing officers was a round-the-clock operation. The Chief was not going to let anyone rest until the officers were found.
Rosario had a mechanic jimmy open the trunk. Inside, he found the bodies of the two officers. Rosario was outraged. He had the bodies placed on black tarps on the bank of the lake, where they would be inspected by the medical examiner. Rosario inspected the bullet holes in the seats and pulled out multiple slugs. They appeared to be AK-47 slugs, as he had suspected. But no blood on the interior of the car. That was odd. Even after being in the lake, the car should have some blood residue if the officers had been shot in their car. That meant that they had been shot outside the car. But then why shoot up the police car if no one was inside it? Perhaps the shooters thought an officer was inside, but the officer had already left the vehicle. Then they shot the officers elsewhere and put the dead bodies back in the police car.
Rosario thought about fingerprints. Would they survive in the lake water? He walked over to speak with Denny, his fingerprint technician.
“What do you think? Can we get prints after it has been submerged in lake water for a day?” asked Rosario.
“It’s definitely possible. I just read an article from some lady at Quantico. They were able to pull prints off a gun submerged for 70 days. The longer the print is submerged, and the warmer the water, the worse it is. This lake is pretty warm, but it has only been underwater for a day. So I say it is worth a try.”
“OK, thanks Denny.” Rosario was surprised. He thought water washed off prints. This would probably be a dead-end, though, he thought. No one with half a brain kills a cop and then leaves prints behind. Rosario thought for a moment about who would do this. It would take brass balls to take down two cops, he thought. Even the local drug dealers he knew wouldn’t kill a police officer. Brings on too much heat, he thought. He pondered the World Cup matches coming up. Could it have something to do with that? The officers’ last call-in position was near the Soccer Stadium. Maybe they saw something there they shouldn’t have. But why hit Natal? Surely the matches in Rio de Janeiro would be bigger. It didn’t make sense. After supervising the crime scene for another hour or so, Rosario decided to go have a talk with each of the officer’s wives. Maybe the officers had contacted their wives shortly before they went missing. Rosario hopped in his squad car and drove through the streets of Natal to the home of the first officer. As he got on the freeway, he called his fourteen year-old daughter Amy on her cell phone. He wanted to tell her that he was not going to make her soccer game later today.
Amy Rosario, tall and slim like her father, with long black hair pulled into a pony tail, and dressed in a blue and green plaid Catholic school jumper, was riding her ten-speed Giant blue bicycle home from school. She was in a hurry today, because her English teacher had made her stay a little late today to go over her recent absenteeism problem. Now she was going to be late for her soccer game. It was against St. Ignatius, their school rival. Amy wanted to beat them, and the team was counting on her for a goal or two. Amy Rosario was the starting right-winger for her team. She loved soccer. Her father had promised her tickets to the upcoming World Cup matches in Natal Stadium. She enjoyed spending every possible minute she could with her dad. He was all she had left, after her mother died of cancer. As she was a few blocks away from her house, her dad called her on her cell phone.
One block behind Amy, the snatch team was waiting in a weathered butter-yellow van with the name “Pollos Plumbing” stenciled on the side. One of the men was looking at an 8x10 photograph, blown up from Amy’s picture in last year’s yearbook. “That’s her,” the stocky man behind the driver’s seat said. The tall man in the passenger seat and the bald man in the middle seat both nodded. They knew what to do.
As she coasted on her bicycle, Amy Rosario listened to her father on the cell phone explain why he would not be able to make the soccer game.
“OK, dad, whatever. I know your work is important.” She was trying to be polite, but she was definitely disappointed that her dad would not be coming. She liked him proudly hugging her after a game. She liked his thumbs-up to her from the stands when she scored. Mostly, however, she liked the blue Slurpee he would buy her after the game.
“I feel badly, sweetie, but this case is going to take all my time for a little bit.”
“I guess it’s another week without a blue Slurpee, then,” joked Amy.
“Next week, I will buy you two blue Slurpees,” said her dad.
“OK, that’s a deal,” said Amy. “but Dad…AHHHHHHHH!”
Detective Manuel Rosario heard his daughter scream. “Amy?”
“Help!” he heard her scream.
“Amy? Amy? Are you there? Amy?”
Amy Rosario tried to scream again but the burlap bag over her head muffled her sound, as the two burly men manhandled her into the yellow van and tied her hands roughly behind her. As the yellow van peeled down the subdivision street, Detective Rosario tried in vain to get his daughter to respond. On the highway, Manuel Rosario, violently yanked his steering wheel hard to the right, sending his squad car careening and skidding across three lanes. He punched the accelerator down the exit ramp, and at the bottom, slammed on the brakes, circled under the highway, and hit the pedal to go back the way he came. Rosario was scared to death. His daughter was in trouble. He punched the accelerator to the floorboard, hit the police siren, and barreled down the highway towards his house, driving faster than he ever had before.