by Linda Barnes
“I have another appointment,” he said brusquely, comparing his watch with the clock over the bar while he wrapped a remaining sliver of sandwich in a wadded napkin. “Remember what I said.”
“What was that,” I asked blandly, “that you said?”
“I want to hear from your client, this Manuela Estefan, within the next few days. Or you could be in some serious trouble.” He opened his briefcase furtively, taking care that no one could see the contents, and shoved the napkin-wrapped bundle inside. I wouldn’t want anyone to see the inside of my briefcase, either, if all I stored there was leftovers.
“I’m a citizen,” I said. “I thought you just made trouble for aliens.”
“You don’t want to try me,” he said. And he grabbed his briefcase and stalked off without reading me my rights.
“Gee, Mooney,” I said after a long pause, “thanks so much for introducing me to your friend.”
My belated club sandwich arrived. Mooney hadn’t touched his salad, so we ate together in companionable silence.
“You want to see the green card?” he said when we were done, by way of apology for subjecting me to Jamieson.
So we paid up and walked to Berkeley Street. The INS jerk hadn’t even left money on the table to cover his lunch.
The card was in a plastic evidence bag. Mooney liberated it for me so I could get a good look. I assumed it had already been dusted for prints.
The more I stared at the card, the more confused I got. The photograph was smaller than a passport shot, slightly blurry. The woman in the photo was shown three-quarter profile, her right ear exposed. She had long, dark hair like my client. Brown eyes like my client. But her face … well, there was a definite resemblance, but I couldn’t swear to it. If my client had worn her hair behind her ears, I’d have done a better job. Ears are distinctive.
The name on the card was Manuela Estefan. It looked genuine, the INS man had pronounced it genuine, and my client had called herself an illegal alien. I flipped the card over. This was no easy piece of counterfeiting. The front side, the one with the picture, had a white field with pink wavy lines running through it. It also boasted the photograph, an impressive seal in dark blue, and an index fingerprint in a square box. The back of the card was off-white with a beige wave and a white silhouette of the U.S.A. Three rows of numbers.
The card had been laminated. Its edges were rough, as if the job had been done in one of those drugstore machines.
It would have been easier to counterfeit a hundred-dollar bill.
Was my client lying about being illegal? Why?
Was the INS agent lying about the card being genuine?
My fingers played with the edges of the card. I wished I could just pocket the damn thing and give it back to her, case closed. But it wasn’t going to be that simple. Not with a woman dead.
Mooney apologized for Jamieson, and I told him he wasn’t responsible for all the jerks in the world.
On the way out I asked where they’d found Manuela’s card. In a handbag? With any other ID?
“She didn’t have a handbag,” Mooney said. “Or else the perp snatched it.”
“Yeah?”
“Not for publication,” he said, “but the card was in her shoe.”
“And one more thing: How come you’re not absolutely sure about the ID? With the fingerprint and all?”
“Still not for broadcast?” he asked.
“Cross my little heart,” I said.
“Victim didn’t have any prints. He cut off her hands.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people have been kind enough to read this novel in various manuscript stages, offering suggested changes and needed encouragement. Chief among them are James Morrow, Karen Motylewski, Richard Barnes, Susan Linn, the ladies who lunch—especially Bonnie Sunstein—and Cynthia Mark-Hummel. My thanks to all of them.
I’d also like to express my appreciation to my agent, Gina Maccoby, for her skill, enthusiasm, righteous indignation, and support. Carlotta’s honored to have you on her team.
About the Author
Linda Barnes is the award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries. Her witty private-investigator heroine has been hailed as “a true original” by Sue Grafton. Barnes is also the author of the Michael Spraggue Mysteries and a stand-alone novel, The Perfect Ghost.
A winner of the Anthony Award and a finalist for the Edgar and Shamus Awards, Barnes lives in the Boston area with her husband and son. Visit her at www.lindabarnes.com.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Linda Appleblatt Barnes
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1427-4
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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