I WAS INSIDE A NAMELESS hospital. I saw grey machines, silver machines, machines on rubber wheels. I felt needles in my arms, tubes up my nose. The patients around me were pale and emaciated, a host of ghosts, some fighting their machines, others lying quietly. There was a terrible smell.

I struggled out of the dream. I could still feel the madness drifting through me. I had sweated ice floes, bonfires, through the sheet and onto the rubber mat. I found my electronic thermometer – 103°, a new high for a night sweat.

I lay there trying to deal with a number of ideas as my body cooled. Maybe the dream had been triggered by the long-delayed memorial service for Tim Currier. It had taken place yesterday, Sunday, almost a full week after our abortive drama at my apartment. After the service, which was held at St. Francis Xavier on 16th Street – a cavernous space festooned with icons of suffering – some of us had trooped down on the #1 train to Battery Park City with the ashes. It was a spot, at the foot of the esplanade along the Hudson, that Tim had noted. In fact, he had taken me several years ago while it was still being built, reciting a litany of unwanted facts about the site, architecture, inspiration. I half-listened, more thrilled with the estuarial sweep of the Hudson, the weird shape of the Erie-Lackawanna terminus across the water, the Statue of Liberty in the distance. We had walked past the slightly ersatz collection of townhouses and maisonettes, around a bend to a little bay. A gazebo stood next to the water. We sat down, peering out. “A great spot for scattering your ashes,” Tim had remarked, pointing to the swift brown current. “In no time you’d be under the Verrazzano and out to sea.”

I had shuddered at the time – it was an image I couldn’t assimilate – but yesterday, with six or seven friends, we had stood at that very spot and taken turns emptying the packet into the water. When my turn came I recalled the rest of our conversation that afternoon. ”Some bones burn more slowly, Bruce,” Tim had said in his calm, well-ordered voice, “the skull, the sternum, the talus. They have to be raked from the ashes and crumbled by hand.”

And suddenly, as I emptied out the bits of ash, the osteal fragments, I began to laugh. Timothy Currier, master of the irrelevant, had conquered everything – the winds, the tides, the past, the future, even his own death. He had done it by knowing. It wasn’t everyone’s solution but it was his.

After waking from my hospital dream I checked the time. Four a.m. An hour when the soul struggles hardest to escape its earthly prison. But mine hadn’t succeeded this time. I got up and went into the living room, switching on the lights. My mind was active.

After David appeared at my door on Monday, telling us about the break-in, I relayed to Kerrison what I had learned in Puerto Rico. Clay and David listened with interest – David especially, since he hadn’t paid much attention the first time.

“So what’s the connection?” Kerrison asked finally.

“That’s the question,” I replied. “Miles imported masks, tourist junk, for someone on the island, then passed it on to some distributor in the Bronx.”

“Can we get the name of the distributor?”

David shook his head. “Miles said to hold the stuff, he’d let me know what to do.”

“I suggest we go over and take a look,” Clay put in.

The three of them piled into Kerrison’s unmarked Ford. I declined, pleading exhaustion. I didn’t know what could be gained by an inspection of the premises anyway.

David called an hour later. “Kerrison’s guys are here with white powder and black powder and little brushes,” he said. “Also a miniature vacuum. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but the place is getting a good cleaning.”

“Bits of hair, dirt, cloth, fiber,” I said. “They’ll take it all back to the police lab.”

“Whoever it was didn’t stay long enough to leave his signature,” David replied. “Just picked up the carton and blew.”

A thought struck me. “Tell me, David, what were the masks packed in?”

“Just waste paper balled up. Very careless. From what I could see lots of them were broken.”

After hanging up I began to make a list. Miles had passed his carton of masks to David, claiming he had insufficient storage space in his apartment. Who knew about this transfer? There couldn’t have been many. David and myself; Clay; Shirley Scott, who visited David regularly. Also some musician friends who probably hadn’t known Miles. Was that all?

I went down the list again. David, Clay, Shirley, myself. A limited number with no link to the package, no business connection to Miles or Puerto Rico. I had drawn another blank. And then, unexpectedly, I remembered one more person.

Rita Osterkamp lived on West 18th Street, on one of those period streetscapes in Chelsea. The plate on the doorbell contained another name: Olivares. I wondered if she had a roommate.

She buzzed me in and I headed up a steep staircase which banked to the left. It felt unsafe, but Rita was at the door of the third floor rear apartment, watching my slow ascent with a warm smile. She hugged me. She took my cane without comment and hooked it to the front doorknob. Interesting odors permeated the apartment.

I looked around for Leslie. Rita read my mind. “Leslie moved in with some girls she met at your school – a flat in Park Slope.” She looked pleased for a moment, then started on the dangers of living in Park Slope.

As she talked I looked around the apartment – my first visit. I was a little surprised at the decor. The furnishings were bright, almost garish, a cross between latino and oriental. Over the couch was a huge painting on tiles, vaguely art deco. It was called The Judgment of Paris, Rita informed me, and I could make out the goddesses and the apple, more or less. In one corner was a Coromandel screen, several dragons entwined on a dark field. A huge vase filled with pampas grass sat on a dining table. The couch upholstery was shot with gold threads and the two wing chairs opposite were mauve velvet with tassels dangling.

Rita saw me inspecting things. “Welcome to Miramar,” she said. When I looked puzzled, she added, “That was the part of Havana my parents lived in. They brought almost everything with them, all their treasures. When my mother died and I had to clear out their house in Miami, I kept what I could.” She laughed. “It’s not my taste, but my mother went to see Castro in person and he let her take what she wanted. He could have put her in one of his camps instead – everything was on the dock when she was caught – but she persuaded him. My mother was very persuasive. So I felt I had an obligation.”

I nodded. “When was that?”

“My parents came over in 1963, four years after Castro took power. I was six. I have almost no memory of the island.”

A thought struck me. “The other name on your bell – Olivares. Is that your original family name?”

She nodded. “My father’s name. I am Margarita Olivares Pereyra. My mother’s name was Pereyra. Maria Pereyra de Olivares.” She let out a giggle. “The Spanish way of joining wife to husband. It doesn’t set well with the feminists. Maria Pereyra de Olivares means Maria Pereyra, belonging to Olivares.”

“Then you’re Margarita Olivares de Osterkamp,” I said.

“I was until I got divorced,” she said. “I should really drop the Osterkamp, but it’s Leslie’s name and I’m more or less identified that way in the profession.”

Actually, I had known about Spanish nomenclature but had forgotten it. Hector Armendariz, my Dominican friend, had an extra appendage, just as Rita did – del Valle, his mother’s name. I told Rita this, adding the story of Hector’s appendicitis attack, which took him to Bellevue. Because of a mix-up, the name on his insurance card was his mother’s – del Valle – which I had forgotten. I didn’t locate him in the hospital for almost 24 hours. He had more or less been misfiled.

She laughed. “We know all about American dynasties, but of course you know nothing about ours. Olivares is actually a noble family in Spain. Velazquez painted the Conde de Olivares several times, mostly on his horse. He was a great patron of the arts. He helped Rubens, Murillo, Lope de Vega.”

She spoke simply, her voice neutral, but she was obviously proud. “I know that painting of Olivares,” I added, “or one of them. It’s at the Hispanic Society. The horse looks like it’s about to fly away.”

She laughed. “There’s another one in the Prado.” She stood up. “But I have coffee ready.” She looked at me. “You can drink coffee, can’t you?”

I had given it up but I didn’t say so.

She came back with a café con leche in a large breakfast cup and saucer. It was enough for three people. “Do you know, my father refused to drink coffee made by anyone but my mother?” She set the cup next to me. “It was like a fetish, even though there were other people to do it – myself, my brother, the maid. But my father insisted his coffee had to be prepared by his wife. It was a sign of love.”

“I guess every family has its rituals.”

She shook her head. “Only in Cuba is coffee so important. So symbolic. I’m sure it still is.”

A few minutes later, we were at the dining table. She had made a bland brunch – ravioli and a small fruit salad. “Somebody told me you were eating mostly pasta these days,” she said.

“I’m not eating much of anything,” I replied.

It was good. I actually chewed and swallowed. After a while I asked her if she had heard about the break-in at David’s apartment.

She sat back, her eyes widening. No, she had not.

I started to sketch the particulars but she interrupted. “I remember. David gave me one of the masks from that carton when we had dinner at Clay’s that night. The night I met you.”

“Do you still have it?”

She went to fetch the caballero face.

“I’m trying to figure out how many people knew this carton was stored at David’s,” I went on. “So far I can only come up with three or four people. Yet someone found out and swiped it.”

She said nothing, just sat with the mask in her hands, staring into the empty eye sockets. “Who knew?” she asked finally.

“Besides David, there was Clay, me, Shirley Scott, you.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, David was out of town on his Central American tour most of the time the carton was there. That doesn’t mean someone else didn’t notice it. Or bump into it. It was right in the entryway.”

She continued staring at the mask. I had the impression she was struggling to find something. “Miles was full of mysteries, wasn’t he?” she said at last.

“His stock in trade,” I replied. “We’ve solved most of them, but there are two that remain. Who wrote the death threats? And who wanted him dead?”

“Are you finished, Bruce?” She started clearing off. The questions lingered between us. “Did you meet any of his friends in Puerto Rico?” she called from the kitchen.

“A few. Nobody was much help. A lot of conflicting stories.”

She came back with two saucers of flan. “This is for the digestion.” She put one in front of me. The caramelized sugar gleamed milkily.

“Someone I met in Puerto Rico – a newspaper reporter – said Miles’s hair was the color of flan sauce.”

“Not a bad description.” Her voice was neutral. I sensed she had taken a brief vacation from the conversation. I managed the flan, then asked for directions to the bathroom.

I was trying to avoid mirrors but this one occupied a whole wall and was lit up by bare bulbs. At first I closed my eyes, wishing for pink lampshades, but I had to look for the john. It was around a little bend. In passing, I saw an old man in the mirror. I looked away quickly but not before a reflected image, from the wall opposite, pressed itself upon my vision. It was a sketch of a handsome stone house, planters with Grecian edgings built into the stairs and porch, bougainvillea tumbling from roof to pavement. I turned and looked closely. It was a mounted xerox, in color.

I did my business and returned. Rita had transferred to one of the tasseled wing chairs, still holding the mask. I sat on the sofa opposite, under The Judgment of Paris. I would have to choose my words carefully, I knew, just as I knew that Margarita Olivares was in a trap as delicate as the one I was in myself.

“I noticed the drawing of a house in the bathroom just now. It looks like a beautiful place.”

She smiled quickly. “That was our summer house in Cojímar. It had a tower room looking toward the sea. My father named it – La finca vigía, which means … Oh, Lookout Farm, I guess. You know, he met Hemingway once, and when he told him the name of our house, Hemingway borrowed it, or stole it. For his place in San Francisco de Paula.” She snapped her fingers. “But our house was the first Finca vigía.”

“You said your father wouldn’t let you make coffee, Rita.”

“Oh yes.” She laughed carelessly. “It’s so neurotic I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“These things are always interesting. The inner workings of a family. He wouldn’t let your brother Eduardo do it either?”

She cocked her head. “How did you know my brother was named Eduardo?”

“You mentioned him earlier, when you were talking about your family.”

“I did?”

“Was he older than you?”

“Was and is. Six years. He was 12 when we left Cuba. He didn’t really adjust to Miami. Said he didn’t want to speak English all his life, he was going back to Cuba.”

“Did he?”

“He did the next best thing. He moved to Puerto Rico.”

I waited for an easy silence to collect around us again. Then I reached across and took the mask from her. Looking into its empty eyes, expressionless face, I asked, “Why did your brother take the name of Conde, Rita?”

She sat up quickly.

“I met him in Puerto Rico,” I said. “He was a friend of Miles’s. I visited his shop one morning.”

Our eyes locked. “How did you know …?” she began, but I interrupted her. “That he was your brother? I didn’t until I saw the xerox in your bathroom. And even then I wasn’t sure.”

We continued staring. She shuddered briefly and I realized she had never intended to lie. “He wanted a studio name, something for his artwork, his sculpture.” She passed her hand through her hair. “Since we’re descended from the Count of Olivares, he thought it would be good publicity to call himself Conde.”

“And when did he phone you, Rita?”

“We talk quite often.”

“I mean, when did he call to ask for the location of the carton of masks that were shipped to Miles Halloran? The last carton?”

She stood up and began to move around the room, touching her mother’s pieces as if they were magical in some way. “You mustn’t think Eduardo is mixed up in this, Bruce. It’s just coincidence.”

“I just want to know when you gave him David Donnenfeld’s address.”

“Tuesday night.”

“Two weeks ago?”

She nodded, then slipped back into the wing chair, burying her face in her hands. I ran my hand along the mask.

“Did he ask you the same question a few weeks earlier?”

She nodded, not looking up.

“And you told him Apartment 6E instead of 6A.”

She nodded again. “There was a mix-up in the letters. E in Spanish sounds like A in English.”

“Did you know that Apartment 6E was burglarized a few days after that?”

She looked up, finally. “No, I didn’t.” Again, I knew she was telling the truth.

“Would you believe me if I said your brother and Miles and Tupi Rivera perfected a way of smuggling crack cocaine into this country?”

“That isn’t possible.”

“I have proof.”

She looked at me. I held up the mask. “It’s right here, Rita. The face of a caballero. It makes a perfect item for shipment.” She continued staring and I went on. “I’ve been doing some homework. If you boil cocaine hydrochloride with something called comeback plus baking soda, you can pour it into a mold. It will harden into a solid mass, just like this.”

Her face was streaked with tears now. “If Eduardo was involved with this, Tupi Rivera forced him.”

“Maybe so. But we’ll have to let the police figure that out.”

I don’t know how long we sat there but eventually I got up, the mask under my arm, and headed for the door. I retrieved my cane from the knob. She didn’t move as I left, nor as I closed the door behind me. On my way down the rickety stairs I tried to convince myself that it had all been worth it – the loss of the answers, the massing of new questions like storm-clouds overhead that would never dissolve.