Page 133 of Cold, Cold Bones
Dusk had already handed off to night. Streetlights were casting cones of light at intervals along the block. Windows were glowing yellow.
Gusts of wind teased the ties on my jacket. A listless rain was falling, sullen that the ground was too cold for percolation, too warm for accumulation.
I looked around as we waited for the door to be answered. So did Ryan.
The neighborhood was typical working class, the themerepeated again and again all over America. Nondescript ranch and split-level homes. Flags at the doors. Bikes on the lawns. Sheds in the backyards.
Beyond the house to which Yolanda’s address had sent us, the street ended in a cul-de-sac. Beyond the cul-de-sac was a greenway running both sides of Little Sugar Creek. Cars and pickups waited on drives or sat parked at curbs.
I was poising my thumb for a second go at the bell, when the door opened as far as a brass chain would allow. Two eyes appeared in the crack, maize with bright jade flecks. The eyes peered down at me from an impressive height.
“Mr. Gato?” Ryan asked.
The eyes shifted to Ryan. Held.
“Juan Gato?” he asked.
Nothing.
“Señor Gato?El detective y yo tenemos algunas preguntas.” I took some liberties with Ryan’s current status.
“I am Juan Gato. What is it you and the gentleman wish?” The English was perfect, the voice melodious enough to record the works of the bard.
“We’re interested in a locket you may have purchased.”
I scrolled to an image on my phone. Gato bent to study it. Straightened.
“Yes?”
“You recognize the locket?” I asked, unclear of his meaning.
“I purchased it as a gift,” he said. “For my cousin’s daughter. She turned eighteen this year and had earrings like that so I bought it to match.”
“May we come in?” Ryan asked, somber.
“Is there a problem?” The yellow eyes widened. “Thejoyeríaappeared to be a lawful enterprise.”
Ryan gestured toward the door. Gato closed, then opened it wide. We followed him into a foyer with a crystal chandelier hanging fromthe ceiling and black and white tile covering the floor. A clear acrylic bookcase rose on one wall.
The crystal sparkled. The tile gleamed. The books were organized by color and height.
The living room was down a short hall and through an archway on the left. Through an identical archway on the right, what had been a dining room now served as some sort of work area. Long folding tables lined all four walls, each piled with documents, manuscripts, and reference volumes. A chair angled awkwardly from one position, as though unexpectedly and quickly vacated.
The parlor held no sofa. Six upholstered wing chairs formed a semi-circle around a white brick fireplacesanslogs, grate, or mantel. The palette was earth tones, the art geometric. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a coffee ring anywhere.
We took places at opposite ends of the semi-circle. Gato was wearing a burnt orange sweater and tan slacks that hung somewhat baggily on a pair of long legs. His hair was black and wiry, his face oddly smooth. He could have been forty or sixty.
Wordlessly, Gato steepled his fingers and touched the tips to his lips.
Ryan and I exchanged glances. He nodded discreetly. I took over.
“Your home is lovely, Mr. Gato.”
“You have not come for advice on interior design.”
“Is that what you do?”
“I am a translator.” Wrongly anticipating my next question. “I have been a US citizen for over twenty years. I can produce documentation.”
