The Night Will Be Long, page 23
They ordered three ice-cold beers, a caprese salad, and three pasta entrees.
Jutsiñamuy wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He immediately started telling them what he’d been up to: the two dead men’s families, Óscar Luis Pedraza’s gambling stories and the conversation with his girlfriend at Almacenes Sí, the article in El País reporting on the disappearance of a man from Cartago who’d worked with New Jerusalem Church, and the visit to the Jamundí Inn.
“Hang on a minute,” Julieta said. “Can you tell me the name of the Cartago man who’s missing?”
“His name is Enciso Yepes; it was in yesterday’s El País. His wife reported him missing, and apparently she’s going to sue the security firm, which says Yepes hadn’t shown up for weeks.”
Julieta pulled out a notebook and wrote down the name. “What was the church’s response?”
“No, the problem isn’t with the church, it’s with a company called VigiValle, which provides security services to the church.”
“It’s weird he’d disappear like that without telling his wife anything, right?” Julieta said. “He could be the other dead man from Tierradentro.”
Jutsiñamuy looked at her somewhat mischievously and said, “Remember, in this country, everything out of the ordinary turns out to be either a crime or a miracle.” He went on. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, without knowing what happened to him, he’s just a guy who ditched his wife. Maybe he’s just gone on a bender.”
“I’m going to look into it with the church anyway,” Julieta said.
“Agent Cancino,” the prosecutor said, “one of my finest men, is currently with Estéphanny Gómez in Cartago, trying to find out what happened and what kind of information she can provide. But I can tell you it won’t be much. My professional experience has taught me that, at least around these parts, wives are the least likely to know what their husbands are up to.”
“There’s got to be a reason for that,” Julieta said. “Hey, I have something else for you. Remember that weird tattoo on the dead bodies by the side of the road? The photo you sent me?” She opened her purse and pulled out the little wooden hand with its inscription “We are healed.” She placed it in front of the prosecutor and said, “Here you go. I came across it in an antiques shop.”
Jutsiñamuy stared in shock. He picked it up to examine it more closely and saw it was identical to the one he’d seen at the Jamundí Inn. On its base was carved, “Assembly of God, Belém do Pará, Brazil.” It was the same size, the same wood. After turning it over in his hands, he asked, “An antiques shop around here?”
“Yes,” she said, “really close by. I have their card. Hang on, I’ll see if I can find it. And he offered to get me more things, said I should call back.”
She stuck her hand in her purse and rummaged around till she found the little card: “El Mesón de Judea Antiquities.”
“The shop owner seemed really knowledgeable,” she added. “He told me it’s a figurine of Jesus’s hand.”
Jutsiñamuy pulled out his cell phone and took a photo of the card. “All right, it’ll be added to the investigation. Just wait till I send the photo to Laiseca with a note—he’ll be floored!”
He pushed his cell phone into the middle of the table and showed them the images of the hand he’d seen at the Jamundí Inn. “See? It’s identical, right? What do you think? Coincidence? It’s amazing we both found the same thing in a city of three million people. That means we’re on the right trail.” Julieta and Johana studied the photos, stunned. “And it might mean the Jamundí Inn is involved.”
The prosecutor continued. “There’s another story we haven’t talked about yet. The two bodies that have been identified, Becerra and Pedraza, were working as bodyguards for a Brazilian evangelical pastor and gold hunter named Fabinho Henriquez. No accent. An eccentric guy who apparently comes to Colombia regularly. We don’t yet have a clear indication of what his relationship to all this is, but it caught our attention that he was a pastor too, like the other guy, and the founder of a Pentecostal church that’s part of the Assembly of God, which uses this hand of Christ as its symbol and this slogan. Agent Laiseca is working on the matter. The guy lives in Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana. He has a gold mine in the Amazon.”
Julieta grabbed her notebook, excited. Incredulous. “Brazilian?” she said. “Oh, shit.”
“Does that mean something to you?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“It’s nothing, but one of the people working for Pastor Fritz is a Brazilian woman—I’ve got her name right here . . . Egiswanda Sanders. Quite a character, by the way.”
“How so?”
“A real hot mama, total stereotype of Brazilian women: incredible body, really fit, nice tits, tattoos, a hungry gaze, huge lips, maneater eyes.”
“Maneater eyes?” Jutsiñamuy exclaimed, laughing. “I’ve never heard that one before! My dear friend, if I didn’t know you, I’d say you sound a little . . . jealous?”
Julieta regretted having said anything. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Well, it may just be a coincidence,” he said. “I think Brazil’s got, what, more than two hundred million people? If we can assume fifty percent of each gender, that means there are a hundred million Brazilian girls and women wandering around.”
“You’re right, I only noticed, that’s all. Does this Pastor Fabinho have a criminal record? Is his gold-mining company legal?”
“Laiseca will tell us. His ears must be burning.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ll look into it too,” Julieta said. She set down her notebook and took a sip of coffee. “But let’s get back to the subject at hand. If the bodies on the side of the road worked security at a Brazilian evangelical church, and here we’ve got another church, Fritz’s, and we assume he’s the survivor, then the picture starts getting clearer, right?”
Jutsiñamuy scratched his chin again. “A religious war? Well, shit, if that’s the case it’ll be worse, and deadlier, than the clash between the Catholics and the Muslims.”
“What’s weird isn’t that they’re fighting, but that they have so many weapons, and that they’d carry out that kind of attack. Assuming they did,” Julieta said. “Of course, New Jerusalem does look like a bunker inside, with armed guards up in watchtowers. There are more security checkpoints than at the airport. The fact that they have so much money makes me sick, but maybe that’s why they have to protect themselves.”
“Money, always money,” the prosecutor said. “This may all be immoral, but until something concrete can be proven, it isn’t illegal. They’re protected by religious freedom, which is a civil right. Do you realize they don’t pay taxes or even have to present their accounts? In practice, if you look at their finances, they’re money-laundering operations. But if anyone calls them out, they say it’s religious persecution. They’re the most efficient mafia in the country. They’ve got senators and representatives defending them in Congress.”
“Of course, this case goes way beyond than that,” Julieta said. “Can we imagine two enemy churches attacking each other with assault rifles, rocket launchers, and helicopters?”
“Well,” Jutsiñamuy said, “it could be not the churches, but the pastors themselves. Maybe they’re enemies for some reason. Even with the peace accord signed, this is still a very violent country.”
With that, he made a note on his notepad and apologized before phoning Laiseca.
“Hello? Look, Laiseca, I’m giving you another task to keep you busy. Find out if there have been any disputes between the two churches in this investigation, New Jerusalem and the Assembly of God. Any particular problem with either one is helpful too. And see if Pastor Fabinho has a record. All right? OK. Oh, one more thing: find a contact for Fabinho—an email address, WhatsApp, Facebook. Whatever.”
Jutsiñamuy stifled a laugh. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told Julieta, “Laiseca’s asking if we want a mango lemonade while we’re at it.”
“Tell him I’m on a diet,” she said.
The prosecutor went back to his phone call. “She says thanks but she’s on a diet. What’s happening with the Jamundí Inn?”
The agent’s voice sounded faraway and muffled, as if it were behind a flock of carrion birds squabbling over a cow skull.
“Guillermina’s already on that, boss,” Laiseca said. “I’m here at the Chamber of Commerce to find out whether the property info and business name match what they sent from Bogotá.”
“Very good, excellent initiative. And have we heard anything from Cancino?”
“Not yet, but I’ll call him in a bit. It’s impossible to hear anything here, boss. There’s an air conditioner vibrating, and it’s really loud.”
Johana and Julieta finished their pasta and ordered two coffees. The prosecutor accompanied them with his usual tea.
“I’d like to know about this Fabinho guy,” Julieta said. “As I said on the phone, somebody’s been following us, and one possibility is he’s working for Fritz’s enemies.”
Jutsiñamuy’s eyes bugged out. “You’re right! Shit, I’d forgotten. Tell me more about that.”
“It’s a guy on a motorcycle. He’s been watching us since Tierradentro. We’ve already spotted him here in Cali. I thought he was one of Pastor Fritz’s men, but when I told Fritz about it, he got so jumpy I was convinced he was being straight with me.”
“So he thinks it’s his attacker who’s following you?”
“He didn’t say anything specific, but his attitude completely changed. All of a sudden he turned into a mafia don.”
The prosecutor looked across the terrace at the river. A group of women was crocheting on a bench in Gato Park. Further up, two little girls were playing with a lapdog, racing around the fountain. A pair of students were making out behind a bush. On the bridge, a group of Venezuelans held signs and wove among the cars. He saw several motorcycles, but nothing suspicious.
“What does the person following you look like?”
“He wears black, or at least dark clothing,” Julieta said. “And his helmet’s black. He’s skinny. I’ve always seen him from a distance sitting on his bike. No idea whether he’s tall or short.”
“And the motorcycle?”
“A Kawasaki 250,” Johana piped up. She’d been sending an endless stream of texts throughout lunch in an effort to track down her former comrade Berta Noriega.
“Oh, I thought the cat had your tongue,” Jutsiñamuy told her.
“Sorry, I’ve got all these texts going back and forth to Bogotá to see if anyone can help us find the kid’s mother.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Yes,” Johana said. “There’s a former comrade of mine who’s a possibility. From San Juan del Sumapaz. I’m trying to track her down, but it isn’t easy, and this is from several years ago now.”
“Well, good luck with that, Johanita,” Jutsiñamuy said, “because I definitely can’t help you there. Anything to do with ex-guerrilla fighters sets off alarm bells at the prosecutor general’s office.”
“I figured,” Julieta said. “We’ll keep you posted.”
All at once Julieta slapped her forehead and pulled out her cell phone.
“Excuse me a moment. I forgot to make a quick call to Father Francisco, who works at the San Andrés de Pisimbalá church with the boy. In case he’s turned up.”
She dialed a number, and after a moment the priest answered. “My dear journalist friend, how’s it going?”
“Doing well, Francisco. Have we heard anything about the boy?”
“No, my friend, not a thing. I was in San Andrés on Sunday, and it was a disaster. The church covered in dust, filthy—it didn’t look like a house of the Lord. It was more like a pathetic little hovel. Franklin isn’t back. That’s the truth. I figured I’d wait another week and then find someone else. I can’t leave the church in that state.”
“And you haven’t talked to anybody?” Julieta asked.
“No—like who? Nobody knows the boy except here.”
“Like his grandparents, for instance.”
“I haven’t seen them. And to be honest—well, I don’t know if I feel like upsetting them. We should wait till we find out what happened, don’t you think?”
“Yes, you’re right. But when you hear anything, good or bad, please call me, OK?”
Where the hell was that kid? The church and Pastor Fritz had been kind, but there were things that didn’t fit. And one of them was the whereabouts of Franklin Vanegas.
Julieta sat down again. She was interested in this Pastor Fabinho business. There was something inscrutable there that matched up with Fritz’s personality.
“If your agent finds a way to contact the Brazilian pastor,” she said, “please pass it on to me. I’m going to look for him too. I’d like to talk to him.”
“That would be great,” Jutsiñamuy said. “But you’d have to go to Cayenne.”
“Couldn’t he be in Colombia?”
“If he really was the attacker,” the prosecutor said, “I doubt he stuck around. But it would be great to talk to him, of course—we could confirm what for now is still pure speculation. Laiseca will call to check in soon. Stay close.”
“How do you get to Cayenne?” Julieta said, more to herself than anything.
“No idea,” Jutsiñamuy said. “By plane, I assume, because there probably aren’t any roads.”
Julieta started getting excited. She told Johana, “Find out what the trip involves and how much—let’s see if I can get the magazine to cover it as an expense.”
“All right, boss. As soon as I’m back at the hotel, I’m on it.”
The check arrived, and the prosecutor, with a theatrical gesture, signed the slip. Julieta tried to give the waiter her credit card, but Jutsiñamuy rebuffed it.
“No way,” he said. “You two are essential to this investigation, and I’m treating you today. I’m paying personally, of course, not my office.”
“Thank you,” Julieta said. “You should run for president.”
“My only presidential run was at thirty, for a chess club. I lost.”
“They made a big mistake.”
“One more thing, Julieta,” Jutsiñamuy said. “What about that motorcycle? Do you want us to provide protection? I can’t offer an official escort, because it would have to fulfill no end of requirements, but I could informally ask an agent to stick close to you.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” she said. “So far he just stares at me from a distance. I think his job is to report on what I’m up to.”
“Maybe he’s out there right now,” the prosecutor said. “You don’t think it could be something else? I don’t know, your jealous ex-husband, maybe?
Julieta leaned back in her chair and laughed. “No way! He’s been following us since Tierradentro!”
The prosecutor scratched his head and kept gazing out at the square. “Well, apparently your tail clocks out at five, because there’s nobody around.”
“He could be watching from a hiding place.”
“You have to learn your enemy’s ways,” Jutsiñamuy said, “and this one doesn’t seem very professional. Sure your ex isn’t collecting dirt to sue for a divorce?”
“Don’t be an ass, damn it.”
They parted at the front door to the hotel.
Agent José Trinidad Cancino reported that when he arrived in the steamy city of Cartago, famous throughout the region for its linen shirts, he went straight to the local courthouse and identified himself as an agent from the prosecutor general’s office investigating the case of missing-person Enciso Yepes. He was given the contact information for Estéphanny Gómez, the wife who’d reported Yepes missing, and a short time later he was knocking on the door of a modest two-story house with a spiral staircase coiling up the exterior. When the door opened, the agent was momentarily confused (or startled) by the appearance of the woman in question, and even thought he might have the wrong address, having mistakenly arrived at a massage parlor or brothel, since Estéphanny, unlike the other wives of missing men he’d visited over the course of his career, was wearing denim short shorts with horizontal rips through which he could see her underwear—which was, he reported in meticulous detail, made of black and pink lace—and a bikini top that covered only a third of her enormous breasts, which had been augmented with silicone implants.
According to Cancino, Estéphanny, upon learning that he’d been sent by the prosecutor general’s office, took him into the living room and offered him a shot of liquor, which he rejected, opting for a glass of soda instead. The agent began asking questions about the missing Enciso Yepes, but Estéphanny, who even at barely two P.M. on a Tuesday was showing signs of inebriation, said that for that sort of thing, she’d need to call her lawyer, which she did immediately. While the lawyer was on his way over, Estéphanny excused herself to go to a bathroom located very close to the living room, thanks to which the agent was able to overhear two sharp nasal inhalations. The woman then returned to the living room, rubbing her gums with her index finger, and proceeded to play a reggaeton song on the stereo. “We don’t have to be boring while we wait for my lawyer,” she told Cancino. “You like this music? You like the bump and grind?” They almost didn’t hear the doorbell, but when Estéphanny answered, the agent saw that it was not the lawyer but someone from next door, a dentist’s office, complaining about the volume. The woman closed the door and said, “What drags!”
When the lawyer arrived, Cancino was finally able to inquire about the subject of interest. According to the lawyer, Enciso Yepes had received death threats for being a security guard and because of his political beliefs. The lawyer claimed that the threats had been from former guerrilla fighters or dissidents, and when asked what proof he had, he said all he had was cell phone conversations, since death threats don’t arrive by certified mail. Everybody was certain of what had happened, so he was considering suing the national government on behalf of the wife.
