by the discovery of flowers and a bottle of wine in the dining room. Neria Torres assumed Tony had bought them for a bimbo.
She fingered the detective’s card. She hoped it meant that the cops had tossed her asshole husband in jail, leaving her a clear path toward reclaiming half the marital property. Or possibly more.
She heard a mechanical roar from the garage; the resourceful Tennesseeans had found fuel for the generator. A bare lightbulb flickered on and off in the living room. i
Leonel Varga, still in his bathrobe, came over to say hello. He assured her that the police detective was a nice man.
“What did he want? Is it abput Tony?”
“I think so. He didn’t say.” Mr Varga stared up at the busy figures of the men on the roof beams, backlit by the molten sunrise. “You found some roofers?”
Neria Torres said, “Oh, I seriously doubt it.”
She dialed the private number that Detective Brick-house had penciled on the back of the business card. He answered the phone like a man accustomed to being awakened by strangers. He said, “I’m glad you called.”
“Is it about Tony?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid it is.”
“Don’t tell me he’s in jail,” said Neria, hoping dearly that Brickhouse would tell her precisely that.
“No,” the detective said. “Mrs Torres, your husband’s dead.”
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” Neria’s mind was skipping like a flat rock on a river.
“I’m sorry-”
“You sure?” she asked. “Are you sure it’s Antonio?”
“We should take a ride up to the morgue. You’re home now?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m back.”
Brickhouse said, “I’ve got to be in court this morning. How about if I swing by around noon? We’ll go together. Give us some time to chat.”
“About what?”
“It looks like Antonio was murdered.”
“How? Murdered?”
“We’ll talk later, Mrs Torres. Get some rest now.”
Neria didn’t know what she felt, or what she ought to feel. The corpse in the morgue was the man she’d married. A corpulent creep, to be sure, but still the husband she had once believed she loved. Shock was natural. Curiosity. A selfish stab of fear. Maybe even sorrow. Tony had his piggish side, but even so …
Her gaze settled for the first time on the purse. A woman’s purse, opened, on the kitchen counter. On top was a note printed in block letters and signed with the initials “F.D.” The note said the author was keeping the dogs at the motel. The note began with “My Sexy Darling” and ended with “Love Always.”
Dogs? Neria Torres thought.
She wondered if Tony was the same man as “F.D.” and, if so, what insipid nickname the initials stood for. Fat Dipshit?
Curiously she went through the contents of the purse. A driver’s license identified the owner as Edith Deborah Marsh. Neria noted the date of birth, working the arithmetic in her head. Twenty-nine years old, this one.
Tony, you dirty old pen.
Neria appraised the face in the photograph. A ball-buster; Tony must’ve had his fat hands full. Neria took unaccountable satisfaction from the fact that young Edith was a dagger-eyed brunette, not some dippy blonde.
From behind her came the sound of roupy breathing. Neria wheeled, to find Matthew looming at her shoulder.
“Christ!”
“I dint mean to scare ya.”
“What is it? What do you want?”
“It’s started up to rain.”
“I noticed.”
“Seemed like a good spot for a break. We was headed to a hardware store for some roof paper, nails, wood- stuff like that.”
“Lumber,” Neria Torres said archly. “In the construction business, it’s called ‘lumber.’ Not wood.”
“Sure.” He was scratching at his Old Testament tattoos.
She said, “So go already.”
“Yeah, well, we need some money. For the lumber.”
“Matthew, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Sure.”
“My husband’s been murdered. A police detective is coming out here soon.”
Matthew took a step back and said, “Sweet Jesus, I’m so sorry.” He began to improvise a prayer, but Neria cut him off.
“You and your crew,” she said, “you are licensed in Dade County, aren’t you? I mean, there won’t be any problem if the detective wants to ask some questions … ?” f