tonight I enjoyed the mellow glow it created. I held out my glass. “Another?”
He went out to the kitchen for the bottle, came back with it and poured us both a refill.
“Beatriz Vega told me you were in to see her this morning,” I said.
“Yes, quite a lady. Quite a story.”
“She told me all about Raúl Lopez. Do you believe her?”
He frowned and swirled the wine in his goblet. “Until and unless I can prove her wrong, I have no choice.”
“That’s one of those non-answers, Rossi. You sound like a politician.”
He grinned, displaying a flash of even white teeth. “A compliment?”
“So did you arrest Lopez?”
“No,” he said, clearly surprised by my question.
“No? Why not? According to Beatriz he’s an illegal who killed her husband.”
“At the moment neither of these accusations has been proven.”
“But—”
He held up a warning finger. It meant “Don’t go there.”
But I had to. “You know Beatriz wouldn’t lie.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is? I like Raúl. I’d hate to see him deported but—”
“Deported? You’re way ahead of me here. What makes you think he’ll be deported?”
“Beatriz’s testimony.”
He frowned and flung one leg over a knee. In Rossi body language that meant a lecture on police procedure was on the way.
“The problem with unregistered immigrants,” he began, “especially here in Florida, is that they’re necessary to the economy. No matter what you read or hear in the media. Without them, who would pick the crops, mow the golf courses, do the stoop labor Americans don’t want to do? Not only that, there’s the question of numbers. Rounding them all up would be virtually impossible.” He took a sip of wine. “So until criminal charges are filed, there’s usually no arrest.”
“Not even—”
“Not even if the police know he’s illegal. Now, if he’s arrested—not simply accused, arrested, especially for a serious crime—a detainer will be filed.”
“What’s a detainer?”
“A legal hold on a person. Once that happens, he’ll be tried and handed over to ICE for possible deportation proceedings.”
“Ice? English, Rossi, English.”
“Immigration and Custom Enforcement.” He shot me a grin. “You enjoying all this?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad. I’m just getting warmed up. There’s more. Should Lopez be arrested for a crime on this soil, he faces trial here. If he’s not arrested for a crime in the U.S. but the Colombian authorities are looking for him—”
“Yes?” I sat up straight. “Go on.”
“He’ll be extradited. Should that happen, he’ll have two options. Go quietly or fight extradition in our courts. Though that route’s rarely successful.”
I polished off my wine. “So forensics is examining José’s body for evidence of possible foul play. The Colombian government has been notified of Raúl’s presence in the U.S., and you’re awaiting a reply from Interpol regarding his status. In the meantime, he’s been warned not to leave town.”
“God, you’ll be a detective yet. You already know the devil’s in the details.” His eyes took on a shine. “And stretched out like that, with those showgirl legs on display and your hair flaming in the lamplight, you could get blood out of a stone. Even better, a confession out of any male suspect in the world. Me, for example. I’d tell you anything just to sit here looking at you. Drinking you in with the wine. Loving you with my eyes.”
“Only with your eyes?”
By way of reply, he put down his glass, got up and switched off the desk lamp. He hit the wall switch next but left the candles burning.
As he approached the couch, I held out my arms. I didn’t care what nationality his fingers were as long as he touched me with them.
Chapter Ten
After our closet purge, Imogene’s trust in me was stronger than ever. She had no trouble approving the lighting fixtures I’d photographed, and the next morning I returned
He went out to the kitchen for the bottle, came back with it and poured us both a refill.
“Beatriz Vega told me you were in to see her this morning,” I said.
“Yes, quite a lady. Quite a story.”
“She told me all about Raúl Lopez. Do you believe her?”
He frowned and swirled the wine in his goblet. “Until and unless I can prove her wrong, I have no choice.”
“That’s one of those non-answers, Rossi. You sound like a politician.”
He grinned, displaying a flash of even white teeth. “A compliment?”
“So did you arrest Lopez?”
“No,” he said, clearly surprised by my question.
“No? Why not? According to Beatriz he’s an illegal who killed her husband.”
“At the moment neither of these accusations has been proven.”
“But—”
He held up a warning finger. It meant “Don’t go there.”
But I had to. “You know Beatriz wouldn’t lie.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is? I like Raúl. I’d hate to see him deported but—”
“Deported? You’re way ahead of me here. What makes you think he’ll be deported?”
“Beatriz’s testimony.”
He frowned and flung one leg over a knee. In Rossi body language that meant a lecture on police procedure was on the way.
“The problem with unregistered immigrants,” he began, “especially here in Florida, is that they’re necessary to the economy. No matter what you read or hear in the media. Without them, who would pick the crops, mow the golf courses, do the stoop labor Americans don’t want to do? Not only that, there’s the question of numbers. Rounding them all up would be virtually impossible.” He took a sip of wine. “So until criminal charges are filed, there’s usually no arrest.”
“Not even—”
“Not even if the police know he’s illegal. Now, if he’s arrested—not simply accused, arrested, especially for a serious crime—a detainer will be filed.”
“What’s a detainer?”
“A legal hold on a person. Once that happens, he’ll be tried and handed over to ICE for possible deportation proceedings.”
“Ice? English, Rossi, English.”
“Immigration and Custom Enforcement.” He shot me a grin. “You enjoying all this?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad. I’m just getting warmed up. There’s more. Should Lopez be arrested for a crime on this soil, he faces trial here. If he’s not arrested for a crime in the U.S. but the Colombian authorities are looking for him—”
“Yes?” I sat up straight. “Go on.”
“He’ll be extradited. Should that happen, he’ll have two options. Go quietly or fight extradition in our courts. Though that route’s rarely successful.”
I polished off my wine. “So forensics is examining José’s body for evidence of possible foul play. The Colombian government has been notified of Raúl’s presence in the U.S., and you’re awaiting a reply from Interpol regarding his status. In the meantime, he’s been warned not to leave town.”
“God, you’ll be a detective yet. You already know the devil’s in the details.” His eyes took on a shine. “And stretched out like that, with those showgirl legs on display and your hair flaming in the lamplight, you could get blood out of a stone. Even better, a confession out of any male suspect in the world. Me, for example. I’d tell you anything just to sit here looking at you. Drinking you in with the wine. Loving you with my eyes.”
“Only with your eyes?”
By way of reply, he put down his glass, got up and switched off the desk lamp. He hit the wall switch next but left the candles burning.
As he approached the couch, I held out my arms. I didn’t care what nationality his fingers were as long as he touched me with them.
Chapter Ten
After our closet purge, Imogene’s trust in me was stronger than ever. She had no trouble approving the lighting fixtures I’d photographed, and the next morning I returned
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