Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Karen has access to everything.”

  Silence. The realization seemed to hit them both at the same moment. “You don’t think . . . ?” Michelle’s voice seemed to rise in pitch. “I mean, how would Karen Hurst even know a bruiser like Bale? She’s just this sweet old lady who bakes us cupcakes.”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Vega. “I’m going to put you on speaker and switch screens.”

  Vega trolled his phone’s icons until he came to Facebook. Karen Hurst struck him as the Facebook type—the sort who posts pictures of pets and babies. Several Karen Hursts popped up when he entered the name. He eliminated some through age and geography until he came to a profile picture of a heavyset, silver-haired woman who lived up near Vega in a town called Markham. Under the tab Works At, it read, administrative assistant, ICE. Vega hit the Friends tab and typed in Ryan Bale in the search bar.

  Up came a close-up of a barbell with Bale’s name beside the photo.

  “Karen Hurst is Facebook friends with Ryan Bale,” said Vega. “And I think I know why.”

  Vega went back to Hurst’s Facebook page and typed in just Bale this time. Up came a whole bunch of Bales, one of them an older-looking woman named Ellen Hurst Bale. Vega clicked on the page. And there it was. A photo from Easter. Ellen Bale surrounded by her three grown children.

  One of them was Ryan Bale.

  “Karen Hurst is Ryan’s aunt,” said Vega. “It’s her. The candy dish lady. She’s the mole.”

  Chapter 47

  Vega’s head was hurting. Michelle and ICE didn’t need him to track down their own employee. They’d find her easily enough. Coming out of her doctor’s appointment. Stocking up on candy at a drugstore near her home in Markham. Defrosting a steak for dinner. A woman like that had a predictable schedule—even if the person behind the schedule hadn’t been quite as predictable.

  Vega drove home and hit the shower as soon as he got in the door. He changed into jeans and a T-shirt from a 5K race he ran last fall. It beat wearing Metallica across his chest. Then he fed Diablo and checked in with Adele. He must have popped his first pain pill right before that because he couldn’t even recall what he and Adele had talked about. All he knew when the phone awoke him at nine p.m. was that he hadn’t left the couch for at least two hours.

  He fumbled between the lumpy cushions for the phone, nearly stepping on Diablo, who was napping beneath his feet. He studied the name on the receiver. He’d been expecting Michelle with word on Karen Hurst’s arrest. But it was Solero instead, calling to check up on him.

  “I heard what happened, man. Are you okay?”

  “I got busted up a bit,” said Vega. “But the fingers still work so you don’t need to go looking for another guitarist just yet,” he joked.

  “Ryan Bale . . .” Solero let out a long whistle. “Who’d have thought?”

  Vega let the words hang on the line. He suspected his friend was looking for gossip. Cops were notorious busybodies. Vega couldn’t be sure what was public and what wasn’t yet—even for fellow police officers—so he said nothing.

  “Listen,” said Solero. “I just finished up a personal training session with Chuck McCormick.”

  Just hearing McCormick’s name put Vega in a better mood. Solero’s client was the guy who recorded the band’s eight songs in his home recording studio.

  “Did he finish the mix?”

  “I’m sitting in his driveway about three miles from your house, holding it in my hand,” said Solero. “You want me to swing by and you can give a listen?”

  “Aw jeez, that’s tempting,” said Vega. “But my ribs are killing me and my head’s not much better.”

  “Then this will take your mind off the pain, my man. What do you say? I drive home and it’s gonna be days before I can shoot a copy to you.”

  “Okay,” said Vega. “You’re on.”

  Vega hung up from Solero and pushed himself off the couch. The pills had muffled the throb in his head and chest, but they hadn’t killed it. He shot a glance at his weight bench and weights in the corner and realized it would be a while before he lifted anything heavier than a pencil.

  He walked into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water and dog treat for Diablo. If a dog could look worried, Diablo did. He cocked his head at Vega, a questioning look in his eyes.

  “I’m okay, pal.” Vega gave Diablo a scratch between the ears. “Just a little banged up, is all.”

  Vega’s phone rang again. He saw Michelle’s name on the screen and picked up.

  “Did you collar her?”

  There was pause. Vega heard voices in the background. A high-pitched beep-beep of a truck backing up. Maybe ICE was still on stakeout.

  “Jimmy . . . she’s dead. She shot herself in the head.”

  Vega’s legs seemed to give out beneath him. He pulled out one of his dining table chairs and sank into it. His reflection stared back at him from the sliding glass doors of the deck. His face looked like a Halloween mask. No wonder Diablo seemed worried.

  “Everybody involved in this scam is dead or bailing,” said Vega.

  “I know,” said Michelle. “The FBI thinks the Ramirez brothers may have already boarded a charter to Mexico. It could be months before we get anywhere with Interpol.”

  “Are you sure the shot was self-inflicted?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” said Michelle. “The FBI won’t let ICE anywhere near the scene. They think we’re all suspect. I had to drive up in my own car. I’m mostly relying on the sheriff’s deputies to feed me information. Their lieutenant tells me they found no sign of a break-in. Karen had gunpowder residue on her right hand and one clean shot to the right temple.”

  “What kind of gun did she own?” asked Vega. “A pistol? A revolver?”

  “She didn’t,” said Michelle. “The gun she shot herself with is a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic that was reported stolen in Wickford a month ago.”

  “The cops find anything else out of place?” asked Vega. “Maybe a neighbor saw some handyman walking around?”

  “They found a key in the bushes,” said Michelle. “Right by the rear door to the garage.”

  “Her house key?”

  “They said it was unusual. I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “When you do, can you text me a photo?”

  “I’ll see if I can sweet-talk one of the deputies.”

  Vega heard an intake of breath on the line. “So listen,” Michelle continued. “I’ve got a twenty-pound bag of Purina Dog Chow sitting in the trunk of my car and no dog owner to give it to. I’m heading right past Sullivan Falls on my way home. Want me to drop it off?”

  Vega hesitated. “I’m busy tonight.”

  “Adele?”

  “My drummer. He’s stopping by to play a mixtape for me.”

  “It will only take five minutes.”

  “I can’t, Michelle.”

  She seemed to register the drop in temperature between them.

  “Hey, not for nothing,” she said. “I tried my best to help Aviles today. I put my job on the line to write that order when I couldn’t get ahold of my boss.”

  “I know that,” said Vega.

  “So why the cold shoulder? You’ve been a different person ever since you got out of the hospital today. Is it on account of the concussion?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Vega fumbled for words to describe the hurt and anger he’d been feeling ever since his conversation with Cecilia Osorio this afternoon. Nothing—not the pounding in his head or the pain in his chest—could come close to the ache he felt in his heart. But when he opened his mouth, only one word came out.

  “Gloria.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You aunt,” said Vega. “She was the one who called the cops on my mom and got me sent into foster care.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Michelle. “Why would she do that? Because of my mom and our dad’s affair? That happened four years before you got
sent away.”

  “Yeah,” said Vega. “Four years of bad blood. And then Gloria’s cat scratches me in the eye and soon after, someone poisons her cat. She always blamed my mother. Maybe calling social services was her way of getting even.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Michelle. “My mother would have told me—”

  “You think your mother’s going to admit what happened? That’s why they don’t want to talk about that picture of me. It’s not just that I got sent away. It’s why. They know, Michelle. Your mother. Our father. They know.”

  Silence. Vega heard her breathing hard on the line. He needed air himself. He slid open the door and stepped onto the back deck. The moon’s glow cut a shimmering path across the lake. A mist wafted through the trees, glazing them with dew. Vega shivered as it settled on his skin. He could feel Michelle’s hurt across the phone line. For him. For her. For the messed-up choices of their families that had brought them to this juncture.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered finally. “If Gloria did that, she did a terrible thing. An unforgivable thing. If my mother and our father knew—they should have said.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t know then,” said Vega. “They probably found out later.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “Me too.” Vega felt a peppery feeling in his nose and eyes. He wiped at them, hoping he wouldn’t start the bleeding again. He took a deep breath. “Text me if you find out anything more about the shooting.”

  “I will,” she said softly. There was a newfound distance in her voice. Vega felt like he was standing at an airport gate, watching Michelle board a one-way flight to a place he would never visit. A place she would never leave.

  “Get some sleep, mano.”

  She didn’t say “good-bye.” They’d both been through enough good-byes to recognize one without the word.

  Chapter 48

  Vega stood by the deck railing for a long while after that, until the hair on his arms turned wet with mist and the cold seeped down into his marrow and made him shiver. All his life, he’d coped—for better or worse—as the only child of a single mother. He’d drifted between cultures and communities, adapting, yet never belonging. He’d been happy enough—or so he’d thought. But then Michelle walked back into his life. She filled a hole he didn’t know he had. A hunger for family, for a shared sense of history. He grieved a door closing that he’d never noticed until she opened it.

  He was glad when his drummer showed up to pull him out of his melancholy mood. Solero was dressed in sneakers, black sweatpants, and a dark hoodie—not surprising, since he’d just come from a training session with one of his private clients. His bristle-short black hair glistened on its shafts. There was a charged look to his eyes. Diablo, normally such an effusive greeter, hung back. Solero hadn’t been up at Vega’s cabin since he got the dog. When his friend bent over to pet Diablo, the dog barked and circled Vega’s legs.

  “Whoa.” Solero backed up. “He looks like he’d take a chunk out of me.”

  “He’s normally very friendly,” said Vega. “Too friendly. But I don’t know his puppy history. Maybe you remind him of someone. I can let him out.”

  Vega opened the sliding glass door and nudged Diablo onto the deck.

  “He won’t get lost?”

  “Never. He knows where his meal ticket is.” Vega walked into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator. “You want a beer?”

  “Sure.” Vega tossed him one, then walked back to the couch empty-handed.

  “You’re not drinking?”

  “These pain pills I’m on really knock me out,” said Vega. “I’d better not.”

  Solero studied Vega’s face. “Bale did all that?”

  “The metal catwalk did some of it,” said Vega. “But yeah, he helped it along.” Vega patted his sore ribs. They were wrapped in an ACE bandage, which helped. But only time would heal them. “When I start to feel bad about him going over the rail and dying like that, I remember that it could have been me.”

  “Amen to that.” Solero popped the tab on his can and took a long pull before setting it down on the table in front of Vega’s lumpy corduroy couch. Vega sat down next to Solero and opened his laptop.

  “Thanks for coming over and bringing the tracks, Richie. That’s the best medicine in the world.”

  “Always is.” Solero pulled a flash drive from inside a pocket of his sweatpants and cradled it in his large square hands. Vega took it and inserted it in his drive.

  “I thought you said McCormick couldn’t mix the tracks for another couple of weeks.”

  “I guess he had some spare time,” said Solero. “It’s only a rough mix. It still needs polishing.”

  Vega plugged the flash drive into his laptop and opened the audio files. He expected to see eight finished song tracks with all the raw vocal and instrument recordings mixed into a single track. Instead he saw dozens of tracks for each song.

  “This isn’t the mix,” said Vega, gesturing to the screen. “These are the original tracks we laid down over a month ago.”

  “Aw man, I don’t believe it!” said Solero. “Chuck must have downloaded the wrong files. Jeez, Jimmy. I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s all right.” Vega tried to hide his disappointment. He was tired and hurting. He probably would have begged off seeing Solero this evening if not for the thrill of hearing the mix.

  “I wanted to go over a few things on the original tracks anyway.”

  Vega nodded. Solero was nursing a beer. He couldn’t very well throw his friend and fellow band member out. “Sure.”

  Solero pulled up Vega’s vocals on the third song, an uptempo, salsa-inspired piece with both English and Spanish lyrics that Vega wrote with Danny Molina. Adele said it was her favorite of all the songs Vega had written. It was called “Hot Blood, Cold Heart.”

  They’d just started listening when a text dinged on Vega’s cell phone. He checked the screen. It was from Michelle. It had been sent about ten minutes earlier. Out here in the woods, his messages sometimes got delayed, especially if they contained attachments.

  “Something important?” asked Solero. “About the case?”

  “Don’t know.” Vega typed in his password and pulled up the text. It contained two photos of the silver, T-shaped key the cops found in Karen Hurst’s bushes by her garage. One photo was an establishing shot and the other was a closeup.

  What do you think this is a key to? Michelle had typed beneath the two photos.

  Vega didn’t have to guess. He knew. As would any musician.

  Especially a drummer.

  Solero eyed the photos over Vega’s shoulder. Then he did something that catapulted every synapse in Vega’s body into overdrive.

  He patted his pants pockets.

  Vega pushed himself off the couch. His stomach lurched. His palms turned sweaty.

  “Listen, Jimmy.” Solero tossed off a small girlish laugh. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with what happened to Karen.”

  Vega blinked at Solero. Nobody outside the investigation knew that Karen Hurst was connected to the case. Or that she’d died. Vega felt the enormity of what his friend had just confessed to—and the danger he was in, alone in the woods with a killer. His gun was in his lockbox upstairs. His dog was outside. He couldn’t outrun or outfight a hulk like Solero, especially in his present condition with a swollen left eye and broken ribs.

  Solero lunged at Vega, spun him around, and locked a massive arm around Vega’s neck. The phone clattered to the floor.

  “You could’ve listened to a few music tracks and let me leave,” hissed Solero. “That’s all I needed you for. To establish an alibi. But it’s too late for that now.”

  “You were the other ICE agent,” Vega sputtered. He saw everything clearly for the first time. Solero was the one who met with Lissette. The one who stole the heroin that Bale planted in Adele’s car. “You gonna shoot me
in the head with a stolen gun like Karen?” Vega choked out. “That only works once.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  Solero threw Vega facedown onto the rug in front of the fireplace. Then he fished out a set of cuffs from the back pocket of his sweatpants and cuffed Vega’s arms behind his back. Outside, Diablo barked and pawed at the sliding glass door. Solero ignored him as he scanned the tops of Vega’s amps. His eyes brightened when he saw what he was looking for.

  Duct tape.

  “A musician’s best friend,” said Solero. He yanked Vega up by his shoulders, then dragged him over to the shelf with the duct tape. Vega saw what was coming. Solero was going to tape his legs together. He kicked wildly, with an animal fierceness he didn’t think he could conjure up after Bale this morning. His left ankle connected cleanly with Solero’s. The big man almost went down. But not before he’d managed to grab the tape and wind it around Vega’s jeans at the ankles.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Vega. “Throw me in the lake? You’ll never make it that far.”

  Solero’s eyes settled on something else in the corner. Not Vega’s guitars or his amps. His weight bench.

  “You’re going to have a little weight-lifting accident, Jimmy. You tried to bench-press too much weight and dropped it on your throat. Crushed your trachea. You should always have a spotter.”

  Solero slammed Vega down on the weight bench, faceup, and sat on him. Vega arched his back, desperate to throw Solero off but the man was too big and Vega, too hurt and spent. His ribs felt as fragile as toothpicks. Every twist was like a knife to his chest.

  Outside, Diablo’s barking grew more furious. His body thudded against the sliding glass door.

  “Shut up!” Solero snarled at the dog as he wrapped the duct tape around Vega’s body. Sweat poured down the big man’s face and dripped on Vega’s T-shirt.

  “Richie, think what you’re doing,” Vega pleaded. “We’re friends. Fellow musicians. I can help you. There’s still a way out of this.”

  Solero didn’t answer.

  A foot above Vega’s head, the shiny chrome barbell sat suspended like a giant guillotine. Vega gulped for air. He imagined the moment of impact, the barbell crushing his larynx, the shattered bits of cartilage blocking the thin passageway from his lungs to his brain. He imagined the panic as he struggled for air through a blocked windpipe. It was a hell of a way to die.