“Unless she worked there at some point?” suggested Buckley. “Or had a friend who stayed or worked there?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“What are your plans?” asked Buckley.
“I’m not sure I have any right now.”
“What is your line of work?” Buckley asked.
“I used to be a receptionist. But I can do nails. And I did some personal fitness training.”
“Yes, you look very fit. So you did that before Ken came into your life?”
“I . . . I had some problems with stuff that sort of messed me up for a while,” Rosa replied, averting her gaze. “Ken and I met at a party. We hit it off, so . . .”
“Were they substance abuse problems?”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, giving him an offended look.
“Because that’s the problem most people have that messes up their lives. But I’m not judging you. Lots of people get addicted for all sorts of reasons.”
“Well, I kicked it, at least I’m pretty sure I did.”
He took out his wallet, counted out a thousand dollars, and handed them across.
“What’s this for?” Rosa asked with a stunned expression.
“Call it a down payment on financing your post-Ken life.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I feel that I do.”
She quickly put the cash in her jeans pocket. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She gazed admiringly at him, obviously attracted by his good looks and expensive clothes and cultured and generous manner. “I can’t believe you’re Ken’s brother.”
“We were always very different. But if he had made better choices, he could have become what I did. Or perhaps even better. He had some talents.”
“I wish I’d met you instead of him,” she said coyly, gracing him with a smile as she toyed with a lock of her hair and leaned forward to show a flash of cleavage. “Look, I’ll leave you my number, in case you have any more . . . you know, questions. Maybe we could have a drink?”
“Maybe we could. Shall we head back?”
He walked her to the shelter and watched as she disappeared inside after giving him a smile and a little wave.
“Saw you give her that money, mister.”
Buckley turned to see a woman standing there. She was in her fifties and had clearly suffered a hard life. Her clothes were dirty and disheveled and her eyes unfocused and her body wobbly. She said, “I live here, too.” She pointed to the shelter. “I heard you talking to that pretty Mex girl over coffee. I was having coffee too, with my last dollar.”
“I see,” said Buckley. “Perhaps you can earn some money, too.”
The lady looked at her falling-apart shoes. “I was here when El brought her in.”
“El?” said Buckley.
“El Cain.”
“Is El short for something? Ellen, Eleanor?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“Exactly how do you know her?”
“She used to be here, years ago. I come here off and on. You don’t forget El. Tallest woman I’ve ever met. And tough. She don’t take shit from nobody.”