"Smells great." I leaned against the counter, wondering how to frame the next question. "What's the story on Chago? Will they have a funeral for him?"

Luis concentrated on his saucepan to avoid eye contact. "Raymond talked to the cops. They won't release the body until the autopsy's done. Might be as early as tomorrow, they won't say."

"Does he have other brothers?"

"Juan and Ricardo. They were here yesterday."

"What about parents?"

"His father was sent to prison for child abuse. He was killed in prison when they heard what he did to Raymond."

"Which was what?"

Luis looked up at me. "He don't talk about that and I don't ask." He went back to his saucepan, stirring hypnotically. "His mother ran off and left when he was seven or eight."

"He's the oldest?"

"Of the boys. There's three older sisters hate his ass. They think it's his fault what happened to the parents."

"Another happy childhood," I said. "How long have you known him?"

"Six, eight months. I met him through a capper of his named Jesus."

Bibianna appeared in the doorway, a blanket across her shoulders like an Indian. "Raymond back yet?"

Luis shook his head.

She disappeared again, and a short time later I could hear shower water running. Luis left the sauce to simmer on the stove and prepared to take the dog for a walk. When he picked up the chain, he discovered the chewed leather section of the leash. Under his breath, I heard him murmur a worried "Shit." I kept my mouth shut, imagining I might engender a sense of loyalty in the mutt. Luis found another way to attach the leash to Perro's collar, and the two left the apartment.

Bibianna reappeared, fully dressed this time. She found a dog-eared deck of cards and sat on the floor next to the coffee table, where she laid out a game of solitaire. I considered hunting for the phone, but I didn't want to call Dolan with Bibianna close by. The less she knew about who I was, the better. I flipped on the television set. The day already had an odd feel to it – idle, unstructured, without purpose or appeal – like a forced vacation in a cutrate resort.

Bibianna seemed preoccupied and I hated to cut into that, but we seldom had time alone and I needed information.

"How often does he get violent?" I asked.