HEART OF THE WORLD

Either they were listening to Spanish language TV or they were arguing. I let my hand drop to my side and made no bones about eavesdropping.

It takes a moment for Spanish to land in my head as distinct words and sentences. At first I hear it as a rush of sound, but then something clicks and I'm back in Mexico City where I spent childhood days with my mother's cousins, time stolen from Detroit winters, coinciding not with school vacations but with periods my mother and father didn't get along. I forgot my Spanish when I returned to the States, then relearned it as a cop, specializing in what we called perp Spanish. Paolina helped me regain some fluency and I needed it. These people weren't speaking slowly. I could distinguish two arguing voices, one male, one female. Diego, I heard, several times, and swearing, too. I'm fluent in that.

I knocked loudly.

Sometimes I miss the days when I could follow up that authoritative knock with the word, Police. Police opened doors. It gave people a reason to answer when I asked questions.

I knocked again. A silence had started with the first knock so I knew they'd heard me.

Señora Parte, I said clearly, please open the door. I just want to talk. I spoke in Spanish. Why not?

The door opened slowly and a young woman peered out through a narrow crack. She had dark hair pulled back into a tight knot and an anxious expression on a sweet earnest face. I got the toe of my boot past the sill but didn't force my way in.

What do you want? she said. I'm busy here.

I took a business card from my wallet. It said Carlotta Carlyle, Private Investigations. She studied it for a long moment with her tongue fixed firmly between her small teeth and then passed it behind her.

¿Policia? It was the man's deep voice. So sorry if we bother any of the old bitches in the apartment downstairs.

Señor, I said, raising my voice, there are no complaints about you.

The door opened to display both of them. He was a thin wiry man with badly pocked skin.

He said, Then what you want? Collect for the church? They can find their own money, sell their gold candlesticks for all I care.

Señora, your nephew, Diego, I need to speak to him.

The man glanced automatically down the hallway to his right. What about?

He's in no trouble from me. But he hasn't been in school the past three days.

You're from the school?

No.

What you care then? The boy's sick. When he's better, he go to the school. Nosy goddamn busybodies. Time I'm his age, I work full time.

I need to talk to him about a girl in his class.

Hah, he do something to a girl?

Señora, I said to the silent woman. Let me talk to him. She looked stricken, like a deer in the headlights, her mouth half open.

He's not here. The man gave the door a push, but my foot held it ajar and I wedged myself through.

A girl in his class is missing and he may know where she is. His room's down here?

The single front room was sparsely furnished, ashtrays overflowing on the stained coffee table. A narrow archway led to a corridor.

Diego? You here? I moved quickly.

I already told you — The man moved quickly, too, edging between me and the hallway.

Look, I said, if he's not here, it's because he's run off with my sister, Paolina Fuentes. You know that name? If he's not here, I'm going to get in your business big time, so it's better for you if you let me see him. I raised my voice, hoping Diego would hear.

Behind the wiry man, in the corridor, I heard a door creak.

Hey. The voice was low and sullen.

Don't you come out of that room! the man thundered.

Josefina finally moved, putting a restraining hand on the man's shoulder. I walked past him to the half-open door on the right-hand side of the hallway.

Hey, the kid said. What's the deal?