Free Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage Page B

it before it did. Did you ping it?”
“I did,” Mara said. “It’s either switched off or it’s been destroyed.”
“What do the account records tell us? Many incoming calls?”
“Not a single one.”
“Outgoing?”
“Two numbers: one that he called many times, always on the same day of the week, always at the same time, another that he called only once.”
“Let me guess,” Danusa said. “Just before he blew himself up?”
“Correct.”
“Saying goodbye would be my guess. It’s not uncommon for them to do that. Both numbers in Paraguay?”
Mara nodded. “Ciudad del Este. We’ve requested a trace. Don’t get your hopes up, though. The same day of the week, at the same time would suggest he was calling a public telephone, talking to someone who was waiting for him to call.”
“How about the billing address?”
“A pensão on the Rua Leite de Morais in Santana.”
“Likely just a mail drop.”
“Maybe. But you asked about Babyface. And that’s where he is right now.”
    The Hospedaria Rio Paraguay was a small and cheap establishment situated in a neighborhood abounding with other establishments equally small and cheap. The owner was Oscar Benitez, a rotund little man with a gold incisor and a thick accent.
    Gonçalves flashed his badge.
“You’re kidding,” Oscar said.
“Kidding about what, Senhor Benitez?”
“You look too young to be a federal agent.”
“Nevertheless,” Gonçalves said, with a touch of frost in his
    voice, “I am a federal agent.”
“Hey, no need to get your hackles up. Not my fault you
look like a kid, is it? What can I do for you?”
“Did you have a man staying here by the name of Salem
Nabulsi?” Gonçalves said, dropping the temperature another
ten degrees.
“He’s paid up until the end of the week. So what?” “Is this him?”
He showed Oscar the photo.
“Of course not,” Oscar said. “That’s a woman you’ve got
there.”
“Look again.”
Oscar did and, as recognition hit him, his eyebrows rose
almost to his hairline, a neat trick for someone whose hairline was as receded as his was.
“ Dios mio ,” he said.
Gonçalves opened his mouth to say something more,
closed it when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Did I hear you asking about Salem Nabulsi?” a voice
behind him said.
“You did.”
Gonçalves turned around. The woman who’d done the
tapping looked to be in her forties, maybe early fifties, was
running to fat, and was dressed in a green tracksuit. “Let me see that photograph,” she said.
Gonçalves showed it to her.
“ Dios mio .”
Same words, same accent, same eyebrow action as Benitez.
Gonçalves took them both for Paraguayans.
“It’s him then?” he said. “Salem Nabulsi?”
“It’s him,” she said. “Why is he dressed like a woman?
What’s he done? Was he the one who set off that bomb in
front of the American Consulate?”
Gonçalves saw no reason to deny it.
“Yes,” he said, “he was.”
“ Gracias , Malu,” Benitez exploded. “ Gracias for bringing
that hijo de la gran puta into my establishment.”
Malu responded in kind. “ Ponga sus gracias en el culo ,
Oscar. You think I knew?”
Gonçalves forestalled the rebuttal from Oscar: “Is what
he’s saying correct? Are you the one who brought him
here?”
“Yes! Yes!” Oscar said. “She’s the one. She befriended the
bomber, not me.”
Malu lifted her purse to hit him with it, but Gonçalves
grabbed her arm before she could.
“How about you tell me about it?” he said.
She stammered. “I didn’t . . . I was. . . .”
“She’s a sacoleira ,” Benitez said.
Sacoleiras were women who rode the buses to Paraguay,
bought everything from electronics to perfume (all duty free)
and brought it back to Brazil. There was nothing illegal about
it, unless the women exceeded their duty-free allowances, or
unless they bought it for resale, both of which they usually
did. And, because they did, they generally had stockpiles of
goods difficult to explain. A search of her room