Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  Lake Holly’s “courtesy calls” to La Casa began after an immigrant mother and child were seriously injured jumping out of a window during an ICE raid that they weren’t even the target of. As a result, the local police began the practice of informing La Casa that a raid was in progress or had just taken place. That didn’t help the target—who was already in ICE custody by the time La Casa got word. But it ensured the general safety of the community.

  “Did the police call any of the board members?” asked Adele.

  “No. No one,” said Ramona. “Maybe they figured you wouldn’t want to be woken up about it at five a.m. on a Saturday morning.”

  “I sincerely doubt the Lake Holly PD cares a whit about my sleep preferences.”

  “Wait, it gets worse,” said Ramona. “When we opened La Casa at eight this morning, Officer Bale was here.”

  “What for?”

  “He wanted to know if we were hiding the man. He demanded I let him search the center. He threatened to close us down if I refused.”

  “You didn’t let him in, did you?” asked Adele. As both a criminal defense attorney and the director of an immigrant center, she would never submit to such a search without a warrant.

  “I told him Edgar Aviles wasn’t a client, he wasn’t inside, and the police would have to get a warrant if he couldn’t take my word for it.”

  “Good girl.” Ramona was only twenty-four, but she reminded Adele of herself at that age.

  “He left when I refused him entry,” said Ramona. “But I’m worried that one of these days, the local police will just roll over and let ICE storm the whole place.”

  “Not as long as there is breath in my lungs.” Adele checked her watch. She’d planned to do some grocery shopping while Sophia was at soccer practice. But there was no way she could let the police’s behavior on this slide.

  “I’m going over to the station now,” she told Ramona.

  “This whole situation is completely unacceptable. Call me if you hear anything about Aviles.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Adele expected the Lake Holly police station to be quiet on a warm spring Saturday, but she noticed more cars than usual in the lot. She wondered if it had to do with the case Vega had been called in on last night. He’d told her only that it was a potential suicide and he’d have to work today. He was often closemouthed at the beginning of an investigation. She supposed she’d learn more this evening when she helped him and the band set up for their gig.

  She parked in visitor parking and walked through the front doors of the station house. Sergeant Foley was at a desk behind a glass booth. He was a wiry man who wore a grimace like he suffered a permanent case of hemorrhoids. He saw her, then pretended not to by busying himself writing something in a logbook. When he bent over, Adele could see his sunburned scalp between shafts of short-cropped gray hair. Lake Holly’s police chief, John Battaglia, might choke down a tamale every now and then with the Hispanic community, but the rank and file clearly considered Adele and La Casa a thorn in their side.

  Adele didn’t wait for Foley to pretend to notice her. She walked up to his booth and began speaking.

  “Sergeant,” she began. “Were you in charge of the shift last night?”

  “Why?”

  “Can you please answer my question.”

  Foley sighed. “We changed shifts at eight this morning, Ms. Figueroa.” Foley drew her name out slowly, as if even having to pronounce it added a layer of paperwork to his day. “Esposito was working graveyard.”

  “Is Officer Bale still here?”

  “He clocked out at eight too.” Which means if Bale was at La Casa first thing this morning, he was doing a little freelancing, thought Adele. He had to have gone there right after he went off-duty.

  “I’d like to find out why no one at La Casa was notified about the ICE raid in town early this morning,” said Adele. “And why Officer Bale felt the need to accuse my staff of harboring the man ICE was attempting to arrest.”

  “I’ll leave Esposito a note,” said Foley.

  Adele had an idea what would happen to the note. “I’d like to speak to someone about it now.”

  “Everybody’s busy.”

  Adele leaned forward and caught Foley’s eye. “May is Hispanic Pride Month in town, Sergeant, Cinco de Mayo and all that. I know how much your chief loves a photo for the papers of him surrounded by Lake Holly’s happy Hispanics. Would you rather I wait until one of those events to bend his ear?”

  Foley muttered under his breath. Adele caught the words “ball washer”—the rank and file’s nickname for Chief Battaglia. Vega told her cops called him “Chief B.” for short. Only Battaglia thought it was just an abbreviation of his name and not a description of how slavishly he courted the press.

  Foley gestured to the bench in the lobby. “Wait there. I’ll see if I can get somebody to talk to you.”

  Five minutes ticked by. Then ten.

  Two people entered the station with platters of food. One was a well-dressed older woman with silver-blond hair and a blue linen blazer. She was carrying a basket of corn bread and muffins that smelled like they had just come out of the oven. Next to her was a heavyset young man who walked stiffly and made no eye contact. Her son, Adele suspected. He was carrying a bowl of fresh fruit. Adele thought the woman looked vaguely familiar.

  Foley’s face brightened when he saw the food. He walked around and opened the locked door.

  “Thank you so much, ma’am,” Foley gushed. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Nonsense,” said the woman in a honey-glazed Southern drawl. “Y’all are working so hard to help Glen get closure during this trying time. It’s the least Adam and I can do.”

  Glen . . . Glen Crowley? Our district attorney? This had to be his former wife. And his son. Adele recalled he had a disabled son, though she couldn’t remember either the son or ex-wife’s names. She waited until they’d left to ask Foley about the situation.

  “Is the district attorney all right?”

  “Yep.” Foley’s eyes got that flat cop look to them. Adele had seen it before in Vega when he didn’t want to answer a question.

  “Then what was all that about?”

  Foley seemed to be debating whether to answer when the lobby door swung open and Detective Greco breezed in. He was deep in conversation with a female cop Adele had never seen before. She was a dark-skinned Hispanic, pretty and on the tall side, with curly hair frosted at the tips. Adele noticed a gold badge clipped to her hip near her gun holster. Not Lake Holly. Not the county police either.

  ICE.

  She had to be involved in Aviles’s arrest. Which meant Greco was too. Adele excused herself from Foley and walked over.

  “Pardon the interruption,” Adele told Greco. “But I need to speak to both of you. This won’t take long.” Her voice was forceful. Her manner, direct. Adele was shy and reserved when it came to her own life. Hesitant to voice her needs or feelings. But not when it came to advocating on behalf of others. For that, she’d walk through fire.

  Or ICE, as the case may be.

  “I’m busy here,” Greco muttered. “Whatever you got can wait.”

  “I have been waiting, Detective,” Adele shot back.

  “And I am through waiting. ICE conducted a raid at five this morning here in Lake Holly and the only notification I got about it was when one of your officers showed up at La Casa to accuse my staff of harboring the man.”

  “Well—were you?” asked the female agent.

  Adele gave the woman a withering look. “No, we were not. I don’t know what ICE office you come from, Agent, but around here, we obey the law—and expect the law to treat everyone in turn with courtesy and respect. That includes informing interested parties of police activity in the town and not bullying my staff into granting an illegal search.”

  Greco’s jaw went slack. The anger that had been percolating in him just seconds before was now replaced by a look of confusion
. He alternated an index finger between Adele and the other woman. “You two . . . you don’t know each other?”

  Adele and the woman looked at each other and shrugged.

  “You really don’t know each other?” Greco asked again. A slight grin creased the corners of his lips as if he were trying hard to hold it in. He stretched a hand the size of a baseball mitt in the agent’s direction. “This is ICE Supervising Agent Michelle Lopez.”

  Michelle Lopez didn’t extend a hand to Adele. Adele didn’t expect one. She’d met Wayne Bowman, the local field office director of ICE, a few times. They’d exchanged pleasantries when they had to. It never got chummier than that. She didn’t know his underlings.

  Greco turned to Michelle Lopez. “This is Adele Figueroa, founder and executive director of La Casa.”

  Agent Lopez’s eyes widened. She stepped back. Adele’s name and title didn’t usually have any effect on ICE agents.

  Greco laughed, a low rumble like a generator kicking in. “Better get this catfight out of the way before Vega shows up.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adele felt like she’d missed a punch line somewhere. This whole conversation had derailed her. She’d come in to find out why Lake Holly didn’t tell her about the raid—and now she was caught in some sort of private joke between Greco and this ICE agent.

  “My maiden name is ‘Vega,’” said the woman. “ ‘Vega,’ as in—”

  “She’s Jimmy’s half sister,” Greco blurted, unable to contain his glee any longer. “And Michelle? As you’ve already guessed, this is your brother’s girlfriend.”

  The two women stared at each other. The only sound was Foley in the background, oblivious as he fielded calls on the station house phone and munched on a muffin.

  “We’ve got a briefing in ten,” Greco said to Michelle. “I’ll leave you both to it. Just . . .” He bit back a grin. “No guns or knives.” He sniffed the air. “What’s that delicious smell?”

  * * *

  Michelle Lopez was taller than Adele. With kinky hair that was nothing like Vega’s soft waves. Yet Adele couldn’t deny a certain family resemblance. She had a ropy, kinetic quality to her limbs and an easy physical grace, even with that gun on her hip, that reminded Adele of Vega. Her lips were a little thicker, her eyes, less hooded. Her gaze, more direct. Not so moody-looking, but that last one probably had less to do with Vega’s DNA than his innate disposition.

  “Does . . . Jimmy know?” Adele asked finally.

  “That I work for ICE? That I’m in town?”

  “Both,” said Adele.

  “He does as of last night,” said Michelle. “I’m working the Crowley case. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

  He didn’t even tell me there WAS a Crowley case, Adele wanted to say. She still had no idea who’d committed suicide. She had to assume, by process of elimination, that it was wife number two. Talia. But she couldn’t say for sure.

  She could understand Vega not divulging police business. But not telling her he’d run into his sister? Adele had spoken to him last night—albeit briefly—before he turned in. It wasn’t like she didn’t know he had three estranged half sisters. That whole side of his family lived ghostlike on the periphery of their lives. Why keep the encounter a secret?

  Especially since Adele was no secret to Michelle.

  “You knew,” said Adele. “About Jimmy and me.”

  “I knew, because one of the cops on duty last night told me,” said Michelle. “Jimmy never said a word.”

  “Speaking of what the cops told you,” said Adele, trying to regain her bearings, “I’m assuming ICE informed Lake Holly of their presence in town this morning. Why wasn’t La Casa informed?”

  Michelle shrugged. “I’m in investigations, not enforcement and removal. I have no idea. Perhaps Donovan and Tyler didn’t know the protocol in town. Perhaps the sergeant on duty couldn’t figure out who to call it in to. Or maybe”—she met Adele’s gaze head-on—“he thought at five a.m., you might not want to know about some illegal we’re picking up.”

  Illegal. The word burned in Adele’s gut. That’s what people like Michelle called her parents.

  “First of all,” said Adele, “Edgar Aviles had temporary protected status before the government yanked it away. So he wasn’t in this country illegally. And second, no person is illegal.”

  “Temporary means, ‘not forever,’ ” said Michelle. “If his status was revoked, then he was here illegally. Which makes him an illegal. What part of what I’m saying don’t you understand?”

  “Maybe if you saw these people up close,” said Adele, “worked with them like I do, listened to their hopes and dreams for themselves and their children, you wouldn’t be so callous and dismissive.”

  “And maybe if you’d spent ten years in corrections like I did, watching criminal aliens get released only to break the law and come right back again,” said Michelle, “you would.”

  Michelle folded her arms across her chest and walked her gaze down Adele. “How long have you and Jimmy been dating?”

  “About a year,” Adele said stiffly.

  “Is it serious?”

  Adele didn’t answer. The question felt invasive. Everything about this woman felt invasive.

  “It’s not a trick question,” said Michelle. “I’m genuinely curious.”

  “We enjoy each other’s company.”

  Michelle uncrossed her arms. Her face softened. For a minute Adele saw the woman, not the cop.

  “Jimmy’s a hard guy to get to know. A good guy. But . . . he’s had a hard life. If it’s working out between the two of you, I’m glad.”

  “Thanks,” said Adele. “Is there anything you can do for Edgar Aviles?”

  “The illegal you came here about?”

  Adele stayed silent. This was not the time for semantics. “Like I said, I’m not in removals. And even if I was, the guy split,” said Michelle. “He’s a fugitive now. I couldn’t do anything even if I wanted to.” She glanced over Adele’s shoulder at the parking lot.

  “You want to ask anything else, you should probably talk to Jimmy. He’s headed this way.”

  Adele spun around and saw Vega walking toward the building. He had a distinctive walk—loose-limbed and rangy with a cocky confidence in his stride. Before Adele ever saw him dance, she felt the rhythm within him, the way it telegraphed something sexy and slightly dangerous that drew her in every time.

  Michelle reached over and gave Adele’s arm a squeeze.

  “Take care of him, all right?”

  The gesture was so unexpected, Adele didn’t process it until Michelle had walked over to Foley, who buzzed her through the security door.

  Adele exited the building just as Vega reached the front steps.

  “Nena?” The “babe” slid affectionately from his mouth. He froze in his tracks, one tactical boot on the bottom concrete step. “Everything okay?”

  “There was a raid in town this morning,” she said. “ICE tried to arrest the handyman from Beth Shalom, but he fled across the Metro-North tracks.”

  “I heard,” said Vega.

  “The police are supposed to notify me. They didn’t,” said Adele. “I just spoke to Greco about it.”

  “Good.”

  “I spoke to the female ICE agent as well—the one you’re working with.”

  Adele watched her words work their way across the muscles of Vega’s face. She knew. He knew she knew.

  Vega rocked his boot on the bottom step without meeting her gaze. “She told you, huh? About our family connection?”

  “The question is—why didn’t you?”

  A siren cut the air. It seemed to be headed their way. Vega swept a gaze around the parking lot. Adele supposed that sirens were Pavlovian to a cop. Once they heard one, everything else stopped.

  “I was going to tell you on the way to the gig tonight. I swear,” said Vega. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  Adele heard another siren, this one accompanied by a
fire truck’s air horn. Two uniforms hustled out the front doors of the station house and over to a patrol car. Vega turned to them.

  “What’s going on?”

  “DB on the Metro-North tracks,” said one of the officers, referring to the dead body. “Looks like the dude got killed trying to cross.”

  Adele felt something tighten in her gut.

  “You have a description of the victim?” asked Vega.

  “Hispanic. Thirtysomething. Broadly built. That’s all we know.”

  Chapter 13

  Vega left Adele with a promise to update her later. He hustled into the police station just as Greco, Sanchez, and Michelle were walking out.

  “I just heard about the DB,” Vega huffed out. “Is it Aviles?”

  “Dunno,” said Greco. “We’re headed there now. Grab a ride with Lopez.”

  Vega followed Michelle wordlessly to her government-issued sedan. She unlocked the doors and they hopped inside. She turned on the dashboard flashers and made a three-point turn out of the lot. Vega waited for her to bring up Adele and was glad when she didn’t.

  “I’ve got a call in to the two agents in charge of apprehending Aviles,” said Michelle. “Donovan and Tyler. Last I heard, Aviles was headed to New York City. Maybe this isn’t him.”

  “If it is,” said Vega, “ICE blew it. Aviles was our best link to Lissette. Lissette might be the only one who can help us figure out what happened to Talia.”

  Michelle nosed through a light just as it turned red. Vega held his breath. Even with their dashboard lights flashing, he didn’t want to chance getting hit by some distracted civilian.

  “I know what happened to Talia,” said Michelle. “I was at the autopsy this morning, remember?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Cause of death was strangulation. The mechanism was the garden rope you saw, consistent with the ligature marks on her neck. No DNA present from any other parties.”

  “The killer could have been wearing gloves,” Vega pointed out. “What about the time?”

  “Around nine p.m. Thursday,” said Michelle.

  “Someone could have visited. Or broken in.”