EBOOK
About
The son of the Foreign Minister of Venezuela is found dead in his apartment in Brasilia. Due to the political nature of the crime, Chief Inspector Mario Silva of Brazil's Federal Police is called in to investigate. As he delves deeper into the murder, he discovers that a chain of murders have occurred throughout Brazil, all with the same MO: victims are first shot in the stomach, then brutally beaten to death, and, even more puzzling, they were all passengers on TAB flight 8101 from Miami to São Paulo. What sinister motive connects these killings? And why does it appear one passenger on that flight, a fifteen-year-old boy who was later raped and killed in prison, is at the heart of it all? "The book has clever dialogue, a twisting plot and an adventurous glimpse at the seamy parts of Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia and Sao Paulo. The case takes Silva and his team all over Brazil in an engaging, fast-paced story that is hard to put away for the night."-Minneapolis Star-Tribune Leighton Gage (1942–2013) was born in New Jersey and had a career in advertising before he turned to writing crime fiction. His seven-book Mario Silva series was inspired by two police officers he knew. Since 1973, he spent part of each year in Santana do Parnaíba, Brazil, where he met his wife, Eide. His books have been translated into French, Italian, Finnish, and Dutch. Chapter One
It was Norma Palhares who first steered her new husband toward the offshore oil platforms. At the time, it seemed like a judicious course to follow. In the end, it set their marital ship on the rocks.
Jonas would spend only two days a week at home; but the money was good, and he'd only do it for a year or so, just until they had enough saved up to buy a bigger house. But the kids they'd planned on never came, so they'd never needed that bigger house. And, in the meantime, their expenses just kept going up and up. New cars every year, flat-screen televisions all over the house, imported wines, designer clothing, the most expensive restaurants, the finest club in the city, the best hairdressers. Jonas kept bringing the money in, and Norma kept shoveling it out. A year became two, then three. And by the time the divorce became final, they'd been together for more than seven.
Jonas moved in with a colleague and began to do what he'd wanted to do for quite some time-embrace the good life.
The colleague was another petroleum engineer who had taken a small flat on a busy shopping street in the Leme neighborhood, six blocks from the beach. He, too, had recently separated from his wife and, burdened by child support, would have been happy to have Jonas stay on and help with the rent. But Jonas, who'd managed to conceal a bundle of money from Norma and her lawyer, had no kids and no financial problems. He wanted a place of his own.
He settled first in Santa Teresa, taking a small house with a high wall and a big garden. The house, situated in the highest part of Rio's highest neighborhood, was conveniently located, less than fifty meters from the nearest streetcar stop. The single-story structure was of just the right size: big enough for Jonas's needs, but small enough to be maintained without a full-time maid. A cleaning lady, who came in three times a week, kept it tidy.
From his backyard, Jonas could look down on the mouth of the bay. The headlands, seven hundred meters below, were so close to one another that a Portuguese navigator had once, on a long-ago January day, mistaken them for the entrance to a river. It was he who'd given the place a name it would bear forever after: Rio de Janeiro, River of January.
The spectacular view was further enhanced by the Christ Statue up on the Corcovado. The monument, almost forty meters in height, was actually four kilometers away, at almost the same altitude as the house. To Jonas's visitors, it looked like a copy in miniature set into the recesses of his garden among the banana trees.
It was all ve
It was Norma Palhares who first steered her new husband toward the offshore oil platforms. At the time, it seemed like a judicious course to follow. In the end, it set their marital ship on the rocks.
Jonas would spend only two days a week at home; but the money was good, and he'd only do it for a year or so, just until they had enough saved up to buy a bigger house. But the kids they'd planned on never came, so they'd never needed that bigger house. And, in the meantime, their expenses just kept going up and up. New cars every year, flat-screen televisions all over the house, imported wines, designer clothing, the most expensive restaurants, the finest club in the city, the best hairdressers. Jonas kept bringing the money in, and Norma kept shoveling it out. A year became two, then three. And by the time the divorce became final, they'd been together for more than seven.
Jonas moved in with a colleague and began to do what he'd wanted to do for quite some time-embrace the good life.
The colleague was another petroleum engineer who had taken a small flat on a busy shopping street in the Leme neighborhood, six blocks from the beach. He, too, had recently separated from his wife and, burdened by child support, would have been happy to have Jonas stay on and help with the rent. But Jonas, who'd managed to conceal a bundle of money from Norma and her lawyer, had no kids and no financial problems. He wanted a place of his own.
He settled first in Santa Teresa, taking a small house with a high wall and a big garden. The house, situated in the highest part of Rio's highest neighborhood, was conveniently located, less than fifty meters from the nearest streetcar stop. The single-story structure was of just the right size: big enough for Jonas's needs, but small enough to be maintained without a full-time maid. A cleaning lady, who came in three times a week, kept it tidy.
From his backyard, Jonas could look down on the mouth of the bay. The headlands, seven hundred meters below, were so close to one another that a Portuguese navigator had once, on a long-ago January day, mistaken them for the entrance to a river. It was he who'd given the place a name it would bear forever after: Rio de Janeiro, River of January.
The spectacular view was further enhanced by the Christ Statue up on the Corcovado. The monument, almost forty meters in height, was actually four kilometers away, at almost the same altitude as the house. To Jonas's visitors, it looked like a copy in miniature set into the recesses of his garden among the banana trees.
It was all ve