Stained River by David Faxon Page A

rippling glow. She entered the lobby, walked to the elevator and pushed the UP button.  The building was large with a shopping mall on the ground level. A few people lingered; none paid any attention to her. The doors parted. She got in and pushed another button, this time for the thirtieth floor. She watched the lit panel as it climbed from “Lobby” to 30. All of a sudden, she felt very alone, but knew this was the only way she would be satisfied. The elevator stopped, the doors opened. She walked into familiar surroundings, yet fumbled for the key because she was nervous. Inside, service lights dimly lit the office. She closed the door, not noticing a small red light that had come on above her. In her haste and nervousness, she had forgotten about the ubiquitous security cameras. She walked the long aisle to Hewett’s office, came to his door, put her hand on the handle, as another red light came on. She was inside and knew where he hid the key to his desk; the unlocked top drawer. Jerk! She thought.
    Somewhere in the building, a security officer should have noticed a signal that someone was in the offices on the thirtieth floor. He didn’t. It was blind luck that she didn’t get caught. She had the book in her hand when she looked up, saw the red light and realized her mistake.
    “Oh, shit!”
    In her panic, she put the book in her coat pocket but dropped the desk key on the floor. Security would be there at any second.
    Next morning, she went to work as usual, but knew the tapes in the surveillance cameras were a problem. Hewett had already called the police. There would be questions. It was the longest day she ever spent, expecting her arrest to be imminent. But in the end, no one had approached her about the break in. There was, however, plenty of office talk. She decided the raincoat and hat she wore the previous evening, concealed her identity. The camera images, however, were certain to be looked at carefully.
    Two weeks passed. Still no one asked about the break in. She began to think no one would. Sloppy police work, perhaps, but lingering doubt persisted. Hewett’s book contained phone numbers. Lots of them. She began making calls just to see who answered. One was to Castelo Branco’s company, several were to off shore banks and she jotted the names. Several more were to an office of the SEC. That might be explainable in light of what happened, but she wanted to know exactly who Hewett had talked to. She would organize the information carefully and piece it all together.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Brasilia
     
    The company occupied a suite on three floors of One Playa del Mendoza, down town. The twenty fourth floors housed administrative offices, the twenty fifth and twenty sixth, executive suites and large conference rooms. In a lobby, the outside receptionist sat behind a circular desk staring at a computer monitor, trying hard to pass the time. Behind her was a massive green marble wall twenty feet high with raised gold metallic letters that said Companhia do Azevedo Limitada. Copious sunlight entered from high floor to ceiling windows, and the lobby was large enough to produce an echo-particularly when a woman walked across its tan and white marbled floor with high heels. To the left of the receptionist, a large double door with polished brass handles led to the interior offices. By any standard, an impressive image, a company of substance.
    Estevo Castelo Branco, the founder and CEO, occupied a large corner office, also with floor to ceiling glass, offering a magnificent view of the city. The interior was elegant, totally in keeping with the head of a business that appeared legitimate and very successful.
    He amassed substantial wealth, ostensibly as a business -man engaged primarily in mineral resources. His real name was Juan Marquez. Until twenty- five years ago, a onetime stage performer in Rio. Greed placed a number of opportunities