Estralla shrugged.
“I don’t understand why your crime scene people did not protect this kind of potential evidence,” Gannon said.
“They did.”
“Did they? Their work was sloppy. It’s probably why you have trouble clearing crimes down here. That and the reputation Brazilian police have with human rights groups.”
Estralla’s eyes narrowed at Gannon.
“Are the LAPD and the NYPD without sin? And didn’t London police shoot dead an innocent man? A Brazilian student, they wrongly suspected of being a terrorist? All police should not be judged by the actions of a few.”
Gannon chided himself for saying something so asinine to the cop holding his passport.
“I apologize-I was out of line,” Gannon said. “Maybe it’s the stress of two murdered colleagues and of flying down here on short notice where I don’t know the language or the culture, or much else.”
Estralla resumed chewing his gum and reappraised Gannon.
“We had nets on the scene, but removed them to take photographs and give the dog unit access. We were slow to return them.”
“Look,” said Gannon. “Now that I’ve explained everything, may I leave with my belongings?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have the impression you know more about why Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde were at the cafe, more than you’re telling me.”
“If I help you, will you help me? Not as cop to reporter, but as two men trying to learn the truth about the murders?”
“We make no deals with journalists.”
“I think you do.” Gannon tapped the Jornal do Brasil.
Estralla’s chewing slowed as he thought.
Gannon took his shot at the cop’s human side.
“So, how did you come to attend John Jay in Manhattan?”
“My father was a diplomat at the UN. We lived in New York for ten years.”
“Then you know the city better than I do. I moved there from Buffalo a few months ago.”
“Home of the Bills.”
“You a Bills fan? You like American football?”
Estralla shifted his weight in his chair and changed the subject.
“At this moment, my partner is preparing the documentation for your expulsion. You should tell me what you know now.”
Gannon let a few moments pass. This was it.
“There’s a small recorder in my bag, may I play it for you?”
Estralla nodded and Gannon played Gabriela’s last message.
“We were aware of the message,” Estralla said. “Gabriela’s husband transcribed it for us but said that in his grief he accidentally erased it.”
“That may be, but he forwarded it to a WPA colleague. I recorded it.”
Gannon played it again for Estralla who listened intently.
“The part about documents is important,” Gannon said. “I think these documents can lead us to the source. Her source could have been among the dead or injured. Did you create a seating map, showing where everyone was sitting at the time of the blast?”
Estralla thought, then placed a call, speaking quickly in Portuguese before coming back to Gannon.
“Nothing we discuss must be published. We can charge you with tampering with a crime scene. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“There are many theories we and the DFP are following. Because Angella Roho-Ruiz is among the victims, the narco-terrorist link is one. But criminal intelligence from the favelas to Bogota has yielded nothing to back it up.”
“What are the other theories?”
“An employee who was fired last month for stealing cash threatened to come back to the cafe and kill everyone. We have yet to find this ex-worker and confirm his whereabouts.”
“That’s it?”
“The restaurant was badly managed and carrying massive debts. But it was heavily insured. We received a tip that one of the owners had made inquires to criminals about arson bombs.”
“Does the physical evidence point to anything, the type of bomb? The materials used? Is there a signature?”
“We’ve found nothing conclusive so far. It was very professional.”
“And the seating map?”
Estralla opened a folder and showed him the detailed diagram.
“This was composed based upon where we found the bodies, food orders and our subsequent interviews with the survivors.”
Gannon saw circles representing the tables, and the names, as Estralla explained the symbols for the dead and the injured.
“Marcelo Verde was here, alone.” Estralla touched the table by the window overlooking the patio. “We found his camera. It was destroyed by flying debris and the fire. And Gabriela was here.”
Estralla pointed at the square representing her table. No other names were assigned to it.
“She was alone?” he asked.
“No one can place anyone there at the time of the blast. Some recalled seeing a woman with Gabriela, others contradicted them. It means we still have a lot of work to do.”
Estralla passed Gannon his bag and stood.
“The officers will return you to your bureau.”
“May I have my passport?”
“No. Your visit remains under police scrutiny.”
“How about a copy of that floor plan?”
Estralla looked at it, chewing his gum thoughtfully.
“From one Bills fan to another?” Gannon asked.
11
Big Cloud, Wyoming
Emma didn’t know how long the sedative had made her sleep.
She woke up alone to battle her grief.
It’s a dream. Wake up.
If she could stop thinking she could stop it from being real.
Emma stared at the ceiling, at the corners where the drab paint had dried and fractured. Suddenly those tiny lines of cracked paint moved, growing until they raced down the walls like fingers of lightning and pierced her heart, forcing her to tense with pain.
My husband. My son.
It can’t be.
She could still feel Joe’s hand; his shirt, his favorite faded denim shirt, softened by a thousand washings. She could feel his skin, smell his cologne. She still tasted his cheek on her lips.
And Tyler.
Her angel laughing in the brilliant sun before everything exploded. Emma smelled gas, heard Tyler screaming, and in the chaos, she saw someone take him to safety.
