Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  “You were a stranded woman with a flat tire and a client’s troubles on your mind,” said Paola. “You didn’t expect to find yourself in this situation. Which reminds me—how exactly did Officer Bale come to your rescue?”

  “He just happened by.”

  “I see,” said Paola in that slow defense-attorney way. Like Adele, she always viewed the police with suspicion.

  “What? You think Bale set me up?” asked Adele. “I watched him open my trunk. I think I’d have noticed if he’d been carrying a bag of heroin.”

  “True,” said Paola. She flicked a manicured hand in front of her. “We probably shouldn’t pursue that line of questioning anyway,” she reasoned. “It could get ugly unless we had solid proof. And motive. I mean, I get that you and the Lake Holly Police don’t have a cuddly relationship. But why on earth would one of them go out of his way to sabotage you? He’d be jeopardizing his own job—and for what?”

  “I know,” said Adele. “But where does that leave me? I didn’t put that heroin there. So who did?”

  “Have you or La Casa been threatened recently?”

  Adele tossed off a laugh. “Try, every week. But it’s usually limited to Internet trolling and anonymous letters.”

  “Still, people around town know your car. They know where you live and work. It’s not hard for someone to take a slim jim and pop the lock then unlock your trunk.”

  “La Casa is under video surveillance,” said Adele. “We have so many people in and out of that lot, it would be next to impossible to do all that to my car unnoticed.”

  “How about at home? You keep your car in the driveway usually, right?”

  That was true. Adele’s garage was at the back of her property, unattached to her house. Plus, it was filled with junk. It was much easier to park right next to her house. She had no alarm system—inside or out—despite Jimmy constantly badgering her to get one.

  “My neighbors live very close to me,” said Adele. “Mr. Zimmerman is always keeping an eye on my house.”

  “He’s pushing ninety, Adele. He probably goes to bed after Wheel of Fortune.”

  “But still,” Adele countered. “It’s a big chance to take.”

  “Not if someone knows your schedule,” Paola countered. “Maybe saw you drive away in Jimmy’s truck. When’s the last time you left your car unattended in your driveway for all or most of a night?”

  “Last night,” said Adele. “Jimmy had a wedding gig in Broad Plains. We took his truck. It had all his gear. We came back very late. But who would know that?”

  “I don’t know,” Paola admitted. “I’m just spinning my wheels here.” Her eyes lit up with another idea. “Has any mechanic worked on your car recently?”

  “I’ve had my oil changed—stuff like that. But nothing where they’d need to pop the trunk. Besides, that’s a lot of heroin. If a mechanic put it there, wouldn’t he try to get it back?”

  “He may have,” said Paola. “And been unsuccessful.”

  Both women went quiet for a moment. Adele dropped her head into her hands. “I’m scared, Paola. This could affect my whole career, not to mention that I could lose custody of Sophia.”

  “I wouldn’t go there just yet,” said Paola. “You are well-known in this town. People respect you. They also know you may be a target for some. I think we can work this out.”

  “But even if we do,” said Adele, “I’ve got a more immediate problem: Edgar Aviles. He’s got an order of removal against him. If I don’t get him down to ICE’s Broad Plains office first thing tomorrow, he’s as good as gone.”

  “Can someone else do it for you?”

  “All his documents are in my car,” said Adele. “The police have impounded it. Even if someone else drove him down tomorrow and argued on his behalf, they’d have none of his paperwork. It would be an automatic rejection. ICE would take him into custody right then and there.”

  “What if he just stays where he is in the synagogue until you can get his papers back?”

  “And ask the synagogue to go against a judicial warrant?” Adele shook her head. “There are people on the board who aren’t comfortable giving him temporary sanctuary—even without the warrant,” Adele explained. “If ICE comes with the power of U.S. law behind them, they’ll feel obliged to turn him over.”

  “Okay. I get it,” said Paola. “We need that paperwork and we need it right away.”

  “Bale’s not going to let you have it,” said Adele. “He hates La Casa and everything it stands for.”

  “And unfortunately, he’s under no legal requirement to produce anything from the car since he could claim it’s part of the investigation.” Paola pulled out her phone. “That’s why we need Judge Keppel.”

  “Bale said he’s out of town.”

  “Well, fortunately, we’re not dependent on Officer Bale’s word on things.” Paola punched in a number and spoke into the phone. “I’m with her now,” she said. “Did you find Keppel? Well, better than nothing. I’ll let you tell her.”

  Paola handed over her phone. “It’s Jimmy.”

  Adele took the phone and held it to her ear. She’d been so strong all this time but hearing his voice, she wanted to dissolve into tears.

  “Nena? Are you okay?”

  Adele cleared her throat. “About as well as can be expected. I’m sorry to get you involved.”

  “I wish I could do more,” he told her. “Listen, I called around to find Keppel. He’s at some Boys and Girls Club fundraiser at the Wickford Country Club this evening. I’m headed there now to try to sweet-talk him into coming into the station and handling everything tonight.”

  “Thanks,” said Adele.

  “And nena?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One question. Those envelopes of heroin—did they contain any stamp on them?”

  “Stamp?”

  “Like a brand name. Lucky. Zombie. Thunder. Used to be, all the dealers liked to stamp their product to build a following. Now, they don’t so much because they’re afraid cops will be able to link all their product.”

  Adele thought about it. “No,” she said finally. “I didn’t see a stamp on any of them. But the little baggies were distinctive.”

  “How so?”

  “They had a pale blue line running down one side. It was very faint.”

  “All right,” said Vega. “Sit tight and take a deep breath. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

  Chapter 32

  Vega pulled his aging Ford pickup to the wrought-iron gates of the Wickford Country Club. A parking attendant appeared at his window.

  “Sir? Are you a guest?” The attendant took in Vega’s dark khakis, polo shirt, and windbreaker. Vega flashed his badge.

  “I’m looking for a judge named Clarence Keppel. He’s supposed to be attending the fundraiser tonight. You know who he is? You remember parking his car?”

  “No.”

  Vega handed the valet his keys. “Never mind. I’ll find him myself.”

  The Wickford Country Club was a sprawling turn-of-the-century mansion surrounded by a golf course, tennis courts, pools, and cabanas. Vega had been to “the Wick,” as it was called, only twice. Both times were on Adele’s arm, at fundraisers.

  He followed a footpath past cherry blossoms in gaudy bloom. His phone rang in his pocket. Danny Molina. He’d been so distracted with Adele’s arrest that he forgot he’d asked Molina to check out whether that wallet he’d found in Talia’s drawer belonged to Deisy. Vega stopped beneath a tree and retrieved the call.

  “Jesus, Jimmy—what did you get me into here?” Molina asked by way of greeting. “You told me to run that wallet by Deisy’s mother. You never said you found it in Crowley’s house.”

  “So the wallet’s hers?”

  “Yeah. It’s hers. And that’s not all,” said Molina. “Deisy’s best friend told me Deisy lost it, and her phone, a couple of nights before she ran away. Doing—get this—undercover work for a federal agent.”

  “You
’re shittin’ me.” Vega got a stern look from a couple strolling past.

  “I’m not saying it’s true, Jimmy. I’m telling you what her best friend told me. This girl wouldn’t even speak to me after Deisy ran away. But now that Deisy’s dead, she poured out this crazy-ass story Deisy swore her to secrecy over. She said some federal agent told Deisy he could get her permanent asylum if she went to this rich guy’s house and recorded herself having sex with him. By the way, those ‘rich guy’ words are hers, not mine.”

  “Did she give you a name? A contact? A physical description?”

  “The story’s secondhand. She wasn’t present for any of it,” said Molina. “But I don’t think she’s blowing smoke. She said the man knew Deisy’s whole immigration history. He showed her a letter of removal if she didn’t comply.”

  Music wafted out of the country club. A light, jazzy cocktail riff. Men in dinner jackets smoked cigars beneath strands of white lights glittering on the porch, backslapping one another with false bravado. Vega felt a million miles away.

  “Where’s the removal letter?” Vega asked Molina.

  “I don’t know. The friend doesn’t know. And neither does Hilda. I’d say it’s the stuff of an overactive teenage imagination. Except you showed me Deisy’s name on that dead gangbanger’s list. And now I find out her wallet was inside Crowley’s house.”

  Molina dropped his voice. “You know what this looks like, don’t you, Jimmy?”

  A cherry blossom fell to Vega’s shoulder. He brushed it off. Neither he nor Molina wanted to utter their biggest fear: This wasn’t just a “rich guy” Deisy recorded on her missing phone. It was the DA.

  “Let’s take this one step at a time,” said Vega. “Shoot me a copy of this girl’s statement and Hilda’s ID of the wallet. Leave any mention of the implications out of it. Just straight fact. We’re a long way from proving anything.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Molina. “I’ve got young kids, Jimmy. I need this job.”

  Vega disconnected. His head was spinning. If Deisy’s friend’s fantastical tale was true, then the teenager was coerced into becoming a human trafficking victim by someone pretending to be a federal agent. Someone with access to the ICE database who wanted dirt on Crowley. But that scenario created more questions than it answered. How did Deisy’s wallet end up in the back of Talia’s sweater drawer? Did Lissette find it? Did she walk in on Crowley and Deisy?

  Most importantly, where was the phone?

  Vega tried to push those thoughts out of his head and concentrate on finding Judge Keppel and getting Adele out of jail. That was priority one at the moment. He followed the crowd of men in tuxedos and women in glittering evening attire into the clubhouse, which could only be described as robber-baron chic. Persian rugs. Chandeliers. Gilded-framed oil paintings of rolling hillsides and fox hunts. Waiters walked through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne while a pianist, bassist, and drummer rolled out fine, sweet jazz.

  Beyond the room, Vega could see an even bigger room decked out in white linens, gold-rimmed china, and towering vases of fresh flowers. The party was still in the cocktail hour—which was bad news for Vega. He’d be pulling Keppel away from an excellent meal that the judge probably contributed handsomely toward.

  Vega studied the sign welcoming guests to the fiftieth annual Boys and Girls Club Gala. Adele always joked that “gala” stood for “Give Away Lots of Assets.” Not that she herself didn’t depend on the same thing for La Casa.

  “You should be wearing oxfords.”

  The comment was delivered in such a flat, robotic voice, Vega was certain the speaker was addressing someone else. Then he heard the comment again and turned. A young, heavyset man with curly dark hair stood close to Vega, staring at Vega’s black duty boots, still encrusted with mud on their rubber soles from his trek to the Brighton Aqueduct this morning.

  “Pardon?”

  The young man’s eyes stayed focused on Vega’s shoes. “Those are tactical boots. Only police officers wear those.”

  Vega realized belatedly that the young man had cognitive issues.

  “You’re right. They’re tactical boots. I’m a cop.” Vega reached into his back pocket and produced his badge. He thought the young man might be excited but nothing registered on his face.

  “You’re supposed to wear oxfords to a formal event. Not Derby shoes or loafers. Or tactical boots.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” Vega wouldn’t know an oxford from a Derby. But it occurred to him suddenly who this young man might be. “Are you Glen Crowley’s son?”

  “Yes,” he said woodenly. “What size shoe are you?”

  “Nine-and-a-half medium,” said Vega. “You work at a shoe store in town, don’t you?”

  “Berber Shoes.”

  “I know the store,” said Vega. “I used to take my daughter there to get shoes when she was little. What’s your name?”

  “Adam. I’m a twelve wide. My mother says I’m a difficult fit.”

  Vega wondered if she was referring to more than Adam’s feet. “Do you know a judge named Clarence Keppel?”

  “What’s his shoe size?”

  “I don’t know.” Ay, puñeta! Vega didn’t have time for this right now. He scanned the crowd for an old white man with thinning white hair and a neck like a turkey.

  He had only about a hundred matches.

  “Adam.” A female voice called out. Vega turned as a woman with silver-blond hair strode toward them, a lean, striking figure in a dark blue off-the-shoulder gown. She offered Vega a questioning smile that was more polite than friendly.

  “I hope my son wasn’t bothering you,” she drawled in a soft, Southern twang. “Are you . . . security? I didn’t think we’d hired security.”

  We? So Charlene Beech Crowley was one of the organizers of this charity dinner. Vega wasn’t surprised. Even after her divorce from Glen, Vega regularly saw her name attached to society events. The Junior League. Museum fundraisers. Scholarship grants.

  “I don’t know if you hired security, ma’am, but I’m not it.” Vega flashed his badge and introduced himself. “I’m looking for Judge Keppel. Clarence Keppel? I understand he’s here tonight?”

  “I believe I saw him earlier. Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing Judge Keppel can’t solve.” Vega smiled as he said the words. He didn’t want to offer up any details, but he didn’t want to be rude either. He spotted Keppel on the other side of the room, near the jazz trio.

  “There he is.” Vega went to step forward. Charlene thrust an arm out to her son. It was a subtle gesture, but one guaranteed to deliver the point—I don’t want a police officer wandering through our private event.

  “Adam?” she drawled in her sweetest Southern voice. “Can you please ask the judge to come over here? He’s the one standing next to the woman in the red sandals. He’s wearing the black wing-tipped oxfords.”

  “Those aren’t oxfords,” Adam grunted. “They’re brogues.”

  The young man trudged across the room without another word. Charlene’s pale skin flushed with color.

  “You’ll have to excuse my son,” she said. “He’s autistic. He has his own . . . interests, I guess you’d say.”

  “It’s totally fine.”

  A waiter passed by with a silver tray full of white wine. He stopped in front of Vega and Charlene—an awkward moment. But like a good hostess, Charlene motioned for Vega to take a glass.

  “No, thank you,” said Vega.

  “Ah. You’re on duty.”

  Vega didn’t answer. He didn’t want to dissuade her—or Keppel—who might be more reluctant to come over if he thought the problem was personal.

  Charlene took a glass for herself, sipped it, and ran his name across her lips. “Vega . . . Detective Jimmy Vega . . . I’ve heard that name before.”

  Vega suspected she knew his name the same way everyone did—from that shooting last December. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks and ch
anged the subject.

  “I’m helping the Lake Holly Police with the investigation.” Vega didn’t mention Talia’s name. He could be discreet too.

  “Of course,” said Charlene. “Two detectives interviewed me this afternoon.”

  “Louis Greco and Omar Sanchez.”

  “I think that was their names,” said Charlene. “Nice gentlemen. The older one has a fondness for my sweet potato pie.”

  “That would be Greco,” Vega laughed. “You may have a regular customer.”

  “I promised I’d bring a pie down to the station for him sometime,” said Charlene. “Adam and I brought over some corn bread and muffins yesterday morning. Glen is so grateful for the care and consideration y’all are giving him. It’s such a terrible tragedy.”

  Vega couldn’t hide his surprise. “Pardon me, ma’am, but isn’t this the woman who . . .” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know how to say it in such a genteel setting.

  “. . . Auditioned for the part of wife number two while Glen was still married to wife number one?”

  That was a classy way of putting it. Vega wished he could have been half as classy when Wendy “auditioned” Alan—and then awarded the man with twin boys for the effort.

  Vega glanced at Charlene but she kept her eyes on the crowd. Her lips barely moved. Her smile never faltered. “I can’t say I approved of his choice,” she said. “But there was no ill will between any of us, Detective. If anything, I liked Talia. She was extremely kind to Adam.”

  “You’re not angry? Bitter?” Vega felt like he was showing his own hand. He pulled back before he said something he’d regret.

  “Of course I was upset,” she said. “But there are worse things than that.”

  “I can’t think of one.”

  “Humiliation. A loss of social decorum.” Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. “There is nothing more pathetic than someone who allows private matters to escape into the public domain.” Charlene offered Vega a slow, appraising look. “Are you asking as a police officer? Or as a man?”

  “Both, I guess,” Vega admitted.