“Whoa, boy. Ease ‘em up.” I cut the motor and eased into a parking space. I heard the car door shut loudly. The metal gate that divided the studios from the parking lot was open. I walked up to Rudy Sancerre’s back door and put my ear against it. The leaves of dead plants rustled in the breeze. I didn’t hear anything. I tiptoed past it to the Cuban’s. It, too, was quiet inside. Pressing against the door for a long moment, I listened intently, wondering what I would say if the door were to suddenly fly open.

Satisfied no one was there, I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again, looking around the lot to see if anyone was watching me. No one. I put my hand on the door and was surprised to find it was not locked. I was disappointed. By now I was an old pro at breaking and entering. I had lost my innocence so quickly. And eagerly. I opened the door hastily and stepped inside.

A parrot in a wrought-iron cage squawked at me.

“Shhh,” I growled, but the parrot kept mumbling in a polyglot of languages I couldn’t understand.

The Cuban’s studio was the same size as Rudy’s but seemed smaller because it was full of white plastic trellises, gazebos and columns that I supposed were used to make backdrops for bridal pictures. In one corner was a pile of red, white and pink plastic roses. A clothing rack held a tuxedo and a tired looking wedding dress with a yellowing veil. There was a small desk with a chair, a phone and a Rolodex. I sat down in the chair and began flipping through the Rolodex quickly to see if he had the number for Cathy Vega. Or Carmen Luzano, although I felt sure he had known her by the name Cathy. Those names weren’t there and I didn’t recognize any of the ones I saw. I noticed his business calendar, on which was imprinted his name and address, had a photograph of a girl in a bathing suit holding a Cuban flag against a backdrop of palm trees. I picked up the calendar. Above the palms in an arching black script were the words “Bahía de Guantanamo—Cuba Libre.” The calendar slipped from my fingers. Could this have been the backdrop against which the nude pictures of Cathy Vega had been taken? The words cropped from the top of the picture?

I pulled the desk drawers open, but they contained only broken pencils and order slips for photographic supplies made out to one Armando Diaz. The bottom drawer on the right side was locked. I went through the drawers again but couldn’t find a key. I picked at the lock for a few moments with a letter opener I found on top of the desk, but it wouldn’t give.

“Que Linda, que Linda,” the bird whistled.