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I could borrow?”
    “You still borrowing pens? Reporters are supposed to carry pens.”
    “I keep losing them. Holes in my pockets,” said Hernandez, shrugging a smile.
    Sanchez handed a pen to Hernandez. “It was the same ten years ago, in the courts. How many pens you owe me now? Holes in your head, amigo.” Sanchez went to turn. “Come inside. When the men finish, you can take a look around.” There was enthusiasm in his voice now as he ground out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “You ought to see the place. This old guy had money to burn.”
    “Tell me . . . ,” said Hernandez, and followed Sanchez inside.
    •   •   •
    Hernandez looked around the house in amazement, but pretending more surprise than he felt, because this was how he imagined a rich man like Tsarkin might live.
    The crystal chandelier in the hallway, the sweeping staircase, the dining room with the silver candlesticks and the hand-carved chairs of solid oak, the kitchen that was bigger than his whole apartment. There was a Jacuzzi with gold-plated taps, and a tennis court on the back lawn.
    The servants’ quarters were near the outdoor swimming pool. Four servants, Sanchez told him, and three gardeners. They had all left for the afternoon, after Sanchez’s men had questioned them.
    Sanchez kept the study on the ground floor until last. The forensic men were finishing as they came into the hallway from the kitchen. Sanchez caught one of the men by the arm and took him aside to talk in private. When they had finished, Sanchez crossed back to where Hernandez stood, examining an oil painting of a sleek jaguar in a jungle setting. The painting was unsigned, but not bad. A good amateur, Sanchez thought.
    “Well?” Hernandez asked.
    “Suicide,” said Sanchez. “No question. One less problem for me to worry about. We have a little time before they remove the body. You want to see Tsarkin?”
    Hernandez nodded, and Sanchez led the way.
    The door into the study was open, the room large, like all the others.The first thing Hernandez noticed was the painting in a gilded frame swung back on hinges to reveal a safe in the wall, its gray metal door ajar. Books lined the shelves along three walls. Hernandez looked around the room but couldn’t see the body. His eyes went back to the safe just as Sanchez pointed toward the window.
    “He’s over there, behind the desk.”
    Hernandez crossed to the big polished desk and looked over, saw the trousered legs of the man first, then the pools of blood on the gray carpet. The man’s head was covered with a bloodied white handkerchief. Hernandez suppressed the nausea he felt in the pit of his stomach and knelt down for a closer look.
    “It’s not pleasant. He shot himself through the mouth,” Sanchez said.
    Hernandez saw that the handkerchief was soaked through in sticky blood. As he pulled back the material, he felt the congealing blood come unstuck from the dead man’s face. He nearly vomited.
    The face itself was almost unrecognizable above the lips, the shattered jaw set in a final, contorted grimace, as if the dead man had feared the last moment before the gun had exploded and the bullet penetrated the roof of the mouth, shattering the cranium. The old man’s wrinkled claw of a hand was raised and crooked, as if he were waving a grotesque good-bye.
    Hernandez let the bloodied handkerchief fall back into place and stood, seeing the gun then, big and frightening on the gray carpet a yard away.
    Sanchez looked across at him. “You okay?”
    Hernandez swallowed. “Sure.”
    “It must have been quick. No pain. Not the worst way to go, amigo.”
    Hernandez nodded.
    “How much do you know about him?” Sanchez asked, walking over to sit in a comfortable leather chair beside the coffee table.
    “Not much. No family. Retired businessman. Owned a number of businesses, import-export mainly. German, emigrated after the war.Made very little impact in this country, despite his wealth.