The chain-link fence along the sidewalk made the proud old house look more like a prison. I opened the gate and crossed the front yard, which was mostly light-brown dirt and dark-brown weeds. Beside the front door was a row of mailboxes. It seemed the house had long ago been subdivided into apartments. The box that matched the apartment number Harper had given me had no name attached. The other boxes were marked with names like Lopez, Soto, and Ramírez.

There was a good chance none of these people had lived there seven years before, when Delarosa was a resident, and an even better chance they wouldn’t talk to me. Of course, the police had already covered this territory years before. But I had no other ideas. Sometimes, especially when you have no other options, the only thing to do is to make your presence known and hope the enemy will take a shot and reveal his own position.

I entered the building. What had once been a generously sized foyer was now a lobby, with worn sheet vinyl on the floor and a battered set of stairs with a wooden handrail rising on the left. A tricycle stood in one corner. Every vertical surface, the original plaster walls and wainscoting, more recent Sheetrock, and the doors, had been covered with spray painted graffiti. The number 18 figured prominently in the graffiti, the 18th Street Gang’s tag.

I could still see signs of ornate moldings, which had trimmed cased openings on the left and right. The openings had probably once led to a parlor on one side and perhaps a dining room on the other. Both openings had been filled in with Sheetrock, which surrounded plain wooden doors. On the door to my right was the number 101, and on the left was 102. I wanted 202, so I took the stairs.

The woman who opened the door was under five feet tall and very wide. I put her at about a hundred and fifty pounds. She had hair so black it looked almost midnight blue, and sleepy eyes with the color and sheen of french roast coffee beans.

She looked up at me, brow creased and lips turned down. “Jes?”

“Do not worry,” I said in Spanish. “I am not La Migra.” It was what most Latino illegal immigrants called the Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. I handed her my business card, which said simply “Malcolm Cutter, Personal Transportation and Security,” with my cell phone number. I told her I was looking for a woman who used to occupy that apartment, named Alejandra Delarosa.

Her frown didn’t change, but now she was also shaking her head. “She does not live here.”

“Yes, I know. She lived here about seven years ago. I was hoping you knew her then? Or possibly someone in her family? A friend?”

She was still shaking her head.

After a few more words, I thanked her and she closed the door. I moved on to try the next apartment. There were three more on the second floor and four below. Out of those, four people answered when I knocked. None of them knew anything about Alejandra Delarosa, or none of them would admit to knowing anything. I left the building.

As I walked across the front yard toward the Escalade, a woman about forty years of age approached the chain-link gate holding two nearly overflowing paper grocery sacks. She wore a rolled blue bandana as a hair band and a billowing white blouse with colorful embroidery around the collar like those I’d seen on Mayans in Mexico and Central America. She also wore a pair of faded blue jeans, which she filled out very nicely. She tried to open the gate without setting down the groceries, but it was clearly a challenge.

Still speaking Spanish, I hurried toward the gate. “Let me help.”

“Thank you, señor,” she replied.

I lifted the latch and pulled the gate in toward myself. As she stepped into the yard, one of the two bags burst open, spilling oranges, bananas, and a half-gallon plastic milk bottle onto the ground. The woman uttered a mild curse.

I knelt at her feet and began to pick up the fruit. There were too many pieces, so I stretched out the bottom hem of my T-shirt and started dropping them onto the fabric, using the shirtfront as a kind of bag.

“You do not need to do that,” she said, standing over me with the other grocery sack still in her hands.

I stood up, one hand holding the hem of my shirt and the other holding the milk bottle. My shirtfront bulged with fruit. I said, “It is my pleasure.”

She smiled. “In that case, my apartment is just here, if you do not mind.”

I followed her back into the building and through the lobby to the last apartment in back on the left. She pulled a single key out of a pocket, opened the door, and then turned to me. “I do not wish to be rude, but if you do not mind waiting here?”

“No problem,” I said.

With a nod she disappeared inside and closed the door. Soon she was back with an empty sack in her hand. As I stood in the hall holding out my T-shirt’s hem, she transferred the fruit into the bag.

I said, “Your accent… You are Guatemalan?”

“Most of us are in this neighborhood. And you speak Spanish very well, but I think you are American, yes?”

“Native born,” I said. “Do you by any chance remember a Guatemalan woman named Alejandra Delarosa who used to live here?”

“Sure,” she said. “She lived up in 202.”

“You knew her?”

“A little. My daughter used to play with hers.”

“I guess you remember what happened.”

“Oh, that was horrible. I felt so sorry for Emilio. Learning such things about your wife on television.”

As the woman took the last orange out of my shirt, I released the hem, brushed a few specs of dirt from the fabric, and said, “You mean her husband learned about the kidnapping and murder from the television?”

“That, too. But for him, I think the worst of it was learning that Alejandra had been sleeping with her boss.”

“Did Alejandra tell you she and Arturo Toledo were lovers?”

“Of course not. I saw it on the television like everybody else. But I do not think ‘lovers’ is the word for it. Do you?”

“I suppose you are right. From what I have heard, what she did was more like laying a trap.”

The woman nodded. “Exactly.”

“So… do you think it was true, what they said about her being in the URNG?”

She shifted the grocery sack to prop it on an outthrust hip. “Who knows? Many kinds of people came from Guatemala to escape the junta in the years before she killed that monster. Maybe she was in the URNG, or maybe she just wanted to be. Either way, we are all proud of what she did. Most of us have family and friends who were disappeared. There has been so little justice for us. The anger never goes away.”

“How about her husband? Emilio, right? Was he angry, too?”

She cocked her head and looked me in the face. “Are you with the police?”

“I am a private citizen, just like you.”

“You ask questions like the police. Why do you care about something that happened so long ago?”

“Just trying to clear things up a little. It is nothing ominous.”

“Well. Thank you for your help. Good-bye.”

She turned and went inside.

Before she closed the door, I decided to take a chance. “It is the URNG. They hired me to find out what happened.”

She opened the door again. “Really?”

I smiled. “Would I make up a thing like that?”

“You would be a fool to do it in this neighborhood. They have many supporters here.”

“I know. Do you remember what happened to Alejandra’s husband and daughter?”

“I heard La Migra came. They did not have their papers.”

“Do you think Emilio was involved in what happened?”

She pursed her lips as if in thought. “No… I do not think so. Emilio always seemed like a gentle man. It is difficult to imagine him hurting anybody.”

“They have Alejandra on video, of course, claiming that she did it for the URNG. But the URNG says it is not true. They asked me to try to prove they were not involved. So how about that?”