The sole exception was Marisol, the young and beautiful housekeeper, who was sobbing so hard she needed to lean on her aunt’s arm for support on her way out. Her boyfriend, Roberto Torres, was nowhere to be seen. The detectives stood as Christina Cardiff approached, walking with her son, and it was a curious thing, but of the two you would swear Marisol was the one who had been widowed, she was that broken up about it. McManus nudged his partner. Jackson dipped his chin to show that he had noticed it, too. Christina walked past, arm in arm with her son. She had that same quality to her she’d had when they first saw her getting off the plane at JFK, like an oversized doll neglected by its little-girl owner, in need of a hot bath, a good meal, and some comfortable clothes. Her skin retained the pallor that was common to addicts, but she wasn’t shaking today. Frank McManus wondered whether she was back on the sauce. Of the two, her son appeared to be taking it harder. “Tough times,”
