Guanabara Bay and up to the statue of Christ the Redeemer. Beautiful, she thought, realizing at the same time that she wasn't experiencing the incredible sight in any emotional part of her being.
'So, what do you think of our little statue?'
Startled, Natalie turned to the heavily accented voice. A uniformed policeman stood close by, right hand resting on his short, black rubber nightstick. He was swarthy, well built, and handsome in a matinee idol sort of way, with narrow features and a hawk's dark eyes. The name tag pinned over his breast pocket read VARGAS.
'It's very beautiful, very moving,' she said. 'How did you know I was American?'
'You look Brazilian, but next to you is a dead giveaway that you are a tourist.' The officer gestured to the map on the bench beside her. 'A guess that any tourist is American would be right more often than wrong.'
Natalie managed a smile.
'My family is from Cape Verde. Are you local police?'
'Military, actually.'
'Where did you learn to speak English so well?'
'I am flattered that you would even think so. I spent a year in Missouri when I was in school. Have you been in Rio long?'
Natalie shook her head.
'I haven't even checked into my hotel yet.'
'Oh, and where is that?'
Perhaps it was the nightmare with the cab driver, perhaps an eagerness — perceived or actual — in the man's tone, but suddenly Natalie found herself wary. The last thing she needed at the moment was an amorous advance from a cop.
'The Intercontinental,' she lied, standing quickly. 'Well, I'd better get there and register. Have a good day.'
'Do you know the way? Perhaps I could — '
'No, no. Thank you, though. This map and I are becoming the best of friends.'
She refused to look the man in the eye for fear of seeing hurt, or worse, anger.
'Very well, then,' he said. 'May I wish that you have a wonderful time in Rio.'
The Rui Mirador, a four-story brownstone, was as described on the travel site, quaint and clean. As for safety, the clerk at the small desk by the entrance assured Natalie that his post was manned 24-7.
'We are each proficient in the use of this,' he said in Portuguese, proudly brandishing an ugly, long-barreled pistol, which he produced from a drawer beneath the counter.
Not as confident in the hotel's security system as she might have liked, Natalie registered nevertheless and toted her bag up three flights to a small room that featured little else save for a pair of twin platform beds. Two stars is two stars, she reminded herself, but she also knew sleep was going to be a problem. Unwilling to be placed at the mercy of the city by staying out late, she decided her most prudent move would, at some point, be the purchase of a bottle of fine Brazilian whiskey along with, perhaps, a visit to the pharmacy.
It was just after noon by the time she had showered and changed into a beige linen suit and short-sleeved turquoise blouse. There was a microsized air conditioner in one of the two windows of her room, but at that point, neither the heat nor the humidity demanded its use. The Jeep was parked in a lot a block from the hotel, but her targets for this day, a police station or two and the hospital, could be reached by foot. Dense traffic — pedestrian and cars — also mitigated against driving, but then there was the matter of negotiating the hills. As it had been since the fire, her breathing was seldom natural and unintrusive. Satisfying, deep breaths were incredibly welcome when they occurred, but they were few and far between. She could have used two or three more weeks of pulmonary rehab, but her doctor and therapists had made it clear that even then, nothing at all would have been guaranteed except, perhaps, for a drop in her lung allocation score.
The desk clerk was clearly curious about why she wanted to visit two or three police stations — especially since she seemed to have little idea that there were three completely different police forces — municipal, tourist, and military. With the help of the phone book, he marked one station of each on her map and pointed her in the right direction. In fact, the man's conclusions were incorrect. Following her return home, Natalie had learned as much about the various police forces in Brazil as repeated Internet searches could teach her. What she gleaned did not make her that comfortable in relying on any of them, or in believing that her near-kidnapping in one of the favelas north and west of the downtown area would ever be investigated.
Anxious not to run into the officer from the Pasmado Overlook, and reasoning that he might still be out on patrol, perhaps searching out other female tourists to welcome, she chose to start at the station of the Military Police. It was a modern, single-story brick and glass structure on Rua Sao Clemente, about half the size of an average McDonald's back in Boston, and just as crowded. The officer at the front desk, after she asked him to please speak a little slower, referred her back to a Detective Perreira, short and at least forty pounds overweight, with a pencil-thin mustache and a cold smile. His English was serviceable, though broken and heavily accented, but Natalie decided against telling him that her Portuguese was probably better.
'So, I see that was quite a difficult welcoming to our city,' he said after she had told him her story and presented him with one of the hundred copies of a flyer she had made on her computer. The single sheet included a photo of her, and a summary, in her mother's Portuguese, of the events of her attack as she remembered them, or could piece them together.
'I can't fully describe to you how terrible an experience it was to be attacked in such a way,' she said. 'The taxi driver said he was going to take me to a place called the House of Love.'
Perreira reacted not at all, but instead began typing on his computer keyboard while Natalie waited, trying not to stare at the massive pseudochin rolling out from beneath his real one.
'And you say that this crime which occurred on you was reported to the police?' he asked finally.
'I was in a deep coma when I was found, but I was told the police had called the ambulance that brought me to the hospital.'
'Santa Teresa Hospital.'
'Yes.'
'But you telephoned to them and they mentioned that they have no record of you as being a patient there.'
'I am going to Santa Teresa's when I leave here to see if I can straighten that confusion out.'
'And certain you are the dates you have given to me are correct?'
'I am.'
Perreira sighed audibly and tapped his stubby fingertips together.
'Senhorita Reyes,' he said, 'we Military Police pay very close attention to people who get shot in our cities — especially tourists. We have to uphold to a reputation.'
In her more cynical days, Natalie most certainly would have asked for clarification of precisely what reputation he was talking about. Her re search had revealed much about the role of the Military Police in the death squads that were believed to be responsible for the murders of hundreds, if not thousands, of street urchins over the years, including the notorious massacre in 1993 when fifty street children were shot and eight killed in front of the Candelaria church.
'So, what have you learned about my shooting?' she asked, motioning toward the computer.
'The databases of the Military Police I have searched, and also the, how do you say, civil or municipal police, and then also the tourist police.'
'Yes?'
'There are in none of them records of anyone of your name to have been shot on the dates you have written here.' 'But what about — '
'I have checked also for unknown females shot on those dates. Also none.'
'That makes no sense.'
'Perhaps it does and perhaps it does not. Senhorita Reyes, you say you are student.'
'A medical student, yes.'
'In our country, students are very often poor. Do you own much money?'
Natalie sensed where the man was headed and began to burn.
'I am older than most students,' she said coolly. 'I have enough money to take care of myself. Detective Perreira, please get to the point.'
