“Who took the pics?”
“He’s a little vague on that. But we recovered a camera from his closet shelf containing a partially exposed roll of film. You’ll never guess.”
“The little mistress.”
“Bingo. Shot her from a distance with a telephoto lens.”
“Have you had him assessed?” I asked.
Galiano made another left, then a right onto a street lined with two- and three-flats.
“Docs say he has a compulsive fixation disorder, or some psychobabble like that. Erotomania? Couldn’t help himself, probably never meant to hurt her.”
“Lot of good that did Claudia.”
Galiano pulled to the curb, shifted into park, and turned to face us.
“What about Patricia Eduardo?” Ryan asked.
“Gutierrez says he’s never met Patricia Eduardo, has never been to the Zona Viva or the Cafe San Felipe, and has never heard of the Pension Paraiso. He swears Claudia de la Alda is the only person he’s ever loved.”
“The only person he’s ever killed.” Ryan’s voice was hard with disdain.
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
Galiano turned and chin-motioned to a beat-to-crap building on the far side of the street. Crumbling pink stucco. Bloodred door. Dozing wino. Grafitti. More clever than most. B-plus.
“Pera shares a second-floor flat with an older cousin.”
“Won’t she be at work?”
“When I said I’d be by, she decided to take the day off. Didn’t want to upset the boss.”
“Did she ask why you wanted to talk to her?” I asked.
Galiano looked surprised. “No.”
We got out. At the thunk-thunk-thunk of the car doors, the wino slithered down the stucco and stretched full length across the front stoop. Stepping over him, I noticed that his pants were half zipped.
Or half unzipped. I supposed that depended on your point of view.
The lobby measured approximately six by six and smelled of disinfectant. The floor was tiled in black and white.
The names Pera and Irias had been printed on a card and inserted into the slot of one of six brass mailboxes. Galiano pushed the buzzer. A voice answered immediately. Our arrival had been monitored.
“Detective Galiano.”
The door clicked. We passed through and single-filed up a narrow staircase.
The Pera-Irias flat lay behind one of two doors opening onto a tiny second-floor hallway. As I stepped onto the landing, locks rattled, the door swung inward, and a double-take-gorgeous young woman peeked out. I felt Galiano and Ryan do the male straightening thing. I may have joined them.
Aida Pera nodded solemly. Her hair was flaxen, her skin pale, her eyes brown and enormous, trusting but frightened at the same time. “Take care of me” eyes. The kind of eyes that make men stupid.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us so early.” Galiano.
Another nod, then Pera looked at Ryan and me.
Galiano introduced us. A slight pucker formed above the bridge of her nose, melted.
“What is this about?” She toyed with the security chain. Though her fingers were long and slender, the nails were ragged, the cuticles raw and bloody. As far as I could see, they were her only flaw.
“May we come in?” Galiano spoke in a calming voice.
Pera stepped back, and we entered a small vestibule. A long corridor shot straight ahead toward the back of the flat. The living room lay to the front. She led us there and gestured at a grouping of couch and chairs, each outfitted with arm- and headrest doilies. I wondered how old the cousin was.
Galiano wasted no time.
“Senorita Pera, it is my understanding that you are friends with Canadian ambassador Andre Specter.”
This time the pucker was deep and sustained.
“May I ask the nature of that relationship?”
Pera chewed a knuckle as she looked from Galiano to Ryan to me. Perhaps I appeared the least threatening. Her answer came my way.
