they were at separate stations. Both had been married and divorced. David had two sons, more or less the same age as Patrick. In all the ups and downs of their respective lives, their friendship had never wavered one bit. It was easy for them to talk because they had so much in common. Although David’s father was American, he felt more kinship with his mother’s side and saw himself, like her, as a Cuban American.
“This is the tastiest picadillo I’ve ever eaten in my life. And these plantains!”
“I can’t take any credit for the plantains. They’re from Goya and come frozen.” Maria was pathologically honest.
They chatted for quite some time, she seated on the sofa and David in the armchair. Before long, he got up and sat down beside her. There is something about the body language between a man and a woman that sends a signal. Maria knew that David wanted to make love. She had always denied it, fearing that a romantic relationship might hurt their friendship. He seemed to read her mind:
“The two of us are very alone… We’re very much wedded to our work… Nothing is going to alter our friendship.”
She felt very vulnerable. She knew that they weren’t in love and that it was unwise professionally speaking, but she also knew that David would never hurt her.
When she felt that tingle between her legs that marked the onset of desire, she knew she couldn’t resist any longer, and she let herself be gently pushed toward the adjoining bedroom.
Day 3—Wednesday, November 4, 2015
She was happy that David hadn’t wanted to sleep over. It was one thing to sleep with a man and another to spend the night with him. She couldn’t explain why, but it was different, and she wasn’t ready yet for that next step.
She got dressed quickly and made herself a shake with yogurt, strawberries, and protein powder. She stopped along the way to get her coffee and was at the office before nine in the morning.
She began to go over the list of contacts that Gladys Elena had given her and she decided to begin by calling her mother. The phone rang a few times before a woman’s voice answered, a voice that seemed to belong to someone younger than she had imagined. Maria identified herself and asked when she might be able to meet with her.
“My daughter told me that I could count on you calling me. Look, I’m driving right now. I still work… It would have to be some evening or on a weekend… Does tomorrow after eight o’clock suit you?”
Maria would have preferred to see her that very day but she jotted down the address and assured her that she would be there the next evening.
It took her longer to find the one who had been Raimundo Lazo’s boss, but, once she got a hold of him, he immediately told her that she could see him anytime except between two and four when he took his siesta. She didn’t waste a minute and took off to meet with Joaquin del Roble who lived in The Palace, an assisted living community for the elderly. There were several in the city. Don Joaquin—which is how his name appeared on the list that Gladys had given her—lived in The Palace Royale, located on 1135 SW 84th Street, in the Kendall area. It took Maria twenty-five minutes to get there. She found several tall buildings surrounded by immaculately manicured gardens. The clock showed eleven in the morning when she made her way into the lobby. It was quite beautiful and would have seemed like a luxurious hotel if not for the abundance of the elderly. Some were seated and chatting in groups while others were by themselves, reading or simply sitting idly. A few others were coming and going in all different directions of The Palace Royale, which offered them all types of amenities: a hair salon and barbershop, a business center, an art studio, a theater, a bar, and a wonderful dining room that punctually offered them three meals a day. The ideal way to spend your old age, Maria thought to herself with a certain skepticism since it all seemed a bit depressing despite being clean and somewhat ostentatious.
Don Joaquin was waiting for her to arrive and came up to her before she had barely gotten in the door. He was a man of small stature and, despite the fragility of his advanced years, one could tell that at one time he had been strong and tough. An abundant head of gray hair crowned his ample forehead. His eyes were bright although they’d lost their sparkle. His thin lips formed a smile when he greeted her:
“Detective Duquesne? Joaquin del Roble, a pleasure to meet you,” and he kissed her hand with such elegance that it moved Maria.
“If you’ll follow me, I think we’ll be more comfortable in the library. Almost no one goes there… People don’t read like they used to.”
He walked slowly but with a sure step. She quietly followed him, thinking of her father and how she would never want him to live in a place like this, which besides must cost a fortune.
They sat down in two comfortable armchairs and, just as Don Joaquin had predicted, the room was rather empty.
“So tell me, how can I help you?”
“Well, we’ve recently reopened the case of the accident involving Raimundo Alberto Lazo and his missing daughter, whose body was never found. Her mother believes that she saw her recently and is positive she’s still alive. It’s my understanding that he used to work for you. I know it was years ago, but anything you could possibly remember, no matter how small the detail, might help me. Look, I’ve got a picture of him here and another of the two of you together, in case that helps jog your memory.”
Don Joaquin took a brief glance at the photos. He shut his eyes, as if he wanted to delve deep into his memory and bring his recollections back to life.
“I remember him vividly, and the accident too. Those are difficult things to forget. Let’s see, where to begin…”
“Do you mind if I record our conversation and take notes?”
His blue eyes reflected a deep sadness.
“Go ahead and record. No one cares anymore about the life of an old codger like me, but to tell you about Alberto, I’ll have to tell you my story too.”
Maria made a note of the fact that Gladys referred to him as Ray, but Don Joaquin knew him as Alberto.
“I hope you have a lot of time because it’s a long story.”
“I have all the time in the world, and if you get tired I can come back another day.”
“So, as you have probably noticed, I’m a Spaniard. Well, an American citizen, but that’s just a formality… My father was the mayor of a small town near Zaragoza when the Civil War broke out. I was fourteen, and the war was horrendous. You can’t imagine. My father was a prisoner for two years, and, during that time, he was abused, suffered from starvation, cold, and beatings, saw his friends die, and, in the end, they shot him too. My mother, brother, and I had it hard during those years. I didn’t think she’d ever come out of it. Finally, at the beginning of the 1940s, an uncle of ours, who had taken off to Cuba some time before, managed to get us there. Once in Havana, my mother sewed…or rather, she made hats for high society women. My brother and I were in charge of delivery and collection. I worked more because my brother was a deaf-mute. He passed away some time ago…”
He paused for a second, and sighed before continuing on:
“Anyway, it was hard during those years, and my mother decided to try our luck in New York. My uncle thought we were crazy, but it turned it out well. My mother—who would have imagined it—got married again to a man with an important job, and we were able to get an education. I studied electrical
