“This was taken in the Philippines?”

     “Yes. Our province. Negros Occidental.”

     She said it with Spanish pronunciation, made it sound elegant.

     “How long was he planning to stay?”

     “One month only.”

     “And he was there how long?”

     “Two weeks and two days.”

     “Then he was killed.”

     “Yes, he was killed. Of course he was killed. He was burned to death in a hut. Why are you asking questions? You have a death certificate.”

     “Fifty thousand dollars is still a lot of money,” I said.

     “The policy is for twenty-five thousand.”

     “Accidental death, double indemnity.”

     “Oh. Yes. But why are you asking questions?”

     “He takes out a term life policy for twenty-five thousand, a month and a half later you say he's died in a fire, you think nobody's going to ask questions? You must be dreaming.”

     “It was Lito's idea, the insurance.”

     “That's very possible.”

     “I was against it. I thought it was bad luck.”

     “Not so bad for you. Sole beneficiary, you stand to get fifty thousand. Unless the dead come back and want a piece of the action.”

     “Don't talk that way,” she said, and she crossed herself quickly. She had a pretty face gone fleshy.

     “I could use another photo,” I said. “Something that shows his face a little better.”

     She didn't move.

     “You don't have to give it to me,” I said. “But the sooner this gets wrapped up, sooner you get the money.”

     “I don't care about the money,” she said, but she got up and went to a writing desk, opened a drawer, and began thumbing through a stack of snapshots. I could see papers bound in bunches and crammed into shoe boxes.