Page 42 of The Smart Killer
“Mrs. Diaz?”
“Yes?” she replied, her voice full of apprehension.
“Is your son Alejandro home?”
“No, he’s at work. Though he should be home shortly,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. “Is he in trouble?”
Noah shook his head gently. “No.”
Relieved, Melissa unlocked the chain and opened the door wider, inviting them in with a hesitant but welcoming smile. “Come on in. You can wait for him,” she said, her voice carrying curiosity. They stepped over the threshold, entering a dimly lit interior where time seemed to stand still.
Once inside, they were led into a living room with furniture from another era. The wallpaper, faded and peeling, told a story of years gone by. An antique clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, resonating in the room with a steady rhythm.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Porter nodded.
Amidst the dated décor, shelves were lined with ornaments and trinkets, each seemingly holding a cherished memory. Overgrown plants occupied corners, their leaves reaching out as if seeking light, giving the room an air of neglect.
A prominent cross hung on the wall, symbolizing faith that contrasted the worn surroundings. Nearby on a table was a Bible, its pages open, weathered and well-read.
Noah crossed to a shelf and picked up a framed photo. It had a younger Melissa smiling alongside her husband and much younger son. The family exuded happiness, frozen in a moment. It always baffled Noah how those raised in good families could go off the rails. There really was no way to determine who would, though that hadn’t stopped experts from trying to study the minds of killers.
Noah’s eyes lingered on another image of Alejandro, dressed in a security uniform, a stark reminder of his past. The contrast between the proud family and the reality of their visit was palpable.
“That’s my late husband. He looks a lot like Alejandro, doesn’t he.”
“I thought it was your son.”
“Yes, friends of ours always comment that they look alike.”
“How long ago did your husband pass?”
“Three years, two months, and four days ago. Tumor. Ate away at him. He died while Alejandro was inside. Alejandro couldn’t be there for the funeral. Destroyed him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Death comes for us all. We all have a death sentence; just most of us want to ignore it.”
Melissa, her face etched with sadness and resilience, went out of the room and returned carrying a tray. On it were tall glasses, beads of condensation trickling down the sides, and adecanter of iced tea. “Please, have a seat,” she said, her voice carrying a note of hospitality.
“Like a breath of fresh air,” Porter replied, accepting his drink with gratitude. Noah also nodded his thanks, taking the glass and settling into an old armchair. As they sipped, Noah ventured gently.
“You mind me asking what Alejandro does for a living now?”
Melissa’s eyes softened with maternal pride. “He works at a bar, in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. Not very glamorous, but there aren’t many jobs available to someone with his record,” she said, her gaze drifting toward the cross on her neck. “But he’s trying.” She took a sip of her drink. “He comes to church with me, works hard, and stays out of trouble now. I want you to know that I don’t make excuses for what my boy did; it was wrong; no two ways about that, but he’s served his time. He was lost, detective, not bad.” She looked up at the cross on the wall. “We’re all lost in some ways. Some of us are willing to admit it; others acknowledge it at the eleventh hour.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence, the ticking of the clock the only sound permeating the air. In that moment, surrounded by the relics of the past and the palpable faith in the room, Noah couldn’t help but consider the complexity of the human experience, the struggle for redemption, and the enduring power of hope.
“You never had another child?” Noah asked.
“Only the one. I wanted more, but Martinez. My husband. He felt that one was enough.” She took another sip. “I often wonder if Alejandro had a brother or sister, whether that would have prevented things from happening.”
“I imagine that was very hard on you.”
“Humiliating would be the word, detective. But like everything in life, eventually, in time, it passes. People forget.People get distracted by the next titillating headline in the paper, shootings, war, all of it distracts.”
Noah nodded.
