Cleanup (3 page)

He led the way through the door and marched straight to the desk sergeant where he identified himself as Maria's lawyer and me as his translator.

A uniformed police officer was summoned to take us to an interview room. He knocked on the door, and Detective Bodie stepped out. Mr. Mason went through his introductions again. The whole time, Bodie looked disapprovingly at me.

“Ms. Suarez was at the scene,” he told Mr. Mason.

“I understand she was the one who called nine-one-one,” Mr. Mason said. “Is there a problem? Is she a suspect?”

“Not at this time, no.”

“Is she being looked at as a possible suspect?” Mr. Mason asked.

“No,” Bodie admitted.

“Well then, my translator and I would like to see Ms. Gonzales.”

Bodie opened the door for us. Maria stood up when she saw me. She hugged me.

She waited until the detective had left before she said in Spanish, “I'm scared. They think I killed Mr. Richard.”

I let her hug me again. Then I stepped back so that I could look at her and reassure myself that I was right to believe her.

Mr. Mason closed the door, introduced himself to Maria and explained why I was there. He asked his questions in English, speaking directly to Maria. Maria answered in Spanish. I translated.

“Tell me everything you can remember about that morning, Ms. Gonzales,” Mr. Mason said. “Where you were, what you did, who you spoke to. Anything you can remember.”

Maria looked down at the table while she spoke.

“I got up and went to the shower,” she said hesitantly.

“No, I mean tell me everything from the time you arrived at Mr. Withers's house that morning,” Mr. Mason said.

Maria's cheeks turned pink.

“I—I did not arrive in the morning.” She refused to look at me but peeked at Mr. Mason. “I was there since the night before.”

Mr. Mason raised an eyebrow when I translated her answer. So Mike was right, I thought. Maria had been having an affair with Mr. Withers.

“I see,” Mr. Mason said. “Am I to gather that you and Mr. Withers were…involved?”

Maria's cheeks turned from pink to crimson.

“He was a good man,” she said. “When he found out how much the agency was paying me, he said I should quit. He said he would pay me directly. He said he would pay me what I deserved.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Mike paid me less than he paid you, because of my status.”

I didn't translate the last part. Mr. Mason didn't seem to notice.

“Ms. Gonzales,” he said, his eyes on Maria again, “about Mr. Withers…”

“We were going to get married,” she said.

Married? I was stunned. When had that happened?

All that Mr. Mason said was, “I see.” If he was surprised, he gave no sign of it. “Now, about the morning in question…”

Maria said that she had woken up at six o'clock, when Mr. Withers got out of bed. He was an early riser. But he urged her to go back to sleep. He also told her that she should stop worrying about cleaning the house.

“He said you could do it, Connie,” she said. “He said he would pay you extra, maybe hire you himself full time to work for him, never mind Mike. I told him you weren't a maid, Connie. Not really. He said he would help you. He said he could tell you are very smart. He knows many people.”

Mr. Mason made notes with a fountain pen.

“I went back to sleep,” Maria continued. “I didn't wake up until nearly two hours later when he came back into the bedroom. He was upset. I asked him what the matter was, but he said it was nothing for me to worry about.”

Mr. Withers told her he had a few things to attend to. He went downstairs, and she got up to have a shower.

“You've seen the bathroom,” Maria said to me. “We've scrubbed it often enough. The shower is wonderful. It's like standing under a waterfall, except the water is so hot. No one tells you to hurry up. No one pounds on the door. No one tells you not to waste the water or how high the electric bill will be. I could shower all day if I wanted and Mr. Richard would never say anything.”

“How long were you in the shower?” Mr. Mason asked.

“Fifteen minutes. Twenty. I'm not sure. When I opened the bathroom door, I saw Mr. Richard lying on the bedroom floor.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “He wasn't moving.”

“What did you do then?” Mr. Mason asked.

Maria was silent.

“Maria,” I said. “You have to answer.”

She looked at me. Tears ran down her face.

“I'm so ashamed,” she said.

“What did you do after you saw Mr. Withers lying on the bathroom floor?” Mr. Mason asked again, gently but firmly.

Maria hung her head. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“I locked myself in the bathroom,” she said. “I was afraid there was a thief in the house. I thought Mr. Richard must have surprised him.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I thought if he saw me, he would kill me too.”

“How long were you in the bathroom that time?” Mr. Mason asked.

“I don't know. Ten minutes. Maybe more. I stayed there until I was sure I couldn't hear anything. When I came out, I called Connie.”

“Why Connie?” Mr. Mason asked. “Why not the police? Why not nine-one-one?”

Maria raised her head. She looked pleadingly at me.

I sighed.

“It's better if you tell him, Maria,” I said. “They're going to find out anyway.”

“But if they do—” Maria shook her head. “No.”

“You can explain.”

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Mason asked.

“Tell him, Maria.”

Finally she admitted the truth: She was in the country illegally and was afraid to call the police.

“I see,” Mr. Mason said. “Then what happened?”

Maria stole a glance at me.

“I called Connie,” she said. I held my breath. “Then I left. When Connie came, she called the police.”

The last part was a lie, told to protect me. I felt terrible deceiving Mr. Mason. I promised myself I would explain later.

Mr. Mason leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about that morning, Maria?”

She shook her head.

“Did you touch anything?”

She shook her head again.

“The police found your fingerprints on the murder weapon,” he said. “In the blood.”

What? How was that possible?

“I picked up the statue,” she said. “I wasn't thinking.”

“You said you thought there was a burglar in the house,” Mr. Mason said. “Did you hear someone or something that made you think that?”

“No. But how else could Mr. Richard have been killed? Who else would do such a thing?”

“Did you notice if anything was taken?”

“I didn't look,” she admitted. “But in the bedroom, everything looked normal. Then, after I called Connie, I left.”

Mr. Mason closed the leather portfolio in which he had been making notes. He tucked his pen into his jacket pocket.

“I'll find out when they plan to arraign you,” he said.

I explained to her what that meant.

“Can he get me out of here?” Maria asked me. “Can I get bail?”

When I translated, Mr. Mason shook his head.

“They've charged you with murder, Maria. It's very hard to get bail on a murder charge. And once they know about your status…”

Maria began to cry. I didn't blame her. A murder conviction would mean prison, but deportation would mean certain death.

“I didn't kill Mr. Richard. I would never kill Mr. Richard,” Maria said through her tears.

Mr. Mason told her to sit tight. I hugged her. Then we had to leave her alone in the cold, bare room.

CHAPTER
FIVE

B
odie's eyes zeroed in on me the moment I stepped out of the interview room. I ignored him as best I could.

“There's something I have to tell you,” I said to Mr. Mason. “In private.” I wanted to explain about when I had arrived and when Maria had left the house.

A cell phone trilled. He reached into his pocket and checked the display. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to take this. We'll talk later. I promise.” He walked away with his phone to his ear.

I turned to leave too. Bodie was blocking my way.

“Ms. Suarez, do you have a moment?” he asked. “I have a few more questions for you.”

“I'm in a hurry,” I said. I didn't want to speak to him again.

“You're not a suspect, if that's what you're worried about,” he said. “Please?” He offered me a smile that made him look almost handsome. “It will just take a few minutes. We can sit in here.”

He opened the door to a small room. I looked inside. It was just like the room Maria was in. An interview room. I felt myself bristle. Bodie noticed.

“Is there some reason you don't want to talk to me?” he asked.

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Detective?” I asked.

“Of course not. I'm just trying to get all my facts straight. Look, I understand she's your friend.”

“We work together. That's all.”

“You're the person she called.”

What was he getting at? He had told Mr. Mason I wasn't a suspect. Had he been lying?

I looked at my watch. “I don't have much time. And I don't like the room.”

I was surprised when he led me to another room—the coffee room this time. We sat down.

“I understand from your employer that you were a legal assistant until recently,” he said. “I understand you were downsized.”

“That's right.”

“That's quite a comedown,” he said. “One day you're in some rich lawyer's office, the next day you're scrubbing toilets in some rich old man's house. Is that where you met Ms. Gonzales?”

I nodded.

“Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Withers?” he asked.

“We worked for him. Of course we talked about him.”

“Did she ever mention him in a romantic context?”

“No.”

“Did she ever say or do anything that made you think she might be romantically interested in him?”

“No.” I knew that Maria liked the old man. She often said how sweet he was and what a gentleman he was. But romantically involved? No. I had been completely surprised by her announcement that the old man had proposed marriage.

“What about Mr. Withers?” Bodie asked.

“He was pleasant to both of us,” I said. “I never noticed anything special between him and Ms. Gonzales.”

Another detective called Bodie's name. “There's a guy here to see you,” he said.

“Ask him to wait.” Bodie shifted his eyes back to me.

“He's kind of antsy,” the other detective said. “He said it's about his father—Richard Withers.”

Bodie's eyes didn't move from my face. “Tell him I'll be with him in a minute.”

The other detective vanished.

“I'd better let you go,” I said, standing to leave.

“Just one more question, Ms. Suarez.” Bodie stood up too. “Do you think Ms. Gonzales killed Mr. Withers?”

“No,” I said. “What motive would she have for doing that?”

“Did you know about her status, Ms. Suarez?”

I remained silent. I wasn't being charged with anything. I wasn't under arrest. I didn't even have to talk to him if I didn't want to.

“Do you know that she claims Mr. Withers proposed to her?”

“Claims? Don't you believe her?” I asked.

He didn't answer. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Suarez. If anything comes up, I know where to find you.”

He called for a uniformed officer to escort me to the main door. While I waited, I saw him approach a middle-aged man and introduce himself. He had to be Mr. Withers's son, I decided. Even from where I was standing, I saw the resemblance to his father and to the pictures of the young boy and the teenager that I had dusted throughout Mr. Withers's house. His face was pale and drawn. He was obviously in shock. My heart went out to him. How awful it must have been to find out that his father had been brutally murdered.

When I finally got outside, I saw that there was a message on my cell phone from Mike Czernecki. I returned his call.

“Do you have a job for me?” I asked.

“I'm working on it,” he said. “I have a girl in the west end. She does nine houses. I've been getting complaints about her. I'm probably going to have to let her go.”

“Nine houses?”

“Half day each on eight of them. Full day on the ninth. It's a good gig, Connie.”

It was steady work, which would be good, sure. But nine different houses meant nine different homeowners with nine different sets of rules to remember.

“In the meantime,” Mike continued, “Mr. Withers wants you to go back to the house.”

Before I could remind him that Mr. Withers was dead, he said, “Mr. Withers junior, obviously. The son. His wife called me. She said she found the company name at her father-in-law's house. She says her husband wants the house cleaned from top to bottom. Walls and floors washed. Carpets shampooed. Fridge and cupboards cleaned out. Closest contents sorted, boxed and labeled. It'll take you a week, minimum. Probably more like two. I told her you'd be there first thing in the morning. You good with that, Connie?”

I wasn't sure I wanted to go back there.

“Connie, is that a yes or a no? I don't have all day.”

“Yes,” I said. It was work, and I needed work. “About that other job—”

“When I let that girl go, you'll be the first to know. And I'm not going to hold it against you that you didn't tell me about Maria.”

“I didn't know, Mike.”

He snorted in reply. He still didn't believe me. But he knew I worked hard, and I was willing to bet no one had ever complained about me.

“Hey, Connie? If I were you, I wouldn't mention to either the son or the daughter-in-law that you know Maria. Maybe I wouldn't even mention that you've been in the house before. You hear what I'm saying?”