Free Heart of the World by Linda Barnes

arts. Slowly, over the years, the truth has emerged: She's studied at some very classy places, the MFA School and Pratt included. Never hung around long enough to get a degree.
    I said, “Colombian.” I guess I gave it the Spanish long o pronunciation. That's what I was thinking: Colombia, the country, Paolina's birthplace.
    â€œPre-Columbian,” Roz corrected. “That's before Columbus hit America. With the u, not the o. But they got plenty of pre-Columbian stuff in Colombia, shit that was there before the Europeans invaded. Most pre-Columbian gold is South American.”
    â€œThis is gold?”
    She stroked it with her small fingers. “I think so. Some kind ofblend of copper and gold. I knew about it when I made jewelry; it’ll come to me.”
    I stuck my hand out. She ignored it.
    â€œCan I have it back?”
    She glared at me frostily. “I wasn’t gonna steal it.” But her hands seemed as reluctant as mine had been to give it up. “Where’d you get it? Is it Paolina's?”
    I bit my lip. I’m not sure how long I sat like that, the little birdman warm in my palm.
    â€œWe going to the Pit or what?” Roz was staring at me oddly. “Aren’t we supposed to go there next, hand out flyers?”
    When they extended the Red Line and redesigned the Harvard Square MBTA station, someone had the bright idea of making the entry-way inviting, with a circular plaza surrounded by stone benches. If the powers that be had foreseen the actual use the plaza would be put to, the architect would have been drawn and quartered; I doubt the City Council wanted to attract the homeless, the druggies, the unemployed and unemployable, seeking to get high. Teens converge there, townies mainly, but a sprinkling of college kids, the ones who don’t quite fit in or can’t afford the freight at the trendy cafes. You can buy just about anything at the Pit. The older men come out late at night, especially when it's cold, because after midnight the barter gets serious, shelter for food and sex. Runaways throng there.
    I looked into the birdman's blank eyes and shook my head. “Help me repack the locker. Then you can handle the Pit on your own.” She’d do fine solo, distributing the flyers, questioning the misfits.
    Normally Roz would have pounced on any change of plans, demanding to know why I’d changed my mind. She's gotten interested in the investigation racket and thinks she might try it on her own someday. Something in my eyes must have stopped her. She quickly gathered perfume vials and dirty clothes and dumped them back in the locker.
    I wrapped the gold birdman in the wrinkled tissue and stowed him in his felt pouch, thinking pre-Columbian, South American, Colombian. Thinking goddamn Marta didn’t say a word about this. Thinking she’d be at work by the time I got there.

CHAPTER 6
    If a cop had been patrolling Mt. Auburn Street or Trapelo Road, lurking unseen behind a billboard or liquor store, I’d have gotten the chance to lead a cruiser on a high-speed chase. The traffic police were busy elsewhere, so I exceeded the speed limit and charged through amber lights unimpeded.
    It may not be true that Waltham bars have gotten busier since Cambridge and Boston caught no-smoking fever, but you couldn’t prove it by the early crowd at McKinley's. The place hadn’t been open more than forty-five minutes and already the haze of smoke over the L -shaped bar was as thick as a low-hanging cloud. From her station at the hostess stand, Marta glanced at the door, a welcoming smile firmly in place. When she saw me, the smile froze and her hands dropped the square of stiff red cloth she’d been folding. Crumpled, the napkin lay on the scratched wooden floor like a puddle of blood.
    â€œYou can’t bother me here; I’m working!” Her heels clacked furiously as she approached, and her whisper attracted the attention of drinkers at the