The Last Romantics(67)

The detectives looked at each other, and each nodded as though they’d reached an agreement.

“We’d like you to come down to the station with us,” said Castellano. “Just to talk. We need to ask you some more questions. To rule out any foul play.”

“But . . . I need to work. This is my shift.” This seemed the only item to cling to, the only thing that would keep her from drifting away. Her job, the bar, the people who knew her, routines and hours, tips and drinks.

“I’ll talk to your manager.” Detective Henry pushed up from the table, went to Rodrigo, who had reappeared behind the bar. Rodrigo nodded and shrugged his shoulders. What do I care?

Luna folded herself into the backseat of the cop car, and immediately it pulled from the curb and screamed away. She wanted to put her hands to her ears, but it seemed a childish gesture, a sign of weakness, so she kept them clasped in her lap. Within the padded dark blue of the car’s interior, the shock of Joe’s death was settling into her, and inside it took on a new shape. Not death, which was definitive, conclusive, inarguable, the end. This was a question. An uncertainty.

Luna remembered the cop with the ponytail, how he’d squinted as he typed her description of Mariana into a computer. No tattoos, one mole low on her back, long black hair. Ethnicity? Um, Nica. We’re Nicaraguan. So Hispanic, then? Yeah, I guess so. The cop had disappeared for a long time, and Luna wasn’t sure if he was done with her, if she should go or stay, but then he’d returned and said, A young Jane Doe was brought in last night. She might be your sister. Are you prepared to identify the body?

Prepared? Luna repeated. It seemed an odd word for such a request, as though a test or some type of specialist training were needed to perform the act. Luna had undertaken no such preparation.

Yes, she told the police officer.

Downstairs they went, deep into the bowels of the building: water-marked concrete walls, scuffed linoleum floor laid upon an uneven base, harsh overhead lights. Luna followed the cop’s squeaky shoes, his ponytail swinging with the cadence of his step, along a hall, past closed doors, and finally into a white-tiled room. Another man waited for them there, and it was this second man who took her through another door, this one metal and thick, and lifted a sheet laid atop a table.

No, Luna said. This is not Mariana.

Are you sure? the man asked.

Luna looked straight at the face, once a woman’s face, now a mask or something shaped from clay. Rough pink abrasions rose on the left cheek as though painted on with a brush.

Yes, Luna had said. I am sure.

Perhaps Joe’s death was like that, a mistake. A guess. Luna’s belief that no one knew anything for sure, no matter what kind of badge they wore or how much money they had, took hold of her as she watched from the backseat the thick necks of the two cops. This death could not be trusted. It was death in word only, spoken by two men (nothing but ordinary men) who didn’t know her, didn’t know Joe. Foul play? The term itself seemed laughable. Fowl play. Chickens at bat.

More than anything Luna wanted to pick up her phone, wedged now in her back pocket, and call Joe. Hear the deep calm of his voice, the funny little hiccup that came when he really, truly laughed. She would explain this to him: And I missed you, I was worried, I thought I had done something wrong when I didn’t hear from you, and then these cops came in and said you were dead! Dead! I didn’t believe them, and I’m so glad to hear your voice. Come back to the bar. I’ll pour you a gin. It’s okay. Everything will be okay.

*

Inside the station house, Luna filled out some forms and agreed to be fingerprinted. The ink felt cool against her skin, and then the detectives led her to a room with a table, a few chairs, a window that looked onto the blemished white wall of another building. Luna sat with her back to the window, Detective Henry next to her, Detective Castellano across the table from them both.

“So,” Henry said. “Tell us about Joe Skinner.”

Luna began to speak. She told them about meeting him, what she’d liked about him, how he’d made her laugh, the drinking. She did not shrink from describing that, not his or her own. Detective Henry scribbled as Luna spoke, the ballpoint moving smoothly against the page. As she described Joe, she smiled, she relaxed, forgetting in an insubstantial way why she was here. She willed herself to focus on this rush of talking about Joe.

“Did you ever fight?” Castellano asked.

“No. Not really. Joe’s not a fighter.”

Detective Castellano tilted back his chair and yawned. Luna heard the bones of his back crack.

“Did Joe ever hit you?” Detective Henry asked.

“No. Never.”

“Did you ever hit him?”

“No. Of course not.”

“What about a recent altercation outside the Lotus Bar?”

Luna didn’t respond for a moment. “I— Yes. I slapped him then. He started a fight with Donny. I mean, he swung at Donny. Donny was bothering us.”

“This is Donny Linzano, your ex-boyfriend?”

“He was never my boyfriend.”

“Could you take off your shirt, please?”

Luna shook her head. “Excuse me?”

“Your shirt.” Detective Henry pointed at Luna and circled his finger in the air. “We’d like to see if there are any signs of a physical altercation between you and Mr. Skinner. Bruises, scrapes. We need you to take off your shirt.”