Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  “I still have some of my sweet potato pie left,” she added. “Just for you.”

  Vega swore he saw Greco blush. If Vega didn’t know better, he’d say the big man had a crush on Charlene Crowley.

  “We’re here to wrap a few things up with Mr. Crowley, ma’am,” said Greco, then belatedly remembered that Vega was standing beside him. “This is my partner, Detective Vega.”

  “Of course.” Charlene smiled but not quite as warmly as she did at Greco. “We met last night at the Wick.”

  “I was at the country club fetching Judge Keppel,” Vega explained. He was happy when Greco made the connection fast enough to let the matter drop.

  “Come in,” said Charlene. “I’ll let Glen know you’re here.”

  The hallway had polished wide-plank floors, high ceilings, and brass sconces. Vega peeked into the rooms. Flowing draperies framed long, mullioned windows. Oil paintings of seascapes hung over buttery leather couches. Charlene led them to a room with built-in mahogany bookcases and large potted ferns. A framed navigational chart hung over the fireplace. French doors offered a panoramic view of the pastures and woods beyond. It looked like the sort of house with a million nooks and crannnies.

  “Glen will be in shortly,” said Charlene. “Can I get y’all anything? Coffee? Tea? A slice of my sweet potato pie?”

  “Nothing ma’am, thank you,” said Vega before Greco could speak. Greco gave Vega a dirty look when she left.

  “What’s wrong with being hospitable and eating her food?”

  Vega looked pointedly at Greco’s waistline. “Any more hospitable, and I’m gonna have to trade the Taurus for an RV.”

  Vega heard footsteps shuffling in the hall. He motioned for Greco to be quiet as he rose from the couch and peeked around the corner.

  “Adam?”

  The young man was standing right outside the doorway, his curly hair standing up like he’d yet to brush it this morning. The kid had a creepy sense of personal space.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” said Vega.

  “Berber Shoes is closed on Mondays,” said Adam in a flat voice. “They’re open on Saturdays. Mr. Berber says more people buy shoes on Saturdays than Mondays.”

  “Sure. That makes sense,” said Vega. “Do you remember me? We met last night?”

  “Size nine-and-a-half tactical boot.” Adam looked at Vega’s feet. “You’re still wearing them.”

  Vega felt embarrassed, almost like he’d been called out for wearing the same underwear two days in a row. He stepped back from the door and gestured for Adam to come in. “We’re just waiting to talk to your dad. This is Detective Greco.” Vega looked at Greco. “This is the DA’s son—”

  “I know who he is,” said Greco. “I buy my shoes at Berber’s. Hey, Adam. How’s business?”

  Adam looked down like he was too busy concentrating to hear the question. “Size eleven wides. You like Hush Puppies Gilstrap loafers and hate white sneakers.”

  “Yeah. That’s right.” Greco jerked a thumb toward Adam and looked at Vega. “Pretty amazing, huh? I haven’t been in Berber’s in probably two months and he remembers.”

  That gave Vega an idea. “Hey, Adam,” Vega asked. “What kind of shoes does your dad like to wear?”

  “Lace-up oxfords. Cole Haan. Size ten, narrow.”

  “How about Talia?”

  Adam looked up from the floor at Vega. He had an odd habit of either not making any eye contact or making too much, like now.

  “Talia is dead.”

  “We know,” said Vega. “We’re sorry for your family’s loss. Did you spend a lot of time with her and your father?”

  Adam seemed not to hear Vega’s question. Or maybe he just couldn’t process it.

  “She liked sandals and ballet flats and espadrilles.”

  “What are espadrilles?” asked Vega.

  “Canvas shoes with rope soles,” said Adam. “She had size seven feet, same as my mother. She borrowed her shoes.”

  “Talia borrowed your mother’s shoes?”

  “No,” said Adam. There was a mild whine of frustration in his voice. It was the most emotion Vega had seen him exhibit. “My mother borrowed Talia’s espadrilles. They’re still in her closet.”

  “Why did your mother borrow Talia’s shoes?” asked Vega.

  “She should have borrowed her Tory Burch ballet flats. They wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

  “Adam!” The voice was sharp and male. Crowley barreled into the room, one hand on his cell phone as he finished a call, the other extended to shake Vega’s and Greco’s hands. Both men rose to oblige him. Crowley put his phone away and turned to his son.

  “Were you annoying these detectives?”

  “He was giving us a good education on shoes,” said Greco.

  “Yes, well, he does that sometimes.” Crowley spoke to Adam out of the side of his mouth. “Go find your mother.”

  Adam slunk out of the room, head down, arms stiffly at his sides. Vega had a sense Crowley often spoke to his son that way.

  “Sorry about that,” Crowley said to Greco and Vega. “Adam’s a good kid. But he can be trying at times. Charlene has the patience of a saint. Talia did, too.”

  “Our condolences again on your wife’s passing,” said Vega.

  “Thank you.” Crowley gestured for Greco and Vega to take a seat on the white linen couch. Crowley took a brown leather wing chair opposite them and perched on the edge, like they were planning some sort of strategy session and he didn’t have much time.

  “I’m assuming you’re here to wrap up the investigation?”

  “We just need to go over a few odds and ends.” Greco pulled out his phone. “You don’t mind if we record this, do you? My memory’s not that good anymore and Detective Vega’s notes are chicken scratch.”

  “Whatever will move this along.”

  Greco hit the record button, and noted the time, date, and parties present. He set it on the coffee table, then flipped back and forth through his notes while Crowley crossed and uncrossed his legs.

  “The lights,” mumbled Greco.

  “The . . . lights?” asked Crowley. “In this room?”

  “In your house,” said Greco. “They were all off when the first-due responders showed up Thursday night.”

  “So?”

  “So, somebody turned them off. They had to be on when she died, if you get what I’m saying.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” said Crowley. “Maybe Lissette turned them off Friday morning.”

  Vega and Greco weren’t asking the question to gauge Crowley’s response as much as his manner. In both their experiences, guilty people talked too much. Greco gave Crowley plenty of time to take the bait. He didn’t.

  “You left at six on Thursday night, correct?” asked Greco.

  “That’s right—”

  “With an hour’s stopover at Mario’s in Taylorsville.”

  Crowley paused. He seemed to sense a trap. “We ate. I can’t tell you how long we were there.”

  “So you ate? And then got right back on the road?”

  “I thought we already went through all of this.”

  “We’re just trying to be thorough here,” said Greco.

  “So you went to Mario’s, ate, and then drove straight to Albany?”

  “To the best of my recollection.”

  Vega and Greco had worked with enough prosecutors to know that, like cops, they noticed everything and forgot nothing. If Crowley was going to play the amnesia game, it was because he had something to hide. All they had to do now was zero in on the kill.

  Greco turned to Vega, like a thought had just occurred to him. “Wasn’t there a photograph you wanted to show Mr. Crowley again?”

  “You mean that picture of those two little girls?” Vega asked the question breezily, like they’d never discussed it before. He pulled out his phone, scrolled down to the snapshot of Deisy and Nelly, and handed it to Crowley.

  “I think I showed you t
his picture Friday night,” said Vega. “But just to be sure—you don’t recognize them?”

  “They’re kids,” said Crowley. “I don’t pay attention to kids. What’s this got to do with Talia?”

  Greco ignored Crowley’s question and turned to Vega. “You got a more recent shot of one of them, don’t you, Vega?”

  “Somewhere on my phone.” Vega took back the phone and pulled up Deisy’s immigration mug shot. He handed it to Crowley.

  “How ’bout this picture?”

  Crowley’s eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened. He thrust the phone back at Vega. “I meet a lot of people,” he said. “Maybe I met her somewhere. I don’t know.”

  “The problem is,” said Vega, holding Crowley’s gaze, “we do.”

  “We have the video,” said Greco. “From her phone—”

  “You what?”

  “The phone,” said Vega. “The one she carried in her wallet, along with that snapshot of her and her sister. We have the video from it. Of you and her—”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Crowley bolted from his chair. “This is ridiculous! I mean . . . how could I know she was an underage hooker? She looked twenty-one.”

  Bingo. They had him. Vega’s stomach turned to think of it. “Deisy Ramos was a sophomore at Port Carroll High School and a human trafficking victim,” said Vega. “She was coerced into prostitution by a sham promise of permanent asylum. Who was your contact?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She was just a girl.” Crowley sank back down on the chair and held his head in his hands. Belatedly, it seemed to occur to him what Vega and Greco were really here about. He lifted his head from his hands.

  “You think I killed my wife, don’t you?”

  “Talia was shopping for a private investigator,” said Greco. “Wives don’t do that to send valentines.”

  “She killed herself, plain and simple,” Crowley insisted. “I wasn’t even there.”

  “You got somebody else to do it,” said Vega. “Who? The pimp who supplied you with Deisy? One of his contacts?”

  “This is nonsense!”

  “You couldn’t stand the idea that she was going to ruin you,” said Vega. “So you killed her.”

  Crowley pushed himself off the chair, fists curled at his sides. There had always been something coiled about the man. An energy that couldn’t be ascribed simply to an exacting nature. He kept it hidden at work. Channeled it into his attention to detail and a love of winning cases. But here, inside his former house, the intensity felt less contained and more lethal. He pointed a finger at Vega.

  “You’re the killer, Detective Vega. You shot an unarmed man in cold blood. I should have convened a grand jury when I had the chance. Gotten you kicked off the force doing mall gigs where you belong. Instead, you and the Pillsbury Doughboy here have the temerity to accuse me? I’ll have both your badges before this is over.”

  Crowley walked to the door and opened it. “From now on, you will talk to me only through my attorney. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 39

  “We nailed him with Deisy Ramos,” said Greco as he and Vega headed back to the station house. “Got it all on tape.”

  Vega hunkered down in his seat. “Yeah.”

  “What are you sore about? Because he called you a killer? We got him admitting to sex with an underage human trafficking victim. His career is toast.”

  Vega stared out the window as Lake Holly came back into view over the ridge, all church steeples and peaked roofs.

  “I don’t think he killed Talia.”

  “What?” Greco turned the wheel of the Taurus so hard he had to overcorrect. “Now I finally agree with you and you’re changing course?”

  “Not changing course,” said Vega. “Somebody killed Talia. I’m just not sure it was Crowley. His body language was entirely different when we talked to him about Deisy than about Talia. He seemed genuinely blindsided. I want a polygraph.”

  “Which he won’t do,” said Greco. “He’s got nothing to gain and plenty to lose.”

  A dispatcher’s voice came over the radio, requesting Lake Holly send a patrol to Beth Shalom. Vega sat up straighter. He was sure those ICE agents were back.

  “Can we swing by the synagogue?”

  “Stay out of this,” Greco warned him. “Aviles is the subject of a federal warrant, and nothing you say can change that.”

  At the traffic light, Greco turned right, in the direction of the station house. Away from Beth Shalom.

  “What if I told you that Ryan Bale set Adele up last night?” asked Vega. “So that he could remove documents from her car so Aviles couldn’t petition ICE for a stay of removal.”

  “I’d say you had rocks between your ears,” said Greco. “I’ve known Bale ever since he was a rookie. And sure, he can be a little rough around the edges. But he’s not corrupt. For what purpose? He doesn’t give a crap about some illegal—or your girlfriend.”

  “Aviles isn’t just ‘some’ illegal,” said Vega. “His name was on Elmer Ortega’s list. The same list Deisy Ramos was on. What if both made contact—directly or indirectly—with this federal agent who keeps popping up through all these names, promising a reprieve from deportation in exchange for help with some criminal activity?”

  “And you think that agent is Bale?” asked Greco. “That makes no sense. Bale is a local cop. You don’t think word would get around if he were shaking down immigrants in these parts?”

  “I think it would,” Vega agreed. “Which is why I think someone else is doing it.” Vega told Greco about the retired ICE agent whose name appeared on both Cesar Zuma’s and Edgar Aviles’s deportation letters. “Neither letter is in their ICE files,” said Vega. “And both were signed five months after Wilson retired.”

  “What’s Wilson have to say about all this?” asked Greco.

  “I don’t know,” said Vega. “Michelle is trying to track him down. But what if Wilson had a silent partner? That would give the partner a strong incentive to get Aviles out of the country as quickly as possible.”

  “And you think that silent partner is Bale? Get outta here, Vega. You can’t prove any of that.”

  Vega saw the station house coming into view. That’s when it hit him.

  “Bale’s body cam.”

  “Huh?”

  “Beat patrol officers download the video from their body cameras at the end of each shift, right?”

  “That’s the policy,” said Greco.

  “When did Bale’s shift end?”

  “I think he was working an overtime day shift yesterday,” said Greco. “He’s on duty for a regular shift this morning. Why?”

  “So his video footage from yesterday would be in your system?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I need you to take a look at the thirty-second pre-feed before Bale turned on his camera when he encountered Adele,” said Vega. “This would have been about four p.m. yesterday.”

  Greco shook his head. “I can’t just waltz into the station and yank another officer’s body cam footage without some sort of explanation.”

  “Then I’ll give you one,” said Vega. “What you make up when you go inside is up to you.”

  Vega walked Greco through what Adele had told him about Ryan Bale squatting down to check her tires before he turned on his body cam.

  “If Bale wanted to set Adele up,” Vega explained, “he’d need to know where she was when she broke down so he could offer to change her tire. Which means he’d have to plant a GPS tracking device on her car. That’s not something you want to leave on a vehicle as evidence.”

  “You’re paranoid, Vega. You’ve been sleeping with the enemy for too long.”

  “If I’m wrong, I’ll back off. But what if I’m right?”

  Greco cursed as he pulled sharply into the station house lot. He cut the engine, then turned and wagged a finger at Vega.

  “You will stay in the car and say nothing to nobody—you hear? Lake Holly’s my town and Bale
’s one of my people. And I’m very protective of my people.”

  Greco pushed himself out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and trudged up the steps and into the building. He looked like a man who’d just been told his wife was cheating on him and didn’t want to believe it.

  Vega pulled out his phone and dialed Adele. “What’s going on?” he asked when she picked up. “Lake Holly just got a request for backup at Beth Shalom. Is ICE there?”

  “ICE. Max Zimmerman. Two dozen preschoolers. And two TV stations. Max called them.”

  Vega didn’t care about the TV stations, but he didn’t like the idea of children there. He’d forgotten Beth Shalom had a preschool. “Maybe this is the time to cut Aviles loose.”

  “Edgar offered to go,” said Adele. “He doesn’t want to put anyone at risk. It’s Max who’s arguing for him to stay put until I get hold of Michelle.”

  “Nena,” Vega said softly. “She may not call.”

  “I know that,” said Adele. “But I’m afraid to release him. This isn’t just about Edgar getting deported anymore. His life is at risk. His family’s life is at risk. He showed me this cell phone that Lissette had. Dangerous people want this phone, Jimmy.”

  Vega’s heart felt like it had dropped into his shoes. “Whose phone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Adele. “Some teenage girl’s selfie is on the screen. I can’t find out more without the girl’s password.”

  The phone belonged to Deisy Ramos. Vega was sure of it.

  “Don’t let that phone out of your sight,” said Vega. “Try to stall if you can. I’ll get hold of Michelle.”

  He got her on the first ring.

  “ICE is at Beth Shalom,” Vega blurted. “Why didn’t you text me? Or Adele?”

  “Because I’m not the fairy godmother of deportation reprieves,” she shot back. “I’m doing the best I can to track down Wilson, but he’s on a fishing trip in the Adirondacks. Those are the limits of my expertise.”

  “You could go to your boss, Bowman.”

  “And you could let Tyler and Donovan do their jobs,” she replied. “If Aviles needs a stay, he can get one when he’s in detention—”

  “Bullshit, he can! He needs ICE called off now, Michelle. Not in a day. Not in a week. Now!” Vega glanced at the station house door. Greco had yet to emerge. Vega wondered if his pal was right. Perhaps he had lost all objectivity. He ran a hand down his face and tried to get his temper under control.