Free Heart of the World by Linda Barnes Page A

tables dotted to the right of the bar. She wore the same short skirt she’d set off in this morning, but she had yanked her top down to expose bare shoulders. Her hair swung like a heavy curtain around her face. The blond streaks were new.
    I don’t know. If my daughter were missing, I might skip the blow dry. If my daughter were missing and the woman looking for hershowed up unannounced at my place of business, I might ask after the child's welfare. I tried to get my face to relax, but I don’t think I managed a smile.
    I was a cop long enough to learn that the surface doesn’t reflect the inner core. I’ve interrogated distraught suspects who turned out to be complete innocents and cool-as-ice liars who were felons from the toe-nails up. I’ve been alive long enough to know that appearances lie. When I was sixteen, everybody thought I was doing so well after my mother's death, so damn well, right up until the night I jumped a bus and left town.
    â€œTake a break,” I suggested.
    We glared at each other for an instant; then she snatched the fallen napkin off the floor and slapped it down on a tabletop. “What? You find something?”
    She was worried about what I’d seen at her house. Hastily I reviewed the search. I’d been so focused on finding the passport. What had I missed?
    â€œLet me buy you a drink,” I said.
    The place was dark the way daytime bars are dark, with the artificial dimness of heavy shades over small windows and minimal overhead light. I watched her eyes to see whether she signaled to any of the wait staff, any of the customers. It was too early for a bouncer.
    She turned abruptly and her heels pocked the floor again. She murmured something to the bartender, a rangy blond who shot me a quick glance. Then she grabbed a tray, two glasses, two bottles of Bud, and ferried them to a corner booth. I followed and slid onto a saggy leather bench.
    She sat across from me. I waited, sipping beer without tasting it, rerunning a mental tape of the house search: kitchen, den, bedroom, closet. Closet . I reviewed the clothing in Marta's closet, item by item, the stuffed racks, the dangling tags.
    Sometimes, you wait long enough, a perp will get so uncomfortable he’ll spill his guts; Marta held up well.
    â€œYour hair looks good,” I said, deciding she’d sit silently till her blond streaks faded. “Nice earrings.”
    â€œThese? These are—”
    â€œThey’re new. Like a lot of the clothes in your closet.”
    â€œSo? I buy a few things. I work hard. What’re you doing?”
    Spreading my napkin on the table like a placemat, I emptied the brown felt pouch and unwrapped the tissue paper. The tiny statue caught the light.
    â€œI never seen it before,” she said quickly.
    Up till that moment, I hadn’t been sure, but she was so immediately defensive it was clear she was lying. As soon as the words left her lips, she realized her mistake; they must have rung as tinnily false to her ears as they did to mine.
    I sucked in a deep breath, desperate for a cigarette. After six long years of good behavior, the beer and the smoke had triggered a deep longing in my lungs. Besides, if I had something to hold in my right hand, it might stop clenching.
    â€œA father has a right to send a gift to his daughter, I think,” Marta said defiantly.
    I took another sip of tasteless beer, the glass icy in my hand. I replaced it on the table, in the exact center of the wet circle it had left on the wooden top. I remembered her downcast eyes when I’d asked her whether she was in touch with Roldan's family. Assuming he was dead, I’d never asked if she’d been in touch with Roldan himself. There it was again, that ugly word: assuming.
    With effort, I kept my voice soft and uninflected. “Okay, Marta, when did he get in touch? How? Did he write? Did he call?”
    No response.
    â€œHe sent you money, right? Did you sell