Brody made a note. “What about the others? Alonso and Lupita?”
Oscar translated and Francesca spoke in a tumble of Spanish. “They don’t know anything. I sent them home early this morning on the trolley. They didn’t see anything. Tell him.” She straightened as if she were facing a firing squad.
Oscar shook his head. “Francesca’s children, they went home this morning.”
Brody stroked his mustache like a beloved pet. “Just you four taking care of this big place?”
Oscar translated and Francesca answered emphatically. “Ay, ay. Tell him. My feet, they are always aching. My back. Señor Lester, he is—”
Oscar cut her off. “Yes. Just us.”
A question nagged at him. Something he didn’t want to voice, even to himself. “Señor,” he said, because he didn’t want to answer any more questions without knowing. He ran his tongue over his dry mouth. “How did he—I mean, Señor Lester, how did he... ?”
Brody looked at the othergringo, Adams, who scowled. Then the detective said gently, “He was murdered, son.”
Oscar felt his knees weaken but caught himself before he betrayed any emotion. Murdered.
Brody went back to business. “See anything unusual last night?”
“No,” Oscar answered quickly. Too quickly. “I was in the kitchen.”
Brody eyed him.
Oscar had seen plenty. Drinking and drugs and lechery. But that wasn’t what Brody meant. He meant unusual like a girl running away in a ripped dress. He should tell Brody about the girl. But something had stopped him. Maybe it was something to do with Max, some loyalty that even Max’s betrayals hadn’t killed. Or maybe it was the girl herself, how she’d looked so broken and terrified. Maybe he was just afraid. Whatever it was, he was stuck now.
Brody watched him. Adams stared bullets. Oscar tried hard not to even think of the girl, as if they could read his mind.
Finally, Brody seemed to accept his answer. “Follow me,” he said and started toward the front of the house, glancing over his shoulder. “You too, Señora.”
Oscar followed Brody and Adams into the immense front room and up the sweeping staircase, Francesca shuffling behind him, one hand pressed against her hip. Brody slowed his steps to accommodate Francesca’s pace, talking all the while as if they were on a stroll in the park. “Now then. Is—was—Señor Lester a good employer?”
Oscar relayed the question to Francesca with a warning glance.
Francesca didn’t get the hint. “I ask for more help, but he says no. This house, it does not run itself.” She snorted and flipped a hand toward the paintings on the walls, the carpeted hall, the many bedrooms.
Oscar translated a shortened version of her complaints.
At the top of the stairs, a hallway the color of fresh cream with mahogany paneling stretched before them. Half a dozen closed doors lined the hall like somber guards.
Brody threw questions over his shoulder. “And last night. Anybody here didn’t seem right? Anything strange?”
Max. A cold knowledge shivered down Oscar’s spine. Max didn’t belong. He hadn’t shown his face at Lester’s in the two years Oscar had been here. How much had his cousin changed? Enough to kill?
They walked past an open door. Inside, Señora Lester sat on a satin-covered bed. A well-dressedgringo—young and handsome—put his arm around her and pulled her close. She saw Brody and put her hands over her face, letting out a pathetic sob that didn’t fool Oscar for a second.
At the end of the hall, a set of double doors was thrown open, a uniformed officer standing guard. Inside, he could see several men, hear murmured conversations. A flashbulb popped, lighting up the doorway.
Francesca stopped, crossing herself and kissing her thumb. Brody took her arm as if to support her. “Sorry you have to see this again, ma’am.”
The officer stepped aside, and Oscar followed Brody and Francesca into the room. He thoughtamericanoscouldn’t surprise him, but he’d been wrong. Who had ever known such extravagance?
His feet sunk into thick cream-colored carpet. Mahogany paneling gleamed darkly. A divan of creamy white leather and polished wood and two matching chairs were arranged around a fireplace. The room felt oppressive—airless—even with the chocolate-brown curtains drawn open around the towering windows.
“Through here, please.” Brody motioned them on.
The thick carpet continued through double doors, into a room crowded with men and equipment. Animal heads—a lion, a bear, some kind of deer with long straight antlers—looked down from every wall with glassy eyes. A mulberry velvet coverlet and satinpillows lay in disarray on an enormous bed. A gilt-framed picture of Señor and Señora Lester hung crookedly over a writing desk, and the chair lay on its side in the corner.
The crowd of men shifted, and Oscar froze. In the center of the room, Roy Lester’s dead body lay sideways, sprawled atop a rust-colored stain, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling.
