“Massively,” I said as the captain started his engines.
“There’s really no one else?” Justine asked.
I shook my head, said, “She was an orphan.”
The mate threw off the lines.
As the captain chugged us out of the marina, I watched Justine at the end of the dock watching me until we lost sight of each other.
We picked up speed and headed toward the harbor mouth. Sugarloaf Mountain loomed to our right, looking as impossible and breathtaking as ever.
For a moment I thought about the climbers Tavia and I and General da Silva had rescued off the cliffs the day before the World Cup final. It seemed like several lifetimes ago.
When we were more than a mile offshore, the captain slowed his engines and looked to me. I gazed around at the relative position of Sugarloaf, Copacabana, and the lighthouse toward Devil Beach.
I nodded. It looked right.
The captain cut his engines. I picked up the urn and fought my way to my feet and to the side of the boat.
For a moment I looked around again, wanting to be sure, swallowing at the ball of emotion that swelled in my throat.
I unscrewed the lid of the urn and, whispering hoarsely, said, “So here you are, Tavia, right where you wanted to be, a part of Rio forever.”
I had to stop for several moments and breathe not to cry.
“I loved you, Tavia. I miss you, and I always will.”
Then, with shaking hands, I spread her ashes on the water.
There was little wind and they floated on the surface for a few minutes before drifting off into the glinting light toward Copacabana.
I sat down, feeling hollow and alone, before nodding to the captain.
When we reached Botafogo Bay, I got up and stood in the bow, shading my eyes and peering toward the marina.
Justine, my friend, my very best friend in the world, was right there on the dock, smiling and waiting for me.
Acknowledgments
Our gratitude goes out to the Cariocas, the welcoming people of Rio de Janeiro, who went out of their way to teach us both sides of their “Marvelous City,” the glamorous and the rich as well as the destitute and the poor.
Our exceptional guide, Jo?o Carlos Desales, showed us the tapestry of life inside some of the world’s most desperate slums, and then did the same for us in some of the world’s wealthiest neighborhoods. This book could not have been written without him.
We were also helped by Lais Tammela Souza and Rosangela Farias, who led us to Rio’s stunning physical landmarks and pointed out little-known facts that later became part of the book.
Lieutenant Marco Veiga of the Rio de Janeiro State Military Police helped us understand the BOPE and the favelas from a law-enforcement perspective. Oca dos Curumins, also known as “Tia Bete,” runs an after-school program inside the Alem?n favela, and gave us social insights into the dynamics of Rio’s teeming slums.
Dr. Raquel Souza at Hospital Federal dos Servidores do Estado worked with us on tropical diseases and how they spread in Brazil. Lucia Montanarella of the Rio Olympic Authority was gracious with her time in explaining the various venues of the 2016 Olympic Games. Raquel Aguiar with the Oswaldo Cruz Institute was a big help.
We are also grateful to the nameless people of the Alem?n, Marabel, and Vidigal favelas who made us feel welcome, the folks we met at the FIFA World Cup Final, and so many other Cariocas who shared with us their unique city and lifestyle.
Caught in the crosshairs of a deadly standoff, Detective Michael Bennett must kill…or be killed.
For an excerpt, turn the page.
THE COOKING LAB was in the east wing of the building, on the third floor. It was in a type of apartment known as a junior four, a one-bedroom with a formal dining room off the living room. The dining room was usually separated with French doors, but since the cooking lab was set up there, they’d taken off the doors and Sheetrocked the doorway.
In the lab, just to the right of the kitchen door, was a barrel of sodium hydroxide, a big white fifty-gallon industrial drum of the stuff, plastered with bloodred DANGER: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS diamonds. In front of the drums were two lab tables where two HCL generators were going full tilt.
The generators were chemistry industry standard, a bubbling, dripping, steaming mousetrap setup of hot plates and beakers and rubber tubing and inverted funnels. The HCL rig was for turning solids into liquids and liquids into evaporated gases that were separated and condensed back down into newer, much more lucrative solids.