“How’d you guess?”

“How could he resist?” I said. “You have her interview and a transcript?”

“Gee,” Corsetti said. “You think we should’ve talked to her? Yeah, sure. I’ll send it to you and let you know if there’s something worthwhile in there. I mean, that’s the least I can do for a long-suffering Sox fan.”

“New Yorkers are never short on charisma.”

We walked back toward the station. Corsetti continued to dab the stain on his jacket. We tried to walk side by side, but being big guys, we would have impeded the sidewalk traffic flow.

“Can I ask you something?” Corsetti said.

“Working out and taking supplements.”

“What?”

“You were going to ask how I stayed looking so young and fit.”

“No,” he said. “The whore. What ever happened to the case with the whore that kept going missing?”

“April Kyle.”

“Yeah,” Corsetti said. “Kyle.”

“Her story did not end well.”

He studied my face as we walked. He nodded and didn’t ask again.

15

Antonio Lima’s mother ran a corner grocery in Yonkers specializing in African and Caribbean food. Besides the spices and rare produce, I could tell no difference in their toilet paper, aspirin, chewing gum, condoms, and coffee. I complimented the clerk on her plantains and star fruit. In turn, she told me Mrs. Lima lived in a walk-up directly above the store.

Mrs. Lima was a stout, light-skinned black woman in a blue flowered housecoat and a scarlet head scarf. When I mentioned Antonio, she started to close the door. “Leave us alone.”

“I’m not a reporter or a cop.”

“What are you?”

I had many answers but kept quiet and passed my card through the door. It was the one with my name, occupation, and the logo of Saint George and the Dragon.

“What do you want?”

“May I come in?” I said. “I promise not to take long. I need to speak to your son.”

“What?”

“Victor,” I said. “He may be able to help me.”

She closed the door, but as I began to walk away, I heard the chain unlatch.

She let me in and followed me into an open kitchen. Nearby, an older and more wrinkled version of Mrs. Lima sat in an easy chair, watching a newscast in Portuguese from Rio. She wore a similar yellow head scarf and glanced at me once and turned back to the television. The room’s walls were made of fading plaster hung with cheap frames of family, popes, and various saints. The sitting room had a view of downtown Yonkers and where the new minor-league baseball stadium was supposed to be built. Two bedrooms and an open kitchen connected. On a chopping board next to the stove a half-sliced onion and quartered lime waited.

“Antonio?”

“I’m very sorry,” I said.

“He was a good boy.”

I nodded, knowing all victims are good. Even if they had multiple priors of aggravated assault and burglary. A shrine had been set up on a small kitchen table, complete with prayer candles. I recognized the same school photo as the one that ran in the Times and Post.

“Your son’s driver’s license shows this address.”

“Victor does not want to discuss his brother anymore,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

I could tell her that the man suspected in the murder of her son had hired me. Or I could tell her a blanched version of the truth.

“I’m being paid to find out what happened.”

The older woman turned to me and back to the television. I did not speak Portuguese, but there seemed to be a hell of a soccer match last night somewhere. She did not ask why or by whom, and I quickly moved on to the next question.

“I have not spoken to Victor for many weeks,” she said. “He works for a moving company in the city. I don’t have his address.”

“His phone number?”

She looked away and shook her head.

“Any friends or family who’d know? A girlfriend?”

She shook her head some more.

“Has he told you much about that night?”

“He said that football player killed his brother,” she said. “He said they were fighting over a woman and that the man and Antonio were very drunk. He said Antonio left this nightclub and the man followed him and shot him in his car.”

“What did the police tell you?”

“The police said they had no proof,” she said. “But two men were fighting and an hour later one is dead? What do you think?”

“I know your son did business with some dangerous people.”

“Lies.”

“I still would like to speak to Victor.”

She settled into her seat and glanced at the unfinished meal in the kitchen. “He did not see it. He came after. He was with a woman, too. Women, all these women, have caused trouble for my boys for so long.”

“Did you know the woman they fought over?”

“No,” she said. “But I think she was Cape Verdean. Victor knows her. She is loose and without morals.”

“I try my best to stay away from women like that,” I said. “Can you please help me? It’s very important I talk to him.”

“Why? It will change nothing,” she said. “This man, the football player, is very rich and very respected and probably paid the police.”

“The police said there were no witnesses or evidence.”

Mrs. Lima was silent. The newscast spoke of demonstrations in São Paulo. I stayed here any longer and I’d be fluent in Portuguese. The droning voice of newscasters was pretty much the same in any language and filled the silence.

“If Victor calls, will you at least give him my number?” I said. “Let him decide.”

“I must get back to preparing dinner.”

“Did your son know this man before?” I said. “The man you believe shot him.”

“No.”

“Was anyone else with your son that night?” I said. “Other friends besides his brother?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I have prayed a very long time to help with my pain. This brings things back to me. Can we please stop this unless you come here with answers for us? What good will these questions do?”

I took a long breath. I let it out. “There is a child that’s gone missing,” I said. “The police think the shooting of your son may be connected. The boy is only eight years old.”

“Is it not enough to let the killer of my son go free?” she said. “And now you have come to my house with more lies? You insult my one son who lives. These are my boys. My children.”

I nodded and stood. I smiled and left my card on the counter.

The old woman watching television never looked up. Mrs. Lima went back to slicing onions.

16

I was sitting in a coffee shop on Washington Street that faced Chrome. I had packed little to go nightclubbing and had to settle for a black button-down shirt and Levi’s. I left the two top buttons undone. Perhaps I should have invested in tighter pants or a gold chain. Reviews I read stated I was not the desirable demographic for Chrome. They preferred young and hip as opposed to middle-aged and thuggish.

But there was little else to do. Lundquist said no ransom demands had been sent or contact made. He said Cristal Heywood was a flake but didn’t appear to be involved. After my visit with Corsetti, I had spent most of my day running down addresses on Victor Lima. I came up with two associated persons. One led to an empty apartment in Queens. The second led to an angry ex-girlfriend in Brooklyn who had not seen Victor in two years, well before the shooting.

As I pondered, a homeless guy wandered in and sat down directly across from me. He ordered a cup of hot water and began to unpack several pairs of old socks from a grocery bag. I hoped he didn’t need the socks to make tea.

I returned to the transcripts I got from Corsetti, witnesses from that night, including the woman at the center of the scuffle. Lela Lopes. But even if she offered me photos, a video confession, and a smoking gun to prove Kinjo was involved, that did not mean the kidnapping was personal.