“If you have to find a man, it helps to know what he looks like.”

     “Lito is easy to find. He's in the grave. I have his death certificate. Didn't you see it?”

     “There was a copy in the file. Who's Carlos Santillo?”

     “I don't know,” she said quietly. She didn't seem startled to hear the name, just sad.

     “How about Carmelo Sandia?”

     “I don't know.” Even more quietly.

     “You have good-looking children.” A framed portrait stood on the desktop, two boys in parochial-school uniforms.

     “Thank you. American and Filipino, it's a good mix. Everybody says so.”

     “That's how you got over here, you married an American?”

     “I loved him,” she said, and I believed her.

     “You could lose your kids,” I said. “Insurance fraud is serious. You go to jail, you'll lose those kids. Even for fifty thousand, it wouldn't be worth it. But he won't let you keep the fifty anyway. Maybe he promised you twenty.” She looked down. “He promised you at least twenty, didn't he? Come on—he's not even giving you twenty thousand?”

     She was silent, staring at the carpet.

     “This wasn't your idea,” I said. “I can tell. You're no thief. You don't lie worth a damn.” She kept looking down. “He's using you. I think he's been using you for a long time. How long have you been taking heat for him, helping him out when he screws up? Since you were kids, I bet.”

     “Go away,” she said.

     “You're going to ruin your life for him.”

     “You think you know so much,” she said, “you don't know anything.”

     “I know he's alive, and I know you're going to jail if you don't change your mind.”