I dug in my purse and handed her a tissue.
Galiano handed her a card.
“Call me when you hear from him.”
“Has Andre done something illegal?”
Galiano ignored her question.
“When he phones, agree to see him. Call me. And don’t tell Specter.”
Pera opened her mouth to object.
“Do it, Senorita Pera. Do it and save yourself a great deal of grief.”
Galiano rose. Ryan and I did the same. Pera followed us to the door.
As we filed out she said one last thing.
“It’s hard, you know. It’s not like in the movies.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
The sky was overcast when we left Pera’s apartment. Anxious to begin going through Nordstern’s belongings, Ryan peeled off and took a taxi to police headquarters.
It was raining by the time Galiano and I arrived at the Eduardo home. While not as luxurious as Chez Specter or Chez Gerardi, the house was comfortable and well tended, what a Realtor might call cozy.
When Senora Eduardo opened the door one phrase stuck in my brain: ET, phone home. Our hostess had a wrinkled pie face dominated by the largest eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. Her arms and legs were scrawny, her fingers curved and knobby. She stood about four feet tall.
Senora Eduardo led us to a parlor filled with way too much floral-upholstered furniture, and indicated that we should sit. She boosted herself into a straight-back wooden chair, wrapped one ankle around the other, and made a sign of the cross. Tears glistened in the enormous eyes.
As I settled into an overstuffed armchair, I wondered if the woman had a chromosomal abnormality. I also wondered how she had produced a daughter as attractive as Patricia.
Galiano introduced me to our hostess, expressed sympathy for her loss. Senora Eduardo crossed herself again, took a deep breath.
“Have you made an arrest?” she asked in a thin, wavery voice.
“We’re working on it,” Galiano said.
Senora Eduardo’s left eyelid did a slo-mo blink. The right lid followed a half beat behind.
“Did your daughter ever speak of a man named Andre Specter?”
“No.”
“Miguel Gutierrez?”
“No. Who are these men?”
“You are sure?”
Senora Eduardo reprocessed the names. Or pretended to.
“Absolutely certain. What do these men have to do with my daughter?” One tear escaped and slithered down her cheek. She swiped it away with a jerky motion.
“I just wanted to check.”
“Are they suspects?”
“Not in your daughter’s death.”
“Whose?”
“Miguel Gutierrez has confessed to the murder of a young woman named Claudia de la Alda.”
“You think he might also have killed Patricia?”
Whatever the senora’s physical condition, it clearly did not affect her intelligence.
“No.”
“And Specter?” Another tear. Another swipe.
“Never mind Specter.”
“Who is he?”
Or her tenacity.
“If your daughter didn’t speak of him, it isn’t relevant. What is this new information you have?”
The huge eyes narrowed. I detected a flicker of distrust.
“I remembered the name of Patricia’s supervisor at the hospital.”
“The one with whom she argued?”
She nodded and did the eyelid thing.
Galiano pulled out a notebook.
