Dead Heat Read Online Free

top of it. I’m seriously considering having a proper drink.
    ‘What’s the good news?’
    Paz swilled the last of her espresso around her tiny cup.
    ‘I know where to find Lucas Meyer.’
    Half an hour later we’re muscling through the crowds at the Carioca Arena, on our way to ask Lucas Meyer why Tim Gilmore phoned him the night before he died. The Carioca is a utopian dreamscape; everything is brand new and gleaming, and every pair of eyes is shining with excitement.
    ‘Makes you proud, huh?’ Paz says as we push along the concourse towards the stands. We pass thriving soda concessions and food stalls, and the noise of the crowd grows as we get to the hall itself. We emerge high in the stands, surrounded by thousands of fans. The arena floor is bright blue, and men are fighting inside bright-yellow competition rings. We head down the stairs. The closer we get to the wrestlers, the bigger and tougher they look. Paz puts a friendly hand on my back as we approach.
    ‘Just like looking in the mirror, eh, Carvalho?’
    I smile.
    ‘Back in the day, Vitoria. Back in the day.’
    I flash my badge and Paz flashes a smile, and a steward directs us underneath the grandstand to a cavernous warm-up area where the teams are preparing for each bout. The place smells of ointment and reminds me of my school locker room. Colossal men are stretching and grappling in every corner. There are no crowds, but the floor is covered with matting and the same circular fighting areas are drawn out in various colours. We find the South Africansin a huddle at the far side of the room and they break apart as we approach. There are six of them, three in Lycra and three in tracksuits. A man who is older than the others steps forward.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    His voice is rough, and his bulbous blue eyes bore into me. He’s chewing gum at an alarming rate and I can trace the outline of his jugular, pulsing under his skin.
    ‘Rafael Carvalho,’ I say, holding up my badge again. ‘And this is Detective Paz. We’re looking for Lucas Meyer.’
    The coach stops chewing for a moment.
    ‘Me, too.’
    He adjusts his stance and holds out a huge hand. It feels like sandpaper as I clasp it.
    ‘I’m Aiden Nel,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m pretty stressed right now. Lucas is supposed to be on the mat in an hour and he’s disappeared.’
    Paz and I exchange glances. A loud slam echoes up towards the ceiling girders, as an athlete is thrown to the floor by a teammate.
    ‘Disappeared since when, Mr Nel?’ Paz asks.
    Nel’s bulging eyes flick to her and his brow furrows.
    ‘He was at breakfast this morning. That was four hours ago.’
    ‘How was he behaving at breakfast?’
    Aiden Nel shrugged.
    ‘Quiet. Watching the TV.’
    The coach has lungs the size of oil drums and his voice is deep and rich. All the same, he sounds tight and pensive as he answers Paz’s questions.
    ‘Is that unusual? Don’t people always get nervous before a big competition?’
    ‘Not Lucas.’
    As Paz asks the questions, I watch Aiden Nel’s eyes drift slowly past her, and I follow his gaze. He’s watching a girl heading towards the Russian team on the far side of the room. She’s half the size of the wrestlers, with peroxide-blonde hair and a white tracksuit. She spots us looking at her and raises a delicate hand in greeting. By the time I look back, Aiden Nel’s eyes are back on Paz.
    ‘I supposed he was sleeping,’ he says. ‘Sleeping is a big part of our regime, so I wasn’t worried.’
    ‘But you’re worried now?’
    Nel glances nervously at his watch.
    ‘He should have been here ninety minutes ago. He’s not answering his phone and there was no answer when I banged on his door.’
    I look at Aiden Nel’s fists. I guess that most people would wake up if he hammered on their door.
    ‘Does he have a room-mate?’
    I remember Oscar Ryan glaring at us when we woke him up at Tim Gilmore’s place, and make a mental note to check