Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

Daisy raised her head, looked at Holly, then went back to sleep with a long sigh.

Holly was looking across the little square at a green SUV that had been sitting there for as long as she had. She raised the pocket binoculars to her eyes, zoomed in, and tried to make out who was inside. Its windows were darkened, as were hers, but there was a sunlit building behind them that allowed her to see the silhouettes of a man and a woman. She smiled. One of them—the woman in the passenger seat—was using binoculars, too.

“Oh, Harry, Harry,” she said, “how can you be wasting manpower on an unimportant murder when there are terrorists to be caught?” She wished he were there to answer.

The front doors of the church opened and organ music wafted down the street as a priest in full regalia, followed by eight men carrying a mahogany coffin, came down the front steps and headed for the churchyard, followed by the congregation. A deep hole and a pile of dirt covered by artificial turf awaited them. The group gathered around the open grave, and half a dozen of them took their places in folding chairs that had been set out to receive them.

Holly saw Pedro Alvarez among them, but the crowd kept her from seeing who occupied the other chairs. The ceremony proceeded, then one by one the people in the chairs got up, tossed a handful of dirt into the grave, then stood by. Last was a tall, quite beautiful young woman who added a single rose to the small tributes. “That’s my girl,” Holly said, consulting the photograph from the locket. “Now, we wait some more.”

The ceremony concluded, the crowd took a few minutes to disperse, after offering their condolences. At last, only the family were left. They talked among themselves for a moment, then broke into two distinct groups and departed. The group with Pedro went to one car, while the group with the young woman walked to another. Holly gave the car, a white Lexus, a head start before following. She noted that the FBI, faced with the choice, chose Pedro’s group. Okay with her.

The Lexus drove at a leisurely pace to a pretty neighborhood a few blocks away, nicely painted houses surrounded by neatly kept lawns. Holly stopped as the car turned in to a driveway, where there was already a blue Ford Focus parked. Six people got out and went into the house. More waiting to be done.

Holly sat, fighting the urge to doze like Daisy, and then she got a little break. A mailman was working his way down the street toward her. When he was even with the car, Holly rolled down the window. “Excuse me, sir,” she said.

The mailman looked at her. “Yeah?”

“See the house down the street there, with the Lexus parked in the driveway?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me who lives there?”

“Who are you, and why do you want to know?”

Holly showed him her badge. “A car answering that description has been reported stolen; I’m just checking it out.”

The mailman rummaged in his bag and found a small bundle of envelopes, secured with a rubber band. He walked over to the car and held them up so that Holly could read the name and address on a phone bill. “That do it for you?”

Marina Santos, the name read. “Yes, thank you.”

“Lives there with her mother, name of Maria. And they’re not the sort of folks to steal cars.”

“I believe a visitor is driving the car. Thanks very much.”

The mailman nodded and continued on his rounds, eventually crossing the street and working that side.

The sun fell low in the sky, and the shadows lengthened, and still the visitors remained inside. Finally, as Holly saw a light go on in a window, the front door opened and the guests said their goodbyes, getting into the Lexus and driving away. Holly started her car and drove down the block, parking in front of the Santos house. “Stay,” she said to Daisy. She got out, went to the front door, and rang the bell.

A woman in her fifties came to the door. “Sí?” she asked.

“May I speak with Marina, please?”

The woman turned and spoke some words of Spanish, then Marina came to the door. “You wish to speak with me?” she asked, sounding baffled. Her English was unaccented.

“Yes. My name is Holly Barker. I’m a police officer, and I’m investigating the death of Carlos Alvarez. I’m sorry to intrude on such a day, but it’s very important.”

Marina stared at her warily; probably Pedro had warned her to expect the visit.

“Marina, I’m trying very hard to learn who murdered Carlos. Unless you are willing to help me, we may never know who did it.”

Marina finally made her decision. “Come in,” she said.

Holly stepped into a small entrance hall, then followed Marina into a nicely furnished living room.

“Please be seated,” Marina said, then she turned to her mother and spoke some words of Spanish. “Would you like some tea?” she said to Holly.

“Yes, thank you.”