by Kathryn Lane
Olani touched her hair again and looked at Selena.
“Let’s hope not,” Rafael said. “The police have videos coming in from people who were at Sagrada Família. They are sorting through them to identify possible suspects. Taiwo might be in the crowd.”
“Rafa, why would he be there?” Olani asked. “Wouldn’t he be afraid of getting caught?”
“It’s not unusual for a criminal to return to the scene of his crime,” Rafael said.
“Return to the crime scene?” Olani asked. “You scare me, Rafa. What’s the chance he will return to Beni Ensar? That’s his crime scene too.”
“We don’t know with certainty Taiwo’s involvement in the basilica incident,” he said, “but that’s a good question.”
“I must return home,” Olani said, as tears filled her eyes again. “My little girl—”
“In the case of Sagrada Família, he probably wanted to evaluate the extent of the damage he’d inflicted, and he’d feel protected by the crowd and the chaos. But when it comes to you, you must not go back.”
“Bring your daughter,” Selena said. “Come here to live.”
“Selena is right,” Rafael said. “You don’t want to go back and have him arrive. You’d have no one to help you. Ask your mother to bring the baby to L’Hospitalet. You know Lola wants to keep Dayo with us until you figure out your future.”
“I don’t want to be a burden to you and Lola.”
“That’s what family is for,” Rafael said, looking at Olani. “We’d love for you to consider moving to L’Hospitalet.”
Olani stared at Rafael. “Let me think about it.”
“What’s to think? It’s an excellent choice,” Selena said. She handed a demitasse filled with espresso to Rafael. She passed another to Olani. “Yes, Morocco, you must move to L’Hospitalet.”
Rafael savored the espresso. He put the cup down next to the envelope he had placed on the countertop. Picking up the envelope, he looked at Selena and then at Olani. He opened it, removed three photographs, and arranged them on the counter.
“Do either of you recognize these men?”
“This one,” Selena said, pointing to a young man.
“How do you know him?” he asked.
“Met him. Hassan. He’s the husband of one of my friends,” Selena said. “Why do you need to know?”
“Does Hassan have a surname?”
“Farooqi.”
“Do you know any of the others?” he asked.
Selena picked up the other two photos and shook her head.
“How about you, Olani, have you seen these men?” he asked.
Olani shook her head. “Who are they?”
“The attackers,” he said. “Can you tell me about your friend, the one married to this guy?”
“Rosa Gebarra. Roma like me. In fact, she’s also a dancer at the supper club.”
“Married to a Muslim and she dances at a supper club?” Rafael asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, she works with me. He’s beaten her up many times in three years. She’s very much afraid of him. But they have a daughter. He’s threatened to take the child away. Said he’d kill her if she leaves him.”
“When did you last see her?” he asked.
“At the club, the last time we performed together.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Three nights ago. We’re not always scheduled on the same nights.”
“Has she said anything to you?” he asked.
“About what?” Selena asked as her face turned a shade of gray. She bit the nail of her index finger.
“Has your friend ever mentioned her husband’s involvement in terrorist activities?”
Selena moved her head. It was not a nod, but it was not a negative response either.
“Did you know Hassan is dead?” Rafael asked.
“Dead?” Selena’s eyebrows arched. “¡Hóstia! How the fuck did that happen?”
“Killed by police yesterday. After he opened fire at bystanders at Sagrada Família.”
Rafael noticed Olani’s blank stare and thought it portrayed the shock and fear she must feel.
“You two need to stop looking for Taiwo. Leave it to the police. Understood?”
Nikki and Eduardo followed Floyd into his suite at the Majestic. Milena had gone to the hospital to keep Carmen company.
A potted calla lily plant from Nikki and Eduardo’s wedding was placed on the floor against the wall, across from the coffee table, in the tiny living room. Carmen had delivered it the day after Nikki’s wedding. The flowers reminded Nikki of both her fairytale wedding and of the hideous terrorist attack at Sagrada Família. Her knees felt weak, so she sat on a small sofa and put her purse on the floor. Eduardo squeezed in next to her and took her hand.
“Flowers from our wedding,” she said. Her chest tightened. “Who would have known? Poor Carmen.”
“Have you thought more about your offer to get into El Saraway’s suite?” Floyd asked.
“Eduardo thinks I overstepped and will put us in danger if we carry it out,” Nikki said. She glanced at her husband and added, “He told me the Spanish police have their own damn investigators and does not understand why Interpol is even meddling in this investigation. What happens if we get caught?”
“Those are all good points,” Floyd said. “Javier is meddling because I asked him for help. And you should know that, Eduardo. Now the point is, if we can get some dirt on El Saraway, Javier said the police can investigate. If we establish a link to the African or to the bombing.”
“You have not answered what happens if we get caught.” Eduardo said.
“Interpol will bring in local police if something goes wrong. And I’m here to help if you need to get out of the country,” Floyd said. “Have you both decided to help or not?”
“Eduardo made me reflect on the fact that I don’t trust Javier,” Nikki said.
“Don’t let his squeaky voice and facial tics put you off. He gets things done. And he’s good,” Floyd said.
“Interpol cannot mobilize police quickly enough if we need them,” Eduardo said. “It’s only using us to gather information.”
“You’re right,” Floyd said. “But we are using Interpol as a way to get intelligence we can’t get otherwise.”
Eduardo finally relented and agreed to enter the suite. Floyd high-fived him.
“My life has been endangered twice. I’m thinking it’s Arenas, the Colombian. And I want to get him,” Nikki said.
They discussed the possibility of Arenas having hired El Saraway, despite both men having very different modus operandi. They could not reach agreement on the African’s role, though Nikki figured he might be a sicario, or hitman, for Arenas.
“I’m glad we’re going to coordinate with Interpol,” Floyd said. “We must find answers.”
“You have a company to run,” Nikki said. “In Miami, remember? You can’t stay over here forever.”
Floyd laughed. “Whatever it takes. I want to keep my two best people alive.”
“Whoa. When did I become part of your staff?” Eduardo asked. “I’m a medical doctor, not a private eye, remember.”
“You’re part of the team and you know it,” Floyd said.
After a moment of silence, Nikki reminded Eduardo of the Barri Gòtic when she saw the dagger and skull.
“We can still apply the antidote,” Eduardo said. “Can’t hurt.”
“I have my tree of life necklace,” Nikki said, touching the sculpted jadeite emblem dangling from a gold chain around her neck.
“Antidote? Dagger and skull? What are you guys talking about?” Floyd asked.
Eduardo explained Bishop’s Bridge, which spanned a narrow street uniting buildings on opposite sides. The architect, disgruntled at not receiving better commissions, added a skull and dagger on the underside of the bridge, creating a superstition in Barcelona.
“The tradition,” Nikki said, “is to close your eyes, twirl around, open your ey
es, and if you see the skull and dagger, an evil curse will befall you. It’s only a superstition, but I saw the skull and dagger.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask about the antidote,” Floyd said.
“It’s simple,” Eduardo said. “Visit a certain stone mailbox sculpted with birds, scales, vines, a crown, and a turtle. The scales represent the balance of justice. The turtle means the slow pace of the legal system. And so on. But it’s touching the turtle that cures the curse of the Bishop’s Bridge.”
“I never thought my work would be influenced by superstitions,” Floyd said, rolling his eyes. “But I might tell Milena about the Bishop’s Bridge and take her to see it. She loves superstitions like that.”
Getting back to the topic they needed to discuss, Nikki asked Floyd if he trusted Javier.
Without hesitation, Floyd indicated that based on his dealings with the man, he did trust him. “Remember Javier can get fired for using his Interpol position to run a clandestine investigation.”
They devised a plan to disguise themselves as hotel staff. Floyd would request the necessary passkeys from Javier.
“Before I forget,” Nikki said, “I have photos of the florist for Paula’s wedding.”
“Photos?” Floyd asked.
“Fadi took pictures at our wedding. When he downloaded them to my tablet, he included three shots of his dad and Paula standing near his dad’s Ferrari. Hassan the florist was with them,” Nikki said. “I don’t think Fadi intended to include them.”
Floyd handed Javier’s card to Nikki. “Javier’s email. Send him the photos.”
“One more thing,” Nikki said, taking the card. “Paula secretly converted to Islam.”
“Converted?” Floyd asked. “Secretly?”
“She told you?” Eduardo asked.
“She was in the middle of her prayers when I went to her room to help her dress. Only Fadi knew. She didn’t tell Carmen.”
“Interesting,” Floyd said. He walked to the window.
Nikki sensed Floyd was calculating various implications from that bit of news.
“Why did she want the Catholic ceremony?” Eduardo asked.
“In memory of her father and to avoid upsetting her mother,” Nikki said.
“Do you think she was coerced into converting?” Floyd asked as he continued looking out the window.
“She seemed at ease with her decision. Her prayer routine seemed pretty authentic,” Nikki said.
“Makes sense,” Eduardo said. “She seemed more inspired by Islam than Fadi did.”
“I’ll ask Javier if he can get a copy of Massú’s statement to the police,” Floyd said. “Maybe Massú knew the reason behind Paula’s conversion.”
Nikki and Eduardo talked over the details of getting into El Saraway’s suite. Floyd returned with a mobile phone in one hand and a small black box in the other.
“Open it up,” Floyd said passing the box to Eduardo. “You’ll need to find the right place to hide it in El Saraway’s suite, and we’re not going to tell Javier about planting it.”
“A miniature camera? It’s so tiny I could drop it and never find it.”
Floyd handed the phone to Nikki. “If you can get access to El Saraway’s phone for about thirty seconds, you can download his information to this one. It will also set his phone up so we can follow his every move.”
“That’s pretty unlikely. Who leaves their cell phone behind?”
“Use it on a tablet if you find one,” Floyd said.
“How do I operate it?” she asked.
“Simple,” Floyd said, reaching out to get the phone back from Nikki. He angled it to show her the thin side. “Press this button. It needs to turn red. Then set this phone directly on top of El Saraway’s phone or tablet for at least thirty seconds. Check the button again to make sure it’s turned green. Lift this phone off and bring it to me. That way, Charlotte can follow him from our Miami office.”
“Like she tracked me in Mexico?” Nikki asked.
“Similar process,” Floyd said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Barcelona—Sant Andreu District
Sunday Late Afternoon
After leaving Selena’s apartment, Rafael drove to a nearby park. He spent twenty minutes writing up his interview with the two women. Then he dialed Alberto, a detective on his team from the GEO terrorism squad. He’d interviewed Selena and Olani on his own to protect Olani. For the next interview, he’d need a witness. When Alberto answered, he asked his colleague to meet him at an address he’d text as soon as he hung up.
Waiting for Alberto outside Rosa Gebarra’s apartment building, Rafael scoped out the neighborhood, a run-down area that looked to be home for immigrants from various countries. He noticed teenagers playing soccer on a side street. He saw Alberto parking his car and walked over to meet him.
The two men proceeded into the building. Musty odors greeted their nostrils. The elevator did not work. Instead they walked up three dark and dingy flights of stairs. Alberto, who had been holding a couple of folded plastic bags, crammed them into a back pocket of his pants leaving part of the plastic hanging out.
On the second floor, the aroma of fried seafood permeated the stairwell. Rafael’s physique showed his love of food despite the substantial amount of exercise he got both on and off the job, but the lingering, reeking odor of rancid oil and unsavory seafood accosted his sinuses. He coughed. And then held his breath.
Finally on the third floor, Rafael inhaled. He knocked at Gebarra’s apartment. When Hassan’s widow opened the door, her face shockingly bruised and swollen, the men flashed their badges, stated their names, and showed her the search warrant.
“Mrs. Gebarra,” Alberto said, “was Hassan Farooqi your husband?”
“Yes.”
“We’re here to have a look around your apartment and to take your late husband’s computer and phone,” Alberto said.
“And to ask you a few questions,” Rafael added, trying not to stare at her bruised face and black eye.
Rosa let the men in. She looked at them with the hollow expression of a woman whose life has been beaten into submission.
“We are sorry for your loss,” Rafael started to say.
She interrupted. “I’m the one who’s sorry I ever met the bastard.”
“We have a few questions about Hassan,” Rafael said, noticing how clean the apartment looked. And smelled, compared to the rest of the complex. “I understand you have a daughter.”
“At day care.”
“Can you give us the names of your husband’s friends and associates?” Rafael asked.
“It’s a short list,” she said. “The most important one is the cleric of the Tarragona mosque.”
“Mosques anywhere else?” Rafael asked.
“Whenever he left town, he always told me he was going to Tarragona. He may have gone other places. I don’t know.”
“What about mosques in Barcelona? Did the two of you attend one here?” Rafael asked.
“I’m Rom. I never went to a mosque with him. We led very separate lives.”
“Did you meet any of his friends?” Alberto asked.
“Two. One of them died in the Paris attack in 2015.”
“Is the other one still around?” Alberto asked.
“In the morgue,” she said, glancing down. “He was in the same car as Hassan yesterday.”
“Morgue? How do you know that?”
“His wife. I should say his widow. She called me today.”
“Did your husband have a regular job?” Rafael asked. He scanned the room for clues.
“A florist.”
“Can you say where?”
“Flores de Primavera.”
“We’d like to take a look around the apartment,” Rafael said.
“Go ahead,” she said, waving a hand. “This is about all there is.”
Rafael and Alberto put on gloves and went to work scrutinizing closets and drawers. Alberto checked three plastic containers stored
under the bed. Rafael stepped into the bathroom, called Rosa, and asked her to point out her husband’s toothbrush. He placed it in a small paper bag he retrieved from his jacket pocket. Before she left the room, he asked her about the three baskets with soiled clothes.
“This one contains my clothes for the laundry,” she said, pointing to the one closest to the shower. It was stacked on top a smaller hamper. “That small one is my daughter’s and the third basket contains my husband’s dirty clothes. Once I wash them, I’ll give all his stuff away.”
“I’d recommend not washing it or giving anything away for three months. In case the police need to return for an item or two.” Rafael searched all three containers, marveling at the Roma preoccupation with cleanliness.
Both men returned to the kitchen where the lone computer in the house, a laptop, sat on a high but narrow table placed tight against the wall. Alberto disconnected and bagged it.
“Did your husband use more than one mobile phone?” Alberto asked.
“The only one I know of he always carried with him. The police must have it,” she said.
As the men prepared to leave, they thanked the young widow.
“Who did that to your face?” Rafael asked.
“My husband. Friday after he returned from prayers at the mosque.”
“Did he beat you other times?” Rafael asked.
She nodded. “Usually he hit my stomach, legs, or chest. I could continue working as long as my face did not show it.”
Rafael took his wallet out and retrieved two business cards. He handed one to her. “This place offers counseling for women. It’s free.”
Rosa glanced at the card. Her eyes welled up.
He waited a few seconds and handed her the second card, which was his own. “If you think of something, anything at all that can help our investigation, call me at this number.”
She started to open the door for them, but pushed it closed and looked at Rafael in a hesitant manner.
“I almost forgot. Hassan told me he’d flown through the Tarragona airport. A few days before the attack. It may have been in preparation for the bombing.”