Requiem, page 12
She turned to the garden and her search.
“Quito. Quito.”
Cristina’s heart pounded, fear exploding like fireworks. She didn’t like being here, and wanted to leave when she heard purring.
A pair of eyes met hers from the foliage.
“Quito!”
The cat was nearly concealed by the fauna near the wall. Cristina began parting the massive leaves of plants, sweeping back branches to get to Quito.
As afraid as she was, Cristina was struck with a thought that could ultimately help Samuel.
Realizing she may never have this chance again, she reached for her phone. Scooping Quito into her arms, she used the cover of the thick vegetation to take photos of the children, the cars, the house, and the man, zooming in as close as possible before he vanished from the balcony.
“Did you find your cat?” Manny said.
Slipping her phone into her pocket, she emerged, holding Quito.
“Yes. Thank you, Manny.” She glanced toward the children. “Such beautiful little angels. Is this childcare?”
“Something like that.” He nodded to the driveway. “Time to go.”
They started for the gate.
“Hey!”
They turned to see the white-haired man approaching, indicating Cristina. Breathing hard from apparently rushing, his face was taut.
“Who is this, Manny?”
“This is Cristina.”
“The new girl? Here for an interview? We have a lot to do.”
“No, no. She works at a neighbor’s house. She came to collect her cat. He wandered into the yard.”
Cristina stroked Quito.
The white-haired man eyed her.
“She found him, and now she’s leaving,” Manny said.
The white-haired man stared at her until his phone rang in his hand. He waved off Manny and Cristina, answered his call, and started back to the house.
Manny escorted Cristina and Quito to the gate and opened it for her.
Thanking Manny, she stepped to the street.
Quito meowed, squirming in protest until Cristina, her blood thundering in her ears, loosened her hold on him.
CHAPTER 37
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Ray Wyatt stepped into the hotel elevator, heading down to meet Sabrena Roha for breakfast and to go over their plans.
As the car descended, he rubbed the back of his neck.
He needed coffee.
Two days earlier, he had flown from New York to Houston, where he met Roha. She’d flown from Los Angeles. After staying overnight at the Holiday Inn near the airport, they took a direct flight together from Houston to Toncontín International Airport in Tegucigalpa.
Arriving yesterday in the late afternoon, they took a taxi to the Marriott in the business district on Juan Pablo II and checked into their rooms. With night falling, Wyatt, his laptop and notebook on his chest, studied his research. After reading everything, going online, and making notes, he opened photos of Lisa and Danny, loving their smiling faces. He could almost hear their laughter, almost touch them; almost feel them.
Almost.
Then he saw himself in the photos. Like a ghost. Because that part of him was gone, as if he’d lived another life with them.
He went to more pictures of Danny.
Danny as a baby in Lisa’s arms.
Danny as a toddler when they went to Yankee Stadium.
Danny in the Rocky Mountains.
Danny just before the fire, pulling Wyatt back….
Crawling on his stomach…deeper into the choking smoke, calling Danny…his fingers finding Danny’s hand…seeing his terrified face, his eyes bulging…But his hand held only air as something jerked Danny from him, pulling Danny back into the churning black clouds of the inferno….
Wyatt then stared at nothing.
What am I doing here in Honduras? Will I find Danny? Is it really him? What if McDade and the FBI are wrong? Will I ever see him again?
Wyatt turned to his hotel window, watching the lights twinkling from the hills surrounding Tegucigalpa.
Then he fell asleep.
That was last night.
Now, the elevator chime sounded for the main floor, shifting his concentration to real time.
Stepping off, Wyatt found the hotel restaurant, Cocina Latina, where there was a buffet breakfast. He savored the aromas of hot food and coffee, spotted Roha at a table, and gave her a small wave. Wyatt got scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast, and coffee before joining her.
A half-eaten muffin and yogurt were next to Roha’s tablet. She was on her phone, talking softly in Spanish while Wyatt ate.
Ending her call, Roha got down to business.
“We’ve hit a snag,” she said. “As we know, lawyers in Honduras cannot practice unless they are registered with the Honduran Bar Association.”
“Right.”
“The Bar Association tells me they have several members named Garcia, but no one named José Luís Garcia.”
“Maybe he was suspended, disbarred, or let his membership lapse.”
Roha shook her head, chewing some of her muffin.
“I asked them that,” she said. “He was never registered. We could try law schools.”
“Yes, and we have another possibility.” Wyatt reached into his back pocket for his notebook, opened it to a page, and pointed to an underlined name. “Last night, I found a listing for a José Garcia, with Orchid Sea Consulting Group here in the city.”
“Consulting?” Roha said. “That would fit, you know, if it’s our guy.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Look at you,” Roha said. “Thought you said your Spanish was weak.”
Wyatt shrugged.
“I’m not fluent like you, Sabrena, but I covered a few stories in Central America back in the day. Maybe not as many as you with the L.A. Times, but I have a few sources and a few tricks.”
Roha went online, finding Orchid Sea Consulting Group’s website.
“Got it,” she said.
“Call them. See if our Garcia works there.”
Roha got on the phone. Soon she was talking softly in Spanish, asking for José Luís Garcia, stressing that she was searching for someone by that full name. A pause, then more Spanish, then she finished.
“Yes,” she said. “A man named José Luís Garcia is with Orchid Sea, and he’ll see us in one hour at his office for a confidential consulting matter.”
“Good,” Wyatt said.
They got together in the hotel lobby for their meeting. Roha sensed concern in Wyatt.
“Something’s bothering you,” she said.
“We’ve obtained Garcia’s name as the man on the plane with Stroud, the man suspected to be involved in her murder, right?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Well, the FBI would be all over him, so why would he be down here, agreeing to meet two strangers? It’s too easy. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Maybe we’re one step ahead of the FBI,” she said. “They’ve got bureaucracies to plow through.”
“And maybe we’ve hit a dead end.”
“Well, Ray, we won’t know until we do the legwork. Let’s get a taxi.”
CHAPTER 38
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Pulling away from the hotel, the taxi threaded through the traffic of the downtown business district.
Roha worked on her phone.
Wyatt took in the city.
Heading uphill, they made their way into what he guessed was Barrio Guadalupe, traveling along its serpentine roads, climbing and twisting up toward the next section. Moving along narrow streets, past laundromats, cafés, and cantinas, they came to residential areas, with cars parked behind steel security bars and high walls that fortified property.
A city of razor wire, he thought.
The walls of some buildings bore cracks, blisters, and stains from enduring hurricanes, earthquakes, and myriad stresses of a poor country. Still, Wyatt thought, the neighborhood looked no different than many in the U.S.
They reached Colonia Palmira, which stood in contrast to the impoverished areas. It exuded wealth, looking every bit like a modern suburb with its restaurants, boutiques, and embassies.
The taxi stopped at a new building, with curved architecture, wrapped in dark blue glass, and soaring 15 stories.
“This is it,” Roha said, paying the driver.
The taxi drove off.
“So, we’re not going to misrepresent ourselves,” Roha said.
“Correct. We tell him we’re researching adoptions, which is true.”
“If it comes down to it, we play things by ear,” she said. “And only if we feel we have to, do we identify ourselves as reporters who are interested in adoptions.”
“Which is also true,” Wyatt said.
“So, we’re not married,” she said. “But we’re in a relationship, thinking of adopting. Our goal is to get inside their process, to document, record, and confirm all we can, to investigate ties to your son and Wanda Stroud’s murder.”
Wyatt looked up at the building.
“Think it’ll work?” Roha said.
“No.”
“Agreed.”
“This would be much easier if we had a picture of the guy the FBI was looking for.”
“Sure would.”
“We’ll be winging it all the way, Sabrena.”
They entered and checked in with the guard at the reception desk. He reached for a phone. Several minutes later, a woman wearing a blazer and matching skirt arrived, and took them to Orchid Sea Consulting Group on the 10th floor.
Inside, she led them down a hall to the open double doors of a spacious office with a sweeping view. A man in a suit and tie rose from his desk; he was in his 50s, with thin white hair. He guided them to a sofa and chairs. They declined his offer of a beverage. He dismissed the woman, and she closed the doors behind her.
“Welcome, Señora Roha and—”
“Señorita Roha,” she said, correcting him with a warm smile.
“Señorita.” He returned the smile. “And Señor Wyatt. From America. Please, I am curious. How did you learn of our company?”
“From associates,” Roha said.
“Ahh.” He nodded, smiling with a measure of pride. “And what is the confidential project you wish to discuss?”
“Señor Garcia,” Roha said. “Would it be possible to conduct our business in English?”
“I would be happy to discuss your project in English,” he said in English.
Garcia crossed his legs. His body language was warm and relaxed, leaving Roha and Wyatt to assess if they were in the presence of a murderer and global criminal.
“Our project,” Wyatt started. “First, you assure us this is confidential?”
“Of course.”
Wyatt leaned forward.
“We’re interested in adopting,” he said. “We’re researching adoptions.”
“Adoptions?” Garcia’s brow furrowed. “So.” He took a moment. “You want to build an adoption center? Where will it be located?”
“No.” Roha smiled and leaned forward. “We’re researching the process of adopting a child.”
“Adopting a child?” Garcia repeated, puzzled. “But why come to me, to us, here at Orchid Sea?”
“We understand,” Wyatt said, “that you have knowledge about the process of international adoptions, and we’re seeking your advice as a consultant because we’re seriously considering it.”
“We’re willing to discuss your fees,” Roha added.
“My fees?” Garcia looked at Wyatt, then Roha, then back to Wyatt. “I am sorry, but there’s been a misunderstanding. Orchid Sea is an engineering consulting company. We consult on construction and building projects in Central and South America. We have nothing to do with adoptions. No, this is a mistake of some sort.”
Roha and Wyatt sat back in silence.
Still puzzled, Garcia asked, “Are you police?”
Police?
At that moment, Wyatt’s instincts—if he could trust them—told him that this man was not a fugitive, but a Honduran businessman.
“Police?” Wyatt repeated. “Señor Garcia, why would you ask us that?”
He looked at them, some of his warmth evaporating.
“Please, tell me who you are,” Garcia said.
Wyatt and Roha exchanged a glance, with Roha nodding.
“Señor Garcia,” Wyatt said, “we’re journalists from the U.S., and we are researching adoptions. That’s how your name came up.”
“From who?”
“Our sources,” Roha said.
“I don’t understand. How could my name be linked to adoptions?”
“In our research, we learned that a man in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, named José Luís Garcia, an attorney, is knowledgeable about international adoptions.”
“Attorney? But I’m not an attorney, and I know nothing of adoptions.”
“Our apologies for this misunderstanding,” Roha said.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“This is all quite strange,” Garcia said. “First, police come to see me, and now two American journalists.”
“Why did police visit you?” Wyatt asked. “Was it about adoptions?”
“No, they said nothing about that.”
“What did they tell you?” Roha asked.
Garcia stared at them. “How can I be sure who you are?”
Roha and Wyatt showed him their identification, which seemed to assure Garcia.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Sir, we will share with you anything we know.”
“I am intrigued,” Garcia said, then related what he knew.
“A few days ago, a Honduran detective and an FBI agent from the U.S. Embassy visited and asked me about my passport.”
“What about it?” Roha said.
“It was lost, possibly stolen, a year ago while I was on a flight for business to Panama.”
“What did the police ask you?”
“They wanted details as to how I lost it. Was it on the plane, or somewhere in transit? They wanted my airline, flight, hotel, that kind of thing. I gave them what I could.”
“Did they tell you much more about their interest in your lost passport?”
Garcia shrugged.
“Not much. I told them that I feared identity theft, but nothing came of it.”
“Really?” Roha said.
“I never had any issues. In all that time, I never had any indication that it was used wrongly. I never received any bills, inquiries, nothing.”
“Did they tell you anything else?”
“They wanted to know if I had been to Los Angeles recently.”
“Have you?”
“No. I have not been to the U.S. in years.”
“Did they ask you anything more?”
“No, not—they were, as you say, tight-lipped. But wait, yes, they asked me about a man, although they never said why. They wanted to know if I received any mail, calls, any communication concerning a man, Ernesto something.”
“Ernesto?” Wyatt said.
Garcia stood, went to his desk, opened a drawer and returned with a piece of paper. “I took it down. They wanted me to watch for anything, and call them if someone mentioned it. Here.”
The name on the paper was Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.
“May we copy this?” Wyatt asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Garcia said.
Wyatt and Roha took it down, and then passed their numbers to Garcia.
“We apologize for the misunderstanding, Señor Garcia,” Wyatt said. “Let’s agree to keep each other posted on this, please.”
“Yes, it’s all very strange. So, it appears someone tied to adoptions, which must be criminal adoptions of some sort if police are involved, has used my passport. Very strange, indeed. And a little alarming.”
Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.
It was the first time Roha and Wyatt had heard that name.
Stepping outside the building, they went to a bench where Roha made a call.
“I have a hunch,” she told Wyatt.
Speaking into her phone, Roha launched into Spanish, saying the name Ernesto Ruiz Ayala, several times and slowly spelling it. A long moment passed, and she spoke again in short bursts, turned to Wyatt, and began nodding.
“Ayala is an attorney registered with the bar. He is with a firm in the city. The association will send us his bio.”
CHAPTER 39
Guatemala City, Guatemala
The Deputy Commissioner’s chair creaked as he leaned back, rocking and staring across his desk at Detective Sebastian Cruz.
Cruz was seated, with his boss to his left, and his partner, Detective Pablo Pineda, to his right.
Cruz could not see the Deputy Commissioner’s eyes behind the tinted glasses he wore. Cruz thought the man’s forearms were exceedingly hairy. Scowling, the Deputy Commissioner removed the unlit cigar from the corner of his mouth and placed it on an ashtray.
As the highest-ranking officer among them, he controlled their careers.
“I have read your preliminary report alleging an illegal adoption operation in Zone 15.” The deputy tapped a hairy knuckle on Cruz’s file folder on his desk. “Your request to investigate further is denied.”
“Denied, sir?”
“Is your hearing impaired, Cruz?”
The deputy’s chair creaked louder as he leaned forward.
“In your report, you say you were following a tip on gangs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But this was not entirely true.”
Cruz swallowed.
“You failed to state your true objective to your superior.” The deputy nodded to Cruz’s boss. “He was unable to inform me, in order to inform the people responsible for Zone 15. You misled your superiors. That’s an insubordinate act.”
Pineda’s nerves got the better of him. He coughed, cleared his throat.
“And you state in your report,” the deputy continued, “you took a car, which was sorely needed for other police business, and used it to observe the house for hours.”
The deputy’s breathing quickened; his nostrils flared as he continued.
