I assured him I felt better and promised to eat, but he sat on the end of the bed and refused to leave until I finished my toast. Then we made plans to meet downstairs for breakfast at eight when Harry would take us to talk with his friend.
“Remember, Grace,” he cautioned on his way out. “If Ben fights it, there may be nothing we can do.”
Chapter 15
When my alarm sounded, I had no idea where I was. Sunk deep into the thick bedding, a sudden attack of claustrophobia came over me. I threw off the comforter, gasping for air. Thanks to thick shades, the room was still dark. Lying there, I was momentarily disconnected from reality. I wanted to remain like that, unaware of where I was and why I was here. But my emptiness and sorrow returned along with the realization my sister was dead.
I dragged myself to the shower and stood under the spray, waiting for the cold water to turn warm. The exotic gel held no interest for me, and I skipped the luxury shampoo. I finger-combed my damp hair, applied a little make-up, and slipped on jeans, a short-sleeved pink sweater, and beige sneakers.
Even though I made it to the restaurant ten minutes before eight, both Harry and Justin were already seated at a table complete with a pitcher of pale rose-colored juice.
Harry wore what I would come to think of as his uniform: another bright, floral shirt with a clean pair of jean shorts. Justin was dressed in a light blue polo and khaki pants. They stood when I approached.
“You look like you had a good night’s rest.” Harry winked at me and turned to Justin. “Doesn’t she look great?”
“Yes, she does.” He smiled.
A vaguely familiar sensation of warmth started somewhere low in my stomach and traveled upward until I could feel the flush spread from my chest to my neck to my cheeks.
“I bet you’re starving,” Harry said. “They’ve got excellent food here. Empanadas, humitas, belon de verde.”
“I don’t know about Grace,” Justin said. “But I trust you to order for us.”
I hadn’t expected to be hungry, but I was. I assured Harry I trusted him. When our waiter Emilio arrived, he and Harry carried on a lively discussion in Spanish. Emilio nodded in approval and walked to the kitchen. We drank our juice and talked about the weather. The rain had stopped and shouldn’t return until evening.
Emilio returned with an enormous tray of delicacies.
“Those are empanadas. And the little dumplings are belon de verde, made from fried plantains and stuffed with sausage. The cake-shaped ones are humitas, crunchy cornmeal mixed with onion, eggs, and cheese,” Harry explained.
Harry waited while I selected an empanada. The contrasting flavor of cheese, onions, and sweet plantains was delicious. The three of us demolished most of the pastry tray, and Emilio appeared with a huge fruit platter loaded with familiar favorites: papayas, passion fruit, and kiwis. It also included exotic delights, like Ecuadorian blackberries, larger and tarter than the ones back home, and egg-shaped granadillas, small pinkish-orange fruit with a delicate flavor similar to strawberries.
By the time Emilio checked back in, only a few lonely berries remained. He and Harry had another brief exchange in Spanish before he nodded and disappeared.
“Most of the good Ecuadorian coffee gets exported, so the locals end up drinking instant,” Harry explained. “Tastes like shit. Excuse my French. I wanted to make sure the hotel has Cubinato or Little Cuba, typical Ecuadorian irony.”
The brew was dark and strong. They drank theirs straight, but I opted for almost as much milk as coffee and two teaspoons of sugar. Harry glanced at his watch, then requested the check.
“We’re only about fifteen minutes from the Palace. With so many more people on the road, you never know how long it’s going to take. And if there’s an accident, forget about it. The cops are likely to leave the car, haul both drivers away to jail, and sort out blame later. It can be hours before they wrap up a simple fender-bender.”
He insisted on picking up breakfast. Then we headed to the Bronco. Once we were buckled in and on the way, he explained how he’d met Luis Cordoza.
“I was consulting with a security company, and they sent me to work with the Ecuadorian government.”
He turned onto a four-lane highway lined with palm trees.
“Luis was working with the government?” Justin asked.
“Hardly.” He laughed. “He was an attorney representing one of the indigenous groups protesting mining development. Scrappy little fellow. The government reps were thugs, but he managed to score some major points for his clients. The president was impressed and pissed off at the same time. He set him up with an office in Guayquil’s city hall, El Palacio Municipal. He thought if Luis was on the payroll, he could control him.” Harry smiled. “But he’s not the kind of guy other people control.”
I could tell how much Harry liked Cordoza, but I was confused. “I don’t quite understand how your friend can help us.”
He swerved to avoid being hit by one of the city’s big red buses. “Ecuador is a complicated country. There’s a big divide between those at the top and bottom and not a lot of trust in the system. Reminds you of home, doesn’t it? Anyway, communication among all the different factions can be tricky. We need him to guide us through the process.”
He spent the next few minutes explaining that his friend would be able to cut through the red tape involved in our request for Stella’s body. Cordoza would also know how to determine who had the most to gain if there was a cover-up in the investigation of my sister’s death.
“But remember, Grace,” Harry said. “Luis may not have all the answers.”
Even if he did, I thought, what detail about how she died could bring her back?
No one spoke as we drove alongside the river for the next few miles. I watched the fishermen standing on small flat canoes the same way their families had done for centuries. Double-decker eco-touring boats, filled with the environmentally conscious, floated past. A sleek motorboat flitted in and out, leaving everyone else bobbing in its wake, much like Stella’s death had left me.
Harry was right about the traffic. The fifteen-minute drive had already stretched to thirty.
Justin asked him what kind of fishing was good in Ecuador, and the two launched into an incomprehensible conversation about bait and optimal times and rods and God only knew what else.
Just about the time I was contemplating jumping from the slow-moving car and covering the remaining distance on foot, Harry pointed to an enormous statue of two men shaking hands.
“That’s Hemiciclo de la Rotunda, Simón Bolívar and San Martin, great South American Liberators. That means we’re almost there.”
The monument towered in front of the river. A row of slender columns topped with flags was flanked on each side by sturdier ones. Together they formed a semi-circle around the gigantic figures.
“This is as good a place as any,” Harry said, pulling into a small parking lot. Stepping out of the air-conditioned car felt like slamming into a hot, damp wall. Justin joined me, and two young boys approached. Their size made them appear younger from a distance, but as they got closer, I guessed the taller one to be around twelve or thirteen. The smaller one couldn’t have been much more than nine or ten. Their coppery skin shimmered in the morning heat.
The older boy greeted Harry in Spanish, and they began what I assumed was a negotiation over parking fees.
Justin pointed to a stately alabaster building ahead of us. “That’s the Municipal Palace.”
Lovely Hellenic columns graced the front of the structure; an arched passage divided it into separate sections.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Harry asked, after reaching a satisfactory agreement with
the boys.
“It is incredible,” I agreed.
The air cooled as we passed beneath a tunnel covered with an iron and glass dome. Crystals gleamed in the filtered sunlight, and shafts of light played through the thick-paned panels. I felt as if I were floating in an underground stream and stopped to regain my equilibrium.
We entered through the side. I read security getting into the building was tight, so I brought only my passport, a credit card, and a little cash tucked into my pants pockets. Two men in black and white uniforms stood inside. One of them checked my documents and commented to his partner. All I could make out was the word “American.” I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or sneering when he said it. When I told him I didn’t have a bag, he gave me a skeptical look, then motioned me to the body-wanding area, where I breezed through without setting off a single alarm.
Except for the signs written in Spanish, the inside was much like local government buildings at home: the glare of fluorescent lights reflecting on shiny tile floors, the echo of heels down endless corridors. It seemed bureaucracy created an ambiance of its own, regardless of nationality. An attractive young woman greeted us from behind a desk in the middle of the entry. Harry explained we were a few minutes early for our appointment. She requested we wait in the reception area while she contacted Señor Cordoza.
Harry and I sat on a stiff-backed love seat while Justin paced. He stopped to glance at his watch once, then continued walking briskly back and forth. It was the first time I’d seen him looking anxious, and that feeling of hopelessness returned, stronger than before.
“Hey,” Harry said, taking my hand and squeezing it. “It’s going to be okay.”
I was pretty sure we both knew it wouldn’t be, but I smiled and nodded.
After about ten minutes, a gentleman in a pin-striped suit approached us. Like many of the Ecuadorian men I’d seen, Luis Cordoza was slightly built and only a few inches taller than me. His shiny black hair was combed neatly to the side. Wire-rimmed glasses sat high on the bridge of his nose and magnified his dark eyes, lending a serious expression to his slender square-jawed face.
Harry held out his hand, but Cordoza grabbed his arm and pulled him in for a man-hug. “It’s been a long time.”
Harry endured the close contact for a few seconds, before pulling away to introduce us.
“Always a pleasure to meet friends of Harry Davenport. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Let’s go somewhere we may talk privately.”
We followed our host down a narrow hallway. He stopped in front of a door leading to a windowless office. Shelves lined with books left little room to breathe.
“Thank you so much for seeing us, Señor Cordoza,” I said as I chose the seat closest to his desk. Harry and Justin took the remaining chairs.
“It is Luis, please.” He had a gentle smile that eased my anxiety. “Harry has told me about your situation, and I would like to express my deepest sorrow for your loss. It is especially painful to lose someone so young.”
My throat constricted and tears stung my eyes. But I held it together.
“I only received a copy of your sister’s file a few minutes before you arrived. I ask for your patience while I look through it.”
We watched as he read papers that reduced my sister’s life to the circumstances of her death.
When he finished, his smile was gone. “It appears your sister’s death was handled as an accident from the beginning. There is no mention of anything other than drowning as the cause. And the police always include photographs in the report. There are none here, only notes about the condition of the victim. The description of the body is troubling.”
“The description of the body,” I whispered.
Luis stopped and cleared his throat. “Please, forgive my insensitivity.” He looked at me before continuing. “Considering the fact that there could have been additional causes for your sister’s death, it is unusual there was no request for further investigation. In most cases, that request comes from the closest family member.”
The room went quiet, so quiet I could hear the big, round clock over Luis’s desk ticking away the seconds. We all knew Ben would have been considered the closest family member. I wanted to set the record straight. To tell Luis and the Ecuadorian authorities that I was the closest. I had known her longer, loved her better. But if I’d really loved her better, she might still be alive.
Justin broke the silence. “Is there any way Grace could make that request as the surviving sister? Ask that they take another look at the, um, at the, uh, case. We have letters showing how close the two of them were. There might even be something incriminating in them about Stella’s husband.”
He frowned. “Might be? You don’t know what is in them?”
“We haven’t read all of them yet,” I said. “But if we could have a little more time, please.”
He shook his head and closed the file. “I am so sorry, Señorita Burnette. Policy prohibits the release of the contents of the official folder, but I am going to make an exception for you.”
He pressed a button and asked his secretary to copy the files.
“Unfortunately, there is nothing else I can do. You see, it is too late for further consideration. According to the wishes of her husband, your sister’s body was cremated two days ago.”
Chapter 16
I don’t remember leaving the Palace or the ride back to the hotel. A darkness engulfed me, and it wasn’t until we were parked at the Wyndham that I broke through it.
“So, I guess that’s it. He wins,” I said to no one in particular. And then I remembered my mother had accounted for the possibility the system might not deliver justice for Stella. She found her own brand of insurance policy guaranteeing Ben wouldn’t get away with murder. And for a long, black moment, I was glad she had.
“I know it looks like he’s guilty,” Justin responded. “And he probably is to blame. But it’s possible he might not have been the one who killed your sister.”
I thought of the photos he had spread across my coffee table and the picture of Stella at her party next to the dark-haired man with the intense eyes. “You mean Adelmo Balsuto?” I asked.
He nodded. “If Ben somehow crossed him, it stands to reason a revenge motive is a good possibility. Or maybe Stella’s death was a warning.”
“He has a point. Balsuto is dangerous,” Harry added.
“I guess there’s only one thing to do. I have to go straight to Ben and ask what happened to Stella.”
“Hold on, Grace.” Justin leaned forward in his seat. “That might not be such a great idea. If he killed your sister, we can’t be sure he won’t hurt you. And if Balsuto had something to do with it, you could be the next lesson he decides to teach Ben. Even if neither of those possibilities exists, what makes you think he would tell you the truth? He doesn’t have much of a track record in that department. And how would you know if he was lying?”
It was true Ben and Stella blindsided me, but I had to admit I hadn’t been clueless. How many times had I sensed something was off? Moments when he had said he was golfing with a buddy or getting a drink with the guys, and a tiny alarm had sounded way, way back in the primitive part of my woman brain. But I ignored it, preferring to reside in my own special fairy tale. I had no explanation for why I was so sure I would know if he was telling the truth this time. Hell, I didn’t understand it myself. But I was certain if I stared into his eyes and asked if he’d killed my sister, I would know beyond certainty if he was telling the truth.
“I just will.” I dismissed Justin and faced Harry. “Besides, he might have a copy of the pictures missing from her file. Can you call and set up a meeting? If I do it, he’ll start denying shit over the phon
e, and we’ll lose the chance to catch him by surprise.”
He looked at Justin, who shrugged and shook his head in what I took as a gesture of defeat. Or maybe he was secretly okay with me seeing Ben. If I told him I was sure of Ben’s guilt, wouldn’t that make taking him out easier for Justin? Taking him out? My mother’s mob boss mentality seemed to be taking root.
Harry agreed to set up the meeting, then hopped out and walked around to open my door. Justin stood by the car, holding the manila envelope Cordoza had provided. I had forgotten about it after leaving the embassy, descending instead into a mental horror show where images of flames engulfed my sister’s body.
“If it’s okay with you, Grace,” Justin began, “I’d like to check this out before, well, uh…”
Harry took my elbow and eased me out of the car. “He’s right. There’s no need for you to read the report until we vet the information.”
Of course, I knew vet the information meant screen it to make sure the contents wouldn’t throw me into another fit of despair, but I was too tired to protest.
Even though it was past lunchtime, I wasn’t hungry. I needed time to process Stella’s letters. Harry promised to get in touch with Ben after lunch, and the three of us made plans to meet for dinner.
The windows in my room opened to brilliant sunlight sparkling on the river below. There was no evidence of the sprawling poverty hovering on the hillside. Red umbrellas sheltered diners at the outdoor restaurant. Couples walked hand in hand along the brick walkway or rested on wooden benches under trees that provided the illusion of shade. Well-dressed children in varying shades of neon-colored tennis shoes ran in and out among the adults, climbing on artistic structures of metal and stone.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, opened the packet containing Stella’s letters, and removed the third one in the series so carefully cataloged by our mother. I imagined there had been little doubt in her mind I would someday read them and forgive my sister. I suspected she never considered Stella wouldn’t be around when I did.
The Sometime Sister Page 8