Louis shook his head and raised his hand to indicate he didn’t understand.
“He make much money,” Rosa said. “I show you.”
Rosa pushed from the sofa and disappeared into the bedroom. She returned with a gold chain and crucifix and held it out to Louis.
“Emilio give me this before he stopped coming home,” she said. “My friend, Juan, he… mi amigo Juan me dijo que vale más que cien dólares.”
Louis guessed she was saying that the friend told her it was expensive. He took the necklace and held it up to the light. The chain and crucifix glimmered in the sunlight. It was impossible to guess its value with an untrained eye, but it did not look cheap.
“Did he tell you what his new job was?” Louis asked.
Rosa took the necklace back, folding it in her fist. “He say it good job but maybe not one he want to do for long time. Say it is… muy degradante.”
“Excuse me?”
Rosa sighed in frustration. “Oh, how you say… not so good.”
“Did he say why?”
Rosa moved away from him and sat down on the sofa. Her hand went back to the baby’s head, smoothing its black, sweat-soaked curls.
“He not talk about it,” she said.
Rosa hung her head, her face hidden behind the veil of dark hair as she began to cry. Louis was quiet, looking absently around the small apartment and wondering what else there was to say to this woman. Emilio was her brother, her partner in what had to be a frightening journey to a new place and a new life. And all she had now was a wall full of pictures.
Louis stepped over to them.
The insolent face he had seen stapled to the index card did not look like the same man Louis saw here. This man-with his brightly colored shirts, funny hats, and engaging smile-this was a man who had found joy not only inside himself but in this place.
Louis took a close look at the other pictures. Most of them had been taken at festivals, at picnics, or in the courtyard below. Most had Labastide as the centerpiece of a happy group, often men. But none offered a clue to what Labastide’s sexual orientation was. And that was something Louis needed to know if he was going to connect Labastide to Mark Durand.
“Mrs. Díaz,” he said, facing her, “can you tell me if your brother had a girlfriend?”
Rosa looked up. “No. No tenía novia. No girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sí, he would tell me,” she said. “We share everything we feel.”
“Did he have a best friend?” Louis asked. “A guy I could talk to?”
Again, Rosa shook her head. “His only friend, Manuel, go back to Mexico three years ago. No one else close.”
Louis looked back at a photo of Labastide with two other men about his age. They were lounging around a picnic table, holding beers and apparently sharing a joke. He could read nothing in the body language or gazes. And he could not ask Rosa that kind of question.
Louis took one of the smaller photos off the wall and studied it. It was of Emilio and Rosa, standing under the gumbo-limbo tree down in the courtyard. His arm was around her waist. Her head was against his shoulder.
“Mrs. Díaz, may I take this?” Louis asked. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
Rosa nodded. “I have others.”
Louis turned the frame over and started pushing back the clips that kept the photo in place. Rosa turned back to her baby and started humming softly.
It was good that she had a family of her own, but he had been an investigator long enough to understand that when a loved one simply vanished, it left a special emptiness that could maybe be eased but never filled.
There was no doubt in Louis’s mind now that Emilio Labastide was dead. If he had been deported, or even imprisoned, he would have found some way to contact his sister.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Díaz,” he said, setting the empty frame down. “Could I leave you my phone number, just in case you hear from him or remember anything else?”
Rosa waited while Louis wrote his home phone and the hotel’s phone number on the back of one of his business cards.
“You are more nice than the man on the beach,” she said.
“The man on the beach?” Louis asked. “What man?”
“When Emilio not come home for three days, I ask Juan to drive me to the beach, and I speak to policía about Emilio.”
“The police on the island, near the ocean?”
“Sí,” Rosa said. “I try to make complaint about Emilio missing, but policía not listen. He tell me Emilio probably go home to Mexico, but I know he didn’t.”
“This policeman, do you remember his name?”
“His name was… Cisne.”
“Cease-nay?”
Rosa raked her hair. “In English is… like white bird. I know… is swan. Yes, swan.”
“Tall guy with blond hair?”
“Sí.”
“Thank you,” Louis said.
Rosa nodded and retreated again to her sleeping baby. Louis had learned not to offer false hope to someone who was in the process of moving on, since in some ways that was crueler than never knowing. But he could give her one thing.
“I know Officer Swann, Mrs. Díaz,” he said. “I’ll talk to him about your brother. I promise.”
“You will find Emilio for me?” she asked softly.
Find him. How was he supposed to answer that?
Rosa didn’t wait for his answer. “Usted es muy amable. I know you find Emilio for me. I look for you to come back soon. ¿Sí?”
Louis gave her an uncertain nod. “Sí,” he said. “I will come back.”
Chapter Twelve
The choice was simple: Domino’s pizza or Captain D’s seafood. Louis couldn’t imagine how a hook-’em-and-cook-’em fry shack like Captain D’s stayed in business in a place like Florida. But he did know that once you ate fresh grouper at Timmy’s Nook, you just didn’t-as the folks in Palm Beach would say-lower yourself to beer-batter fish in a bag.
Mel would just have to eat pizza and like it.
The sky was pink and lavender as he parked the Mustang in the lot of their hotel. Louis grabbed the pizza box, the Styrofoam cooler he had filled with beer back at the 7-Eleven in West Palm, and the photograph of Emilio that Rosa had given him. As he hurried upstairs to the room, he wondered if Mel was feeling better and hoped he had forced himself to get out for a walk.
Mel didn’t look as if he’d gone anywhere. He was sprawled on his bed, one knee up, arms behind his head, eyes closed. He wore only a pair of baggy jogging shorts and a set of headphones. His cherished CD player sat on the bed next to him.
Louis set the pizza and cooler down and nudged him. Deep in either sleep or Coltrane’s jazz, Mel jumped. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for his glasses. It took him a moment to focus.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Almost eight. You been asleep all day?”
Mel pushed to a sitting position and discarded the headphones. His chest, arms, and face were so sunburnt the color looked painted on. And it looked painful.
“You go down to the beach?” Louis asked.
“Just for a few minutes.”
“Must’ve been longer than a few minutes,” Louis said. “You look like a lobster.”
“I am a sensitive man with sensitive skin,” Mel said.
“You’re a stale, pale male who lives like one of those underground creatures in that movie The Time Machine.”
“Morlocks.”
Louis snagged a beer from the cooler. “Why didn’t you buy some sunscreen?” he asked.
“Why are you nagging me?”
“Well, don’t bitch to me all night when you can’t sleep.”
“I won’t have any trouble sleeping.”
Louis flipped open the pizza box. There were no plates in the room, so he grabbed a couple of Domino’s napkins.