Calls herself Precy, the apartment manager had told me. Works at Magnin's on Union Square, takes the bus to work. Divorced. Two kids, six and eight.

     “What's this place?” I said. In the snapshot: a long, low building with a facade of broken stucco.

     She looked over her shoulder and said, “That is a schoolhouse.”

     “Who's the woman with him?”

     “Our cousin in the barrio. Vangie.” Vahngie, was how she said it. “She works in Bacolod, she's a teacher. A beautiful girl, huh?”

     She turned back to the stack, riffled through for a few more seconds, and then gave a little yelp.

     “I know the one,” she said. “Wait a minute, huh?” She closed the drawer and went into a bedroom.

     I walked over and opened the desk. The first slim bunch was Magnin paycheck stubs for Preciosa S. Allen. The next, her utility bills and rent receipts. I slipped the rubber band off a shoe box. Inside were charge slips and billing statements, at least eight different accounts. A dunning notice from Bank of America, for Carlito Sanchez at a P.O. box in Oakland, forwarded to this address. An overdue notice, Wells Fargo MasterCard, for Carlos Santillo at the POB. From Bank of California, for Carmelo Sandia, the POB. From Hibernia Bank for Carlos. From Bank of America for Carmelo. From B of A, from Wells Fargo, from Bank of California, for Carlos.

     When she came in I had the desk closed. She looked at me standing in front of it.

     “Here,” she said, “you see.”

     It was an expired passport, Republika Pilipinas. The name said Carlito Cabahug Sanchez, with a birthdate in May 1959. The face belonged to the man on the stone wall.

     “You see,” she said again.

     She watched it into the pocket of my blazer.

     “Why do you want pictures?”