I was still processing this when Chet pulled up in front of his apartment building and got out of the car. Top Gun opened my door and then went around to take the driver’s seat. I had nothing to say and stayed quiet, wondering if I was just letting things happen in order to distance myself from them. Chet swung open the glass door and steered me down the hall with his hand on the small of my back. He liked to do this, as if he thought I might wander off otherwise. We entered the elevator and I watched him texting furiously, although seemingly bored by the exchange. He dropped his phone back into his shirt pocket and smiled at me as the elevator doors slid open.

The apartment was now furnished. There was a sprawl of dining table and a pair of butaca chairs and a rattan-backed rocker. In the corner were some boxes and a rolled-up rug. A chandelier was lying on its side on a sheet. Across from this was an antique couch and a chest inlaid with shell, which had been set up as a coffee table.

“Nice,” I said. “All Filipino?”

“The chandelier is from Spain,” he said. “But that’s very Filipino.”

The Ronald Ventura dog/wolf painting was prominently displayed in the center of the right side wall, but leaning on the floor beneath it I noticed the Rembrandt reproduction with the bullet hole.

I looked up at the Ronald Ventura then down at the Luke Alarcon. “You prefer the Alarcon,” I said.

Chet shrugged.

A maid then exited the kitchen with two glasses of water and handed one to Chet and one to me.

“You’ve hired help?” I was stating the obvious, when I should have been asking who the help were supposed to be serving as the apartment was supposedly vacant. Chet’s phone rang and, checking the number with a grimace, he answered. He began listening and nodding intently and gestured to me that I should explore the rest of the apartment.