The Last Romantics(66)

Chapter 10




Three days later Luna stood behind the bar spearing maraschino cherries through colorful little plastic swords. It was 4:00 p.m., still an hour before opening. She looked up as two men walked through the door. They wore plainclothes and showed no badges, but they looked like cops, even with the jeans and, on the shorter one, a sleeve tattoo.

Luna’s manager, Rodrigo, was sitting at the table closest to the door, working on next week’s schedule. “How can I help you gentlemen?” Rodrigo asked.

The tall man’s mouth moved, and she recognized the shape rather than the sound: Luna Hernandez. Rodrigo turned, and then they were all looking at her from across the expanse of set, empty tables, the knives and forks gleaming, ready for a feast.

Rodrigo glanced nervously toward the black curtain that hid the doors to the kitchen. Michel, Dima, Pablo, Tikki, Jorge—were any of them legal? Luna was, though Rodrigo didn’t know that; he’d never asked for a Social Security card—the tips were her pay. But she’d never filed a tax return, and now she remembered with a jolt that a half-smoked joint was zippered inside the internal compartment of her handbag.

“Luna,” Rodrigo was calling to her. “These men would like to talk to you.”

The cops sat at an empty table, the chrome-and-black chairs creaking as they settled their powerful bodies into place. Luna slid in and crossed her arms against her chest. She remembered her visit to the Miami Beach station house six years ago when she first reported Mariana missing. Does your sister have any tattoos? Birthmarks? That cop had been old and white, with long gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and she’d thought how different he was from her idea of a cop. But these two, with their burly necks and thin lips, looked exactly as you’d expect.

Rodrigo, Luna noted, had disappeared into the back. He would be telling them all to go home—the dishwashers, the busboys, the sous-chefs. Who would work the kitchen tonight?

“I’m Detective Castellano,” the short cop began. “This is Detective Henry. We want to talk to you about Joe Skinner.”

“Okay,” Luna said. She waited. This was not what she had been expecting.

“You know him?” Castellano continued.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A few days ago.” Luna did not volunteer her unreturned calls. Maybe Joe was busy at work, his mysterious and demanding job full of meetings and presentations, clients to woo, proposals to write. Or maybe he regretted asking her to move in. This was how men operated: back and forth, forward and back, a dance of intimacy, and maybe she would never hear from him again, though she didn’t think so. She would bet, she would put good money, on Joe walking in here tonight, his tie already off, and she would nod and smile, pour him a gin, and wait for her shift to end.

“How many days?” Henry’s eyebrows rose. He had been staring at her steadily. Good cop, bad cop, Luna realized. This was really how it happened.

“Three, I think. Yes, three.”

“You haven’t heard from him because he’s dead. Joe Skinner died three days ago.” Castellano was trying to be gentle, but the words came out like hammers.

“What?” Luna’s eyes fixed on the detective’s lips, which were chapped and cracked. “Joe?”

“Subdural hematoma. Brain injury. We think you were there when he died.” This from Detective Henry.

Luna shook her head. A slow reveal was working on her memory, a curtain pulled to show a different view. The whoosh, Joe on the floor, the scattered ice cubes. They had both been so drunk.

“He was breathing,” Luna said. “His chest was going up and down. I lay down with him. He was sleeping.”

“He was dying.”

Again Luna shook her head.

“Did he fall?” Castellano asked.

“Yes. I think so. I didn’t see it, but I heard him.”

“And then what?”

“I went back there, into the kitchen. He was on the floor. He looked at me and then he closed his eyes and started snoring. I got a pillow and a blanket and I lay down with him.”

“And?”

“I put my head on his chest. I started to fall asleep, but the floor was so cold. So I left.”

“You left?” Castellano asked.

Luna nodded dumbly.

“Did you call anyone? Did you think about calling for help?” Now it was Detective Henry.

“No,” Luna whispered. A horrible dawning, a sickening drop in her stomach. She hadn’t called anyone.

“Maybe you were afraid to call? You didn’t want to get the police involved?” Detective Henry leaned forward as he asked this.

“No. That’s not what happened.”

“Was there anyone else there in the apartment with you?”

“No, just us. Me and Joe.”

“Maybe an old boyfriend”—Detective Henry looked down at his notebook—“Donald Linzano?”

“Donny? Of course not.” Luna wondered why—and then she remembered Donny’s arrest for armed robbery, years before she’d known him.

“Or did you let someone else into the apartment? Maybe after Joe fell?”

Luna looked at Detective Henry, his unblinking gaze, and felt a new emotion. Not shock or sadness but fear. She shook her head no.