Robert Wilson - The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

They walked out into the sunlight. She checked the contents of his evidence bag. He locked the shed.

'We can cut through here to our place,' she said, leading him towards a break in the hedge by Sergei's quarters.

Falcón went back to the house, put the evidence bag inside the garage and shut the door. He followed her through the hedge and up the garden to her house thinking about how he was going to introduce Reza Sangari into the mix.

He sat on the sofa in the chill of the living room while she made the coffee. Her sandals had low heels on them which clicked softly on the marble floor. Even out of the room there was still this subliminal sexual presence. She poured the coffee and lowered herself on to the other end of the sofa.

'You know what it feels like out here when I'm all on my own day after day?' she said. 'It feels like I'm in limbo. It's one of those weird incongruities of life that I've found my social life has improved one hundred per cent since Rafael died. He used to be just about our only guest. But now you come around and yesterday I spent some time with Esteban…'

'Juez Calderón?'

'Yes,' she said. 'He's a nice guy and very cultured, too.'

'When did you see him?'

'I ran into him in town in the morning and we met up later and had an evening together,' she said. 'He took me to some odd bars in the centre that I would never go into by myself. You know, those places with a thousand jamones hanging from the ceiling, sweating into those conical plastic cups over the heads of fat guys with their black hair combed back in brilliant rails, smoking cigars and adjusting their trousers every time a woman walks by'

'What time was that?'

'You can't stop being a detective, can you?' she said. 'It was about six until ten o'clock.'

She crossed her legs. Her dress slipped back towards her lap. She kicked the sandal off her foot.

'I saw that you had a show called "Minute Lives",' said Falcón. 'What was that about?'

'Or "M i nute Lives",' she said, rolling her eyes. 'I never like that stupid title. It was my agent's idea. They like things to be catchy and commercial. I've got the book upstairs, if you'd like to see.'

She stood and flipped the hem of her dress out with her fingertips.

'It's OK, 'said Falcón, wanting to keep this on the ground floor. 'I just wanted to know the subject matter.'

She walked over to the sliding doors and put her hands up on the glass and looked out into the garden. Again the light streamed through her clothes. Falcón squirmed. Everything seemed to be calculated.

'They were shots of very ordinary people taken at work or in their homes. They were people in a big city with small lives and the shots were just clips of their life story – your imagination was supposed to do the rest.'

'I read a review of the show,' said Falcón. 'It was by somebody called Dan Fineman. He didn't seem to like it.'

He watched the back of her head, her neck and shoulders as his words crept into her mind. She was as still as a night animal with a host of predators. She turned suddenly and with an intake of breath came back for her coffee. She lit a cigarette and thumped her back into the sofa.

'Dan Fineman was an asshole I knew from high school. He always wanted to fuck me but he made my flesh crawl. He never aspired to anything greater than writing for the St Louis Times and when he got there he took his revenge.'

'He wrote another article about you,' said Falcón. 'You might not have seen it.'

'That was the only show I ever did in St Louis. First and last.'

'This wasn't to do with the arts. It was a local news story.'

'I only went back to St Louis to see my parents for Thanksgiving and Christmas.'

'When did you say your mother died?'

'I didn't,' she said, 'but it was on December 3rd 2000. You know who you remind me of, Inspector Jefe?'

'Americans only seem to know one Spaniard and I don't look anything like Antonio Banderas.'

'Columbo,' she said, not thinking this at all but wanting to get back at him. 'A much better-looking Columbo. You ask a load of questions that don't seem to have any bearing on the case and then, bang, you nail the culprit.'

'Fictional police work is always more entertaining than the real thing.'

'Marty said from the beginning that you weren't like any cop he'd ever seen.'

'And I suppose he'd have come across quite a few in the months before you arrived here?'

She rested her chin on her thumb and tapped her nose with her finger.

'You never said what Dan Fineman wrote about, Inspector Jefe.'

'How you were helping the FBI with their inquiries into the murder of your ex-lover, Reza Sangari.'

'You're a very thorough person,' she said.

'You looked me up on the internet,' said Falcón. 'I looked you up.'

'Then you won't need to ask me anything,' she said. 'And, anyway, none of it's relevant to what happened to the Vegas.'

'Have you had any other affairs since you've been married to your husband?' he asked.

She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips and smoked about two centimetres in a single drag.

'Are you seriously trying to put me and Rafael together, Inspector Jefe?' she asked. 'Is that how your mind works? You see a pathetically obvious pattern in things and your policeman's brain snaps the two together.'

Falcón sat still, his eyes fixed on her, waiting for the cracks to appear. Instead, something dawned in her face and she sat up on the edge of the sofa.

'I've got it,' she said. 'How stupid of me. Columbo – disconnected questions. This is about the judge, isn't it? You think I'm embarking on an affair with Juez Calderón. And, yes, I read the story… Javier Falcón. His fiancé is your ex-wife. Is that what this is all about'

There was some colour in Maddy Krugman's cheeks. She was angry. Falcón wouldn't have minded blocking out the glare coming from her green eyes, the flames of her red hair. He realized that the two of them were prepared to hurt each other and she didn't mind the idea of that.

'Now that I've discovered that your motive for leaving America was a little more complicated than you've led me to believe, I have to look at things from a different perspective.'

'So what was all that stuff about Esteban?'

'You mentioned him, not me,' he said. 'I was interested because he decided to postpone a meeting he had with me yesterday. I now find out it was because he was with you.'

'Do you still love your ex-wife, Inspector Jefe?'

'That's got nothing to do with anything.'

'Why are you so curious about Esteban?' she asked. 'It shouldn't be any of your business what he does with his private life. And you shouldn't give a damn about your ex-wife… but you do.'

'They're getting married. I'm under no illusions.'

'You've given yourself away, Inspector Jefe,' she said. 'You're under no illusions, but you wouldn't mind the chance, I bet.'

'You're like a defence lawyer putting words into the mouth of a prosecution witness.'

'And you've got nobody to object to,' she said, looking sadly around the living room before fixing on him again, 'Any woman over the age of twenty would take one look at Esteban Calderón and know him for what he is.'

'Which is?'

'A ladies' man who's always looking,' she said. 'You don't see it because you're not the type. I hope your ex-wife isn't a romantic.'

'And what if she is?'

'She'd be under the illusion that she could make that kind of man change,' she said. 'But I can promise you one thing… she knows what he's like. No woman could miss it. Why do you think Esteban was around here with his tail wagging on the first day of your investigation?'

'How does your husband take that sort of thing?' asked Falcón.

'Marty's got nothing to worry about,' she said. 'He trusts me.'