Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  Manuel was on his knees in front of the fireplace, assiduously polishing the bottom line of tiles. Despite the gray in his hair, he looked young and supple and he continued the steady work without apparent effort. His jeans were old and soft, faded lighter than robin’s egg blue. That made the bloody smear on the left pant leg highly visible. His athletic shoes had white honeycomb soles. These, too, had traces of dark stains.

  Frank still stood on the balcony. From the back, with his heavy shoulders curved, he looked like a bear, still and intent, hunched forward for a better view. Muted sounds of activity drifted through the open windows—low voices and the scrape of shoes on the flagstones. Occasionally a bright light flickered. Still photographs, too?

  Iris and Rick sat close together on a sofa opposite me. Rick held Iris tight in the crook of his arm. His cheek was pressed against the top of her head.

  The only sounds were the faint scuff as Manuel’s cloth made its endless circles on the tiles and the noises drifting up from the River Walk.

  Officer Wagner was near the chili-cart desk. His gaze constantly circled the room as he tracked Manuel at the fireplace, Frank on the balcony, me in my wicker chair, and Rick and Iris huddled on the sofa. He had a side view of Rick and Iris. They sat opposite me.

  I looked casually at them, snuggled so close together. Rick’s face was bent against Iris’s hair, his mouth hidden from Officer Flores’s view. Rick’s lips were moving.

  Officer Flores would not be happy to know two of the witnesses were communicating. I wasn’t unhappy, but I was thoughtful. I glanced at Rick and Iris occasionally, casually. Rick kept his face carefully blank, as if he rested his face against Iris’s dark hair, sunk in a tired stupor. But his lips kept moving.

  Soon, the homicide detective would leave the final work at the crime scene to the technicians, and he would climb the steps to La Mariposa.

  What was I going to tell him? More important, I imagined, what was Rick going to tell him?

  “I’m Gus Borroel, detective investigator.” The clear tenor voice was both melodic and commanding.

  I jerked awake. My eyes were grainy with fatigue, my vision indistinct. I blinked and focused on a middle-aged man standing beside Officer Wagner.

  “Who found the body?” He looked at us in turn. No one would ever have trouble hearing this man and no one would ever doubt that he was in charge. Short-cut jet black hair without a trace of gray topped a seamed face with deep-set dark eyes, a hawk’s curving nose, and a wide mouth. He was just under six feet, slender but not thin. His white dress shirt was clearly fresh, his red tie with a silver diamond design neatly tied, his gray slacks unwrinkled. He would have looked at home in an office or a bank. Or, because he had the unmistakable air of a tough dude, in a bar. At this time and in this place, he seemed larger than life.

  Uncertainly, Rick raised his hand, a student in an unfamiliar class.

  Borroel studied him, a long look by eyes that had seen every aspect of humanity, from the celestial to the dregs.

  Rick scrambled to his feet. “Rick Reyes, sir. I saw him first.”

  The detective’s eyes moved to Iris.

  Rick spoke. “Iris Chavez. She was with me. But she doesn’t know—”

  Borroel lifted his hand, his eyes moved to me.

  “Henrietta Collins. I was with Rick and Iris.” My head ached, my eyes burned, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. Surely I could get a glass of water soon.

  Frank Garza hurried across the room, his eyes blinking nervously. “Frank Garza. I can speak for the family. I placed the call to the police. We hope this is cleared up quickly.” He pumped the detective’s hand.

  Borroel’s wide mouth curved fleetingly in a cool, dry smile that was gone so quickly I wasn’t certain it ever existed. His tone was polite. “We always hope to clear up murders quickly, Mr. Garza. I know everyone here will give us as much help as possible.” The detective turned away, walked to the fireplace. Manuel had completed the left panel of tiles and the top frieze. He was midway down the right panel, his arm moving rhythmically.

  Borroel stood behind Manuel. “Hello.” The detective spoke quietly.

  Manuel kept on polishing.

  “Officer—” Frank rubbed his head as if it ached. “My brother cannot speak. If you wish to communicate with him, it would be better if we called for my mother.”

  Borroel looked down and I knew he was seeing the stains. He didn’t answer Frank directly. Instead, he glanced around the lobby. “Is there a room where I can speak to witnesses privately?”

  Frank gestured toward the chili cart. “We have a small office behind the desk. Or if you need more room—”

  “The office will be fine. I’ll talk to you first, Mr. Garza.” Borroel was polite but brisk.

  Frank led the way behind the cart, opening a door next to the pigeonholes for guests’ messages. When the door closed behind them, it was once again very quiet in the lobby.

  Rick lifted his arm from Iris’s shoulders, smoothed his hair. Manuel polished. Officer Wagner watched.

  It was only a moment or so and the door opened. Frank turned toward the door leading to the hallway of the first floor. Borroel looked at Rick. “Mr. Reyes, please.”

  Rick gave Iris’s hands a hard squeeze. She looked after him with wide, strained eyes.

  I wished desperately for a glass of water. My tongue was as dry as desert sand, my mouth felt like flannel. I would have given a kingdom for a tall frosted glass of clear sparkling cold water. But I forgot about my discomfort when the hall doorway opened and Maria Elena hurried through, followed by Frank. Manuel was no longer alone. I felt tension draining away, leaving me wearier but bolstered.

  Maria Elena’s white seersucker robe was crisp and unwrinkled. Her dark hair hung straight, shiny as ebony. She moved with grace, her head held high.

  God, it’s hard to be a mother. I understood the look on her face, the anxiety for a child at risk, the almost sickening wash of relief when she saw Manuel, the utter determination to do whatever had to be done. She came up to him and touched his shoulder.

  He paused in his polishing, looked up, and a sweet smile lighted his face. He pointed at the tiles.

  “That’s very good, Manuel.” She managed to speak softly, evenly. I knew the effort it had taken.

  Officer Wagner walked across the lobby. He said quietly, “Ma’am.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “We won’t talk.” She looked at Manuel, her eyes filled with fear. Frank reached out, held her arm. She smiled at him. They sat in the large leather chairs on opposite sides of the fireplace. Maria Elena cupped her chin in her hand, her eyes following Manuel’s movements. Frank slumped in his chair.

  We all looked wearily across the lobby when Rick stepped out of the office.

  Detective Borroel’s dark glance found me.

  I stumbled getting to my feet. I was so dreadfully tired. He held the door of the office, waited until I settled in the straight chair. His questions came fast, but he was pleasant and he gave me time to answer. I felt as though I were speaking beneath tons of water…

  “Henrietta Collins.” I repeated the story I’d related so many times: Iris, her grandmother, my arrival, the apartment, Detective Hess, Tesoros…” When I finished, I gave a great sigh.

  “We’ll be quick, Mrs. Collins. First, can you identify this picture?” He stood and held out a Polaroid picture of the dead man, lying on his back, eyes open. The wound didn’t show in the print.

  “This is the man who tried to grab Iris this afternoon.” I felt a wash of sadness. I didn’t know him. He had frightened me, but he had been alive, and life is so fragile and so precious. Every life. “He smelled of alcohol. He was furious. I think he was dangerous.”

  “Do you know his name?” Borroel tapped his pen on his pad.

  I’d already answered that, but I did again. “No. I have no idea who he is. Or was.”

  “He wanted Miss Chavez and Mr. Reyes to return some object to him. What was it, Mrs. Colli
ns?” His dark eyes watched me intently.

  “I don’t know.” I had an idea. I’d worked the wire desk in Emily’s newsroom for several weeks. A big story had crossed the desk. It seemed a wild possibility, too wild to suggest until I did some checking.

  Borroel tapped the desk. “So apparently this object was at one time hidden in a wardrobe presently in the store receiving area. Do you know how that could have occurred?”

  I pressed my fingers against my face, then said with a hint of impatience, “Detective Borroel, I don’t know anything. Everything I’ve told you is supposition. All I know is that Iris ran away from the store, taking something with her; Rick hid Iris and whatever she possessed in his mother’s apartment; the dead man wanted Iris and Rick to return ‘it’; someone took Iris’s backpack; someone killed the blond man.”

  He was looking at me with a dry smile. “But no one has ever revealed to you what the dead man wanted?”

  “No. But he wanted it badly.” He died for it.

  Borroel pushed back from the desk. “Thank you for your assistance. I understand you are staying here?”

  I nodded, struggled to my feet.

  Borroel walked to the door. “We will be in touch if necessary.” He was already dismissing me from his mind, his hand pulling the door open.

  I was midway through the doorway when I stopped. He was following so closely, he almost stepped on my heel.

  I looked up at his seamed, amazingly fresh face. “Do you know what the man was looking for?”

  “That,” he said carefully, “has not yet been determined.”

  But he had an idea. Or someone had told him something. Despite my fatigue and a brain that felt like bread pudding, I hadn’t stopping thinking altogether. Detective Borroel could never be accused of revealing information to a witness. Or, possibly, a suspect.

  I didn’t give up. “Who was he?”

  “We do not have formal identification yet. Thank you, Mrs. Collins.” He still held the door.

  So go peddle your papers, lady, that was his attitude, though a good deal more politely expressed.

  I moved on into the lobby. The detective stepped past me and nodded to Iris. I stood by the chili cart as the door closed behind Borroel and Iris. It was still very quiet in the lobby except for the scuff of Manuel’s cloth. Dear God, didn’t he ever tire? I looked at him, happily, busily engaged. Then Maria Elena’s face turned toward me and my heart ached.

  I walked across the lobby.

  Officer Wagner lifted his hand.

  I spoke before he could stop me. “Call a lawyer for Manuel.”

  Her eyes were dark with misery and fear. “I have done so.”

  I leaned forward and we embraced for a moment, drawn together by fear for defenseless Manuel.

  The pounding in my head separated from a steadier, heavier thud. I pulled free of the twisted sheets, rumpled from a deep but restless sleep, and propped on my elbow.

  The knock on the door sounded again.

  I sleep in a T-shirt and running shorts, each to his own taste. I reached the door, opened the peephole, then held the door wide.

  Maria Elena carried a small tray with a coffee thermos, two cups, and a cloth-lined basket filled with golden-brown fruit empanadas. “I’m so sorry—” she began.

  I waved away the apology. “I overslept. Come in. If you’ll excuse me for a moment—”

  She sat at the small table. I hurried in the bath, washing my face, brushing my hair, slipping into a blouse and slacks. I didn’t take much time over my face, but it was certainly a road map of the night—bluish pouches beneath tired eyes, frown lines that were verging on permanent.

  When I joined Maria Elena, she poured our coffee. I welcomed the harsh brew. She stirred sugar, but never lifted the cup to her lips. When we’d met, I’d been entranced by her creamy complexion and bright eyes and lustrous hair. They’d given her a youthfulness that was gone this morning. She, too, had dark circles beneath her eyes, and her face sagged as if weight pressed against the skin.

  “Will you help me?” She spoke without pretense, simply, directly, and those dark eyes burned into mine. She didn’t remind me that I had accepted her help in my search for Iris. She made her request and waited.

  “Yes. Although”—the coffee was beginning to reduce the throbbing in my head to a dull ache—“I don’t know what I can do.”

  The sun spilled brightly through the window, shining on her raven-dark hair, her vivid eyes. She smiled at me suddenly and I was sharply reminded of Manuel’s face and the way it glowed with love and life. “You will find out the truth.”

  I stared at her in surprise.

  She nodded firmly. “You see”—and now the smile was gone, supplanted by an icy calm—“Manuel is very good. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I know that.” Despite the blood on his jeans, despite the blood on his shoes.

  “He polished the tiles for you. Because you asked him. He always wants everything to be clean. That’s what I tried to explain to that detective. But I’m afraid, I’m terribly afraid, that he is going to arrest Manuel. We called a lawyer before I came down to the lobby last night. That’s what Frank told me to do when he came for me. And the lawyer—one of my nephews—was with us when we talked to the detective.”

  “What did Manuel say?” It didn’t seem an odd comment. Manuel spoke with his hands.

  “We aren’t sure what happened. All he can show us is that he went downstairs, he found the door open and the body on the River Walk. We don’t know if something woke him up or perhaps he was wandering about. He does that. Perhaps a noise woke him last night. His room is over the main part of Tesoros. If only he’d come for me…” She shook her head. “Instead he went downstairs and found the front door standing open. He walked out and saw the body on the River Walk, but he was upset by the trail of blood, the smears. He hurried for his mop and pail. The detective…” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

  I finished it. “Thinks Manuel killed him. Because he was breaking in, something like that?”

  “They don’t care. It’s enough that Manuel tried to clean up the blood. They think it was he who moved the body. And this morning, one of my cousins who works in the police department found out that the dead man was drunk. He said now they think perhaps he threatened Manuel.” She threw up her hands. “Manuel would not.” Her voice was low and harsh. “He would not.”

  I reached over for the thermos, refilled my cup. “Have they told you who the dead man was?”

  “No. But my cousin gave me that information.” Now her face was bleak. She closed her eyes. “I thought I recognized the picture.”

  I waited. This was hard for Maria Elena.

  “He was in Frank’s class in high school. Ed Schmidt. Sometimes he came here after school. After they graduated, I don’t think any of my children kept in touch with him. Years later, Ed made buying trips to Mexico, though I rarely dealt with him. He would buy anything, anything, and ask so much money for it.” She spoke with disdain.

  “He wasn’t a regular supplier to Tesoros?” The flaky pastry was sweet and good and I could feel a spark of energy.

  “No.” She was definite. Then, a pause. “At least, I don’t think so. I’ve left that to Tony and Celestina in recent years. I will find out.” She picked up the lacy napkin from her lap, twisted it tightly between her fingers. “But there are some things I cannot find out. There are questions I cannot ask, questions that would stain the future with my family.” She studied me. “I don’t think you ever find it hard to ask questions.”

  I wished that were true. Then the thought came sharp and quick. No, I didn’t want it ever to be true that I could poke and prod another human being without effort and sometimes with pain. It can be as hard to ask a question as to be asked. That didn’t mean I hadn’t asked sharp questions over the years. If I didn’t think truth mattered, I would have given up reporting long ago. I wasn’t a reporter now, but I still knew how to ask the questions that
had to be asked.

  I said simply, “I will do what has to be done.” For Manuel. For Iris. For Rick, I hoped.

  She took a deep breath. “I love my children. I love all my children. They treat me gently, with kindness. Dear Mamacita. To me they are dear children. In a family, there are many fictions. We pretend that we do not see what we should not wish to admit to each other. I love my uncertain, worried Frank, who would so much like to be in charge but who cannot bear the pressure of responsibility. I would never speak to him about his wife who spends more money than he can afford, or his children whom he spoils with gifts beyond his means. I love my adventurous Tony who climbs high mountains, dives deep into the sea. I will never ask Tony why he and Susana have no children, why Susana’s eyes are filled with anger. I can’t ask Celestina why she is jealous of her brothers. I can’t ask Isabel if she has a lover. I can’t ask Susana why she pours the passion of her life into Tesoros. I can’t ask Magda why she so dislikes her brother Tony. I want safety for them and goodness for them all, but I will not buy it with Manuel’s life. So we have to find out what happened, why this man was killed in Tesoros. I talked to Rick this morning. He told me Iris found a package of cocaine in the wardrobe. He thinks it doesn’t have anything to do with us, that the drugs were hidden there, perhaps by Ed Schmidt, perhaps by someone else, and the wardrobe was shipped to us and Schmidt was trying to get the drugs back.”

  “Nonsense. Susana said the wardrobe was empty when it arrived.” I spoke crisply. Moreover, a package of cocaine could be worth several hundred thousand dollars, depending upon its purity. Drug dealers don’t accidentally misplace shipments. “Sure, Schmidt was trying to get the package. He followed me to try and find Iris. But how did he know I was hunting for Iris? Who told him about me? How did he know Iris took the package out of the wardrobe? Who told him? It had to be someone at Tesoros. And it couldn’t be Manuel.”