by K. L. Murphy
“So?”
“Have you ever seen anyone with that tattoo before?”
“I see lots of tattoos.”
Sylvia tapped her watch. “Two minutes.”
Cancini picked up the pages and replaced them in the folder. “Ketchum, the employee you can’t remember, has been paid in excess of five thousand dollars in the last few weeks. That’s a lot of money. You sure you don’t know what he does for you?”
“I said I—”
“Mr. Vega has already answered that question, Detective.” Morris squeezed his arm, and Vega’s mouth clamped shut. She cocked her head to the side. “Obviously, Mr. Vega cannot possibly know every employee personally. He owns the restaurants, which means he doesn’t deal with the day-to-day business. He hires people to do that.”
“Mr. Ketchum has admitted he shot at a priest,” Cancini said, switching directions. “He also confessed to setting fire to a church. I assume you saw the stories in the paper.”
“We all saw the stories, Detective, and those are terrible things. That being said, my client has already told you he doesn’t know this Ketchum.” The lawyer tapped Vega on the shoulder, and they both stood. “Your five minutes are up. If you have any additional questions, please call my office, and I’ll be happy to set up an appointment.”
“Sit down, Mr. Vega. We’re not done here.”
Sylvia’s head twisted, and her placid expression turned steely. “Really, Detective? My client has answered your questions, and I have yet to hear a valid reason he’s been asked to come in here.”
“Is a charge of solicitation to commit murder and arson in the first degree reason enough?”
Vega laughed, the sound a sharp cackle that sent a shiver up Cancini’s spine. “Solicitation? What the fuck is that?”
Sylvia raised a hand, and Vega’s guffaws faded to a snort. “I think he means hiring someone to commit murder.”
Vega’s scowled at the large pane of glass, his smile gone. “This is bullshit.”
Cancini motioned to the file. “I’ve got a few more questions.”
“I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“You’re right. You don’t. You’ve got your lawyer to hide behind.” Vega’s upper lip curled, and he took a step forward.
Vega’s lawyer placed a hand on his forearm and pulled him back. “Are you prepared to arrest my client today?”
“Depends on how he answers my questions.”
“And if he chooses not to answer—which is his right?”
“I’d have no choice but to place him under arrest.” Cancini’s case was flimsy—even with Ketchum’s testimony—but they didn’t know that.
Vega’s chin jutted forward. “You don’t have shit.”
“You don’t know what I have, Mr. Vega. Unless you have some pretty good answers to my questions, I plan on locking you up.”
“I’ll be out before dinner, asshole.”
“Have someplace to go? Is it the Amberjack Club or the Bang-Bang tonight?”
“You think I don’t already know you been following me? You think I give a shit? You’ve got nothing, and we both know it. You arrest me and I’ll be eating surf and turf and dancin’ with some fine ladies before you can figure out what the fuck just happened. You just keep jacking off, asshole. We’re outta here.”
Cancini kept his voice steady, his body still. “It’s a Friday afternoon.” He stared hard at Vega. “These are felonies, Mr. Vega, and it’s supposed to start snowing soon. No judge is hanging around late today. Even your lawyer can’t change that. If I arrest you, you’re in till Monday, like it or not.” Cancini raised one shoulder and smiled. “You can answer my questions or not. Your choice.”
The lawyer’s mouth opened and closed. Her gaze drifted to the one-way glass, then to her client. She nodded once and shrugged. “You have one man’s word and a payroll report. We both know that’s not enough to hold my client, Detective, but”—she smiled again and pulled out a chair—“we’re feeling generous today. A few more questions. That’s all.”
After they were seated again, Cancini asked, “How long had you known Father Holland?”
Vega’s started. “Is that what this is about?” He gave a single shake of his dark head, and the gold around his neck flashed under the lights. “I knew him when we were kids. So what?”
“You were close when you were young, weren’t you?”
“Everyone hung around back then. It was Barry Farm, man. You had to fuckin’ stick together.”
“But not anymore?”
“Didn’t have anything in common, man. You know how it is.”
“Did money have anything to do with it?”
Vega laughed out loud. “Shit. Matty never had any money. He chose a life that made him poor. I’m a businessman. Like I said, we didn’t have anything in common anymore.”
“So you hadn’t been in touch with him recently, through e-mail, or on the phone?”
“We weren’t friends anymore, but we weren’t enemies, either. I might’ve called him or e-mailed him. I don’t really remember. My mother went to his church. She loved the man.”
“Father Holland wasn’t the only priest you knew.”
He shrugged again. “So? I was raised Catholic.”
“Did you know Father Joe Sweeney?”
“You know I knew him.” He sat forward, his hands spread on the table, ready to push away. “This is a waste of time. I don’t feel like talking anymore.”
“Did you see him Tuesday?”
Vega’s lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear. He raised a shoulder and faced Cancini. “Yeah, I saw him. He wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I want to hear your version.”
Vega held Cancini’s gaze, then shook his head. “I got nothin’ to say, man.”
Cancini’s heart thumped in his chest. “What time did he come by your house?”
“My house? He didn’t come by my house. He met me at one of my restaurants, the Southeast store.”
Cancini tensed, the muscles in his shoulders rock-hard. That store sat on the same block where they’d found Father Joe’s cell phone buried in a Dumpster. “What time?”
“How the fuck should I remember? Why don’t you ask him?”
“It was late,” Cancini said.
“What are you talkin’ about?” His black eyes bugged. “Wait. I do remember. It was the fuckin’ middle of the day. Shit, I even offered him lunch.”
Cancini hesitated. Vega had admitted meeting with Father Joe earlier in the day, yet denied seeing him that night. “What did you talk about?”
Vega’s lawyer cleared her throat and shook her head. Vega nodded. “Nothing important.”
Cancini struggled to keep his voice even. “Did anyone else see him talking to you?”
“The whole damn restaurant saw him talking to me.”
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know. One? One-thirty? I’m not a fucking clock.”
Cancini rubbed his palms against his pants. He’d seen the text. I’m coming to you.
“After he came to the restaurant, he texted you again that night. Did you respond?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I didn’t get any text.”
“Are you sure?” Cancini handed Sylvia a blacked-out phone log with the single number highlighted.
Vega squinted at the sheet. Cancini almost missed the twitch at the corner of Vega’s eye. “That’s not my number.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. “This is my phone. I don’t know that number.”
Cancini didn’t look at the phone in Vega’s hand. “It’s registered to Chicken del Rey.”
His lawyer held a hand to her mouth and spoke into his ear. Vega frowned and shook his head. “It could be one of my phones for the business, but I don’t use that phone. I don’t even know where it is.”
“We can get a warrant for the phone records, Mr. Vega.
”
Vega’s voice rose. “I told you I don’t know where that phone is. Coulda been stolen.”
“We can get a warrant to search your house, your computer. We can see who you’ve e-mailed, who you’ve called.” Vega cast a questioning glance at his lawyer. She frowned, but said nothing. “Did you know you can never really wipe a hard drive clean, Mr. Vega? It’s not just hackers who can find bank accounts and steal money these days. We’ve got some fine hackers of our own right here in the police department. I wonder what they might find on your computer.”
Vega lurched to his feet, pushing the table into Cancini. “Then why don’t you fuckin’ do that?” His arm swept across the table, and papers flew from the folder. “We’re done here,” he said with a sneer. “Unless you plan to arrest me.”
Cancini made no move to stop them. After, he joined Martin on the other side of the glass. “Well? Was it enough time?”
Martin nodded. “Judge Simpson signed off on the warrant ten minutes ago. Smitty’s waiting for you.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
Vega answered the door, a scotch in his hand. Not bothering to hide the contempt on his face, he turned on his heel. Cancini followed him to a white living room: white walls, white sofas, and white tables. Only a red and gray rug in front of the fireplace provided any color.
The lawyer stood near the hearth, the warrant clutched in her hand. The soft lines of her matronly face hardened. “Smooth, Detective. While my client was busy cooperating, you were stalling for time to get a warrant. Don’t think I’m going to forget about this.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Cancini said. He watched as forensic analysts carried every electronic device out of the house. In other rooms, drawers were turned inside out, contents dumped in piles. Vega flinched with each thud.
Tossing back his scotch, he turned to Cancini. “What do you want?”
“Did you kill Father Holland?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“No.”
Cancini moved to the open doorway to find Smitty trotting down the stairs. His young partner kept his voice low. “No one else here. As far as we can tell, there’s no sign of him, but we’ll keep looking.” Cancini let out his breath. He hadn’t really expected to find Father Joe in the house, but knowing he wasn’t there did nothing to shrink the pit in his stomach. He nodded once, and Smitty disappeared again.
Vega crossed to the bar and poured another drink. When he spoke again, his words slurred. “I never wanted Matty to die.”
“Carlos. That’s enough,” the lawyer admonished, features taut and body tensed.
Vega flopped down onto the sofa, glass balanced on his chest.
Cancini sat opposite him, heart racing. “What do you mean you didn’t want him to die?”
“We’re not doing this,” the woman warned.
Vega ignored her. A melancholy seemed to settle over him. “Matty was my best friend for a long time, a long fuckin’ time. I miss those days.” Cancini waited. “We did everything together. He had it tough with his mom, you know. She took the pipe, other stuff, but she was a sweet lady. Matty tried. When his mom OD’d, they took him away, tried to stick him with some lame-ass foster family. He stayed in our crib for a while.” His voice dropped off.
“What happened to him after that?”
Vega drained his scotch, eyes hooded. “He left. Couldn’t handle the life here, you know. Just wasn’t in his blood.”
“Like it was with you.”
Vega issued a harsh laugh. “Nice try, Detective. Matty just wanted outta Barry Farm. We all did.”
Cancini had learned enough to know this was probably true.
“I didn’t see the priest thing comin’, though. Finally shows his face again and he’s wearin’ the collar. Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it.”
“You used his bank account to launder money.”
“Don’t answer that,” Sylvia said.
Cancini waved a hand. “It wasn’t a question.”
Vega stretched out and rested his head against the back cushion. Footsteps and crashing noises came from the top floor, and the lawyer jumped. Vega sighed but appeared more bored than alarmed.
Hands on her hips, the lawyer asked, “Are you done yet?”
Cancini focused on the reclining Vega. “Why don’t I tell you a story?”
Vega’s gaze fell on him and slid away again. “Suit yourself.”
Cancini sat forward. “Goes like this. There’s this local boss, has a pretty good business going—drugs, some gambling, prostitution—but decides he needs a fresh way to funnel some cash. He realizes he has the perfect target in an old friend that happens to be a priest. Who’d suspect a priest of laundering drug money, right? Everything’s going great until the priest finds out. Does the priest confront his old friend or go to the police? Neither one. Instead, he decides to turn the tables on the boss and steal the money. He studies the deposits and withdrawals, finds a pattern, and waits. When the time is right, he empties the account, then shuts it down.” He paused. A vein at Vega’s temple throbbed. Otherwise, he remained motionless. “How’m I doing so far?”
Vega shrugged. “Make a good movie.”
Cancini leaned in closer, his words no longer a third-person story. “Maybe you didn’t know it was Father Holland who took the money at first. Probably came as quite a shock, a priest stealing from someone like you.” Vega’s face darkened. Cancini kept talking. “He’d gotten the better of you, stolen your own money right from under your nose. The real problem, though, is that he refused to give it back. You play nice at first. He’d been your best friend once, right? But as more and more time goes by, you get madder and madder. Not only has he stolen from you, he’s making you look bad.”
Vega’s nostrils flared, but he remained silent.
“Enough.” The lawyer stepped closer to Vega. “This is absurd.”
Cancini ignored her. “You sent e-mails. They started nice enough, but then you had to start threatening him. You didn’t just want your money back by then. You needed it back. Your businesses—your illegitimate businesses—rely on cash flow, and a half million is a lot of cash.”
“You’re damn right it’s a lot of cash—a whole lotta fuckin’ cash.” Vega growled, face pinched.
“You send Ketchum around a few times to scare him. It works at first. Father Holland grows anxious, can’t sleep. He sees a doctor for anti-anxiety pills. But still, he won’t back down, won’t give you your money. You give him a deadline to return the money. Tell him if he doesn’t, he’s a dead man.” Cancini paused, thinking about Vega’s earlier comment. “You don’t want to do it, though.”
Vega sat forward, his head in his hands.
“Instead of turning over the money, Father Holland puts it into an untouchable trust with only one beneficiary, St. William Catholic Church. He leaves you no choice. You have a business to run. You have a reputation.”
One minute passed. Two. Vega staggered to his feet. At the bar, he filled his glass to the rim. He waved his fresh drink in the air, splattering brown drops on the carpet. “Join me?”
Cancini shook his head.
“Sylvia?”
“No, and I think you’ve had enough.”
“The fuck I have,” he slurred.
Smitty joined them in the living room, his face grim. He leaned in toward Cancini. “We’ve got the laptop that sent the e-mails.” A pair of handcuffs dangled from his long fingers.
Vega eyed the silver cuffs, face slack. He swallowed his drink in one long gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Smitty stepped forward. Vega raised one hand and turned toward Cancini. “It’s a good story, Detective, except for the ending,” he said slowly, all trace of slurring gone.
A cold sweat broke out under Cancini’s shirt. “What’s wrong with the ending?”
“You’re the fucking detective,” Vega said, tone mocking. “You figure it out.”
Chapter Seventy
-nine
Martin’s face glowed as he made the rounds of the precinct, slapping backs and pumping his fist. The arrest of Carlos Vega was the biggest thing to have happened in his career, the biggest thing to have happened in most of their careers. Cancini stood apart, mood dour. They were no closer to finding Father Joe than they’d been before they’d brought Vega in, and Vega hadn’t said another word after the arrest. Cancini knew if the lawyer was telling the truth, he wouldn’t anytime soon. Vega had nodded at Cancini as he was led out, chin upraised, dark eyes filled with an unspoken challenge.
It’s a good story, Detective, except for the ending.
Cancini shook the nagging words from his head. They’d pulled multiple computers and tablets from Vega’s house and offices. Nearly apoplectic with glee, Landon had spent twenty minutes going on about ghost drives and IP addresses and servers. It only mattered to Cancini as long as it held up in court. Either way, they’d arrested Vega for solicitation to commit murder and arson. He should have been relieved at the arrest, satisfied, but instead he felt vaguely restless, uneasy.
Bronson hung back from the informal celebration, his face pinched and pasty. With a sigh, Cancini edged closer to the younger detective. “What’s wrong, Bronson?”
The stocky man shrugged. “Nothing.”
Cancini had no patience for Bronson’s petulance, but he also recognized he was the source of it. “Bronson, you stayed on the Hardings, just like I asked. It’s my fault you weren’t at Vega’s arrest. I’m sorry. I owe you one.”
Bronson raised his eyes to meet Cancini’s. “Thanks.”
Cancini leaned against the wall, his arms folded. “Well, did you find anything interesting on the Hardings?”
“Yeah. Don’t know what it means though.”
Cancini checked his watch. Martin’s press conference wouldn’t take place for another hour. “I’ve got a few minutes. Shoot.”
Bronson pulled out his phone. “You know the Hardings are from the same town, went to high school together.” Cancini nodded. “What I found out is that right around the time they graduated, she accused another kid—a college kid—of rape. The police charged the kid, but it never went to trial.”