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let me come any farther. A murder investigation, he reminded me, was not part of my job here.
    Once again he was right. But once again I didn’t like it.
    I told myself to mind my own business. The Hammond murder had nothing to do with me.
    I had the next day off, and I was determined to enjoy it. I slept in. When I got up, I thought about going for a run but figured it was already too hot. I did a hundred laps in the pool instead. Then I prepared myself a nice breakfast of omelet and fresh fruit. I put the food on a tray and carried it down to the garden. As I ate, my mind wandered to Marie Hammond and Alphonse. I speared a juicy slice of mango. When we’d first arrived, no one had so much as hinted that Alphonse was causing trouble with Marie. Later, Hammond “remembered.” As did Nicholas. Nicholas, I was pretty sure, had been primed on what to say before our return visit.
    Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Alphonse seemed like a timid old guy. But after all my years as a cop, I knew better than to judge anyone by appearance.
    I was wiping up the last of the fruit juices with a slice of toast when my phone rang. Pierre.
    “What’s up?” I said.
    “Thought you’d want to know. We searched Alphonse’s home this morning.”
    “And?”
    “Found two hundred American dollars and a stack of gourdes. Hidden under a cooking pot.”
    “Does he live alone?”
    “Yeah. Wife and kids killed in the earthquake.”
    “What’s he say about the money?”
    “That he doesn’t know how it got there. I am thinking…” He hesitated.
    “Go ahead,” I said. Thinking was good. I wanted cops to think.
    “He did look very surprised when we showed him the money. Then again, he might be a good actor.”
    “Thanks.” I hung up. Two hundred bucks. About a month’s salary for a gardener. A lot of money to have hanging around a house in Jalousie. Then again, it might be his savings. Maybe he didn’t trust banks. But he said the money wasn’t his. Was that the truth? Or what he thought he should say to the cops?
    What did I know? Maybe he did kill Marie Hammond. Not because he was interested in her, but because he was stealing from her. Hammond did say money had been taken from her purse.
    It’s gotta be hard for people like housemaids and gardeners. They work all day in big houses. Surrounded by all the luxuries money can buy. And then they go home to a refugee tent or a cardboard-and-tin shack.
    I read for a while longer and enjoyed another swim. At noon I got dressed to meet a couple of friends for lunch. Guys who were in Haiti working on plans for a proper, modern police-training facility.
    I’d brought a car with me from Canada. An old but reliable Toyota RAV4. I headed out in it to the Hotel Oloffson. The Oloffson’s a gorgeous old place. Long balconies, gingerbread trim, ironwork as delicate as lace, and ornate wooden fretwork. Turrets and white paint and a red roof. Mazes of nooks and crannies. Modern Vodou sculptures fill the rooms and the lush tropic gardens, popping up in the most unexpected places. The hotel was made famous in Graham Greene’s novel The Comedians . It still has the aura of a place that time left far behind.
    My friends had arrived before me. They’d taken a table on the wide verandah, overlooking the main staircase and the gardens. I sat down and ordered a beer. They told me about the progress (or lack thereof ) on the new police college. I talked about my work, but I didn’t mention the Hammond case. I was still telling myself to forget about it. We shared the local police and government gossip.
    “I hear the presidential-palace rebuild has been put up for bid,” I said.
    “As if. There’s some idle talk going around. But everyone knows there’s no way of paying for it.”
    “They have more important things to fix first. Where’d you hear that, Ray?”
    I shrugged. “Just gossip.”
    We stopped talking when our food arrived. The pretty waitress placed an overflowing plate of