I opened the door to my room cautiously, wishing I’d pasted a single red hair across the door jamb, like some old film-noir PI. As if that would work in a hotel. I flicked the light and discovered that the bed had been made and the carpet vacuumed. Dead giveaway: The maid had been and gone.
The message light on the phone flickered. I punched the button and listened to silence followed by the click of a receiver returning to the cradle. Someone had called and waited, then left no word on the tape. Luisa Cabrera? Her three hours were almost up.
I hauled my laptop out from under the bed and plugged it in. Gloria was on target; Roz had sent mail. I skimmed the details of Angel Navas's career. Damn. The rumors that he’d taken over Roldan's drug empire were as false as the tales of Roldan's death. Navas had been extradited to the U.S. around the same time El Martillo's plane had reportedly crashed. There were clips about his Florida trial. Guilty on eight counts of distribution, but it was the racketeering conviction that had gotten him transferred to the federal pen in Colorado where he died. No details on the cause of death. Prison brawl or heart attack, the result had been the same.
I’d asked Roz to check out the outfit named on Naylor's phone bill, MB Realty Trust. I scrolled quickly through her report. MB Realty Trust, title holder of the house in which Naylor lived, was a wholly owned subsidiary of BrackenCorp, with a capital C. BrackenCorp was a Florida-based defense contractor, a billion-dollar outfit owned by one Mark Bracken.
Was Naylor filming a PR masterpiece for BrackenCorp? Was Naylor associated with BrackenCorp, or did the company simply own a lot of properties in the area? I typed the follow-up questions for Roz.
M.B. Mark Bracken. MB Realty Trust. I closed my eyes. I knew something about BrackenCorp, but what? Something to do with the war in Iraq, a no-bid contract scandal? Mark Bracken was definitely a presence, a somebody on the business pages of glossy magazines.
Roz's correspondence continued. Sam had phoned and given her the Ignacio number. Had I called it, she wanted to know? Gotten results?
I stretched and glanced at my watch. Cabrera's three hours were up. I checked her card, got an outside line, and punched the numbers.
“Hello?” She picked up her own line, sounding harried. No secretary.
I identified myself. There was a long silence, the kind a person might use to collect her thoughts.
“Ah, yes, Senora Carlyle. Sorry. I was expecting another call. Where are you?”
An interesting question. I ignored it and asked my own. “What have you decided?”
A pause. “That you were right. It isn’t my sort of story.”
“Then I’ll need to proceed on my own, with the authorities and with—”
“A moment, please.” Again, she hesitated a beat too long. “I have done some work on your behalf.”
I wondered whether that work might have involved an anonymous alert phoned in to the Gold Museum. She certainly sounded as though she were grasping at straws, as though she hadn’t expected to hear from me.
“If you still wish to have this story televised—”
“I do, since you can’t help me.”
“I have a friend. You have paper, pencil?”
I wrote while she spoke. She’d decided to pass on my story, but if I was determined to go public with Paolina's disappearance, she could recommend a broadcaster named Rivas who worked at Caracol, a local network. Unfortunately, Senor Rivas was away on location and couldn’t be reached until tomorrow in the late afternoon. Of course, I could contact someone else, but Rivas would be perfect. She sounded friendly and sincere, not like the sort of woman who’d set me up for a visit to a jail cell.
“So there's nothing else you can do?”
“Just direct you to Caracol. And the Gold Museum. You know, you definitely should go.”
“I did,” I said. “Very informative. I learned about the Cities of Stone, the Lost Cities.”
“Oh. Then you— I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for your call.” “By the way,” I said, “what can you tell me about Base Eighteen? Do you know where to find Base Eighteen?” A quick indrawn breath, silence.
“I’m so sorry,” she said abruptly, her voice almost cracking. “I have to run.” The receiver clicked firmly into the cradle.
I’m no human lie-detector, but either Base Eighteen meant something to Cabrera or I was no judge of vocal tension. Interesting.…In Boston, print journalists and TV reporters squabble. They don’t share. They don’t trade stories or help each other out. Possibly, what with journalists an endangered species, the game was played differently in Bogota. I phoned Caracol, the TV station. Yes, Rivas worked there, and no, he wasn’t currently available. That much was on the level.
Dammit. I was more certain than ever that Cabrera knew something. Frustrated, I tried Ignacio. The same woman with the same soft voice told me to call later.
“It is later,” I said. “When will he be back?”
“Soon.”
“It's important.”
“Soon. Call back later.”
Another click. I glared at the silent receiver in my hand. A slow ache throbbed at my temples and I squeezed my eyes shut. Against the velvet blackness, images flashed: the showcase of martyred journalists, an array of rigid golden masks, child street-jugglers, museum guards.
I wondered what Santos, the cabbie, would say if I asked him where I could buy a gun.