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one-bedroom apartment across the river in Galvez with his girlfriend, her parents, and his two-year-old son. He was good-natured and quick to laugh and always on time. And now, of all days, Caren realized she would have to let him go. This was the first she’d heard that the Social Security card he showed when he was hired might not be worth the paper it was printed on. The plantation received state funding. Caren wasn’t allowed to take any chances. She was management now.
    She felt her stomach turn.
    She hated this part of the job.
    She wanted to lie down somewhere and start this day all over again—Donovan on time, and no body in the ground, and none of this news about Miguel’s status.
    The slim detective was walking toward her. “Caren Gray?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “Sergeant said you’re the one who made the call?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m Detective Nestor Lang, ma’am.” He held out his right hand.
    “You can call me Caren.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    He turned and surveyed the scene with a small sigh.
    “Well,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”
    “Miguel,” she said, nodding to where he was standing with the other cop. “He alerted Luis, who alerted me, and then I called the station. I don’t really know any more than that.” Detective Lang nodded, reaching for his cell phone at his waist. He checked a text message, then nodded to the kid in uniform. “Go on and escort Dr. Allard back this way,” he said, “and let him know the crew from CID is already here.”
    “Yes, sir,” the deputy said. He jogged across the grass toward the parking lot, keeping a taming hand on the loose waistband of his pants as he ran. Lang slid his cell phone back inside the leather case on his belt. From his jacket pocket he pulled out a small pad, identical to the one his partner was using to take notes. He clicked the top of an ink pen and said, “So who all has access to the property, ma’am?”
    “The staff, during the day.”
    “Can I get a list?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the property’s locked at night?”
    “Unless we have an event, yes.”
    “That’s right, that’s right,” he said. “Y’all put on parties out here.”
    She didn’t believe that y’all for a second. It was a folksy air, put on in an effort to disarm her, she thought, to make her feel at home with him. He was watching her closely, studying her face, the way she had both hands shoved down deep in the pockets of her jeans, making clear by his expression that he hadn’t yet decided on which side of his internal ledger she belonged, openly compliant . . . or trouble. He threw a glance over his shoulder, nodding toward the main house and the quarters. “Strange place to throw a party,” he said, testing her reaction, trying to get a feel for what kind of an employee she was, perhaps one who might go off-script outside her boss’s earshot.
    “Well . . . we host weddings, too.”
    This made him smile.
    He thought she was being clever.
    “The event fees help cover the cost of maintaining the property,” she said matter-of-factly. “The Clancys feel it’s the best way they can preserve the space for history.”
    “Was there something going on here last night?”
    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “The last was a luncheon yesterday.”
    The Baton Rouge Ladies’ Lunch Bunch, she said.
    “And who all has keys to the property?”
    She ran through the list aloud. “Gerald, our security guard, is on nights when we have an event. He has keys for the main gate and most of the buildings. Lorraine, the cook, she comes in early sometimes. She has a key. And Danny has one, too.”
    “Danny?”
    “He’s a graduate student, a professor, I guess. He has a key to the main gate and access to the library. He kind of comes and goes as he pleases. He doesn’t work for me,” she said, making that distinction clear. Lang was writing all this down.
    “Is he here now?”
    “He was earlier, yes.”
    “Good,” he said, writing this,