Free The Beggar's Opera by Peggy Blair

she was leaving Cuba early. We had a bit of an argument. But it’s not like we were yelling at each other or anything. Quite the opposite.”
    Their fights were too often like that, he thought. Holding back, hiding what they really wanted. Who they really were. But what could he tell her? Not the truth.
    The detective’s next question interrupted his thoughts. “Your wife is not in Havana any longer?”
    “No. Like I told you, she left last night.” Ellis tried to change the subject. “There’s nothing missing from my wallet except some money. Can I have it back now?”
    He reached for it again, but this time Sanchez pulled it away. “It is evidence of a crime, Señor Ellis. I told you, we found it on the boy.”
    “Oh, come on,” said Ellis, chuckling uneasily. “That kid is what, seven, eight years old? If that’s what this is about, I don’t want to press charges. I’m just glad you found it. No real harm done.”
    Sanchez said nothing. Ellis knew the technique. Suspects were uncomfortable with silence; it tended to draw them out. He suddenly sensed that this was about something other than his wallet and felt his heart jump. Did they know? He had to assume they didn’t. How could they? Even his own wife didn’t know.
    “I’m being questioned as if I’ve done something wrong. Was it a crime to give the boy money?” Ellis asked.
    “This is Cuba, Señor Ellis. No crime exists until we have completed an initial investigation.”
    Ellis sat back, trying to think how to approach the ambiguities of that response. He decided to fake confidence.
    “Detective Sanchez, I am a police officer with a Canadian police force. A detective just like you. If there is more to this story than what you’ve told me so far, maybe I can help. If not, I really do have other things I’d like to do, if you don’t mind. I’m on holidays.” He stood up. “I appreciate your help. But I don’t want to press charges against that little boy. I would never have asked Miguel to file a police report if I’d known he was the one who took it.”
    “This interview will be over when I say it is. Please,” Sanchez gestured, “sit down. I have complete discretion in this regard. Trust me.”
    Ellis sank back onto the chair. He was starting to feel anger and fear on top of confusion.
    “You became quite drunk last night at a bar, Señor Ellis?” Sanchez continued.
    “Yes, I told you that already.”
    “And you say the boy took your wallet from you earlier in the day?”
    “I’m guessing that’s what happened, yes.”
    “Then how did you pay for your drinks?” Sanchez asked.
    He hadn’t thought about that, but Sanchez was right. “Then I must have lost my wallet afterwards. Or left it somewhere. Maybe even at the bar.”
    “And the wallet just happened to end up on the boy?”
    “Apparently, if he had it. But what difference does it make?” asked Ellis. “I’ve already said I don’t want to press charges either way.”
    But even as he said it, he began to worry. If the boy didn’t take his wallet that afternoon, how did he get it? And how did Ellis pay for his drinks?
    For a moment, Ellis wondered if the Cubans had found his police service records, but pushed that notion aside. No, he wasin trouble for something that happened here, not in Ottawa. But he didn’t know what, so he had to be careful.
    Sanchez leaned over, then slapped a Polaroid photograph of a young boy on the table. “The boy, Señor Ellis. The boy you gave the money to. His name was Arturo Montenegro. He was not quite nine years old.” Sanchez leaned back in his seat, watching for Ellis’s reaction.
    Small boy, round face. “Yes. That looks like him. Is that it? I broke the law by giving him money? I’ll pay the fine then. Trust me, I had no idea you people took this kind of thing so seriously.”
    Detective Sanchez gave Ellis a look that merged disgust with surprise. “The rape and murder of a child, Señor Ellis, is taken very seriously in