I interrupted Morrell’s translation to ask for a detailed description of the men. There were two. And how were they dressed? In suits. Not in uniforms?

“What’s the point?” Morrell asked, when I pushed for as accurate a description as possible.

“If they were state marshals, they would have been in uniform. INS, who knows, but these men sound expensively dressed. I don’t think they were with the law, except the one unto themselves.”

“Qué?” Señora Mercedes demanded of Sherree. “Qué dicen?”

Sherree refused to look up from the dolls, who she’d brought to the tacqueria and were now climbing on top of each other in a fearful tangle of arms.

“The lady thinks they were not with the law, but perhaps men who had an evil intention toward Nicola and her family,” Morrell said in Spanish.

That was as far as we could take matters. Señora Mercedes had seen Señor Baladine drive her daughter home, perhaps four times during the years she worked for him, but he always stayed in the car, she had no way of recognizing his face. If he had been at her home the day before Nicola died, she didn’t know. I would have to dig up photos of Baladine and Trant to see if Señora Mercedes recognized either of them.

We left the tacqueria with copious thanks for the señora’s time. Morrell bought Sherree a frozen mango on a stick from one of the pushcarts we passed on the way back to their apartment. On the L north, Morrell and I went over the conversation from as many angles as we could but couldn’t squeeze any more out of it.

As for Nicola’s body, that, too, remained a mystery. Morrell said he’d talked to Vishnikov, who hadn’t been able to track it down. Vishnikov had also reported on Frenada’s autopsy: the man had died by drowning—the water in his lungs made that clear.

“Frenada was out at the Baladine estate the night before he died,” I said. “Robbie Baladine saw him there. I’d love to know whether the water in his lungs came from a swimming pool or Lake Michigan.”

Morrell pursed his mouth in a soundless whistle. “I’ll ask Vishnikov. I don’t know if it’s too late or not—the morgue released the body to Frenada’s sister yesterday afternoon. Now, since I’ve been a good collaborator, taken you where you wanted to go, found out what news there was to learn about Lucian Frenada, will you do something for me?”

“If it’s in my power, sure.”

“Join me for a Fourth of July picnic tomorrow. I’ll supply the food. We can use the private beach up the street from me—I know one of the families who lives there.”

I laughed. “That task sounds well within my capabilities. Thank you.”