Burning of the Devil (La Quema del Diablo)
Copyright 2012 Jeff Williams
CHAPTER 3 - Only One Duck
It was a relatively quiet morning, and Nathan’s schedule was light. He preferred writing his often complex and brain-taxing case reports after noon when he felt at his sharpest. Mornings were spent doing lesser chores in the home office, and at the moment he was shopping online for a new telephoto lens for his work camera.
The first call of the day was a good one. The caller spoke in impeccable English, but his voice was heavily spiced with a Latin American accent. It wasn’t unusual at all for Nathan to hear such an accent in southern Florida. This voice, however, originated in Mexico City, and that was unusual.
"Buenos dias, Señor Brooks. I am Javier Lopez, regional claims supervisor for ICSA, the Insurance Company of South America."
"Buenos dias."
"Have you heard of us?"
"No, sorry," said Nathan.
"We underwrite and service insurance policies throughout Central and South America," said Javier. "We are one of the largest insurance companies in the world."
There was a pregnant pause before Lopez continued. "I am calling you because we currently have a very troublesome insurance claim. It requires a specialized expertise unavailable to us locally."
"Where was the loss?"
"Guatemala. Have you been there?"
A surge of adrenalin kicked Nathan’s caffeine fix into high gear. "No, actually, I haven’t. What kind of loss is it?" Hiring an investigator from the United States would entail considerable expense, so Nathan naturally presumed the loss to be a matter of extreme importance.
"An automobile fire."
The surprise answer put Nathan at a loss for words, for a typical vehicle fire loss is just a drop in the financial bucket to a large insurance company. Experience told him this case would be substantially more complex than it appeared. Nathan’s mind wandered a bit as he considered the possibilities. Maybe a corrupt government official or a major drug kingpin was involved. Whatever the core reason, he suspected it could likely be a fascinating case to take on.
"Señor Brooks?"
"An automobile fire?" Nathan asked, hoping the subtle skepticism in his question would prod Javier to expound a bit on the case details.
"Yes," replied Javier, simply. He seemed oddly reticent about providing any additional information. "Are you available?"
"Let me check my calendar here real quick."
"Tomorrow?"
"Uh, yeah. If I can get a flight I’ll be on a plane tomorrow."
"Very good," said Javier. "I will arrange for someone in our field office in Guatemala to contact you shortly. Thank you."
Immediately after the conversation with Javier, Nathan checked fares and schedules to Guatemala City and made his travel arrangements. He next researched the country’s geography, culture, and political climate.
Within the hour the phone rang again. Another male voice with a strong Spanish accent was on the line. Nathan assumed this man would be his Guatemalan contact at ICSA.
"Allo? Señor Brooks? I am Armando Martinez. We are investigating an accident here in Guatemala City, and we are hoping you may, eh, discover the explanation," Armando said. His English was more halting in its pace than Javier’s, but still easily understandable.
"An accident?"
"Yes."
"Armando, I’m a little confused. Javier mentioned a car fire."
"It is a car crash and a fire. I will explain this later."
"Is there anything more you can tell me?"
There was a long pause before Armando answered. "We will arrange for your hotel, and I will email you with contact information," he said. "Have you made travel plans?"
"Yes, I have. I’m flying down tomorrow from Miami, arriving in Guatemala in the afternoon. I’ll email the itinerary to you, and I’d appreciate it if you would please send an email confirmation that you received it."
"Yes, I will do that. Thank you, Señor Brooks."
Before disconnecting, Armando provided a few additional case details — basic information Nathan needed to open the new file, such as the name of the insured, date and location of the loss, and claim number.
The three lines on Nathan’s new case sheet for describing the known circumstances would remain blank, however. Like Javier previously, Armando didn’t help fill them in.
So now it’s a car crash and a fire, Nathan thought as he hung up the phone. What will it be by the time I get there?
~~~
Nathan’s flight to Guatemala City was quiet and uneventful and gave him plenty of opportunity to mull over the unknowns of this business trip. Though an experienced traveler, Nathan knew very little about Guatemala, with the exception of some tidbits learned during his last minute research. It was clear even from his limited reading that the country was not a popular destination for Americans.
As the plane made its final approach and descended into Guatemala City, the volcanic and mountainous terrain etched with deep gorges — known locally as barrancos — flashed by below.
Nathan scanned the landscape anxiously for the nearly ten thousand foot long runway of the La Aurora Airport. He was anxiously aware that planes still occasionally overran the long airstrip and crashed into the makeshift communities pressed tight against the airport’s boundaries.
Significant crosswinds shook the plane during its final approach. Over the years, several close calls in the air had transformed the formerly fearless investigator into a white-knuckle flyer. Mindful of the prior crashes at this airport he’d learned about, Nathan braced for touch down and gripped the seat armrests tightly when the big plane’s tires struck the tarmac with a screech and a jolt.
Standing later in the hallway queue in the airport’s main terminal, Nathan realized he was the only person of fair complexion in sight. He was largely ignored by the tiny Mayan customs man who mechanically stamped his passport without looking up. When his passport was handed back to him Nathan paused to note the newest ink stamp. Long squiggly black lines depicted an acceptably minimalist image of the endangered national bird of Guatemala, the quetzal.
He walked at a leisurely pace over to the baggage claim area to recover a small suitcase stuffed with tools, work clothes, specialized camera and measuring gear, and other items not normally found in the typical business traveler’s bag.
Luggage inspectors often viewed the unusual assortment of work implements and accessories with mild suspicion but rarely demonstrated interest or concern. The Guatemalan inspector’s eyes flicked over the atypical items and his expression remained one of apparent boredom and disinterest. He sullenly eyed the American and brusquely waved him through.
In the next aisle another inspector pawed roughshod through every single article of clothing in the bag of a male Mayan traveler.
Nathan closed his luggage and headed toward the airport terminal. The open atrium design made the terminal appear considerably more spacious than it actually was, and an animated group of expectant friends and relatives of returning travelers lined the second floor railing above him.
Just outside the glass doors of the exit stood a smaller crowd of business people. Nathan suspected his contact would be in that group, and he quickly spotted a large white card with "NATHAN BROOKS" written on it in bold black lettering. The curiously watchful man who held the card appeared to be in his thirties and looked every bit the archetypical Ladino Spaniard — with straight black hair cut short, prominent black eyebrows, dark brown eyes nearly black, and a distinctive Castillian nose.
Nathan focused on his contact and adroitly slipped past barking taxi drivers and aggressive street vendors who injected themselves into his path.
"Armando?"
Armando, visibly relieved, replied "Yes, welcome to Guatemala, Señor Brooks."
The two men shared a vigorous handshake.
"I am happy to see you. This way, please," said Armando, gesturing toward the parking lot outside the terminal. "We have many things to discuss. How was your journey? Good?"
"Nice flight, no turbulence at all. No problem in customs, either."
"Good, good."
"I have to say I’m quite curious about all of this," said Nathan.
"I understand, and I will attempt to explain everything to you in time. But first I must apologize in advance for my poor English."
"You speak English very well, actually. I speak some Spanish, so we should be able to understand each other without a problem," replied Nathan as he took his seat in Armando’s dark gray Honda.
"Guatemala is famous for its proper Spanish," said Armando, proudly. "Colombians, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans — they speak Spanish, of course, but it is not proper Spanish. People come from all over the world to our Spanish schools in Antigua."
"Ahh." Nathan acknowledged Armando’s lesson without further comment.
"Antigua is a beautiful and historic city," continued Armando. "My beautiful wife and I were married there. It was the capital of Central America until 1773, when it was heavily damaged by earthquakes. It was because of this damage that the capital was moved here to Guatemala City."
Once underway, their conversation became sporadic as Armando juggled multiple incoming and outgoing cellular phone calls while navigating through the chaotic Guatemala City traffic. He was preoccupied with an urban activity familiar to business people all over the globe — multi-tasking.
We are all the same — in so many different ways, thought Nathan. He quietly soaked in the new but ancient culture which enveloped him. Some of the more obvious curiosities were the colorfully-painted former school buses which filled the city streets. Known mainly by outsiders as ‘chicken buses’, each one was stuffed to capacity — and beyond — with AmerIndians concluding yet another day’s work.
It was an efficient transit system for the most part— albeit rude, impersonal, and dangerous. Bus drivers were perpetually in a hurry, and would barely pause their buses as the passengers skillfully jumped on from seemingly random boarding areas. Weary passengers stuffed themselves three abreast onto every seat, holding their belongings tight as they endured the long trip home between the city and their villages.
Tiny, beat up pickup trucks were also a highly valued commodity here. When used as taxis, twenty people — or more — could be crammed in the beds. Nathan pointed out a pickup truck stacked high with multicolored Tupperware bowls; Armando briefly explained that this truck was likely on its way to a "Tupperware Party" in some remote Indian village.
Small gangs of Policía Nacional Civil (PNC), the Guatemalan national police, rode around in the beds of pickup trucks in a manly display of erect shotguns. Nathan at first found the sight comical — so many tiny macho AmerIndian men with big guns. They reminded him of a character on a TV show he watched as a child — the overconfident yet endearingly inept small town sheriff Barney Fife. But Guatemala was clearly no situation comedy, and the cold and menacing expression of these humorless little men was disconcerting.
In reality, the swaggering officers of the PNC represented the dismal failure of the Guatemalan government to control violent crime. The police were often ineffective through incompetence or — worse — nonresponsive through bribery, and the populace feared them nearly as much as they feared murderers, robbers, and thieves.
Wealthy people in Guatemala City lived in a manner similar to people of means in other large cities throughout the world. They owned expensive cars and resided in palatial homes surrounded by high walls. Some hired their own security forces, and others owned policemen.
The great divide between the fortunate — or even moderately successful — and the poor was aggravated here by a long simmering class war of ancestry and race.
Some Guatemalans of Spanish heritage — known as Mestizos or Ladinos, felt superior to their physically smaller, largely uneducated and impoverished AmerIndian countrymen. Most of these AmerIndians shared a common Mayan ancestry, but the twenty-three different Indian tribes and respective languages in the country created a cultural mishmash which inhibited true solidarity against the ruling class.
Not surprisingly, the Ladinos controlled the country’s wealth and power. The price they paid for this superiority, however, was a deeply rooted and expensive sense of insecurity.
~~~
A large stadium came into view in a bowl-shaped valley ahead as the car crested a large hill. "Ah, Nathan, that is our Mateo Flores National Stadium. Do you enjoy futbol?"
"We don’t follow futbol much in the US," replied Nathan.
An expression of disbelief flashed across Armando’s face, but he quickly recovered. "In Guatemala it is like life and death," he said.
Armando turned the small car into a parking lot, creeping slowly past a heavily armed guard manning the entrance gate. A modern six story glass and steel structure adjoined the lot. "We are here. This is the Guatemalan office of ICSA. Nice, yes?"
Once inside the building, Nathan obediently followed Armando from one cubicle to another for introductions to the other insurance company employees, who were all Ladinos. Nathan detected an odd mood affecting the office staff; and with each person they passed or spoke to he became more puzzled and concerned.
Are these people sad, are they fearful, or do they just not like Americans? What the hell is going on here? he thought.
Armando stopped at the door of a small office. He knocked on the doorframe and stepped inside, gesturing to Nathan to follow. Another Ladino man of similar build, height, and — apparently — Spanish heritage, stood smiling behind a desk. He and Armando were similarly dressed in shiny black shoes, pleated slacks, and open collar white cotton dress shirts. "Nathan, this is my very good friend, Pablo Garcia. Since childhood we have been friends."
"Hello, Señor Brooks. It is very good to meet you," said Pablo, sincerely. "We have been assigned to assist you with this claim."
"I’m quite honored to be here, Pablo," said Nathan. "This must be very important to your company."
"He has explained to you our problem, yes?" Pablo asked after a quizzical glance at Armando.
"Actually, no, I have no idea what’s going on," Nathan replied. "I’m curious why ICSA would pay to bring me all the way down here."
"We have good reason, as you will soon see for yourself," Armando said. He gestured with an open arm toward a small conference room across the hall. Though Armando was impressed by the tall American’s confidence and ease, he had not favored his hiring. Nathan would have much to prove.
"We have no one in Central America with your expertise, Señor Brooks," added Pablo. "You were recommended to us."
They settled into their seats in the conference room, and Armando began the briefing. "Our insured is Carlos Moreno. He has a history in Central America of insurance fraud and extortion, for nearly twenty years. We are aware of his reputation, yet somehow he has still managed to obtain a policy from our company."
Armando further explained how Moreno had reportedly been a victim of a night time car crash and fire on the outskirts of Guatemala City during La Quema del Diablo, a boisterous Guatemalan festival observed every December.
"We celebrate with dancing, bonfires, boj, and fireworks — many fireworks," added Armando.
"What’s boj?" asked Nathan.
"Umm, how do you say it?" Pablo struggled for the right word as he turned to Armando for help. "Booze?"
"Si, booze," said Armando, smiling. "Very powerful — brewed, em — now I have trouble. How do you say it?"
"Fermented? offered Nathan.
"Si! It is brewed from fermented and distilled sugar cane."
"Sounds like what we call ‘white lightning’," said Nathan.
"Ah, si, but our boj is like thunder!" said Pablo, laughing.
"The festival is much more than boj and fireworks," said Armando. "It is based in, eh, tradition. Legend says the devil hides in the house among old and unused things, so each year we go through our homes to find items which are no longer wanted or needed. We gather our worn out belongings, rubbish and yard waste, and pile these things in the streets. Then we make bonfires of this trash. It is an act of, eh, purity — purification."
"On this day you will see young boys at intersections selling red devil piñatas. The piñatas are filled with firecrackers and sold to people stopped in their cars at red lights," added Pablo. "In the evening, people throw fireworks and the piñatas of the devil onto the bonfires. This is why we call it La Quema del Diablo."
"According to Señor Moreno," said Armando, "he was in Zona Ocho, driving his car down a calle during the midst of the festivities with his windows open — a very foolish thing to do during La Quema del Diablo."
"Zona Ocho is northwest from here," explained Pablo. "The city is divided into spirals of zonas which begin from downtown. Avenidas are roads which run north and south within each zona, and calles run east and west."
"A bottle rocket or similar explosive flew into his Ferrari, striking Señor Moreno in the face," continued Armando. "He lost control and crashed head on, at approximately twenty kilometers per hour, into a Mercedes-Benz sedan parked against the curb. Within seconds the engine compartments of both vehicles burst into flames. Neighbors were alerted by his shouting and rushed into the street with fire extinguishers and sand to put out the fire."
Nathan mentally converted the metric speed to twelve m.p.h. or so. A minor collision for that severe a result, he thought.
"Señor Moreno called us from the scene, and one of our claims adjusters — Santiago — was dispatched immediately. He arrived at the crash site within the half hour, and noted Señor Moreno’s face was indeed burned."
~~~
As Santiago finished taking photos of the crash scene, he wondered how a man so foolish could afford to own such an expensive car. Driving on city streets with open windows during La Quema del Diablo? What a crazy thing to do! Santiago walked back to his car, shaking his head.
The hour was late, the air was filled with fireworks and celebratory noise, and his family awaited him, so Santiago decided to postpone further investigation to a more convenient time. He was eager to return home and enjoy the destruction of a small fortune in fireworks his eldest son had bankrolled, but duty obligated him to stand watch over the expensive vehicles until the trucks came to tow them away. Though he called them twice, no police ever arrived.
At daybreak, Santiago visited the company-approved shop where the Ferrari had been towed and secured the night before. While underneath the vehicle he noticed the engine’s steel oil pan had been pierced, and all the engine oil had been drained out. Oddly, the undercarriage of the Ferrari was not oily.
In addition, though the top of the engine compartment was slightly burned, as Moreno had reported — the sports car had also been damaged by a small fire burning underneath it.
When questioned later about these inconsistencies, Moreno coolly explained how the oil pan was damaged immediately before the collision. "I was struck in the face by a firecracker, which made me lose control of my car. I swerved to the left and struck a large piece of concrete which was on the roadway near the curb, and oil began to spill out. The Ferrari has little road clearance, you know. After the impact with the Mercedes, the oil spread on the road and caught fire."
Though no fire expert, Santiago was intuitively skeptical of the insured’s account. He found the burning oil explanation implausible and inconsistent with Moreno’s earlier version of an engine fire.
~~~
"Santiago concluded this was a false insurance claim which required further investigation," said Armando. "When he returned to the office he, eh, conveyed his suspicions to us, and we relayed this information on to the home office in Mexico City. We were told to take our time in paying Señor Moreno."
"So you dragged your feet," said Nathan.
The expression humored Armando and Pablo. "Yes, we dragged our feet," affirmed Pablo. "For many weeks we dragged them."
"Santiago learned in January that Señor Moreno paid the owner of the Mercedes for the extensive damages he caused in the crash and fire," Armando continued. "We thought this was a curious thing to do. The payment was made without our consent, but Señor Moreno informed us the other owner was pressuring him for the money. He said that since we did not appear to want to pay for it, he paid the man himself."
"Our company was very embarrassed because Señor Moreno had somehow obtained a policy through us, even though we knew he was much trouble. Our home office informed Santiago that we — the Guatemala City field office — must stand firm. They knew this would create a difficult situation for us since this man is a powerful insured with a history of extortion of other insurance companies. They ordered Santiago to arrange a meeting with Señor Moreno to explain why the claim would not be paid."
"I, too, was at the meeting. Very bad," said Armando, with obvious distaste.
"What do you know about this guy?" asked Nathan.
"He is a wealthy man," said Armando. "He is a large man in girth, loud and prone to bragging."
"He is a maton," interjected Pablo. "Yes?"
"Sounds like a bully to me, too," agreed Nathan.
"There is much demand here for damaged vehicles from the United States. Señor Moreno is in the business of importing these vehicles into Central America. He repairs and sells them here and in the Caribbean," added Armando. "Many have been damaged by floods. Those which he can not sell, he will crash or burn for the insurance money. Much of his money is earned this way."
"We have been told Señor Moreno is a major dealer in black market vehicles which are stolen from elsewhere and smuggled into Guatemala. He repaints them in his shops in Guatemala City and sells them," said Pablo. "Our police make it very easy for him to do illegal things."
"So he hasn’t risen to his stature in Guatemalan society by being a nice guy," commented Nathan.
"No," replied Armando and Pablo in unison.
"He is very well known to the insurance companies which do business in Central America, yet he always manages to obtain the insurance to cover his ‘losses’," said Pablo. "His insurance claims have all been paid without any meaningful contest."
"Bribery and extortion are very beneficial business strategies here," added Armando with a resigned shrug.
~~~
The claims office informed Moreno of ICSA’s decision to withhold payment of his claim, and scheduled a meeting for him to discuss the issue. His arrival at the office was blustery and dramatic. The frontline staff people bristled at his abrasive and belligerent demeanor, and any of the other employees who could scurry off to safer corners — and this included nearly everybody — quickly did so.
Like firemen running into a burning building everyone else flees, Santiago and Armando entered the conference room to encounter the bellicose client awaiting them. After a transparent but obligatory exchange of social niceties, the three men sat down to discuss their differences.
Moreno was aware that his reputation for ruthlessness had preceded him and was proud of the unease in the room. These were soft men, in his view, who deserved the fright.
Santiago was clearly rattled, even as Armando sat beside him for support. He prayed silently, in vain, that his nervousness would go unnoticed as he mentally struggled with his body to appear calm. He would drink no more coffee; he could not lift the cup without visibly trembling.
Experience as a senior adjuster helped him regain some composure in the intimidating presence of the insured. Santiago’s task was an important one, to be forcefully and effectively accomplished without negotiation. His duty was clear. He decided to forego any further superfluous conversation and come right to the point.
"We are not able to pay you for your loss at this time, as our investigation is not yet complete."
He paused for a second then continued. "I must also report to you that we are not required to reimburse any money you have paid to the third party."
Moreno scowled, and for the next few seconds remained motionless and silent. Santiago spent the time staring anxiously at a vein pulsing in the swarthy man’s thick neck. The insured’s face slowly darkened to a deep red.
"Outrageous!" Moreno bellowed. "I reported the accident in a timely manner, and have done all you have asked of me. You continue to refuse to pay for my damages, and now you tell me you will not pay for the other vehicle as well? I demand payment for my damages in this accident! It is your obligation!"
"I am sorry. I can not pay you." Santiago shrugged. There was not much more he could add. "I propose you have the case reviewed by the Centro de Arbitraje y Conciliación."
"No!" Moreno boomed. "No arbitration. It is not their fight." He pointed a pudgy finger at Santiago as he rose abruptly from the table. "It is yours, my friend." The angry man stomped to the door, but then stopped and turned to face the others.
"This is not over," he announced. Moreno paused for a moment and studied the expressions of the jangled adjusters to gauge the effectiveness of his declaration. Satisfied with their pallid nonresponse, he left the room.
Once it was confirmed that Moreno had left the building, coworkers magically reappeared and assembled about Santiago and Armando in the conference room. They weren’t curious about the meeting itself; they had all heard Moreno’s bombastic outburst. Instead, they came to see for themselves how Santiago and Armando had survived the dreadful encounter.
Santiago appeared to be unfazed as he discussed the meeting’s brief conversation with the others, but he also took great care to leave his coffee cup untouched.
~~~
Nathan was enthralled with the story and eager to speak with Santiago. Perhaps this was why the home office had searched for an investigator from out of town — the local claims office was simply frightened out of its collective mind by this insured.
"Will Santiago be joining us?" he asked.
Armando shot Pablo a startled glance, a fleeting hint to Nathan that the question was troublesome. "Unfortunately, no — he is on holiday," Pablo replied. "Would you like to try some of our Guatemalan coffee? We have the best coffee in the world."
"Sure, black with sugar. I’d really like to talk with him," Nathan insisted. "Can he be reached?"
"I’ll find you a cup." Pablo abruptly left the room without answering. Nathan turned to Armando for a reply.
"No, Nathan. I am sorry." Armando was clearly uncomfortable. "The claim is now ours to investigate, and we are very familiar with the circumstances. Pablo and I can provide you all the details you need to know."
The adjuster reached for a thick claims file on the table. He searched through the papers and pulled out a four page questionnaire entitled Reporte de Accidente de Vehiculo. "Here is Señor Moreno’s account of the accident."
Armando seemed too eager to move on. There was an awkwardness Nathan knew with certainty wasn’t due to his own cultural ignorance, so he decided not to press the issue of Santiago. He took the questionnaire from Armando and reviewed it carefully.
"While some people here may believe the devil dwells in their belongings, Mr. Moreno apparently believes the devil is in the details," said Nathan. "The guy sure doesn’t say much here, does he?"
"That is true," agreed Armando.
Within the file there was a copy of the vehicle registration — the tarjeta de circulacion de vehiculos — of the Mercedes-Benz involved in the crash. Someone had scribbled "EZQUIBEL!" in bold letters on the bottom of the page. The registration listed Alfonso Ezquibel as the owner. Nathan pointed to the exclamatory footnote. "Significance?" he asked.
"He is a person of interest. I will provide more on this at a later time," answered Armando, cryptically. He powered up a widescreen monitor on the wall. A collection of digital photographs was ready for display on the screen. "These were taken by Santiago within the hour the crash was reported."
The first few images provided scant information. The vehicles were visible but underexposed, and most detail was lost. The flash of Santiago’s company-issued point-and-shoot camera was obviously weak, but in subsequent photos Santiago had moved in for closer shots.
Nathan began to notice an extraordinary number of clues. The two cars were perfectly aligned and nose to nose at the curbside after the impact and fire. Both of their hoods were propped up. Yellow fire extinguisher residue was visible in both engine compartments and small deposits of reddish dirt were apparent on the vehicles’ engines and on the surrounding pavement.
"A front engine Ferrari?" asked Nathan. "I didn’t know they made front engine cars."
"It is a 550 Barchetta," explained Armando. "Very exotic."
"Here is your coffee," said Pablo. He glanced at the current photo on the monitor as he handed the cup to Nathan. "Neighbors arrived to put out the fires. Santiago said they fought the fires with dirt and water after the fire extinguishers were emptied."
"Really? Nothing’s wet here," interjected Nathan. "I see what looks like a dark stain on the roadway, but there’s no water."
"Interesting. It doesn’t appear to be a serious collision at all, but the headlamps and signal lamps are missing from the Mercedes," Nathan continued. The headlamps were intact on the Ferrari but its recessed clear glass fog lamps appeared to be broken out.
"There’s something odd about all this. Where’s the broken glass? Oh, and here’s something else. Look at this one — notice how the hoods are up? They used a fire extinguisher and then threw dirt in the engine compartments of both cars, right? But the cars are nose to nose — literally nose to nose — so how did anybody get between them to prop up their hoods while a fire is supposedly in progress?"
Pablo pointed to the next photo. "This was taken after the Mercedes had been backed away from the Ferrari," he said. Though the stain ran under the left front tire of the Mercedes-Benz, the tire itself was dry and free of oil.
"The Mercedes wasn’t backed away," said Nathan. "There’s no oil on the tire. If that’s oil, the tire would have rolled in it."
"Ah, yes, I see," said Armando. He grinned in amazement at these new clues.
"The Ferrari’s driver side airbag has deployed, too," observed Nathan, "but the collision wasn’t severe enough to deploy it. Not even close."
Nathan spotted a singed cloth or paper towel inside the passenger compartment on top of the dashboard, over the instrument cluster. Something else — charred and unrecognizable — lay on the passenger side footwell.
"These are separate and isolated burns inside the car," he said, pointing out blackened patterns within the interior. "There are at least two distinct burn areas in there, see?"
Armando and Pablo joined Nathan and carefully studied the remaining photographs together. Nathan began to frown and alternately review certain photos he had studied previously.
"What is your thought?" Armando asked.
"I’m thinking that Santiago’s instincts were correct," said Nathan.
"We looked but did not see any of these things," said Pablo. "Yet you look for a moment and see so many details."
Armando nodded in agreement.
"Well, that’s my job. This is what happens when you do what you do for decades. You start seeing things," said Nathan, grinning.
"The devil is in the details," said Armando, "and he has now been released to haunt Señor Moreno."
~~~
The following morning, Armando drove Nathan to Zona Ocho to canvass the crash scene and examine the roadway for clues. Zona Ocho was a sparsely populated region in the barren hills above the city — a neglected area of narrow paved streets lined with electrical poles and wires, weedy lots, and a jumble of concrete homes and walls in various stages of disrepair or delayed construction. The narrow calle, covered with old, thin, and heavily cracked asphalt, ran straight up and down a steep hill. No one else was in sight and there were no other sounds of human activity.
After he had trudged about for fifteen minutes in the bright sun, Nathan felt a little overheated and realized he had overdressed for this inspection. Sweat dripped from his arms and dappled his khaki slacks, and perspiration stained his blue cotton shirt. Armando, in contrast, appeared to be quite comfortable in his blindingly white tailored cotton shirt and new blue jeans.
"I thought it’d be a little cooler than this," Nathan said, sheepishly, as he paused to catch his breath.
At Nathan’s instruction, the two men searched through the empty lots on either side of the calle, looking in vain for any obstructions capable of puncturing the Ferrari’s oil pan. "The Mercedes was parked against the curb, facing uphill, right?" Nathan uncapped the Salvavidas bottled water he’d brought along, and took a deep swig.
"Yes. It was parked right here," said Armando as he stood on the spot.
Nathan looked around at the open weed-choked lots in the desolate neighborhood. "The next question is, what was that nice Mercedes doing here?"
"Very good. We think the owner of the Mercedes is an employee of Carlos," replied Armando. "So it is an interesting coincidence, yes?"
"Oh, really? I like coincidences — they can be excellent clues."
"We think the employee owned the car only in name. We suspect Carlos owned both vehicles," added Armando.
Nathan knelt down to examine the pavement. "I’m a little skeptical of this stain. There’s not a bit of oil here, and there’s no trail of leaking oil prior to impact. After the crash the Mercedes ended up nose to nose with the Ferrari, right? So the oil should have flowed downhill under the Mercedes, but it didn’t. This stain ran down along the driver side of the Mercedes, and not directly under it and over to the curb like it should have."
Nathan poured some of his drinking water onto the pavement where the Ferrari’s engine would have been positioned after the impact. The clear liquid flowed to the side, over to the curb — and away from the stain.
"This stain wasn’t made by an oil leak," said Nathan as he maintained his focus on the pavement. "Oil would also soften the asphalt, but this isn’t soft — it’s just discolored."
Armando looked on approvingly, pleased with their progress thus far.
There was a sudden rise in traffic noise. The men were surprised to see a vehicle racing down the hill, seemingly aimed at them.
"Run!" shouted Armando. They sprinted for the safety of the curb as a small black car roared past, missing both of them by mere inches.
Nathan didn’t recognize the make of the decrepit little car. He caught a glimpse of three AmerIndian males as the vehicle sped down the calle. One of them was quite ugly, with scowling, asymmetrical facial features. The car’s driver stared straight ahead, but the two rear seat passengers, including the ugly one, turned to eyeball Nathan and Armando menacingly. The vehicle — cloaked by a thick cloud of swirling black exhaust smoke — quickly disappeared.
"What the heck was that all about?" Nathan asked. "Friends of Carlos, maybe?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they were only — how do you say it — ‘bad boys’," said Armando in an attempt at levity. He thought it wise not to further spook his American guest.
Nathan and Armando listened attentively as the sound of the car’s exhaust faded away in the distance, until it was finally drowned out by the blood throbbing in the veins of their ears.
~~~
After leaving the accident scene they stopped for a long lunch break at a restaurant favored by Armando. The two men dined and discussed the morning’s events until late in the afternoon. Armando seemed in no particular hurry to return to work.
The ride back to the ICSA office was leisurely as well, but when they arrived Nathan perceived a pronounced shift in his companion’s comfort level. Armando carefully studied their urban surroundings then unlocked the main entrance door to the building. They walked past empty cubicles and a cold coffee machine.
"Where is everybody?" asked Nathan.
"They are home with their families," explained Armando. "Crime is very bad here. We have been closing the office early. Once I transfer our photos to the computer I will drive you to your hotel."
~~~
The hotel was only a half kilometer from the office. It catered mainly to foreign business travelers, and — inside, at least — offered a high degree of security for its safety-conscious clientele. Security guards roamed the lobby at unpredictable intervals, and elevators moved only when guests inserted valid room key cards.
After settling in to his room, Nathan opened the sliding door to the balcony and stepped outside. People scurried about in all directions on and alongside the busy one-way multi-laned street near the front entrance of the hotel. Technicolored chicken buses slowed only briefly to pick up passengers for the commute home from the city.
The rest of the city is still on the go, Nathan thought, but the insurance office is already closed due to crime?
He turned on the hotel room’s generic TV and surfed through the channels in search of a news network. The random channel hopping ceased abruptly as a Mediterranean beach scene of oiled, evenly-tanned topless women flashed on the screen. Though the show was broadcast in devoutly Roman Catholic Guatemala, the women’s bare breasts had not been pixelated or fuzzed out by censors. Ironically, the program originated from a TV network in the US, but the Americans themselves weren’t permitted to fully enjoy the scenery.
Armando’s plan to pick up Nathan the following morning at eight thirty a.m. fell though due to a late night out and a subsequent early morning inability to rouse himself out of bed. Once on the road, he encountered the chaotic aftermath of a fatal traffic accident between two chicken buses near the city. Frustrated, Armando called to inform Nathan he would be very late.
Nathan spent the delay sipping coffee on his balcony and casually observing the arrival of buses and the dutiful return of employees to their big city jobs. The artful paint work evident on the buses was often as intricate and detailed as it was colorful. Many of the heavily customized buses were named by their proud owners; Nathan had seen "Esmeralda", "Katarine", and "Melinda" lumber noisily past the hotel in just the past two minutes.
Like the big truck rigs Nathan was familiar with back home, many chicken buses were adorned with a familiar flat chrome representation of a seated long haired lady of narrow waist and tremendous bust, posed seductively with one knee up and her arms propped behind her. And again, just like in the States, it was doubtful these truckers had a wife at home with even the vaguest resemblance to this fantasy figurine.
Armando finally showed up at ten a.m. "I am sorry to be so late. We have much to do."
"No problem. I had a nice time just watching people," said Nathan as he took his seat and closed the car door. "What’s on the ‘To Do’ list?"
"Today we inspect the vehicles. We will begin with the Ferrari. It is stored at an auto service shop about a kilometer away. Then we go to Carlos’ shop."
"Are we going to meet him?"
"Yes, and we will inspect the Mercedes there."
"It’s at Carlos’ shop?" Nathan was incredulous. Someone in Armando’s company had exercised questionable judgment in allowing a potentially valuable item of evidence to remain in possession of the very person they were investigating.
Armando nodded affirmatively as he deftly maneuvered through the lawless traffic. "Carlos thinks he has nothing to hide. He does not expect that we would investigate him. He demanded that we tow both vehicles to his shop. We kept the Ferrari, of course, but we gave him the Mercedes."
"How are you going to explain me?"
"I will be training you to, eh, appraise the damages. I will do the talking. He will not suspect anything."
"How will we know if Carlos has altered anything on the Mercedes?" asked Nathan.
"We will not know everything. But we have Santiago’s photos to compare with what we see today," assured Armando.
"Oh, yeah. How about the Ferrari? Has anyone else had access to it?"
"The Ferrari is safe. The shop is very secure; it is locked at night with a guard and a dog. Ahh, here we are."
Armando turned into a short driveway and stopped the car within inches of a rollaway chain link gate covered with corrugated metal sheets. An ancient yellowed plastic sign above the dirty concrete block perimeter wall spelled "Coches y Servicios" ["Cars & Services"].
He honked the horn twice. Within a minute a shop employee in grease-smeared gray coveralls appeared and rolled back the chattering gate to allow their entry.
Armando parked the Honda and walked over to the shop office to talk with the manager. Nathan searched the service bays for the low slung Ferrari, and quickly spotted it despite a camouflage of heavy deposits of dust and soot. He entered the uncluttered, naturally-lit concrete service bay and slowly circled the sports car, assessing its condition. Recalling his earlier observations of the Ferrari from the photographs, he could now confirm the minor damage firsthand. There were surprisingly few crushed body parts, yet the Ferrari’s fog lamps were gone and the driver airbag had deployed.
Within a few minutes Armando joined him in the bay. "The manager has informed me no one else has been allowed to see the car, and he himself has done nothing with it."
Nathan opened the passenger door and grunted disapprovingly. "Santiago kept an eye on this car at the scene, right?"
"Right, why?"
"The manager has lied to you."
"What do you mean? What do you see?"
"It’s what I don’t see. That burned paper towel or rag we saw on the dashboard in the photos is gone. The charred material we saw on the passenger side floorboard is gone, too."
Armando appeared concerned as he pondered the implication of the loss of such potentially important evidence. He leaned inside the Ferrari to see for himself. Without saying another word he abruptly turned heel and walked briskly toward the manager’s office.
Some intriguing evidence had obviously been removed, but Nathan remained hopeful that enough pieces remained for him to solve the puzzle. Since the fire evidence had been compromised, Nathan changed gears to focus his powers of observation on the crash damages instead.
In Guatemala, even an exotic sports car like the Ferrari must have the license plate displayed on the front bumper. Nathan noted that the crumpled license plate and its metal bracket were attached to the bumper with two large and unsightly hexagonal bolt heads. The result — though functional — effectively ruined the aesthetics of the Barchetta’s front end.
Nathan measured both the distance between the two bolts and their height from the ground, reasoning that the bolt heads may have left distinguishable impressions on the Mercedes-Benz — if that vehicle had indeed been struck by the Ferrari.
Through an office window he could see an animated conversation taking place between Armando and the manager, though he could hear nothing. Armando’s back was to the window as he gestured angrily and emphatically with his arms and hands. The manager, also visible, appeared to be attempting a Guinness record for most shrugs a minute.
Nathan looked around for a shop mechanic and called for help when he caught one’s attention.
"I need to have the underpanel removed."
The mechanic looked at him quizzically.
"Ah, underpanel — bajo." Nathan reached below the vehicle to point. He had no idea what that Italian part would be called in Spanish. "Retire el panel?"
The mechanic nodded affirmatively, grabbed a socket wrench and entered the pit beneath the vehicle. He pointed questioningly to the aerodynamic panel which smoothed the contours of the vehicle’s underbelly.
"Si," said Nathan, approvingly. The mechanic removed the bolts and pulled away the panel. He waited for Nathan’s acknowledgement then left to resume his original task.
Nathan lowered himself into the work pit beneath the Ferrari. Forced to an uncomfortably low crouch ill-suited for his tall frame, he scrutinized the Ferrari’s underside with a powerful flashlight. He heard light footsteps and recognized Armando’s loafers as the adjuster reached the passenger side of the Ferrari.
"The manager still maintains no one has been here," said an angry voice from above the loafers. "This shop will get no more business from us."
"Apparently he gets more than enough from Carlos," replied Nathan as he located the vehicle’s burned airbag sensor mounted to the backside of the skeletal framework of the front bumper.
Once the entire chassis had been examined he returned to the oil pan for a second look. Located at the bottom of the engine, the pan basically served as a reservoir for the engine oil. This pan had been pierced by a sharp and rigid metal tool of some sort. With such a large hole in the oil pan the Ferrari couldn’t have been driven very far before its engine seized. Nathan had earlier noted a matching hole in the plastic panel that protected the underbody. Someone had known exactly where to strike the panel to pierce it and puncture the oil pan.
Mindful of Moreno’s claim that an oil spill on the roadway caught fire, Nathan found no burn damage near or behind the oil pan. For this reason alone burning oil was an unlikely fuel source. But engine oil is extremely difficult to ignite — another solid reason to doubt Moreno’s story.
Nathan climbed out of the pit. "We need to get this car out of here and have it examined by a trusted mechanic. My guess is the engine has seized," he said.
"This will be done," said Armando.
"We also had a small fire under the front end of the car. No ignition source there. There’s no connection between that one and the damage we saw in the passenger compartment," he said.
Armando opened the passenger door and leaned inside the vehicle for a peek.
"Charred carpet on the floorboard there by you," Nathan said. "The underside of the dashboard directly above that is burned, too — and again, no ignition source."
"Carlos Moreno may think he’s a force to be reckoned with in his neck of the woods, but — oh, sorry." Nathan stopped speaking and grinned as he noticed Armando’s confused expression. "Neck of the woods means, uhh, ‘his personal mundo?' Anyway, by American standards he’s an amateur," he finished.
Nathan stooped to search under the dashboard and the driver side floorboard. "There’s no gas pedal! Armando, do you have Santiago’s photos handy? Now, this is odd."
Armando quickly searched for and found a photo which showed the driver side seat area. Sure enough, the chromed gas pedal was in place immediately after the crash.
"Let’s see what else they may have removed," said Nathan as he looked over the rich leather interior. The center console area caught his attention. Immediately above the stick shift was the audio amplifier and radio unit. The manufacturer of the audio device wasn’t one which Nathan, a registered card-carrying techie, would have expected in a high end product like the Ferrari.
"That’s gonna have to come out," he said.
Nathan dismantled and examined the Ferrari’s sound system. Although it took a while to figure out how the console was put together, it took only a few minutes to pull it apart.
Armando removed the audio player from the console. "Oh, there’s no wiring attached to it!" he exclaimed.
"And no satellite hookup, either — it’s just a crappy old stereo. It probably doesn’t even work," said Nathan. "Let’s take a look at the speakers."
He pried off one speaker cover, then another, and another. There were no speakers in any of the enclosures.
Moreno had evidently tried to suck every possible quetzal out of this scheme. He had removed the expensive sound system and even the chrome gas pedal before setting the fires, naively confident the evidence of the theft would be obliterated in the inferno. Then along came some Good Samaritans with fire extinguishers and handfuls of dirt.
"This guy has brass cojones," said Nathan. "We have three areas of fire in the car, and no ignition sources. Any one of these fires could be considered suspicious all by itself, but having three makes it a slam dunk."
Armando enjoyed deciphering Nathan’s slang expressions, but this one puzzled him. "Slam dunk?"
Nathan thought for a moment, then exclaimed "Basketball, Goala Goala GOALA!"
"Ahhh, yes." Armando smiled.
~~~
Their next stop of the day, after a late lunch, was the main auto shop owned by Carlos Moreno. Running behind schedule, Armando called Moreno’s office from the car to apologize and to tell them he was on his way. A woman answered the phone and informed Armando that her boss would be busy with other clients for at least another hour. "I will give Señor Moreno the opportunity to conclude his business, but please inform him that I will be arriving shortly," Armando replied in a commanding tone. He placed the phone in his lap as Nathan nodded affirmatively.
"He expected us well over an hour ago. I hope he is not angry," Armando announced in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. "We are nearly there but we will ‘kill some time’ as you say."
Armando pointed to a large and grimy gray auto shop nestled between a number of other nondescript concrete block structures. "There is Carlos’ business, on the right. This area is very dangerous in the night time."
The small Honda continued on past Moreno’s auto shop. Just beyond the shop was a windowless concrete building with a small sign above the door. The black silhouette of a busty woman was hand painted on the sign.
Armando grinned and pointed out the business to Nathan. "Streep club, and the women are very ugly — VERY ugly!" He shook his body with faux disgust and laughed heartily.
Nathan smiled at Armando’s theatrics and laughed aloud as he realized the joint’s larger sign out front was literally spelled "Streep Club".
Within seconds of passing the "streep" club, Armando made a sudden right turn. He slowed the car and said, resolutely — "I am thinking maybe we will see the Mercedes now. No more Mister Nice Guy."
"Think he may be making some last minute changes?" asked Nathan.
Armando shrugged. He accelerated the Honda around the block to return to the main road.
Unlike the prior shop they’d visited, access to Moreno’s auto body and paint business was totally unrestricted. There was no gate, no concertina wire on top of the walls, and no guard dog. One small silver car, a model Nathan had never seen before, was parked in the small lot outside. The two men sat quietly for a few moments as they mentally prepared for their encounter.
"Are you ready?" asked Nathan.
Armando nodded affirmatively. The two men stepped warily out of the Honda and headed toward the shop. As if on cue, a small blue pickup truck turned into the parking lot. The driver and three armed occupants in the bed — all police officers — glared at them but did nothing more.
Armando and Nathan walked briskly away from the police truck and entered the work shop through the fully open garage door. Four men stood at the rear of the shop, beside a pair of small, boxy vehicles which resembled miniature Land Rovers. One of the men, the largest, immediately excused himself from the group to intercept the new arrivals.
It was Carlos Moreno.
"You are the insurance people? You are late, gentlemen. I have not concluded my business with my other guests. Please return another time." Although worded as a request, it was clearly delivered as an order. He stared at Armando without blinking.
Nathan inconspicuously studied Moreno. The insured did not share the physical attributes of the typical Guatemalan Ladino. He appeared to be of Mediterranean — possibly Arabic — ancestry. He was a tall and stocky man with a large nose atop a closely cropped beard. His receding hair was slightly curly and black.
The man dressed expensively well and was ornately accessorized. Two large nugget-like gold rings distinguished his stubby fingers, a thick gold necklace laced his thick neck, and a diamond-encrusted Piaget watch graced his left wrist — hardly the fashion accoutrements of a typical auto body shop owner.
Moreno’s overbearing presence was difficult to ignore, but Nathan’s attention was nonetheless diverted to the three bearded men abruptly abandoned by their host. As the insured concentrated his intimidation tactics on Armando, Nathan casually studied the others. They, too, had facial and body features which were hard to place. Overall they appeared to be Mediterranean, like Moreno, but with fairer features. The three men were vigilant and nervous, throwing occasional furtive glances at Nathan.
"I am very sorry, Señor Moreno. But we are here and we wish to inspect the Mercedes." Armando stood his ground, emboldened both by the evidence they had discovered and by Nathan’s reassuring presence.
Moreno became disturbed by Nathan’s oblique study of his clients. He shifted his bullying efforts from Armando and focused a withering gaze on Nathan. The new target was unassailable, however, having assumed an utterly blank expression tinged with a subtle hint of boredom.
Moreno pondered his best response to this unexpected and unsettling resistance. "The Mercedes-Benz is over there," he conceded, gesturing with a tip of his head to an area of the shop behind them. "Excuse me while I return to my clients. I will speak with you again once our meeting has concluded."
"Thank you," said Armando. Enjoying a new and unfamiliar sense of power, he grinned impishly at Nathan the moment Moreno turned away.
Nathan maintained a stealthy eye on the other three guests while he returned to the Honda to retrieve his camera gear. They gestured angrily as Moreno rejoined them.
"You don’t normally see such animated behavior in your average horse trading," said Nathan. "Is this guy Guatemalan?"
"No, definitely not. He does not speak proper Spanish. I can not place his accent," replied Armando. "What do you mean, horse trading? With cars instead?" asked Armando.
"Right. Maybe it’s the cultural difference, but it looks to me like something else is going on there," Nathan said. "Then again, I’m a fish out of water down here, so what do I know?"
Armando merely shrugged in reply to Nathan’s rhetorical self slap, but was secretly pleased that he so easily understood this latest expression of American slang.
The dark gray Mercedes-Benz sat isolated in a far corner of the shop, but Moreno and his argumentative clients remained within earshot. Armando concentrated intently on the conversation across the shop while Nathan focused on the Mercedes.
"Hmmm," muttered Armando.
"What?"
"They speak a little Spanish, then they speak a little something else," said Armando, in a near whisper. "And French! I believe French is spoken, too. They are very angry."
Nathan paused to eavesdrop. "Are they saying anything interesting?" he asked, softly.
"They speak about those automobiles, and say one of them needs repair," said Armando.
"Um-hmm. The ones they’re standing by?" Nathan was quickly losing interest in the conversation.
"Yes. They said it is a very long journey, over three thousand kilometers," whispered Armando. "What is this? I can not understand them."
"That’s Arabic. ‘Youssef’ and ‘Allah’ are Arabic," Nathan said. He searched for his camera bag. "Okay, now I’m interested."
He pulled out a telephoto lens and attached it to his Nikon camera body, then made some adjustments to the camera’s settings. The camera’s sensor was sensitive, but he would need a high shutter speed to get a sharp image in the low light of the garage. A good depth of field wasn’t necessary, so Nathan set the camera to ‘shutter priority’ and chose a fast shutter speed. "Let’s take a walk around the Benz," he suggested.
Nathan carefully set up his shot. He lifted the camera and — still walking — held it to his chest. He pointed the lens at Moreno but looked deceptively in another direction as he lightly pushed the shutter button. He waited for the auto focus to find its proper target then surreptitiously snapped a series of three photos.
"You took their photo?" asked Armando.
"Si," replied Nathan. "I’d like to get a formal portrait of Moreno. He’s an interesting character."
"Muy bien, Nathan," said Armando. "One of them looked at you directly and did not notice his picture was being taken."
Nathan reached a spot alongside the car where he was out of view of Moreno and his guests before he knelt to check the new images on the view screen of the camera. He grunted approvingly, satisfied with the results.
"Now they talk of the trunk of the sedan," said Armando.
"The trunk?" asked Nathan.
"Yes."
"Sheesh — maybe we’re making too much of this," said Nathan.
"Perhaps they must hide a very fat body," replied Armando in jest.
Moreno glanced over at Armando and Nathan. In a hushed tone, he mumbled a few words which prompted his group to abruptly turn and walk in the direction of the office.
"Do they suspect we were listening?" said Armando.
"I don’t think so," answered Nathan. "That was a strange conversation. It wasn’t what they said. I don’t even really know what all they said. They just said it strange. Know what I mean?"
"Yes, I agree with you, Nathan. Very strange."
"Are there a lot of Arabs here?"
"Oh, no. I have heard that a very small group of Palestinians lives here, but I have never seen one."
Nathan walked around the Mercedes-Benz once again, assessing its condition. "Looks like a fire burned on the ground along the driver side," he said. "It didn’t last very long, though, judging from the minor burns. It’s consistent with some fast burning liquid along that side."
"The oil?" asked Armando.
"It wasn’t oil. Oil would burn for a long time if they could even ignite the stuff. Gasoline burns away very rapidly. This was probably gasoline or something like it."
Nathan dropped to the dusty concrete floor to peer beneath the vehicle. "But it didn’t flow underneath the car — it just briefly burned alongside it. No fire damage along the fuel lines, either."
"What does this mean?" asked Armando.
"It looks like someone splashed gasoline or something similar on the road around the front ends of both cars and also alongside the driver side of the Mercedes. The gasoline burned, scorched the two cars and discolored the road, but otherwise it didn’t do much damage. They probably didn’t pour a lot of it."
"Remember the burns to Moreno’s face?" asked Nathan.
"Yes, from the bottle rocket."
"What if he got burned when the fire flashed in his face as he lit the gas?"
"Ohhh! Yes!" exclaimed Armando.
Nathan noted the Mercedes’ VIN, and then walked around to the front of the vehicle to get the license plate number. "Whoa, hey, look here!" he exclaimed in a whisper.
Armando quickly joined him. "What have you found?"
"Those indentations in the license plate were made by hex bolts," said Nathan. "They’re from the license plate bracket of the Ferrari."
"But there are more than two, eh, impressions," observed Armando. "There were two bolts only, correct?"
"Right, and that’s what makes this so interesting. Let’s measure here. The two bolts were eighteen centimeters apart on the Ferrari. Perfect. Eighteen centimeters between this pair. And between this pair. And between this pair."
"Three pairs? There was more than one impact?" Armando asked.
"Three impacts," affirmed Nathan. "The vehicles were bumped together three times, at a low speed each time. This way he was able to produce damages similar to what would have resulted from one impact at a much higher speed."
"By crashing them together, three times slowly, it would appear to be a larger collision?" Armando was catching on.
"Exactly. He didn’t risk getting injured this way, or setting off any airbags." Nathan looked at Armando. He knew what the next question would be. "You’re probably wondering why the airbag went off in the Ferrari."
"Yes, why?"
"The fire did it."
Armando was clearly puzzled.
Nathan enjoyed making him think for the answers, but had now become more important that Armando clearly understood what all these clues meant. "It didn’t go off during any of the impacts," he explained. "All three impacts were just a few kilometers per hour each. None of those bumps alone would have deployed the airbag. The airbag is designed to deploy only when a collision would injure someone already wearing a seatbelt. So engineers make sure the airbag deploys at higher velocity changes, twelve to eighteen m.p.h. or so — that’d be something like twenty to thirty kilometers per hour."
"There’s an impact sensor mounted behind the front bumper. It transmits an electrical signal to the car’s computer module when a crash occurs, and when the computer sees that signal it deploys the airbag."
The volume level of Moreno’s baritone voice in the background abruptly increased and interrupted Nathan’s explanation. The meeting was apparently over, and Moreno’s clients were leaving.
"Oh, good, now we get to talk with Mr. Moreno," said Nathan. "Anyway, one more thing — when the sensor burned it sent a false positive signal to the computer. The computer was fooled into thinking there was a collision, so it deployed the airbag."
"This makes sense. Ahh, here he comes," said Armando as he gestured with a subtle head nod toward Moreno.
"Gentlemen, do you require my assistance?" asked Moreno.
"We have concluded our documentation of the Mercedes, thank you," said Armando.
"I must question why my insurance company has assigned two men to document this Mercedes-Benz. Have you and your gringo friend found anything of particular importance?" Moreno asked. He scowled at Nathan.
"He, he is a trainee," said Armando, caught off guard by the insured’s dark inflection on the word "gringo".
"I see," said Moreno. The manner in which he stated those two words bluntly conveyed that he had not been fooled by the lie.
Armando realized the transparency of his ruse and abruptly changed the subject. "Your accent intrigues me, Señor Moreno. May I ask where you have learned to speak Spanish?" he asked.
Moreno stared intently at Armando as he considered how to respond. "As you have observed, I am not Guatemalan. I am Imazighen, which means ‘free men’ in my native tongue, Tamazight," he said.
There was a pause. He hadn’t really answered Armando’s question, and it was clear from their reaction neither Armando nor Nathan had any idea what an Imazighen was.
Moreno’s pride in his heritage superseded his original wariness. "I emigrated to Guatemala from the northern coast of Morocco, where I was born and lived for many years. My mother was Moroccan, and my father was a Spaniard."
Nathan remembered Armando’s prior assertion that Moreno did not speak "proper" Spanish, and nudged him with his elbow.
"Thank you, I was very curious," said Armando, ignoring the poke.
"If you will excuse me, I have work to do," said Moreno. "You may leave through the bay door."
~~~
"What is our next task?" asked Armando as they walked through the parking lot to the Honda.
"I think it’s time to start getting all your ducks in a row, Armando," said Nathan.
Armando appeared perplexed. "Yes, but we have only one duck," he replied.
Nathan chuckled to himself at his client’s misunderstanding. "Si, but he’s a very big duck."
Armando wasn’t following the reference, so Nathan decided to let this one slide. "We need the mechanic to check the Mercedes over, too. Hey, I thought you told me Moreno didn’t speak proper Spanish?"
"No? Do English futbol fans speak proper English?" Armando testily replied.
"Hmmm, good point. He knew straight away I was a gringo. Was he insulting me?"
"Maybe he thought you were European. Many more Europeans come to Guatemala than Americans," Armando explained. "It was not his intent to be rude when he called you a gringo, Nathan. Gringo means you are not from around here."
"Oh, really? In Mexico it’s more of a derogatory expression," said Nathan.
"No, not here in Guatemala, but you ARE a gringo, without a doubt," Armando said with a wry smile.