"What do you mean?" I said.

"Did you see his face when you came out of the room?"

"Yeah," I said. "I never thought of that. He does have big plans for me. He wants me to go to college."

"He doesn't want you getting mixed up with an illegal," she said and gave me a sarcastic smile.

"I don't think Schell has anything against you," I said. "I just think he's protected me for so long, he's having a hard time accepting that I've grown up."

"Creo que йl tiene dificultad con que te vuelvas mejicano otra vez," she said.

"That I'll admit," I said.

"And what do you think I should do?" she asked.

"Stay with me," I said.

"No es possible, en realidad," she said. "And if I did, we'd have to leave Long Island and find somewhere else to live."

"True," I said.

"I don't know," she told me. I could see the sadness creeping into her expression.

"Schell said you could stay here for as long as you liked. We don't have to decide right now. Maybe if we think about it for a few days, we can come up with a solution."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

"Hey," I said, changing the subject. "Come, I'll show you something incredible." We both stood, and I took her by the hand. I led the way down the hallway to the Bugatorium. When we came to the door, I told her to close her eyes, and she did.

Once she was in the middle of the room, I told her to open them. "Behold, the Bugatorium," I said. The butterflies seemed to perform on cue. She spun around to take in the entire sight, giggling nervously.

"This is Mr. Schell's?" she asked.

I nodded. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," she said and took a seat at one end of the couch, her gaze darting about.

I sat down at the opposite end. "He says he studies butterflies because they are masters of deception, but I think there's more to it than that."

She nodded, and I wished I'd owned a camera so I could have captured the look of enchantment on her face. We spent the next few hours telling each other our childhood memories. She'd grown up in a town in Zacatecas, an old colonial town in the highlands, where her father had labored in the silver mines. Her mother's family was Huesteca, originally from northern Veracruz, and they spoke a form of ancient Mayan as well as Spanish. We recalled relatives and games, mole poblano and chilaquiles, and I told her about the men in the Plaza Santa Domingo who composed love letters and wills for those who could not write. The tide of memories increased the longer we talked.

When finally it was time to leave the Bugatorium, I asked her again what she thought of it.

"Una cбrcelita muy preciosa," she said.

I was disappointed that she didn't love it, but at the same time her words planted a seed in my thoughts, and I wondered if I would ever see that room again in the way I did before she'd spoken them.

TRUTH IS BEAUTY

By the time Schell was finished with the makeup kit, we each looked ten years older. He now sported a trim goatee and fuller eyebrows. My complexion was nearly white, and I sported a bushy black mustache and round-frame glasses. He told me that government agents don't usually have facial hair, but that we needed to take the chance in order to thoroughly confuse the coroner's memory.

His belief was that the most important aspect of any costume was the shoes, and he had pairs and pairs of them he'd picked up on the cheap at the Salvation Army to add the right touch to his false incarnations. "A G-man's a cop with greater jurisdiction," he said, "but still a cop." With this in mind, he chose two pairs of simple black shoes that appeared slightly scuffed, with well-worn heels. We dressed in three-piece suits, each outfit topped off with a fedora and a trench coat.

Schell was agent Barlow, as stated on the false ID he and Antony had lifted in Penn Station, and I was agent Smith. The county coroner, a Dr. James Cardiff, lived in a nice, old, two-story place off Middle Neck Road in the town of Great Neck. We arrived at his house precisely in the middle of the dinner hour, as Schell had planned it. The sun had already set, and the night felt more like winter than autumn. There were lights on in most of the houses on the block and the air was laced with the smell of frying onions. As we walked up the path to the front porch, Schell advised me, "No pleasantries. Just stare at him as if you believe he's guilty of something."

I nodded.

We climbed the steps, and Schell rapped rather long and hard on the front door. A plump woman in late middle age, with graying hair, impressive jowls, and wearing an apron, answered. She was a little startled to see us standing there, but she composed herself and asked, "Can I help you?"

Schell flashed the badge and ID quickly and then pocketed them. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. "I'm agent Barlow and this is agent Smith." I quickly touched the brim of my hat as a greeting to the woman but did not alter my blank expression. "We're here to speak to Dr. Cardiff."

"Please come in," she said and pulled the door back for us to enter.

We stepped into the living room of the house. Off to our left was a dining room, and sitting at the table was a boy, about fourteen, and a man I figured was Cardiff. The gentleman stood, placing his napkin on the table, and came toward us. He was a heavyset fellow, balding on top, and had a kind of nervous spring in his step. Schell introduced us again and showed the ID, this time more slowly, so that Cardiff could get a good look at it.

"What can I do for you?" he said, shaking Schell's hand. "Always happy to be of service to the law." He reached toward me for a handshake as well, but I didn't offer my hand, only my look.

"Is there a place we can speak in private?" asked Schell.

His wife went back to the dinner table as Cardiff led us through the house to a small book-lined study. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and offered us seats. Schell and Cardiff sat in leather chairs. I remained standing, off to the side a little, but in a place where he could see me watching him.

That nervous energy I'd noted earlier in the coroner's step had now manifested itself in his hands as he clasped them together, then rubbed them, then flexed his fingers, only to begin again with this unconscious ritual.

Schell tipped his hat back with one finger. "We're conducting a secret investigation concerning the Barnes case," he said. "You know the situation I'm referring to? The murder of Charlotte Barnes?"

Cardiff nodded.

"You're to tell no one of our visit," said Schell.

"Certainly not, gentlemen," he said. "Mum's the word."

"You worked on this case, am I right?" asked Schell.

"Not officially," said Cardiff.

"You didn't sign the death certificate?"

"No, I signed off on it, yes, but someone else did the autopsy."

"That seems rather unusual," said Schell, lifting one bushy eyebrow.

"I'm the coroner," said Cardiff. "I sign the legal paperwork in that capacity. That's it."

"Who looked at the girl?" asked Schell.

"Well, usually I examine bodies if there's any question as to cause of death, as I'm also a licensed medical examiner."

"But you didn't handle this case?"

"No. Someone from higher up ordered a special Forensic Pathologist to come in to oversee things."

"Do you know who it was?" asked Schell.

"Never met them," said Cardiff. "I was told to take the day off when the procedure was done. At first I'd assumed Barnes had applied his significant influence, but as it turned out, I rather think his influence was blocked by someone even more powerful."

"It's stated that the girl died of strangulation," said Schell.

"That's what it says," said Cardiff. "But, to tell you the truth…that's fishy."