Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Trust me, that’s a distant relation.” Everything on his dad’s side stopped being related the day Orlando Vega seduced a hateful neighbor’s nineteen-year-old kid sister, got her pregnant with Michelle, and walked out on Vega and his mother forever.

  Greco patted the air. “Take the temperature down, Vega. Agent Lopez is here to do a job, same as you. If I’d wanted Family Feud, I’d have watched it on TV. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to answer: Can you put whatever crap that’s between you aside and work this case? Or am I gonna have to get someone else in here?”

  “I’ll behave . . . if she shuts her yap about us being related.” That was as close to a promise as Vega was going to give. He closed the medicine cabinet and maneuvered past Greco into the master bedroom. It was like navigating around a steamroller.

  “What are you looking for?” Greco asked.

  “Psych meds. For depression or anxiety,” said Vega.

  “So far, all I’ve found is a half-empty bottle of expired Valium and two vials of Viagra—all in Crowley’s name.”

  Greco grinned. “Crowley’s like, sixty. Talia was thirty-four. Maybe he’s got more to be anxious about.”

  “He got her pregnant,” Vega pointed out. “I don’t see any birth control. Maybe they were trying again.”

  “I get the feeling the pregnancy was less, ‘oh joy,’ than ‘oh shit,’ ” said Greco. “You’ve worked with the guy—”

  “Mostly with his assistant DAs.”

  “Yeah. But you know him,” said Greco. “Talia was one of his paralegals. I think he thought it would be another quick affair. And then . . . it wasn’t.”

  Vega straightened. “You saying you think he was looking for a permanent way out?”

  “Me?” Greco touched his chest. “Uh-uh. I’m already getting pressure from my chief to move this thing to closure. I’m just saying Crowley has a reputation for a roving eye. If it’s something bigger, we’ll have to do our jobs. But if it isn’t, I’d like to finish up my career without turning this into some skeevy romp through his sex life.”

  “Gotcha.” Vega shone his flashlight across the soft gray walls of the master bedroom. There was a king-size bed with a tufted white headboard, two side tables, and two sitting chairs. Vega didn’t see a chest of drawers.

  “Where do they keep their clothes?”

  “You never been in a high-end house before?”

  “Not someone’s bedroom—no.”

  Greco walked over to one of the walls with raised white trim. There was a door handle Vega didn’t see. Greco opened it. On the other side was an enormous walk-in closet.

  “This one’s hers,” said Greco. “His is on the other side.”

  “Thanks.”

  Vega propped the door open as wide as he could and shined his flashlight on the clothes. He saw rows of black and gray leggings and shirts in various shades of cream, white, and eggshell.

  “Don’t women dress in color anymore?” asked Vega.

  “My ex-wife and daughter are the same. Twenty shades of prison commando.”

  Vega walked over to a chest of drawers, pulled out the top one, and raked his flashlight across a perfect honeycomb of women’s bikini underwear, all neatly folded like a spread in one of those home organizing books. He began poking around. In a whole year of dating Adele, he’d never once gone through her underwear drawer.

  It was the intimacy of a death investigation that got to Vega every time. He would never know another human being as profoundly as he knew every one of his homicide and suicide victims. From the scars on their flesh to the last meals in their guts. He knew the names on their speed dials. The family members in their wallets. The balances in their bank accounts. He had a front-row seat to their failed romances and fractured ambitions. He felt the weight of the unspoken pact he always made with them.

  Tell me who you were and how you died—and I will get you justice.

  Sometimes justice was just finding out why a person chose to take their life. Giving them one last chance to speak of their pain and longing. To be understood. In a homicide of course, it meant finding the killer. Nothing haunted Vega more than when he failed to solve a homicide.

  “You want more light?” Greco called to him. He tried to maneuver the tripod closer. To do it, he needed to close the closet door. It was just a moment. But it made Vega’s heart race. Made his breathing kick up a notch and his body break out in a sweat.

  Greco noticed the change when he reopened the door.

  “Whoa. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You get claustrophobia or something? My cousin has that. He passed out once at Yankee Stadi—”

  “I’m fine.” It wasn’t claustrophobia or any other phobia. He just liked to sleep with his bedroom door open. He preferred the back rows of theaters, closest to the exit. He took the stairs instead of elevators. Checked locks on doors before he used them to make sure he could never—ever—get locked in, trapped and helpless—the way he did in his dreams.

  Nothing phobic about that. Lots of people feel the same way.

  Vega propped the door open wide again, took a deep breath, and moved on to the next dresser drawer. Socks. Black pairs and gray. Two with cows on them. Talia loved cows, especially the black-and-white Holstein variety. She had a whole collection of Holstein figurines on her vanity. She had salt-and-pepper cow shakers in her kitchen.

  Vega had spent under an hour wandering Talia Crowley’s house, but he already knew so much about her. She had a sister and two nieces she was close to. Vega saw photographs of them all over the house, always with a couple of dogs. She was an accomplished artist. Vega counted at least five framed watercolors on the walls with her signature. Still lifes of milk cans and flowers. A portrait of a girl looking through a barn window. Two paintings of mothers and babies. She seemed to want to become a mother very badly. Vega found a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting tucked on a shelf among her jewelry, beside a bagful of infant clothes. The miscarriage must have devastated her. She was thirty-four, married to a man of sixty. There might not be many more chances.

  “Look, Vega.” Greco stood in the doorway of the closet, rocking on the balls of his feet. “We’ve already been through the house. There’s no sign of a break-in and nothing to suggest the place was tossed.”

  “That’s right,” said Vega. “There is nothing. That’s what worries me.” He squatted down and opened the next drawer. Sweaters. He reached his hand along the sides. “I’ve been doing a lot of suicide investigations lately, Grec. That’s all Captain Waring seems to let me do. And in every one, people give off warnings. They increase their meds. Or stop taking them completely. They don’t plan big events. I found two tickets to Hamilton on Broadway in a kitchen drawer. Orchestra. For the end of June.”

  “That’s seven weeks from now,” said Greco. “Seven weeks is a long time to a depressed person.”

  At the back of the drawer, Vega’s gloved fingers brushed against something that felt like a wallet. He pulled it out. It was black with an alligator texture imprinted on the vinyl. Dollar-store quality. Vega unzipped the change purse. He found a folded ten-dollar bill and a few loose coins inside.

  He lifted a small interior flap and unearthed a photo of two Hispanic girls in dark blue skirts and white short-sleeve shirts. The girls looked to be somewhere between eight and ten. They both had soft brown eyes and dimpled cheeks. Sisters, thought Vega. He could see a similarity in their faces. They were standing beneath a corrugated metal roof on a concrete patio. Banana trees dotted the hillsides in the background. Vega guessed the picture had been snapped in Central America. He turned it over. On the other side, in small neat print, someone had written Deisy and Nelly, Escuela Santa Rosa. There was no date on the shot, taken at Saint Rosa’s School, but it appeared to be a few years old.

  Vega showed it to Greco. “You think Talia was supporting some kids through one of those ‘Save the Children’ organizations?”

  �
��Dunno,” said Greco. “Could be relatives of the housekeeper’s. No way to tell. We should bag it for testing and show a copy to Crowley while he’s outside. Maybe he recognizes them.”

  * * *

  They found Glen Crowley standing next to Greco’s boss, Chief Battaglia. On first glance, the two men looked like they were both just working a crime scene. They were equally straight-backed and silver-haired with dark, predatory eyes and smiles that worked on cue when the cameras were rolling.

  On closer inspection, however, Vega could see how Talia’s death was weighing on the district attorney. He’d always had the sinewy build and intensity of a college basketball coach. But for the first time, he looked gaunt and shrunken. His bony shoulders protruded from his shirt like the spokes of a broken umbrella. His skin sagged at his neck. When he shook Vega’s hand, his eyes seemed to take a moment to recognize who he was.

  “Our condolences on your loss, sir,” said Vega.

  “Thank you,” Crowley mumbled.

  Battaglia bounced a look from Vega to Greco. “I think our DA has had enough for one evening. Questions can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely, Chief,” said Greco. “Just one quick question that might help us track down Mr. Crowley’s housekeeper. She’s still missing, and I’m sure Mr. Crowley would want to help us find her.”

  “I’m happy to help you,” said Crowley. “Lissette was very close to Talia. Her aunt, Maria, was my former wife’s housekeeper for many years until she got ill.”

  “Maria—as in, Edgar Aviles’s wife?” asked Vega.

  Crowley hesitated. He probably had no idea who Maria’s husband was. “Yes, I believe so. Charlene, my ex, could tell you more.”

  That was a complication Vega hadn’t expected. He’d have thought Charlene Beech Crowley wouldn’t want any connection to her ex-husband and his former-mistress-now-wife. But apparently, that didn’t extend to sharing the help.

  Rich people were different, he supposed.

  Greco gave Vega a look to move things along. The chief was growing impatient. Vega whipped out his cell phone. The wallet and photo had been tagged and bagged as evidence. But Vega had the pictures here.

  “We found a wallet in your wife’s sweater drawer with a photograph inside,” Vega explained. He pulled up the shots on his screen and handed the phone to Crowley. “Do you recognize the girls? The shot seems to indicate their names are Deisy and Nelly.”

  Crowley stared at the three screenshots—one of the wallet and its contents, and one each of the back and front of the photo. He kept his eyes on the shots without meeting Vega’s gaze.

  “This was in Talia’s drawer?” asked Crowley. “Was there anything else in the wallet?”

  “Just what you see,” said Vega. “The photo, a ten-dollar bill, and some change.”

  “I see.” Crowley handed the phone back to Vega. “I don’t recognize the girls.”

  “Do you think they might be relatives of Lissette’s?” Vega pressed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you recognize the wallet, right? It belonged to your wife.”

  “If it was in her drawer, it must have,” said Crowley. Vega heard the irritation in his voice. The chief did too.

  “You got your answer, Vega,” Battaglia growled. “The rest can wait.”

  Chapter 7

  The knocking at their front door had the insistence of a police officer. Edgar Aviles cracked open the chain to see a man in a polo shirt and khakis with a broad, brown face and a gun on his hip. He held out his gold shield. It read: DETECTIVE, LAKE HOLLY POLICE.

  Aviles’s stomach clenched. He prayed to God this detective wasn’t here to deliver bad news about Lissette.

  “I’m very sorry to bother your family at this hour, señor,” the cop offered in American-accented Spanish. He was fluent, but it wasn’t his language of choice.

  “I can speak English,” Aviles told him impatiently.

  “Great,” said the cop, switching to English. “My name is Omar Sanchez. I’m a detective with the Lake Holly Police. I have no interest in anyone’s immigration status. I’m just trying to locate your niece, Lissette. Do you know where I can find her?”

  Maria came up behind her husband and put a tight grip on his arm. Aviles got the message: Say nothing.

  “I don’t know where she is,” Aviles told the detective.

  “Do you mind if I come in? Ask you a few questions?”

  “It’s not a good time,” said Aviles. If the people who had Lissette were watching his house, they’d know a police officer was here. They’d think Aviles called him in to make a report. Lissette’s life—his family’s lives—depended on what he did next. The sooner he got rid of this man, the better.

  “But your niece, señor—out this late? Aren’t you worried about her?”

  Aviles tightened his grip on the edge of the door. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

  “It’s about her employer,” said the detective. “Talia Crowley? We have a situation at her house this evening that we think your niece might be able to give us information on.”

  Situation. Information. The detective was hiding the real reason he wanted to speak to her. Aviles wondered if something was missing from her employer’s house and they were blaming Lissette. In that case, telling the police what Erick had witnessed this evening would only make them more suspicious.

  “I will let her know you are looking for her.” Aviles started to close the door.

  “Sir—wait.” The detective stretched out a hand. He looked around, like he was waiting for someone else to tell him what to do. “Mrs. Crowley is dead.”

  “Dead?” The word came out barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

  “It’s under investigation.”

  The officer’s tone was gruffer now. Aviles noticed the detective had switched from “señor” to “sir.” His mind raced. In the same evening his niece had been kidnapped, her employer was dead. If it was an accident, the detective would have told him. Which meant it wasn’t. The señora had been murdered. Or at least, the police suspected as much—and suspected Lissette was somehow involved. He had to disengage.

  “I’m sorry,” Aviles told the detective. “Tonight is not a good night to talk. I will tell Lissette to come see you.”

  Before the detective could object, Aviles closed the door and locked it. The detective knocked and pleaded for a few minutes, then finally gave up and slipped his card under the door. Aviles heard his footsteps echo down the stairs.

  “God help Lissette,” Maria whispered.

  Aviles leaned his head on the door. God help us all.

  * * *

  They pulled the foldout couch into a bed so Erick could go to sleep. Then Maria and Aviles retreated to their bedroom where Noah lay curled in a cot in the corner, his bald head reflecting a nightlight by the floor, his pajama top pulled down, revealing the surgical port in his chest where doctors administered the medicine. The skin beneath the boy’s eyes had a purplish tinge. No amount of sleep ever seemed to be enough. For him or his mother. Aviles wished he were the one suffering—not them.

  Maria changed into a nightgown. Aviles stripped down to his undershirt and boxer shorts. He cradled his wife until she fell asleep.

  He couldn’t sleep. His worries hummed through his brain like a swarm of bees. He cursed himself for not asking Lissette more about this ICE agent she’d been dealing with. He’d suspected all along that the agent was corrupt. Why else would he reach out? But he’d kept telling himself that if it bought him his freedom, it would be worth it. And now, his niece was kidnapped—maybe dead—and it was all his fault.

  The clock was edging up on five a.m. Saturday morning when Aviles pushed himself up from the bed. He found a pair of work pants folded atop a chair and stepped into them.

  Maria awoke, propping herself on one elbow. “Where are you going?”

  “To try to find Lissette.”

  “Please don’t leave.” Maria pushed herself up from the
bed and placed a palm on his chest, almost like she didn’t expect to feel him beneath it. Or maybe she just wanted to feel him that way one more time. She’d been the only woman in his life since she was nineteen and he was twenty-one. Not once in all those years had they slept apart from each other. Aviles felt a great rage and shame that a piece of paper might soon separate him from his family forever.

  A set of headlamps strafed the closed blinds across their bedroom window, growing bigger and brighter as a car slowly coasted down the street in their direction. Aviles heard the spit of gravel from the tires and the purr of the engine.

  And then it stopped.

  Aviles walked back into the living room, skirting Erick asleep on the couch. He lifted a corner of the drape and peered at the street. A dark-colored compact sedan sat double-parked beneath a streetlight in front of his house. Two men ejected themselves from the front seats. One black. One white. Both had short-cropped hair and a bulk to their torsos that suggested they were wearing armor beneath their jackets. Both wore pistol holsters and military-looking boots.

  The living room window was open beneath the drapes. Aviles leaned forward to listen. He couldn’t hear what the men were saying, but he noticed their words had a breathy excitement to them. The black man had his hand angled like he was directing traffic.

  Directing it right at Aviles’s house.

  The white man turned his back and Aviles saw three white letters across his jacket.

  I-C-E.

  Aviles felt an acid burn in his chest. His fingers and toes tingled with pins and needles. It was cold in the apartment, yet every pore bathed him in a sheen of sweat.

  Maria came up behind him, saw the men, and let out a whimper. She knew—they were here for him.

  “You have to leave now!” she cried.

  “I can’t leave you and the children like this.”

  “They will take you away forever if you don’t. Please, mi vida. Please. For our sakes, you must run away.”

  Their conversation woke Erick. He sat up on the foldout couch, dazed and confused. Maria told him what was happening, then she turned back to her husband. “Now is your only chance. Now!”