Who shot Carlos and Molly? Why? Surely the police were wrong in assuming that robbery was the motive. An American passport is as good as gold. Why wasn’t Molly’s taken? Did the police not want to look beyond robbery? What were
Could Molly be correct? Was the shooting intended to hinder the Chupan Ya investigation? Did someone feel threatened by potential revelations about the massacre?
Molly was fairly certain her attackers had spoken the name Brennan. I could only think of one Brennan. What was their interest in me? Was I to be their next prey?
Who was the inspector? Were the police simply reluctant investigators, or participants in the crime?
Again and again I found myself checking the rearview mirror.
An hour into the trip, I laid my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I’d been up since five. My brain felt sluggish, my lids weighted.
The rocking of the Jeep. The wind on my face.
Despite my anxiety, I began to drift.
Inspector. What sort of inspector?
Building inspector. Agricultural inspector. Highway. Automobile emissions. Water. Sewage.
Sewage.
Septic system.
Paraiso.
I shot upright.
“What if it wasn’t an inspector at all?”
Mateo glanced at me, back at the road.
“What if Molly heard more than one name?”
“Senor Inspector?”
It took Mateo a nanosecond.
“Senor Specter.”
“Exactly.” I was glad Galiano had told Mateo about Chantale Specter.
“You think they were talking about Andre Specter?”
“Maybe the assault had something to do with the ambassador’s daughter?”
“Why shoot Carlos and Molly?”
“Maybe they mistook Molly for me. We’re both Americans, we’re about the same size, we both have brown hair.”
Jesus. This was sounding all too plausible.
“Maybe that’s why my name was spoken.”
“Galiano didn’t bring you into the Paraiso case until a week after Carlos and Molly were shot.”
“Maybe someone learned his intentions and decided to take me out of the loop.”
“Who would have that information?”
Another flash of Galiano in the alcove at the Gucumatz restaurant. I felt a chill.
Minutes later,
Mateo’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. I checked the glass on my side.
Red pulsated in the mist to our rear. A siren, faint but unmistakable.
Mateo’s attention shifted between the mirror and the windshield. Mine remained focused on the cruiser behind us.
The light expanded, became a red whirlpool. The siren grew louder.
Mateo eased into the slow lane.
The cruiser rushed toward our bumper. Crimson swirled inside the Jeep. The siren screamed. Mateo kept his eyes straight ahead. I stared at a rust spot on the dashboard.
The cruiser pulled left, shot past, disappeared into the mist.
My heart didn’t slow until we were locked inside the gate at FAFG headquarters.
Galiano was not in when I phoned his office but returned my page within minutes. He was tied up until evening, but was eager to know what I’d learned from Molly. He suggested dinner at Las Cien Puertas. Great food. Moderate prices. Good Latin music. He’d sounded like a shareholder.
I devoted the next three hours to Chupan Ya, returned to my hotel at six-fifteen thoroughly dejected over the agonizingly senseless loss of life. It seemed I would never get away from death.
As I changed clothes, I forced my mind in another direction. I thought about Galiano.
Where were his wife and young Alejandro?
I applied fresh deodorant, dabbed blusher on my cheeks.
