Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [19]
“It was the very least I could do. If I’d had more notice, I would have made the trip.”
“Me too,” I say, then wave off his questioning look. My body was there for my brother’s funeral, but my mind was a world away. It’s almost like trying to remember a dream. I see flashes of the people who filed into the church, the blue of the sky at the grave site, my mom in her black dress for the second time in four years. It’s the scenes from the Valley of the Kings that are as vivid as the shots from a digital camera, and I’ve advanced frame by frame through them often enough that I see no reason to do it again, even for the purpose of commiserating with an old friend.
“Your store still looks like it belongs in one of those back alleys off of Red Square.”
Romero takes the cue and plays along. “When you’ve got a good thing going.”
I laugh at that, because it’s just what I said to Angie a few days ago. Was it only a few days ago? “How’s your sister?” I ask him.
It’s the only sore spot between us and I immediately want to kick myself for mentioning her. But what choice do I have? I need to see her, or else my trip here will be handicapped by a factor of ten. Still, it bothers me to see Romero’s face darken.
“What do you need?” he asks after a measured moment.
There is no hint of irritation in his voice—just an acceptance that something beyond the pleasure of his company has brought me here from North Carolina.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. It depends on what my subject-matter expert can tell me.”
It hangs in the air between us while I watch his face. It darkens a shade more.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
He lets out a long sigh—one that denotes a weighing of undesirable responses. Finally he says, “She may kill you.”
“I wouldn’t blame her.”
CHAPTER 5
I’ve always appreciated that Romero did not sever ties with me when I left his sister. He would have had every right to, regardless of our long friendship and our mutually profitable trade partnership. I know his loyalties must be divided, that he has to weigh our history against the protectiveness any big brother would feel toward his sister. Still, I think there’s a part of the man that may be frightened of his sibling, and it’s that part which counseled me against what I am about to do.
That concern, though, didn’t extend to coming with me. He walked me down the stairs and handed me a business card with her address scrawled in pencil on the back. He muttered something about waking slumbering monsters before clapping me on the back again and shoving me into a waiting cab.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know how to proceed. I’m smart enough to know that the Bogart/Bacall thing doesn’t work in real life. Bogey didn’t have to deal with the screaming, the crying, the possible gunplay. But I’ve really got no choice. I’m certain that Reese knew about Esperanza when he approached me; he’s a careful researcher. What it comes down to is that Espy knows more about Venezuelan history than anyone alive, and she’s likely the only one who can help me make sense of Reese’s documents.
Espy’s office is in a new business park—so new that the landscaping hasn’t been completed. There are mounds of expectant dirt ready for shrubs and flowers, and stretches of flat earth prepared for sod. Romero said the university leased most of the office space before the developers even broke ground.
I pull open the glass door of the white faux-stone building that has the numbers 100–120 on a sign at the top of the second story. Inside, the place smells new, the commingling of factory chemicals and manufacturing odors that have yet to fade. The card in my pocket says 105. I follow the hall, glancing at the numbers above the doors, spotting the one I need too quickly. The door is open and I feel my heart start to beat faster as I approach an event that is as unpredictable as it is inevitable. Pausing just beyond the entrance, I chance a peek inside in some weak attempt to steel myself.
She’s at her desk, leaning over a book, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. I smile as