“Why would we know anything about his killers?” said Guzman. His co-leader put her hand on the sleeve of his olive-drab coat, and it seemed to calm him.
Milena Silva said, “Father Graf was a supporter of our human rights work for many years. He marched with us, he organized with us, he even traveled to Colombia to see firsthand the abuses of our people at the hands of the oppressive regime your government supports there. His death is a loss to us, so if you are thinking we are involved in his killing, you are mistaken.”
“Maybe you should look at your CIA.” Guzman punctuated his shot with a pointed nod and sat back in his chair.
Heat knew better than to level the playing field by engaging in polemics with them. She was more interested in Father Graf’s last hours and, especially, if there was any bad blood in the movement, so Nikki kept to her own agenda. “Father Graf was last seen alive at your committee offices the other morning. Why was he there?”
“We don’t have to share the confidential strategies of our group with the police,” said the woman with the law degree. “It’s a First Amendment right.”
“So he was there for a strategy session,” said Nikki. “Did he seem upset, agitated, acting out of the ordinary?”
The woman fielded that one, too. “He was drunk. We already told your cobista here.” Ochoa’s face revealed nothing at the insult and he remained quiet.
“What kind of drunk? Falling down? Disoriented? Happy? Nasty?”
Guzman loosened the knit scarf around his neck and said, “He became belligerent and we asked him to leave. That’s all there is to know.”
Prior experience told Nikki that when someone declared that that was all there was to know, the opposite was true. So she drilled down. “How did he show his belligerence, did he argue?”
Pascual Guzman said, “Yes, but—”
“What about?”
“Again,” said Milena Silva, “that is confidential under our rights.”
“Did it get physical? Did you fight him, have to restrain him?” When the two didn’t answer but looked to each other, Heat said, “I am going to find out, so why not just tell me?”
“We had an issue—” began Guzman.
Silva chimed in, “A private, internal issue.”
“—And he was irrational. Drunk.” He looked to his companion and she nodded to go on. “We were . . . passionate in our disagreement. Shouting became shoving, shoving became punching, so we made him leave.”
“How?” She waited. “How?”
“I . . . threw him out the door.”
Nikki said, “So it was you who fought with him, Mr. Guzman?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” said Milena Silva.
“Where did he go?” Heat asked. “Did he have a ride, get a cab?”
Guzman shrugged. “He went away is all I know.”
“This was about . . . ,” Heat looked at her notes, “ten-thirty &A.M.& Early to be drunk. Was that common for him?” This time they both shrugged.
“Your organization is well armed back in Colombia,” said Heat.
“We have the spirit to fight. We are not afraid to die, if necessary.” It was the most animated she had seen Pascual Guzman.
“I understand some of your members even attacked a prison and helped Faustino Velez Arango escape.” The pair exchanged glances again. “Yes, I know Faustino Velez Arango.”
“Dilettantes and Hollywood stars pretend to know our famous dissident writer, but who has read his books?”
Nikki said, “I read El Corazón de la Violencia in college.” Ochoa regarded her with an arched brow. She continued, “How much of that . . . fighting spirit . . . did you bring here?”
“We are peaceful activists,” said the woman. “What use would people like us have for guns and rifles here in the United States?”
Heat wondered the same thing, only not rhetorically. She placed the mug shot of Sergio Torres on the table between them. “Do you know this man?”
“Why?” asked the lawyer.