Fiduciary Duty by Tim Michaels

just left double parked sped past me and merged anonymously into the morning traffic.
    When I got back to the apartment in Botafogo, I took a shower and then immediately fell asleep. I didn’t get up again until 4 in the afternoon. There weren’t any cops in my apartment, which was a good sign. There also weren’t any members of the Prince’s security detail, which was an even better sign. I got up slowly, grinning. Then I went to the bathroom, shaved off my beard and showered. It felt good to be clean and even better to have done to have done an important job well. Later I dismantled the transmitter surgically and precisely with a hammer. Every morning, when I went down for a jog, I dropped a few pieces into a different public trash receptacle.
    I also watched the evening news every night. I grew to like “Jornal Nacional” – the Globo Channel’s 8 PM news show. For the first two days the Prince’s assassination was big news. Though a few “experts” attributed the killing to a group of occultists heretofore operating under the radar, the general consensus among talking heads was that this was the work of an international terrorist organization. After four days, the story was no longer in the headlines, and by the middle of the following week it had dropped out of the news altogether.
    That didn’t mean I was completely safe, of course. Over and over I reviewed the job from start to finish in my head. If there had been loose ends, I couldn’t see them. The cell phone number had probably been traced back to the store where it was picked up, and it is even possible the pre-paid credit card had been traced back to Orlando. By now the authorities might know all the purchases that had been made on the card. But all of those were dead ends, which at best could be connected to a couple of cabbies. If the cabbies were found and questioned, they could only shed a bit of light on an Argentine tourist staying at the Marriott looking to get laid or an Argentine businessman of questionable scruples. Store clerks where the orders were placed might remember that the orders were placed by a Caipira, but none of them had ever seen him, and those who had seen Lincoln had no reason to associate him with the death of the Prince, assuming they remembered him at all. As to the big items, the car and the farmhouse, it was doubtful either would ever get connected to the job, and neither had any connection to me.
    Still, I knew the test would come when I tried to get on a plane. If the authorities had anything on me at all, I wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country. I tried to put the thought out of my mind and enjoy my time off. After all, I was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Cidade maravilhosa – the marvelous city, the Brazilians call it. I just wished my family had been there to enjoy it with me.
    On my last day in Rio, I picked up a few souvenirs. For H I got a teeny weenie Rio style bikini that I knew she wouldn’t wear in a million years. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right? For Jeremy, I bought a miniature Flamengo soccer team outfit. I always had trouble judging Jeremy’s size so I tried to err on the side of “too big” rather than “too small.”
    The next morning, I caught a plane at the Antonio Carlos Jobim airport to Guarulhos airport in São Paulo, and from there I flew to Miami. Nobody so much as looked at me twice until I got to customs in the United States.
    “That was a long trip, Mr. Reynolds,” said the customs agent who flipped through my passport, “Was it business or pleasure?”
    “Pleasure. I needed to unwind and clear my head. I needed to find myself,” I responded.
    “And did you?” he asked through his mirrored shades.
    “Yes,” I said emphatically, “Yes I did.”
    “In that case, welcome back Mr. Reynolds,” he said, handing me back my passport and waving me forward.
    “Thank you,” I said, emotionally, “It’s great to be back.”

Part 2. Human