Paz studied this one rather more closely. Identi-Kit photographs all have a certain sameness about them and serve mainly to ensure that the cops don’t pick up someone of a different sex or race from that of the suspect, but this one caused a little chill in Paz’s belly. Like many detectives, Paz was extremely good on faces. He could summon up a fair picture of nearly everyone he had ever met, and while at the police academy had spent a good deal of time with the Identi-Kit reproducing faces from brief looks at photos of people on the faculty. He could do movie stars, too, to the amazement of staff and students both. The kit had recorded a man of uncertain age, but no longer young, with the broad mouth, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and bowl hairdo of a Central or South American Indian.

What caused the chill was Paz’s certain knowledge that he had seen this particular Central or South American Indian before. It annoyed him exceedingly that he could not immediately determine where, but this he put down to rustiness. One item he had expected was missing. Although the witnesses had all stated that the young white male had been wearing a T-shirt with a logo on it, no one had tried to reconstruct it or find out what it represented.

Morales returned, carrying a couple of paper cups of Cuban coffee, and said, “Oliphant said it’s okay to see Finnegan.”

“Great. What about this logo on the white kid’s shirt?”

“What about it? Kids wear all kinds of shit on their T-shirts-rock bands, concert tours, college teams…”

“True, but according to the secretary, this office invasion they pulled was a political action about the environment. The guy’s in an organization, it stands to reason he’s going to wear his organization’s logo, right? This Tuero woman, the secretary, said he was yelling about something called”-Paz leafed through a report-“the Puxto, whatever that is.”

“It’s like a game preserve in Colombia. The kid thought Consuela was going to cut it down.”

“Are they?”

“Not according to Felipe Ibanez and Cayo Garza. And your father. They got nothing going on down there. They said.”

“That’s not in the file. Or did I miss something?”

“It’s a lead that didn’t pan.” Morales caught Paz’s dark look and said, “I should have put it in the file, I know, I know, but it just didn’t figure that some tree hugger would chop a man up for some, I don’t know, failure of conservation. It didn’t fit.”

“You thought it was a coincidence that Fuentes had a screaming fight in his office the day before he got killed?”

“Since Calderón got it, I do,” said Morales, somewhat more aggressively. Paz realized that the man did not like being cross-examined by a civilian at his own desk, never mind that the civilian had once been a cop who’d got him into the detectives in the first place. Unfortunately, there was no help for this; if Morales had screwed up, and he had, he would just have to take his lumps.

Paz drank some of his coffee. “This is the Colombian gangster theory?”

“Where did you hear about it?”

“My sister. Finnegan told her, and somebody over in the county must have leaked it because Doris Taylor knew about it, too. What’s the basis?”

“Well, it’s obvious. Two identical killings of people associated with business in Colombia. When we just had Fuentes, it could have been anything, a cult, a random maniac. Weird and uncanny. With two, there’s a connection, plus the vandalization and jaguar shit incidents at all four of the Consuela principals’ houses. Someone is saying, you fucked with us and now you’re going to die. And the Colombians like to get fancy, it’s well known.”

“Yeah, I heard. So what I’m picking up here, Tito, is you think this is a lot simpler than what Oliphant thinks, that all the weirdness is like camouflage for a piece ofcolombianismo.”

“That’s how it’s looking. And that’s how it’s going to look up at the county.”

“I assume there’s people watching the other two guys, Garza and Ibanez.”

“Right. They live in the Beach, so the county’s covering that.”

“Okay, I’m done here. Let’s go over and see what Metro has to say for itself.”

They drove over in Morales’s unmarked Chevrolet, with Paz in the passenger seat.

“Just like old times,” Paz remarked.

“Not really,” said Morales, and they drove the rest of the way in morose silence.

Finnegan, as predicted, was not happy to see them, nor was Ramirez, his partner. The four men sat in a windowless interrogation room in the sheriff’s headquarters in Doral, northwest of the city of Miami, a large modern building that looked like an airport terminal, except not as cozy. Finnegan dispensed with the small talk, saying, “Let me make a couple of things clear. I’ve been ordered to cooperate and I’m cooperating.” He indicated a pile of folders and a large cardboard carton on the table. “There’s the file on the Calderón killing. I understand he was your father.”

“That’s right,” said Paz.

“Well, it’s against county policy for an investigator to work on a case where a member of his immediate family is the victim. I don’t understand what made the sheriff go along with this horseshit.”

“Just covering his ass, I guess,” said Paz politely. “I know you’re busy and we’ll try not to take up a lot of your time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Ramirez, not sounding the least bit sorry.

Paz gave him the kind of look you give a farting drunk and turned back to Finnegan. “It’ll take me a couple of hours to go through this stuff. I’d like to see both of you after I’m done.”

“If we’re free,” said Finnegan. The two county detectives got up and went out of the room. Ramirez was singing “That Old Black Magic” as he left.

“You read this stuff yet, Tito?”

“No, but Finnegan briefed me on what they had.”

“Yeah, the county doesn’t love it when we get involved with them on account of they’re so professional and we’re so corrupt.”

“I’mso corrupt,” Morales corrected.

“My mistake. Why don’t you take advantage of this special situation and read this, too. I bet there’s all kinds of shit in here he didn’t tell you about.”

The two men read quietly together after that. Paz wrote notes to himself in a pocket notebook. Morales just read. Paz noted that Morales was a quicker reader, or perhaps just less thorough.

“What do you think?” Paz asked when they were both done.

“It’s consistent with the theory that this is a Colombian mob thing.”

“Anything is consistent with any theory if you pick and choose your evidence right. But for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. Why the stuff with the jaguar?”

Morales shrugged and made a dismissive gesture. “Hey, we don’t know dick about these people. Maybe it’s a trademark. Some gangs cut the throat and pull the tongue through the hole, some gangs cut the guy’s pecker off and stick it in his mouth. This gang chops them up and takes body parts, makes it look like they’ve been killed by a jaguar. I mean they’re wack-job Colombians, who the fuck can tell why they do anything?”

“Oh, so you think there’s no actual jaguar?”

“Not really. They could’ve made those tracks with a stick and a cast of a jaguar foot.”

“And the same with the claw marks.”

“Right.”

“And the damage to the vics was done with some kind of blade.”

“Could have been, but-”

“And the same with jumping up fifteen feet into Calderón’s window, and then jumping over a ten-foot hedge after he did the job.”

“Maybe the guy’s a pro, he’s got mountaineer training.”

“That’s good, Tito, a mountaineering Colombian pseudo-jaguar assassin. Who, armed only with some kind of blade, scales a fifteen-foot blank wall, opens a window catch while hanging on to this blank wall, takes out Calderón, who’s armed and expecting trouble, takes out a Colombianchutero, who’s got a weapon out and gets off at least one shot, escapes from a shitload of other similarly armedchuteros, and nobody catches sight of him, because there was no more gunplay that night, even though your usual person of that type is inclined to expend many rounds with small provocation. Sounds like more of a ninja mountaineering Colombian pseudo-jaguar assassin, if you ask me. On the other hand, we do know two important things about him.”