The St. Malo was a tiny hotel on du Fort, approximately six blocks east of the Pepsi Forum.
The proprietor was a tall, skeletal man with a wandering left eye, and skin the color of day-old tea. Though less than enthused about our visit, Ryan’s badge spurred him to do the right thing.
Nordstern’s room was the size of a cell, with much the same ambience. Clean, functional, no frills. I took inventory in three seconds.
Iron bed. Battered wardrobe. Battered dresser. Battered nightstand. Gideons’ Bible. Not a personal item in sight. Nothing in the drawers or wardrobe.
The bathroom looked a little more lived-in. Toothbrush. Crest. Disposable razor. Gillette Cool Wave for sensitive skin. Dippity-Do Sport Gel. Hotel soap.
“No shampoo,” I noted when Ryan drew the shower curtain back with his pen.
“Who needs shampoo when you’ve got Dippity-Do?” We returned to the bedroom.
“Guy traveled light,” said Ryan, dragging a hockey bag from under the bed.
“Crafty, though. Knew how to blend with the natives.”
“It’s an athletic bag.”
“It’s a hockey bag.”
“The NHL has twenty-four franchises south of the border.”
“Hockey hasn’t adulterated the American sense of fashion.”
“Your people wear cheese on their heads.”
“Are you going to open the bag?”
I watched Ryan remove several shirts and a pair of khaki pants.
“A boxer man.”
He used thumb and forefinger to extract the shorts, then reached back in and withdrew a passport.
“American.”
“Let’s see.”
Ryan flipped it open, then handed it to me.
Nordstern was not having a good hair day when the photo was taken. Nor did he look like he’d had much sleep. His skin was pale and the flesh under his eyes looked dark and puffy.
Again, I felt a wave of remorse. While I hadn’t liked Nordstern, I would never have wished him such an end. I looked at his possessions, evidence of a life interrupted. I wondered if Nordstern had a wife or girlfriend. Kids. Who would notify them of his death?
“Must have applied for the passport prior to the Dippity-Do epiphany,” Ryan said.
“This was issued last year.” I read further. “Nordstern was born in Chicago on July seventeenth, 1966. Jesus, I thought he was in his twenties.”
“It’s the gel. Shaves years.”
“Get over the hair gel.”
Ryan wasn’t really making light of Nordstern’s death. He was using cop humor to break the tension. I was doing it myself. But his flippancy was starting to annoy me.
Ryan pulled out four books. All were familiar. Guatemala: Getting Away with Murder; Las Massacres en Rabinal; State Violence in Guatemala: 1960 – 1999; Guatemala: Never Again.
“Maybe Nordstern really was researching human rights work,” I said.
Ryan opened a zippered pocket.
“Hell-o.”
He fished out a plane ticket, a key, and a spiral notebook. I waited while he checked the ticket.
“He flew to Montreal last Thursday on American.”
“The twelve fifty-seven through Miami?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the flight Mrs. Specter and I took.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“We rode up front, got on last, got off first, waited in the VIP lounge between flights.”
“Maybe Nordstern
“Or maybe he was following the ambassador’s wife.”
“Good point.”
“Round-trip ticket?”
Ryan nodded. “Open return.”
