The Games (Private #11)(53)

Something about the scene gave me pause, and then, out of the blue, I had an odd feeling, a vague inkling of something that I couldn’t name or describe. Da Silva’s car came around. Tavia and I hailed a cab and headed back to Private Rio.

“I can’t stop thinking about Hydra-9,” Tavia said. “The virus going viral, I mean. It’s just too damn…”

“Petrifying,” I said.

That odd feeling, that inkling, was still nagging at me. In my mind’s eye, I saw the cop on horseback and the crowd of desperately poor people wanting help. I saw Luna Santos, her body drained of blood and scorched by fire. Then I saw the look on Dr. Castro’s face when he first saw the images of Hydra-9-destroyed cells in the pathology lab. What was revealed in that expression?

The vision of Castro at that moment became sharper in my memory the more I thought about it. Finally, I recognized the doctor’s expression for what it was, and the vague inkling became insight.

I opened my eyes, said, “Isn’t it funny how sometimes it just takes a different perspective to see things clearly?”

“How’s that?” Tavia said.

“I want to know more about Dr. Castro.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I saw admiration in his eyes.”





Chapter 61



CASTRO CLOSED THE door to his office and leaned his sweaty head against it. Catastrophe averted. Wasn’t that what General da Silva had said?

The doctor wanted to laugh and cry because it was true. Catastrophe averted. The Olympics would go on, as would his detailed scheme.

Still, he couldn’t help but think about the Private investigators, Morgan and Reynaldo. Had they seemed suspicious of him? Dr. Castro closed his eyes, replayed the entire discussion. No. Neither of them had so much as raised an eyebrow at him.

And he’d been careful, kept his separate lives separate, kept everything flying below the radar, and he would make sure it stayed that way for the next thirty hours. It was all he needed. It was all he would ever need.

A worrisome thought niggled: People wouldn’t remember that he and Luna had danced at the samba club, would they? How would people even know that Luna had been at the club?

They wouldn’t. He’d covered his tracks with Luna and with poor—

A knock came at his office door. Castro broke into a sheen of cold sweat. Had they come back? Had he missed something?

With a trembling hand, the doctor opened the door and found one of his pretty little graduate students standing there. What was her name?

“Dr. Castro, have you seen Ricardo?”

Ricardo. That was better.

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“No one’s seen him in days,” she said. “He hasn’t been back to his apartment, and he’s missing all his classes.”

“That’s troubling, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. He could be off with a girl somewhere, sowing his wild oats or something.”

Castro had wanted her to laugh. Instead, the thought seemed to crush her.

“Oh,” she said. “Sure, I suppose.”

Dr. Castro felt sorry for her, said, “If I hear from him, I’ll have him call you.”

“Please. Tell him Leah was looking for him.”

“I’ll do that, Leah, and again, I’m sure he’s okay. Ricardo’s always struck me as someone who can take care of himself.”

“Unless he got caught up in the riots last night,” she said.

Castro liked that idea. He looked concerned, said, “I’ll call some friends in the police department, see if they know anything.”

Leah said, “I can call the hospitals.”

“There,” Castro said. “We have it covered.”

They traded cell numbers and she left.

The doctor closed the door again, feeling like things were closing in on him, that he should act sooner rather than later. He hadn’t meant to leave until long after dark, but he felt compelled to go now as the city’s traffic began to build.

Castro grabbed the few items he needed, put them in his medical kit, and put that in a knapsack. With nary a glance at the office where he’d worked all these months, or at the hospital, or at the lines of poor patients waiting to be seen, Castro left his past life behind and set out into the teeming city, looking to disappear.





Chapter 62

Thursday, August 4, 2016

1:30 p.m.

Twenty-Nine and a Half Hours Before the Olympic Games Open



MOVING DOWN THE hall at Private Rio, talking on my cell, I told Cherie Wise that I would be at her suite by three thirty to watch the latest release from Favela Justice. Then I hung up and entered the lab.

Mo-bot and Sci had six big screens running as they helped Tavia look into the life and times of Dr. Lucas Castro. I scanned the various web pages and documents they’d already called up.

Dr. Castro seemed an all-star by anyone’s estimation. Born in a small favela in northern Rio, orphaned young, Castro defied crushing odds and won a full scholarship to the federal university, where he excelled.

Castro studied medicine and virology, graduating with an MD and a PhD, credentials that won him a place at the prestigious Oswaldo Cruz Institute, arguably Brazil’s finest medical-research facility. The doctor garnered high praise for his early research and then took a two-year leave of absence to work with the World Health Organization.