Rio Noir
“Carnival spells crime,” snarled Investigador Heloisa Pereira. “Always.”
Extravagantly-flounced fabric, lively-hued, accentuated alleyway squalor and death’s bleakness. From the dancer’s corpse, Detetive Adalberto Rocha rose: “Yes?”
“Noise… crowds… brief encounters, unguarded. Masks! Costumes may conceal weapons; angel’s feathers, a devil’s blade.”
Rocha grimaced: “Villain sashays past; victim drops, onlookers assume ‘drunk!’ Meanwhile, getaway. A perfect crime!”
“Or gunshots unnoticed on Ipanema beach while everyone’s applauding sunset… Some poor soul’s last. I’m surprised it’s not tried more frequently.”
“So here we’ve a dish served cold, thirtyish, unmarked, bag and cash in hand, all dressed up with nowhere to go but the morgue.”
“Post-mortem’ll tell more. But look, under the tan and sequins… Blueish? Lipstick: smudged. That smell… cyanide?
“So, we’re looking maybe for an amorous, dentist-shunning lowlife whose kiss harbours a more deadly halitosis than usual?”
“Murder in Rio,” rebuked Pereira, “is often colourful; never comical.”
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