“If possible, I’d like to see Mr. Colon,” she said.
The cop nodded. He pointed to an open door off the patio and followed her. Once inside, she heard Spanish. “He’s up in front,” the cop said. She glanced in passing at the kitchen—empty and orderly, like the garage—and moved into a hall. Voices grew louder, speaking Spanish. Doors stood open to empty rooms.
When she stepped into the front of the house, Ray Colon was sitting on a kitchen chair, facing another cop. Ray looked at her, and the cop turned. Except for the chairs and a lighted floor lamp, the room was empty.
“You tell them, lady,” Colon said. “They don’t believe me.”
“Her name’s Brenda Contay,” the cop behind her said. “She knows Rivera.”
It had to be done again—who she was, why she was here. They brought her a straight chair. She described the trip from the airport, then driving Ray Colon to Immokalee. She did it patiently, facing Ray as she spoke. He looked resigned now. Stoic. As she answered questions, he folded his arms and sat back.
She finished. “I show them receipts for everything,” Ray said. “They don’t believe me. They bringing the truck back.”
“Just tell me, Ray.” The cop sitting opposite leaned forward. “Why does your cousin all of a sudden want to sell everything?” He had a slight accent and was darkly handsome. He didn’t sound like an adversary.
“Why you say all of a sudden?” Colon said. “The garage is full. You going to have to ask him. He call here, he tell me it’s time to ship to Miami, that’s all.”
“Yeah, okay. But why ship his own furniture?”
Colon shrugged. He pointed to a pile of receipts on the floor. “Everything on the truck we get from people we work for,” he said. “Gifts.”
“We’ll check it out,” the cop said.
“That’s okay, you check it out. I got names and addresses.”
“But no idea where he went.”
“He tell me he coming here. He never show up.”
The cop looked to Brenda. “You know Dennis Stuckey?”
“Perezoso,” Ray said. “Vago.”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“He’s an All Hands employee. He lives here in the guesthouse. He was working at a condo in Pelican Bay yesterday. The condo owner hung himself, while Stuckey was looking after the deceased’s mother-in-law. He says Rivera fired him in front of the officers that took the call. When they left, Rivera told him he wasn’t fired, it was just for show. Know anything about it?”
“Pendejo.”
No, she didn’t. “This Stuckey says Rivera made him eat a watch,” the cop said. “Rivera thought he was stealing.” Brenda shook her head. “OK.” The cop stood. “We’re sealing the house as a possible crime scene.” Colon said something in Spanish and the cop held up a hand. “I said possible, Ray. And don’t forget, be where I can reach you.”
“What about the clients?”
“That’s all right, but stay local. You and Stuckey.”
“Un payaso.”
The cop laughed. He got his cap off the rug, still smiling, and followed Brenda and Colon to the front door. He opened it, and she stepped out. A third cop was unfurling yellow tape. He waited for them to come down, then ran the tape across the porch railing. Ray started across the lawn, and Brenda followed. Behind them, the garage door began rumbling down.
“I want to help,” she said. Colon kept walking. “Tell me what you think.”
“Le que Dios quiera,” he said. “You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever God wants.” They reached the street and stopped. “That’s what Quinto think,” Ray said. “Providencia. Destino. Everything going to happen a certain way. You think you running your life, but everything is fixed before. He believe that.”
“Do you?”
He shrugged. His van’s keyless entry chirped. “He don’t tell me everything,” Colon said. “‘What you need to know, that’s what I’m telling you.’ OK, Quinto. You want it like that, fine with me.”
They crossed the street. When Colon reached his van, he ran his fingers over the rubber seal around the glass. He opened the door and turned to her. “This man,” he said. “The one is missing. He your friend?”
“Yes.”
“You worry about him?”
“Yes.”
Ray Colon thought a moment, looking down the street. “I don’t know nothing,” he said. “All I know, last night, Quinto come to my house. He don’t say nothing, he just take my boat on the trailer. Night fishing alone, what you think? He never do that before.”
He looked to the police cruisers in front of the house. “I check it this morning,” he said. “I got these weights—” He made fists and flexed his arms as though doing curls with a barbell. “I use a couple, tie them with rope. I got a different anchor, but sometime I use the weights. After Quinto bring back my boat? No weights.”
He got in the van and started the engine. He slammed the door, then buzzed down the window. “He change,” Colon said, not looking at her as he put the van in gear. “His mother get sick, when we just start All Hands on Deck. He worry maybe he never get back here if he go to see her. Then she die.”
Colon pulled off the shoulder. As he moved up the street, the van’s taillights glowed like embers.
◆◆◆◆◆
“You can stay here, Dennis.” Good-looking Officer Rosario took off his hat to smooth his hair. He put the hat back on. “Just don’t go in Rivera’s house.”
“I won’t.”
The officer nodded. He looked around a last time. They had searched the guesthouse earlier. Cookware taken from kitchen drawers still rested on the sink. Sofa and chair cushions had been stood on end. Rosario opened the door and looked out.
“It’s a nice place,” he said. “Nice setup. What’s your rent?”
“He was letting me stay free,” Stuckey said. “Until I got it together.”
Rosario stepped outside.
