Heart of the World

by Linda Barnes

  A romanticized killer, I thought, but not a drug dealer.

  She said, “So, are you from the CIA or the DEA?”

  “Neither.”

  “Perhaps you are from my government.” “No.”

  She tapped the fountain pen on the red leather blotter. “But you’re interested in El Martillo. Are you a journalist?” “A private detective.”

  She smiled. “Like on American TV, no?”

  “If you don’t believe me, you can phone the Boston police. Speak to Joseph Mooney, the Head of Homicide.” “You’re here about a murder?” “No. A kidnapping.”

  “A kidnapping? Kidnapping is old hat here. Routine. The police aren’t even interested in kidnapping, except to tell you it’s illegal to pay ransom.”

  “Look, I have a story for you. A scoop.” I used the English word because I didn’t know the Colombian equivalent.

  “And you expect something in return for this scoop?” She understood the word perfectly.

  “This much I’m willing to give you for nothing: El Martillo isn’t dead.”

  “You’re not a psychic, are you?” The Spanish for “psychic” is medium. The way her eyes stayed level, I wondered if she already knew he was alive.

  “If I were a psychic, I’d have picked a reporter more interested in my story.”

  “That’s all you’ve got? That he’s alive?” She fiddled with the pen again; she was interested all right.

  “Oh, I have more,” I said, “but it’s a human interest story, not hard news. It has to do with children and families. Maybe there’s somebody else at the paper who specializes in that kind of story.”

  “I write stories about families,” she said sharply. “The piece I’m doing now, the one you’re keeping me from doing, is about barrio kids.”

  “Possibly a colleague—”

  “What do you want?”

  “The answer to a question: Why would Roldan snatch his daughter?”

  If Cabrera had been a dog, her ears would have flicked at the word daughter.

  I said, “I specialize in missing persons work. Roldan’s daughter is missing, and I have reason to believe he took her.” “This girl lives in the U.S.?”

  I nodded. She stayed silent for almost thirty seconds, her lips tight, eying the tip of the fountain pen. Then she stared at her wristwatch. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Inside, I relaxed. Maybe I even gloated. The woman was hooked, well and truly fastened to the end of my line, visualizing her headline, mentally writing the first paragraph. When I nodded, she walked briskly to the door instead of summoning an assistant. I took advantage of her absence to examine her office.

  The plants on the desk were dark and glossy. On the wall, two plaques held a position of honor, but their dates puzzled me. They were journalism awards from the years 1972 and 1978. In 1972, if she’d even been born, Luisa Cabrera would have been a child. Possibly we were sitting in the office of the managing editor, or an older associate. In the single photograph on the filing cabinet, a man held a stiff formal pose, while the young girl beside him gazed up adoringly. Possibly two people shared the office, one that used the leather blotter and the fountain pen, another who preferred the sleek laptop.

  Cabrera’s return interrupted my scrutiny. I’d expected two paper cups of institutional liquid, but she carried a tray, china cups, and a plate of cookies. The steaming coffee was strong, the cookies crisp, and she was no longer in such a hurry, avoiding the topic of El Martillo’s daughter altogether, inquiring instead about my job. She wanted to know whether many women in the U.S. worked in criminal justice. She was a skillful interviewer. Skillful, too, at evading questions. I couldn’t get her to speak of herself, of her career, of how she came to rate her own byline so young.

  She slid back to the topic only after we’d finished drinking our coffee. “So you are investigating the case of a missing child?”

  “My little sister.” I showed her two photos of Paolina, her latest school shot and the copy of the frame from the airport video.

  “Excuse me. She’s your sister, but she’s also Roldan’s daughter?”

  I explained my relationship with Paolina.

  “Why would you think the girl was taken by her father?”

  “I have proof she boarded a plane to Bogota. She had no passport, and I don’t know a lot of teenagers with the wherewithal to forge one. I assume Roldan would know people who could handle that.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “And then there’s this.” From my backpack, I removed the pouch. The gold birdman looked happy to be released.

  Cabrera stared at it with no expression on her careful face.

  “Roldan sent this to his daughter. Recently. I thought it might help me trace him.”

  She said nothing.

  “I thought you might be able to put me in touch with someone who knows how to reach Roldan.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because of your stories.”

  She shook her head.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Drew Naylor?” “Who is he?”

  “I was told he might be a conduit to Roldan.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “What is the Zona Rosa?”

  She shrugged. “The entertainment district.”

  “No, this is a club called the Zona Rosa. You know it?”

  “I’m not much of a dancer.”

  “How about this: If you wrote about the girl, put her photo in the paper, someone might come forward with information that would lead to her. If it led to her, it might lead to Roldan as well. If it led to Roldan, it would be an important story.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Perhaps it would be dangerous for you to write about Roldan.”

  The Spanish word for dangerous, peligroso, hung in the air. She repeated it slowly.

  I said, “

  I know writing about druglords can be—”

  “How dare you? You make your troubles our troubles, and then you come here and tell me I’m scared to write about a man like Roldan?”

  “I’m just saying I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved. Maybe it would be better for me to go to the authorities. Once they know Roldan is alive, they might help me locate him.”

  I watched her eyes, thinking if she couldn’t be moved by the implication that inaction was cowardly, she might respond to a threat to Roldan. The way she’d written her stories, she obviously had sympathy for the man, if not for his cause. She’d reacted with a total lack of surprise when I said he was alive, as though she already knew it. If she already knew it, why hadn’t she written it?

  She frowned and moistened her lips before speaking. “Perhaps the girl ran off on her own. Maybe she has some romantic dream about her father, some Hollywood fantasy. Probably he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Sorry I bothered you.” I stood as if to leave, but her voice stopped me before I took a step.

  “The authorities here, the police, the military, they are slow to act, but once you start them moving they are impossible to stop.”

  “Maybe I’ll try them anyway. And I’m planning to try a television journalist. If I get her photo on the TV news, it’ll reach a larger audience. It’s possible she traveled with two companions—bodyguards, kidnappers, I don’t know. But I have photos of them as well.”

  I waited. Either she’d ask to see them or she wouldn’t.

  “May I see—?”

  I crossed the room and placed the photos I’d gotten from Hanson carefully on the leather blotter. The man’s face was thin-lipped and bony, his eyes, possibly distorted by the glasses he wore, seemed too big for his head. His hair was shorn close to a high forehead. The woman was in her thirties. A floppy hat obscured the right side of her face. Her long hair was braided.

  As Cabrera studied the faces, her eyes flickered. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Nearby.”

  “If I wished to get in touch?”r />
  “A message at the Hotel del Parque would reach me, but I won’t be there long.”

  “You don’t work for the government.”

  “You seem more worried about the government than the guerrillas.”

  She smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes. “When they come for me, it will be the paras, not the FARC.”

  “And the paras are linked to the government?”

  “My father believed they were. He was a journalist, too. Before he was killed.” Her eyes shifted to the file cabinet, drawn to the photo that rested on it, and I realized she was the little girl. The fountain pen, the leather blotter must have belonged to her father. His photo was probably in the display case of martyred journalists.

  “It’s too bad you can’t help me out,” I said. We seemed to be carrying on a different conversation with our eyes, talking between the lines. I was sure she knew someone who knew how to get in touch with Roldan.

  “It’s possible I may be able to do something. But right now—”

  “I can’t wait,” I said. “Every minute she’s gone is too long.”

  “Later today, perhaps.” She spoke so softly I could barely hear her.

  “I can give you three hours,” I said, “before I go to the TV stations. Before I go to the authorities.”

  “And what will you do with your three hours?” “Any suggestions?”

  She stood, pushing back the big leather chair. “One. Why don’t you take your little statue to the Gold Museum? You might learn something there.” For a moment, the caramel eyes gleamed, with amusement, anger, interest; I wasn’t sure which.

  “Perhaps I will.” I started for the door.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “If you need a cab, have the doorman call one for you. Don’t flag a cab cruising the streets.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a good way to get kidnapped. Usually, the cabs that line up in front of the hotels are okay. I’m just giving you the same advice I always give tourists. Be careful. Bogota is a beautiful city, but it’s not a safe city.”

  I thought of certain Dorchester streets where I’d hesitate to pick up a fare. “Thanks,” I said. “Boston’s like that, too.”

  I sneaked a glance over my shoulder as I left her office. Her hand was already reaching for the phone.

  I could almost hear the hornets buzz.

  CHAPTER 18

  A beautiful city. But not a safe city.

  I’d made light of the warning, equating Boston and Bogota, but descending the stairs I tried to imagine a display case of murdered Boston journalists, a New England in which writing about—say, the Gianellis— could get a reporter lowered into the harbor in the trunk of a stolen car. It might happen once, but not regularly, not habitually, not in the kind of numbers that would fill a showcase. The black-edged photos reminded me that I was on alien turf. This wasn’t my city or my country. I was alone, with no useful contacts, no knowledge of the streets, no safety net.

  Three hours, and Luisa Cabrera might have something for me. Three hours in a normal day was nothing; three hours now was too long.

  The public phone in the lobby tugged like a magnet. Paranoia or caution, take your pick, had kept me from using the hotel telephone. I sorted my change, picked up the receiver, and tried the most frequently dialed number on Naylor’s bill.

  Eight rings. I thought no one would answer, that I’d go back to square one.

  “^Ald? Base Dieciocho.” The voice was crisp and businesslike.

  “What are your hours, please?”

  “Lo siento. You have the wrong number.”

  He hung up before I could respond.

  In the Yellow Pages at the hotel, I’d found Zona Rosa under nightclubs. In the phone book on the shelf of the booth, I looked up Base Dieciocho. Base Eighteen. No such listing. Base eighteen of what? If it was the name of another nightclub, I might find it in the Yellow Pages at the hotel. It hadn’t sounded like a nightclub, no clatter of barware, no buzz of patrons, but it was early. Might not be open for business.

  I’d depleted my change with little to show for it. Three hours stretched out like an endless rope. Three whole hours. Back to the airport? The Zona Rosa? The Gold Museum? I’d already tried the airport. Too early for a nightclub.

  El Museo del Oro, then. I followed Cabrera’s advice and asked the doorman to call a cab. The vehicle, when it arrived, was dark green and cream, and the driver wove an erratic path at high speed through heavy traffic. Oddly enough, his daredevil driving made me feel safer. How could anyone follow unseen in a city where the accepted distance between cars was a coat of paint?

  The Gold Museum, a squat square structure on Santander Park, kitty-corner to the Banco de la Republica, was made of yellowish stone that seemed to shine. The phone booth on the nearby plaza was empty. I’d replenished my change via the cabbie, so I stepped inside.

  I had to punch a lot of buttons, but Gloria’s musical voice, once I got it, was reassuringly calm. “Give me your number in case we get disconnected.”

  I did, explaining that I was in a booth, supplying the name and number of the hotel as well. “Anything on the Bogota phone numbers?”

  “Babe, I keep hitting trouble. This guy I know runs cabs in New Orleans, he’s Colombian, but the uncle he said could run them is someplace on vacation, some island I never heard of, and my guy doesn’t know when he’ll be back. I got some other feelers out, and I’ll call you as soon as I get some action. You okay? You eating?”

  “Call Mooney. Get him to try these places out on some DEA agent who knows his way around Colombia. Zona Rosa, a nightclub. And something called Base Eighteen.”

  “Also a nightclub?”

  “Got me. They go with the phone numbers.”

  “Okay, that’s progress. This is from Sam. He couldn’t get your cell.”

  “It doesn’t work here. Wrong kind.” As out of place as I was. “He said if you wound up in Bogota to give you this number. You got a pencil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He said if you need equipment down there, call and ask for Ignacio.” She spelled the name, repeated the number twice. “I didn’t ask him what he meant by ‘equipment.’“

  I didn’t either. “Roz get me anything on Angel Navas?”

  “Roldan’s partner? She’s e-mailing you the details. Arrested, extradited, and tried in the States.”

  I was wondering whether it might be worth it to have someone trace him through the prison system, ask about Roldan’s hideouts.

  “Died in the clink,” Gloria said, putting an end to that plan. “Oh, and Mooney said he got those photos from the guy in Miami, but no progress on IDs yet. He’ll keep trying.”

  “Okay.”

  Gloria’s voice lowered a full note. “He asked if I knew where Sam was.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What do you think? I don’t exactly believe the man’s got Sam’s best interests at heart. Know why?” “He’s a cop.”

  “That, yeah, but mainly I think he’s sorry you and Sam hooked up again. I think he’s sorry he didn’t make his move when you split.”

  “Lay off the romance magazines,” I said.

  “I’ll read what I like,” she said tartly. “You find that girl.”

  “Gloria, seriously, if Sam calls back, tell him the feds have a tail on him. Tell him to be careful.”

  “That’s exactly what he said to tell you.”

  She hung up, but I stayed in the booth, biting my lower lip, considering Sam’s offer of “equipment.” Sam’s contact in Colombia might be involved in the drug trade. Ignacio might know how to reach Roldan. I fed more pesos into the machine, punched buttons, and waited. The phone rang six times. Seven.

  A woman’s voice informed me that Ignacio was not there and advised me to call back later.

  “^A que hora?”

  The woman simply repeated that I should call later, then hung up.

  Crossing the plaza, I joined the line
at the museum, observing those in front of and behind me, wondering whether they were tourists, bored businessmen, or the pickpockets warned against on fliers posted to telephone poles. I used one of the bank notes from the airport ATM to pay the three-thousand-peso entry fee.

  Once inside, I was startled by the number of schoolgirls who, from a distance, looked like my little sister, with dark hair and tan skin, a touch of Indian heritage in their cheekbones. The girls were younger, twelve or thirteen, young enough to make me wish I could turn back time, bring the younger Paolina here, hold her hand, and be her guide.

  A spirit guide. Did Luisa Cabrera really think I might learn something of value about the little gold man here? Or was she trying to occupy me, fill in the three-hour gap? Keep me busy and out of trouble while she decided what to do?

  I skipped over the gift shop and the cafeteria, and headed for the stairs to the second floor. The architecture was modern and severe, the stone steps too narrow for the crowd. Construction was ongoing, a sign declared; the new staircase would probably be broader.

  A map of northwestern South America covered one wall of the second-floor stairwell. I skimmed the pre-conquest history of the area: the Sinu, Calima, Tumaco, and San Agustin people had lived in various locales long ago. I wound my way through a maze of galleries. Other names—Muisca, Tolima, and Tayrona—appeared. Each culture had left behind a certain style of artifact. Good; if I could find Paolina’s birdman, he’d be linked to a specific site. I passed displays of carved stone and pottery. There was gold behind glass, a forest of small ornaments, but none resembled the little man.

  Armed guards flanked the stairs to the third floor, but the museum-goers seemed to take them in stride. Maybe if Boston’s Gardner Museum had posted guards like these, they’d still have their Vermeer, I thought. I imagined proper Brahmin ladies in pearls passing the heavily armed men on their way to lunch at the Gardner cafe, and the corners of my mouth tilted. I noted the thickness of the doors at the top of the stairs; it felt like I was stepping into a bank vault.

  A darkened vault. The heavy doors swung slowly shut. In the momentary blackness, someone giggled. Then gradually, dim lights began to glow, first from the floor, then the ceiling. The walls glimmered, and the glimmer was gold.