Nunca digas de esta agua no echo deseos

The trio walked along the crumbling path wending through the old camposanto at Coney Hill. Buds the colour of green apples had appeared in the trees, heralding a new spring under the sun’s mild balm.
  Ian strolled a few paces behind Srta. Melén and her amiga boricua Lucía as he eyed the young croci sprouting amongst the granite lápidas.
  As they neared the old through-truss bridge, Srta. Melén pulled three oranges from the sack she carried. Lucía revealed a small jar of honey.
  The three stopped on the bridge to overlook the burbling murk of the river passing underneath. The women handed Ian one of the oranges.
  “Por buenos pensamientos,” Melén spoke as they drizzled the honey over the unpeeled fruit.
  ‘What sort of heathen rite is this? Offerings to Oshun? ¿Hechizos de suerte?’ Ian thought, going along with the curious custom.
  “Good thoughts. Good fortune,” Lucía softly said as a warm breeze drifted between them.
  With nothing particular in mind, Ian just wished for something positive to happen.
  They tossed the oranges into the river and quietly watched as they slowly bobbed downstream.

Siete días después...

At Casa Megis there was a knock at the door. Ian opened it to see a nondescript man in tie and jacket.
  “I’m Lt. Sabueso. Are you Ian Stoddard? Did you report a tololoche stolen three years ago?”
  Ian collected himself.
  “Yes... and yes.”
  “Well, some choir boy left it at the prendería on Baxter Street. Probably changed hands ’couple times since the thief stole it. You can come and pick it up whenever you wish. Buenas tardes.”

¿Habra sido coincidencia?