A Blossom of Bright Light

by Suzanne Chazin

  Vega made a face. “It would be progressing a lot better if the Lake Holly PD hadn’t screwed up royally four months ago and erased any goodwill they’d built up in the Latino community.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were supposed to serve a warrant to some gang-banger but mixed up the address and ended up arresting this fry cook instead.”

  “The cook is suing?”

  “He wishes,” said Vega. “No. It’s bigger than that. ICE slapped a detainer on the guy because he had a prior deportation order from a labor raid years ago in California. Now he’s facing a one-way trip back to Mexico. His wife’s dead, and he’s the sole support of his three kids. The community’s pretty upset and not in a mood to cooperate with the police.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky with the dragnet.”

  Vega sighed. “One can only hope. Any surprises I should know about from the autopsy?”

  “Always,” said Gupta.

  Along one wall was a bank of steel lockers. On the other were charts detailing their contents. Gupta pulled a chart off the wall and walked over to a locker with the corresponding number. She opened the door and slid out the tray. The little white body bag barely took up a tenth of the space on the tray. Gupta zipped it open. On Sunday, Mercy had looked capable of being cuddled back to life. Today, her skin was the color of spoiled meat, her facial muscles seemed to have melted, her pupils had dilated, and there was a blue-white haze in the center of them that made her look doll-like. She wasn’t a person anymore. But that didn’t make Vega’s job any easier.

  “It’s all in the report,” Gupta explained. “But I wanted to show you a couple of things I think you should see.” Gupta raised her hand over the child’s face and gently lined up her fingers with bruise marks on either side of the baby’s eye sockets. The heel of her palm rested directly over the bruises beneath the baby’s nose.

  “What does this tell you?” she asked Vega.

  “Well, I know you didn’t smother her. So I’m guessing someone with your size hand did.”

  “Which would likely be a woman’s hand.”

  “A woman. Yes,” Vega agreed. “Greco and I figured as much.”

  “Detective Louis Greco,” said Gupta. “He hasn’t retired yet, I take it?” Vega was always amazed at her recall of names and specifics. Another reason she should have ministered to live patients. The dead don’t care what you call them.

  “He says his wife would work him harder.”

  Gupta allowed a small smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “So the cause of death was asphyxiation?”

  “No,” she said. “The cause of death was hypothermia. There was tissue damage consistent with hypothermia. Plus, there were high catecholamine concentrations in her urine.”

  “Catecholamine?”

  “Hormones made by the adrenal glands,” said Gupta. “To put it bluntly, the baby died of shock from the cold.”

  “Not asphyxiation?”

  “Not asphyxiation. Her lungs show all the earmarks of normal respiration. It certainly appears someone tried to smother her. But it was the cold that killed her.”

  Vega closed his eyes. This was not what he wanted to hear. “And the time of death?” He tried to ask the question casually. But so much was riding on the answer.

  “Approximately five a.m. It appears she died only about ninety minutes before she was discovered. But certainly, she’d been there a while.”

  Five a.m. Eight hours after Rafael’s call. Vega could’ve flown to Puerto Rico and back with Adele and still had a chance to save this baby. It was his fault entirely that she died. Whether he was willing to admit it or not.

  He took a deep breath and tried to remind himself he had a job to do here. “Any idea how long she was alive? Or when she might have been abandoned?”

  “Judging from the condition of the umbilical cord blood, I’d estimate that the baby was born ten to twelve hours prior to her death,” said Gupta. “So that would put her birth at anywhere from five to seven p.m. on Saturday. I took some skin samples of the bruises to see if they were proximate to the time of death or possibly administered soon after her birth. Newborns bruise easily, which is good news here, because I had more to work with. I did a histological exam and it appears that there was some healing of the vessels already going on by the time of death.”

  Vega’s head was spinning. He had no idea what Gupta was trying to tell him.

  “Doc, I took maybe two basic science courses in all my four years in college. I can tell you how to read a spreadsheet or calculate the future value of an annuity. But I have no idea what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m saying the person who attempted to smother the baby did so several hours before she died.”

  “I have a line on someone who claims to have seen a mother and baby in those woods around eight the night before. Possible?”

  “Entirely possible,” said Gupta.

  “The one time that drunk gets anything right . . .”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that—my only witness is this bowlegged alcoholic everyone calls Zambo. No one ever takes him seriously. Except this time, I should have. And now I can’t find him.”

  “Let’s hope you do.”

  Back in her office, Vega went over her report. He took some notes, and Gupta corrected his medical misspellings.

  “And the baby? She was full-term?” asked Vega. “Basically healthy?”

  “No congenital abnormalities,” said Gupta. “Do you have any leads at this point?”

  “One, possibly. I’ll know more later today.” Vega gathered up his papers and stuffed them into a folder along with the autopsy report. Gupta regarded him over the tops of her glasses.

  “So you were a finance major in college?”

  “Worse, accounting. The subject should be registered as a lethal weapon. I nearly died from it.”

  She laughed. “I’ll bet your parents made you study it.”

  Well, not parents. Just mother. But as far as Vega was concerned, she was the only one entitled to call herself a “parent” anyway.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “We Indians know something about parental pressure. My parents wanted me to be a surgeon.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I preferred having no hand in my patients’ demise. An advantage in my line of work. Yours too, in homicide, I expect.”

  Vega looked down at the envelope in his hands, heavy with the autopsy report. Hypothermia. She died of hypothermia. What the hell was he thinking Saturday night?

  “Yeah,” said Vega. “Most of the time.”

  Chapter 10

  Luna Serrano sat in her global studies class and listened to Mr. Murphy drone on about the Russian Empire under Catherine the Great.

  “The Russian serfs were just like slaves,” he told the class. “They had no legal rights. They could be separated from their families and sent to distant estates if their masters chose.”

  Luna kept her head down and pretended to take notes. She didn’t want to think about how much the serfs and she had in common.

  This may be my last Monday ever at Lake Holly High.

  She’d told only three friends about her situation. There was nothing anyone could do, and it got exhausting repeating herself all the time. Lindsay offered for Luna to come live with her family. But they didn’t have room for all three Serrano children, and Luna could never leave Dulce and Mateo. Natasha and Grace each lived with their moms and siblings, so there were too few adults and too many kids in their homes already. Nobody knew what to say, so they just stepped around the subject like it was this big fart in the room they were all pretending not to smell. Instead they talked about homework and crushes and television shows on TeenNick. The school talent show auditions were coming up on Thursday. Natasha was going to do a hip-hop dance. Lindsay was too shy to go on stage. Grace and Luna were supposed to sing a Beyoncé duet together.

  At dismissal time, Gra
ce walked up to Luna’s locker while Luna was gathering her books to make the school bus to La Casa. Dulce and Mateo got tutoring at La Casa after school while Luna did her homework and helped younger children.

  “So, about the talent show auditions,” said Grace. She sounded out of breath, like she’d been running even though she was standing still. She played with her hair. It used to be long and black like Luna’s, though recently she’d put an auburn rinse on it. Now it was the color of an eggplant. Grace was also Mexican, but she was born in the United States, and her parents had gotten their green cards long ago. They were separated now. Grace complained a lot about how her father always spied on her and was worried she had a boyfriend. “I wish he’d just leave me alone!” she’d say to Luna. Luna never knew how to answer.

  “The auditions are Thursday, right?” asked Grace.

  “Yes,” said Luna. “Right after school.”

  “See, I was wondering—since you may not be able to uh—you know—be in the show in December? I was thinking of asking Marly Lugo if she could do the duet with me? Is that okay?”

  Grace spilled out the request like Luna had a choice in the matter. But there were no choices. Marly Lugo had already been asked and had already accepted. Telling Luna was just the awkward finale. Luna kept her head in her locker and pretended to be figuring out whether she needed to take both her math and her English notebook to La Casa. “Yeah. Sure,” she mumbled.

  “Thanks, Luna! I knew you’d understand!” And just like that, Grace was gone. Luna saw her at the far end of the hallway, pulling her cell phone out of her backpack. She was sure Grace was dialing Marly to let her know it had all been settled.

  It doesn’t matter, Luna told herself. If she ended up in Queens, there wouldn’t be time for talent shows anyway. She’d need an after-school job. She’d need to look after Dulce and Mateo. Her father’s cousins would be giving them a roof over their heads. They couldn’t be expected to support them too, and Papi wouldn’t be able to do much from Mexico. Besides, the talent show was the least of the things Luna would be missing. In her locker was an application for Lake Holly’s summer science honors program. The kids who completed that program usually went on to get Intel and Westinghouse college scholarships. Luna had straight As in biology. Her science teacher, Mr. Ulrich, kept urging her to apply. The deadline was November 1. Luna could tell he was frustrated that she hadn’t submitted her paperwork. It was too exhausting and embarrassing to explain why.

  The hallway had started to thin out by the time Luna grabbed her backpack and made her way to the buses. It was an odd feeling to be in your childhood and aware that it was almost over. She wasn’t ready for it to end.

  She’d been going to school in Lake Holly since she was in second grade. She knew it wasn’t cool to say you liked school, but she really did. She liked the way her principal, Dr. Larkin, greeted all the kids by name in the mornings and announced everyone’s birthdays over the PA. She liked the way the gym floors gleamed when the sun struck them at just the right angle. She liked going out with her friends at recess and sitting under the three enormous maple trees by the soccer field. Lake Holly High was built in 1957 when those trees were much smaller. The original builder had nailed the school’s chain-link fence to their trunks. Now those trunks were so huge, they encased the fence. Luna was sure there were nice schools in Queens. But they’d never have trees like those—and her friends would never be sitting under them at recess, waiting for her.

  She’d really wanted to sing that Beyoncé duet with Grace in the talent show.

  She’d really wanted to get into that summer science honors program.

  Outside, Luna hefted her backpack over her shoulder and scanned the row of yellow school buses for the one that would take her to La Casa. She heard her brother calling her name.

  “Mateo. What are you doing here?” Mateo and Dulce were in the elementary school about a mile down the road.

  “Papi’s in the car,” Mateo said breathlessly. “He wants us to come with him.”

  “Is something wrong?” Luna felt a panicked squeeze in her gut.

  “Papi’s court date has been moved to Thursday.”

  “This Thursday?” Three days more as a family. Three days! She felt light-headed and queasy.

  “Papi spoke to Mr. Gonzalez, and he told him to come over right away,” said Mateo. “Papi didn’t want to have to worry about picking us up later from La Casa, so we’re going with him.”

  Luna’s father looked pale and hunched when she got into the car.

  “I’m hungry,” Dulce whined in back. Papi hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat. He probably ran out of the house in a panic when he got the news. His hair was still wet from a shower. Luna fished around in her backpack for half a roll of Life Savers that Lindsay had given her earlier in the day. She tossed them in back to Dulce.

  “Suck them, don’t chew them. They’ll stick to your teeth and give you cavities.” She sounded like Mami.

  Her father eased his brown Chevy past the school buses and out of the parking lot.

  “Why did they move up the court date?” asked Luna.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Mr. Katz called me, and I called Señor Gonzalez and Señora Figueroa about it right away. The señor was working from home today. He told me to drive to his house and Mr. Katz would be there too.”

  “Do you think they can do anything?”

  Papi looked straight ahead without answering. Lately he’d been wrapping their possessions in newspaper and packing them into cardboard cartons. His stuff mostly. But some of theirs as well. Luna knew that’s what he did all day when they were in school.

  “Maybe we should point the car to California and just keep going.” Luna said the words half-jokingly, though she couldn’t deny that the possibility had crossed her mind.

  “I have the ankle monitor, Mija. I wouldn’t get ten miles. And they’d lock me up for certain after that.” From the way Papi said it, Luna knew that the idea had occurred to him too.

  He shot a glance at Dulce and Mateo in the rearview mirror. “How was school today?”

  “Mateo got sent to the principal’s office,” announced Dulce.

  “What?” Papi put his foot on the brake and steered to the curb. Two cars honked behind them. He turned and glared at Mateo. “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Mateo stared at his lap.

  “Were you disrespectful to a teacher?”

  “No.”

  “He was fighting,” said Dulce. “With a boy on the playground who said all immigrants should be deported.”

  The words shot through the car like a hot knife. Papi swallowed hard and combed his fingers through his damp hair. “Mateo. You can’t worry about what other people say. Do you understand me?”

  Mateo nodded but kept his eyes on his lap.

  “When you fight a person like that, you go down to his level. Then he wins and you lose. This is not how I want you to behave if I’m . . . If I’m . . .”

  Papi’s voice dropped away. Mateo wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Papi’s voice softened. He reached behind and chucked Mateo on the knee. “It’s okay, Mijo. You learned, yes? It doesn’t matter what a boy like that thinks. You are as American as he is—okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Papi edged back into traffic and handed Luna directions to Señor Gonzalez’s house. The Gonzalezes lived outside of the main part of town in a development called The Farms. When Luna’s mother was alive, she cleaned a lot of houses in The Farms. Sometimes, when Luna was little, she’d tag along, so the big houses didn’t have the same effect on her that they had on her father and siblings. All three of them gaped as they drove by houses so big, her father joked that he’d need a map to find his way to the bathroom. Luna said nothing. All she could think about was her mother’s dream of a little house with a garden. Luna had always assumed that one day, they’d get it. Now she’d just be happy if all of them could be together again in their three-and-a-half-room
apartment.

  Luna read the directions. “Take a right,” she told her father.

  He turned onto a short, dead-end street. Mateo was the first to match up the house to the address.

  “That’s the one.” Mateo pointed to a huge white mansion with a separate three-car garage. “Wow,” he said. “Can you imagine living here?”

  “He’s rich, rich, rich!” chimed Dulce. Papi shot Dulce a look in the rearview mirror, but it was what they were all thinking.

  Papi parked on the street, and they all got out of the car, unsure which door on the house they should walk up to. The front entrance looked imposing, and they hardly felt like invited guests. Yet the side entrance felt a bit too familiar. Dulce skipped across the grass, and Papi called her back, though in truth, it looked so lush, Luna felt like kicking off her shoes and doing the same thing.

  They all stood like lawn ornaments for a moment. Then a side door opened and a young Latina in dark jeans and a ponytail stuck her head out.

  “Señor Serrano? My husband is expecting you,” she said in Spanish. “Welcome.”

  “Señora.” Papi bowed. “Many thanks to you and your husband for seeing us.”

  “This is your house?” Dulce blurted out.

  “Dulce!” Papi scolded. But Luna understood what her little sister meant. Señor Gonzalez was old and fat and balding. Señora Gonzalez looked more like his daughter than his wife. She wore bright pink lipstick and smoky eyeliner, and her ponytail was swept high off her neck like a schoolgirl. She covered her lips when she smiled as if there was something wrong with her teeth, which was odd because they were as straight and white as a TV reporter’s.

  “My apologies,” said Papi, shooting a dark look at Dulce. “My daughter needs to learn her manners.”

  “No apology necessary.” Señora Gonzalez allowed a little bit of her perfect white-tooth smile to flash at Dulce and Mateo. “My three boys are having snacks in the kitchen. Would you like to join them?”

  “Yes!” said Dulce. She started to run into the kitchen. Papi put a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Please, señora. That’s not necessary. You are busy. We will not impose.”