I nodded, pen poised over my pad.

“I feel so silly about this,” Deirdre said. “One of the robes I gave her… it was Mr. Pollack’s old robe, actually. I threw out most of his things after he died. It was hard for me to look at them. I couldn’t imagine why I had kept his shredded old robe.”

She looked down at her lap.

“Not more than fifteen minutes after Martina left, I realized why I hadn’t given the robe away. I kept my diamond ring in one of the pockets. I have three different diamond rings, two of which I keep in a vault. But it’s ridiculous to have rings and always keep them in a vault. So this one-the smallest of the three-I kept at home, wrapped in an old sock and placed in the left pocket of Mr. Pollack’s robe. I hadn’t worn any of my rings in ages, and being old, I guess it simply slipped my mind.

“I waited until Martina arrived home and phoned her just as she walked through her door. I told her what I had done, and she looked in the pockets of the robe and announced she had the ring. I was thrilled-delighted that nothing had happened to it. But I was also extremely pleased by Martina’s honesty. She said she would return the ring to me on Monday. I realize now that I should have called my son and asked him to pick it up right at that moment, but I didn’t want to insult her.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Deirdre said, grabbing my hand. “Do you think I’m foolish for trusting someone who has worked for me for twelve years?”

Wonderfully foolish. “You didn’t want to insult her,” I said, using her words.

“Exactly,” Deirdre answered. “By now you must have figured out the problem. It is now Tuesday. I still don’t have my diamond, and I can’t get hold of Martina.”

“Is her phone disconnected?” I asked.

“No. It just rings and rings and no one answers it.”

“Why don’t you just send your son down now?”

“Because…” She sighed. “Because I don’t want him to think of his mother as an old fool. Can you go down for me? I’ll pay you for your time. I can afford it.”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Wonderful!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Oh, thank you so much.”

I gave her my rates, and they were fine with her. She handed me a piece of paper inked with Martina’s name, address, and phone number. I didn’t know the exact location of the house, but I knew the area. I thanked her for the information, then said, “Deirdre, if it looks like Martina took off with the ring, would you like me to inform the police for you?”

“No!” she said adamantly.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Even if Martina took the ring, I wouldn’t want to see her in jail. We’ve had too many years together for me to do that.”

“You can be my boss anytime,” I said.

“Why?” Deirdre asked. “Do you do housekeeping, too?”

I informed her that I was a terrible housekeeper. As I left, she looked both grateful and confused.

Martina Cruz lived on Highland Avenue south of Washington -a street lined by small houses tattooed with graffiti. The address on the paper was a wood-sided white bungalow with a tar-paper roof. The front lawn-mowed but devoid of shrubs-was bisected by a cracked red plaster walkway. There was a two-step hop onto a porch whose decking was wet and rotted. The screen door was locked, but a head-size hole bad been cut through the mesh. I knocked through the hole, but no one answered. I turned the knob, and to my surprise, the door yielded, screen and all.

I called out a “hello,” and when no one answered, I walked into the living room-an eight-by-ten rectangle filled with hand-me-down furnishings. The sofa fabric, once gold, had faded to dull mustard. Two mismatched chairs were positioned opposite it. There was a scarred dining table off the living room, its centerpiece a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. Encircling the table were six folding chairs. The kitchen was tiny, but the counters were clean, the food in the refrigerator still fresh. The trash hadn’t been taken out in a while. It was brimming over with Corona beer bottles.

I went into the sole bedroom. A full-size mattress lay on the floor. No closets. Clothing was neatly arranged in boxes-some filled with little-girl garments, others stuffed with adult apparel. I quickly sifted through the piles, trying to find Mr. Pollack’s robe.

I didn’t find it-no surprise. Picking up a corner of the mattress, I peered underneath but didn’t see anything. I poked around a little longer, then checked out the backyard-a dirt lot holding a rusted swing set and some deflated rubber balls.

I went around to the front and decided to question the neighbors. The house on the immediate left was occupied by a diminutive, thickset Latina matron. She was dressed in a floral-print muumuu, and her hair was tied in a bun. I asked her if she’d seen Martina lately, and she pretended not to understand me. My Spanish, though far from perfect, was understandable, so it seemed as if we had a little communication gap. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome by a ten-dollar bill.

After I gave her the money, the woman informed me her name was Alicia and she hadn’t seen Martina, Martina’s husband, or their two little girls for a few days. But the lights had been on last night, loud music booming out of the windows.

“Does Martina have any relatives?” I asked Alicia in Spanish.

“Ella tiene una hermana, pero no sé dónde ella vive.”

Martina had a sister, but Alicia didn’t know where she lived. Probing further, I found out the sister’s name-Yolanda Flores. And I also learned that the little girls went to a small parochial school run by the Iglesia Evangélica near Western Avenue. I knew the church she was talking about.

Most people think of Hispanics as always being Catholic. But I knew from past work that Evangelical Christianity had taken a strong foothold in Central and South America. Maybe I could locate Martina or the sister, Yolanda, through the church directory. I thanked Alicia and went on my way.

The Pentecostal Church of Christ sat on a quiet avenue-an aqua-blue stucco building that looked more like an apartment complex than a house of worship. About twenty-five primary-grade children were playing in an outdoor parking lot, the perimeters defined by a Cyclone fence. The kids wore green-and-red uniforms and looked like moving Christmas-tree ornaments.

I went through the gate, dodging racing children, and walked into the main sanctuary. The chapel wasn’t large-around twenty by thirty-but the high ceiling made it feel spacious. There were three distinct seating areas-the Pentecostal triad: married women on the right, married men on the left, and mixed young singles in the middle. The pews faced a stage that held a thronelike chair upholstered in red velvet. In front of the throne was a lectern sandwiched between two giant urns sprouting plastic flowers. Off to the side were several electric guitars and a drum set, the name Revelación taped on the bass drum. I heard footsteps from behind and turned around.

The man looked to be in his early thirties, with thick dark straight hair and bright green eyes. His face held a hint of Aztec warrior-broad nose, strong cheekbones and chin. Dressed in casual clothing, he was tall and muscular, and I was acutely aware of his male presence. I asked him where I might find the pastor and was surprised when he announced that he was the very person.

I’d expected someone older.

I stated my business, his eyes never leaving mine as I spoke. When I finished, he stared at me for a long time before telling me his name-Pastor Alfredo Gomez. His English was unaccented.

“Martina’s a good girl,” Gomez said. “She would never take anything that didn’t belong to her. Some problem probably came up. I’m sure everything will work out and your patronawill get her ring back.”

“What kind of problem?”

The pastor shrugged.

“Immigration problems?” I probed.