The Panic Zone by Rick Mofina Page A

chair. To one side, a large window offered views of the bay and planes landing at Santos Dumont Airport. Down the hall, he saw a room with files.
    â€œThis way, Mr. Gannon, please.” The receptionist led him to a door bearing the nameplate, Drake Stinson, then opened it for him.
    â€œJack Gannon?” A tall, silver-haired, well-built man in his late fifties stood. He wore a tailored suit and a smile as he crushed Gannon’s hand in his. “Drake Stinson, I’m here by way of Washington, D.C. Always nice to see a fellow countryman—too bad about the circumstances. Have a seat. Are you hearing anything new on the investigation?”
    â€œOnly that the victims’ names have been released. You know we lost two of our bureau people.”
    â€œYes, terrible.” Stinson handed Gannon his card, and Gannon glimpsed Stinson’s title: special international counsel. “What were they doing there? Anything to do with the press reports that this was an execution in a drug war with the Colombians? Did your agency have an inside scoop?”
    Gannon cautioned himself.
    He was not there to reveal information, but to obtain it.
    â€œNo, we think Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde justhappened to be at the Café Amaldo for lunch. It’s a short walk from our bureau.”
    â€œI see,” Stinson said, “and I think that is how we lost Maria. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    â€œWhich is why I’m here.” Gannon opened his notebook and pen.
    A hint of unease flickered across Stinson’s eyes.
    â€œWe’re profiling the victims,” Gannon said, “and I was hoping you could tell me about Maria Santo.”
    â€œThe firm won’t comment other than to say we are saddened by this horrible event and our thoughts go to the families of the victims.”
    â€œCan’t you elaborate? Both of our organizations lost people here. Can you tell me the kind of person she was?”
    Stinson shook his head.
    â€œWhy not? You lost an employee—why not offer a few compassionate words to let people know just what kind of innocent person was murdered here?”
    â€œI can’t.” Stinson paused. “Would you consider going off the record?”
    â€œWhat’s the information?”
    â€œI have your word you will not attribute what I’m going to tell you to this firm in any way?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œThis is terrible to say but Maria was going to be let go.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWe think she was stealing files. One of the other girls saw her leave with case files in her bag and that’s a firing offence.”
    â€œWhich files? Which case?”
    â€œI’m not certain.”
    â€œAny idea why she was stealing files?”
    â€œWho knows? Maybe she had thoughts of selling them to narco terrorists, corporate competitors of our clients, other law firms that were opposing us on cases?”
    â€œWould she want to go to the press about anything?”
    Stinson took a moment to assess the question.
    â€œYou’re talking about the coincidence of Maria and your people being there at the same time?”
    â€œJust trying to get a sense of the files.”
    Stinson shook his head.
    â€œNo, our files are legal mumbo jumbo, nothing newsworthy.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t know which case she was taking files from?”
    â€œI don’t, but I know the type of cases we handle and it’s really all contractual stuff.”
    â€œContractual stuff—that is of interest to narco terrorists? You said she could’ve wanted to sell the files to narco terrorists.”
    â€œLook, the files contain personal information on some wealthy clients. Hostage-taking for ransom is a business down here. Bottom line—we really don’t know why she would be taking files,” Stinson said. “She had a rough up-bringing in one of the gang-controlled favelas. She’d been with us