Part 8 (1/2)
”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 ma.s.sive 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 a.s.signed 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 pa.s.sed Gannon his bag and stood.
”The officers will return you to your bureau.”
”May I have my pa.s.sport?”
”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 s.h.i.+rt, his favorite faded denim s.h.i.+rt, softened by a thousand was.h.i.+ngs. 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.
She saw it!
Then the ground shook, the air ignited and everything burned.
It can't be happening again.
Fire had first devastated Emma's world all those years ago, when she finished college in Chicago. Her mother and father had driven from Iowa for her graduation.
”We're so proud of you, kiddo.” Her mother's hug was crus.h.i.+ng.
The day after graduating, Emma flew to Boston to start her new job with a travel agency while her parents took a vacation drive home. They'd stopped in Wisconsin at an older motel. Her dad loved them. ”They've got character, not like the chains. All clones.”
But at this one the owner had scrimped on repairs. The new air conditioners strained the outdated wiring, which resulted in a fire that killed Emma's mother, father, and a family with three children from North Dakota.
After the tragedy, Emma went through the motions of living, thinking she would not survive. Friends encouraged her to keep going and she used the insurance money to travel and write articles.
If she kept moving, she could stay ahead of her pain.
She did that for nearly ten years before she met Joe Lane, a carpenter in Big Cloud, Wyoming, where she'd come to write a travel story for the Boston Globe. They'd met at a diner, had a beer at a bar and a month later she found a reason to return. Emma was taken by Joe's strong gentle way, and the bittersweet sadness in his eyes. His mother had died when he was nine. His father, an electrician with the state, had died of a heart attack just the previous winter.
Joe was a loner.
But being with him made her feel like she was in the place she needed to be. They got married and Emma, who'd minored in education at college, got a job as a teacher.
She loved her new life in Big Cloud.