Taking a moment, Eve toyed with her wine. “I don’t think so, but I’m going to find out, one way or the other.”
Meanwhile, there was no reason not to enjoy really good pizza while she tracked Teresa’s movements through the dining room, the open kitchen.
She waited until Teresa came back to the table. “How was everything?”
“Great.”
“Can I interest you in dessert?” she began as she started to clear. “We have homemade tiramisu tonight. It’s amazing.”
“Have to pass. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Eyes suddenly wary, Teresa lowered her order comp. “Is there a problem?”
“I need a few minutes.” Eve laid her badge on the table, watched Teresa’s gaze shift to it, stall there. “Private’s best.”
“Um . . . there’s a little office off the bar, but—”
“That’ll work.” Eve slid out, rose, knowing she was crowding Teresa’s space.
“I just need to get someone to cover my tables. Ah . . .”
“Fine.” Eve glanced at Roarke as Teresa hurried over to another waitress. “Why don’t you come with us?” she said to Roarke. “We’ll see how close you hit the mark on your evaluation.”
They skirted tables, wound through the bar. The office was little, as advertised, and cozily cluttered. Inside, Teresa linked her fingers, twisted them. “Is something wrong? Did I do something? I’m sorry about the flowers, and Spike was very bad. But I—”
“Spike?”
“The puppy. I didn’t know he’d dig in the flowers, and I promised to replace them. I told Mrs. Perini, and she said it was all right.”
“It’s not about the dog, Mrs. Franco. It’s about your son.”
“David? Is David all right? What—?”
“Not David,” Eve said, cutting through the instant maternal alarm. “Lino.”
“Lino.” Teresa’s hand went to her heart, and her heel pressed there. “If it’s the police, of course, it’s Lino.” Weariness settled over her like a thin, worn blanket. “What has he done?”
“When’s the last time you had contact with him?”
“Almost seven years now. Not a word in nearly seven years. He told me he had work. Big prospects. Always big prospects with Lino. Where is he?”
“Where was he the last time you had contact with him?”
“Out west. Nevada, he said. He’d been in Mexico for a time. He calls, or sends e-mail. Sometimes he sends money. Every few months. Sometimes a year goes by. He tells me he’ll come home, but he doesn’t.” She sat. “I’m relieved that he doesn’t, because he carries trouble with him. Like his father. And I have another son. I have David, and he’s a good boy.”
“Mrs. Franco, you’re aware Lino belonged t
o the Soldados?”
“Yes, yes.” She sighed. “His brothers, he called them. He had their mark put on him.” She rubbed a hand on her forearm. “Nothing I did stopped him; nothing I said swayed him. He’d make promises, and break them. Go his own way. There was always police with Lino.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He left home when he was seventeen. He’s never come back.”
“You used to work for Hector Ortiz.”
“Years ago. He was good to me. To us. He gave Lino a job, a little job when he was fifteen. Busing tables, sweeping up. And Lino stole from him.”