The Woods

“No.”

She said nothing.

I said, “We need to learn more about Mr. Santiago.”

“May I ask why?”

“Manolo Santiago was an alias. I’m trying to find out his real name, for one thing.”

“I wouldn’t know it.”

“At the risk of overstepping my bounds,” I said, “I’m having trouble understanding.”

“Understanding what?”

“Men must hit on you all the time,” I said.

The smile was crooked and knowing. “That’s very flattering, Mr. Copeland, thank you.”

I tried to stay on message. “So why did you go with him?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might tell me something about him.”

“I can’t imagine what. Suppose, for example, I told you that I found him handsome. Would that help?”

“Did you?”

“Did I what—find him handsome?” Another smile. A tousled lock dropped across her right eye. “You almost sound jealous.”

“Ms. Singh?”

“Yes?”

“I’m investigating a murder. So maybe we can stop now with the head games.”

“Do you think we can?” She tucked the hair back. I held my ground. “Well, okay then,” she said. “Fair enough.”

“Can you help me figure out who he really was?”

She thought about it. “Maybe through his cell-phone records?”

“We checked the one he had on him. Your call was the only one on it.”

“He had another number,” she said. “Before that.”

“Do you remember it?”

She nodded and gave it to me. I took out a small pen and wrote it on the back of one of my cards.

“Anything else?”

“Not really.”

I took out another card and wrote down my mobile phone number. “If you think of anything else, will you call me?”

“Of course.”

I handed it to her. She just looked at me and smiled.

“What?”

“You’re not wearing a wedding band, Mr. Copeland.”

“I’m not married.”

“Divorced or widowed?”

“How do you know I’m not a lifelong bachelor?”

Raya Singh did not bother replying.

“Widowed,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“How long has it been?”

I was going to tell her none of her goddamn business, but I wanted to keep her in my good graces. And damned if she wasn’t beautiful. “Nearly six years.”

“I see,” she said.

She looked at me with those eyes.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” I said.

“Why don’t you ask me out?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you think I’m pretty. I’m single, you’re single. Why don’t you ask me out?”

“I don’t mix my work life with my personal,” I said.

“I came here from Calcutta. Have you been?”

The change in subjects threw me for a second. The accent also didn’t seem to match that locale, but that didn’t mean much nowadays. I told her I had never been, but I obviously knew of it.

“What you’ve heard,” she said. “It’s even worse.”

Again I said nothing, wondering where she was going with this.

“I have a life plan,” she said. “The first part was getting here. To the United States.”

“And the second part?”

“People here will do anything to get ahead. Some play the lottery. Some have dreams of being, I don’t know, professional athletes. Some turn to crime or strip or sell themselves. I know my assets. I am beautiful. I am also a nice person and I have learned how to be”—she stopped and considered her words—“good for a man. I will make a man incredibly happy. I will listen to him. I will be by his side. I will lift his spirits. I will make his nights special. I will give myself to him whenever he wants and in whatever way he wants. And I will do it gladly.”

Oookay, I thought.

We were in the middle of a busy street but I swear there was so much silence I could hear a cricket chirp. My mouth felt very dry.

“Manolo Santiago,” I said in a voice that sounded far away. “Did you think he might be that man?”

“I thought he might be,” she said. “But he wasn’t. You seem nice. Like you would treat a woman well.” Raya Singh might have moved toward me, I can’t be sure. But she suddenly seemed closer. “I can see that you are troubled. That you don’t sleep well at night. So how do you know, Mr. Copeland?”

“How do I know what?”

“That I’m not the one. That I’m not the one who will make you deliriously happy. That you wouldn’t sleep soundly next to me.”

Whoa.

“I don’t,” I said.

She just looked at me. I felt the look in my toes. Oh, I was being played. I knew that. And yet this direct line, her lay-it-out-with-no-BS approach…I found it oddly endearing.

Or maybe it was the blinded-by-beauty thing again.

“I have to go,” I said. “You have my number.”

“Mr. Copeland?”

I waited.

“Why are you really here?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is your interest in Manolo’s murder?”

“I thought I explained that. I’m the county prosecutor—”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

I waited. She just stared at me. Finally I asked, “What makes you say that?”

Her reply landed like a left hook. “Did you kill him?”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you. Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

But Raya Singh shook it off. “Good-bye, Mr. Copeland.” She gave me one more smile that made me feel like a fish dropped on a dock. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

CHAPTER 12

LUCY WANTED TO GOOGLE THE NAME “MANOLO SANTIAGO”—he was probably a reporter doing a story on that son of a bitch, Wayne Steubens, the Summer Slasher—but Lonnie was waiting for her in the office. He didn’t look up when she entered. She stopped over him, aiming for mild intimidation.

“You know who sent the journals,” she said.

“I can’t be sure.”

“But?”

Lonnie took a deep breath, readying himself, she hoped, to take the plunge. “Do you know much about tracing e-mail messages?”