“You’re just going to your car, correct?” he asked Vega.
“Yessir. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Dominga shuffled out of the house with her head down and her hands tucked under her arms. She didn’t speak. Davies remained on the doorstep, eyeing them.
“Does he always watch you this closely?” Vega asked her in Spanish. He was betting Davies didn’t speak more than a few words.
Dominga mumbled into the velvet collar. “No quiero problemas.” I don’t want any trouble.
“Trouble from him?” Vega continued in Spanish. “Or trouble from me?”
She licked her chapped lips. “Trouble from anyone.”
Vega nodded to her belly. “Have you had your baby, miss?”
“Yes.”
“Boy? Girl?”
“A boy.”
“When?”
She looked confused. “Almost three weeks ago.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. Sleeping.”
“Where did you give birth to him?”
“Here.”
“In the house?”
Dominga looked over her shoulder. Davies was still standing at the doorway watching them, arms folded across his chest.
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“No.”
“Who helped you?”
“A woman.”
“You mean a midwife?”
“Yes, a midwife.”
“What was her name?”
Dominga hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Was she Spanish?”
“Yes. Spanish.”
Vega put on his gloves. The temperature had dropped. He could feel the cold bite right through his jacket and khaki slacks. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”
Dominga shook her head and looked down again. She didn’t answer.
“I’m asking, miss, if you or your baby have seen a doctor?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t want to? Or no, he won’t let you?” Vega jerked his head in Davies’s direction. Davies called from the step again.
“How long is this going to take, Detective?”
Dominga shot a nervous glance at the step.
“Sir? The less you interrupt, the faster it will go.” Vega used his command voice. That usually kept civilians at bay. He turned back to Dominga.
“Are you telling me that you aren’t free to leave?”
Dominga met his eyes. She looked nothing like the Dominga in Karen Reilly’s photographs. The skin beneath her eyes was bruised-looking from lack of sleep. Her face was gaunt. She started to tear up. “Please, officer. I can’t lose my job. I don’t want to get into any trouble.”
Coño! This was not a situation he wanted to get into tonight, either. And yet something was very wrong in this house. Even if Dominga was telling the truth and her baby was upstairs, not dead in the woods, there was still the matter of her cowed and frightened demeanor and the fact that mother and child had never seen a doctor or received proper medical attention.
First things first, however: he had to make sure the child was alive.
“Miss—if we go back into the house right now and I ask you to show me your baby, can you?”
“Of course.”
“His name is—?”
“Emilio.”
Vega popped the Impala’s trunk and lifted the hood to shield him and Dominga from Davies’s gaze.
“I need you to pretend you’re looking at some items in the trunk of my car,” he instructed her.
“Why?”
“Because I want to give you something. And I don’t want your employer watching us while I do it.”
He walked to the passenger seat and grabbed the envelope with Karen Reilly’s photo book. Then he walked back to the trunk and slipped it into Dominga’s hands.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Open it.”
She undid the clasp and slid out the contents. Her mouth formed a little “oh” at the picture on the cover. It was a summer shot of Dominga and the Reilly children at what looked like a playground. All of them were in sleeveless tops, and they were seated at the bottom of a slide. The baby was in Dominga’s lap with an oversized sunhat on his head. The toddler boy was curled by her side running a Matchbox car across her thigh, and the girl was hugging her from behind, her mouth stained red, probably from a cherry snow cone. All of them were tanned and smiling. Dominga pushed a palm against her eyes and clutched the book to her chest as if it were the children themselves.
“Oh God. I miss them. Mr. Neil won’t let me call.”
At the sound of his name, Neil Davies started walking over. “Can she go now, Detective? She really needs to get back to work.”
Vega stepped away from the trunk and stuck out his hand. “Sir? I will not ask again. If you cannot be patient, then I suggest you wait inside.”
Davies huffed his way across the driveway and slammed the door. When Vega returned to the trunk, he found Dominga shaking—from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell.
“Easy,” said Vega. “He can’t hurt you while you’re with me.” He stared back at the house. “Karen Reilly told me Mrs. Davies lived alone.”
“When I first came, yes. But then after a few days, Mr. Neil came with the dogs. He told me he was here to help his mother until after I had the baby. But then—he just stayed.” She swallowed hard. “He is not a good man.”
“Why is that?”
Dominga flicked her eyes at the doorway.
“He’s inside. He can’t see you,” Vega assured her.
Dominga pushed up the sleeve of her dress beneath the coat. There were bruise marks in various stages of healing up and down her arm.
“Neil Davies did that?”
Dominga nodded.
“Do you have other injuries?”
“On my backside. The back of my legs. Sometimes my face. Anything I do wrong, he hits me. If I don’t cook the meal fast enough. If I don’t fold his laundry the right way. If the baby cries when he’s trying to sleep. One day, to punish me, he made me eat the dogs’ food.”
“Does he do anything to you sexually?”
She looked down at her feet, embarrassed by the question. “No. But I fear—in time—when I’ve recovered from Emilio . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Has he hurt the baby?”
“No. Not the baby. Or the missus. Only me.”
“And he doesn’t let you leave the property?”
“No. I leave. I go to the supermarket and the dry cleaners.”
“He drives?”
“Sometimes I take a taxi.”
“But he makes you leave the baby here?”
“No. I take Emilio with me. I would never leave my baby.”
Vega frowned in confusion. “Wait. If he’s giving you taxi fare and letting you take your baby, why don’t you just leave?”
“And go where? I have no money, no pa—” She suddenly realized who she was talking to. “I cannot get work with a newborn. How can I take care of Emilio?”
“There are agencies that would help you. Karen Reilly would’ve helped you.”
“She told me I had to leave because of my baby. I could not go back and put this burden on her.”
“Did you tell anyone about the beatings?”
“No.”
“But people must have seen you? Seen your bruises? The midwife, surely.”
Dominga shrugged. “People see, but they don’t see. You pass gardeners mowing lawns, nannies pushing carriages. You go to a diner and a busboy takes away your dishes—do you really look at their faces? Do you stop to ever wonder what’s happening to them? Whether they’re well-treated?”
“I suppose not,” Vega admitted.
“What could I do? What can I do now?”
A gust of wind bit into Vega. He shivered. Here, on this estate, set off from the world by a six-foot-high fence and a dirt road, how could Dominga not fe
el trapped? In every direction, the rolling lawn ended in choked woods. At night, under a gauzy wash of moonlight, it looked dark and impenetrable, but Vega was willing to bet it didn’t look much more welcoming during the day, either.
“Okay.” Vega took a deep breath. “What I want you to do is pretend you’re examining something in the trunk of my car. I’ll call this into the Wickford Police.”
“But they’ll call immigration. They’ll take my baby!”
“No they won’t, miss. You just need to trust me on this.”
Vega left Dominga at the trunk and got into his car. He punched the license plate number of the dark green Land Rover next to him into his dashboard computer. The owner came up as Neil Davies with an address in Lower Manhattan.
Vega pulled Davies’s driver’s license and Social Security number off his motor vehicle records and fed those into the computer, looking for priors. Up came two DUIs over the past six years and a charge two years ago for soliciting sex from a fifteen-year-old on the Internet. The sex charge got plea-bargained to a misdemeanor. But regardless of whether Neil Davies got probation or not, he was still considered a convicted sex offender. Which meant he was required to register with the state sex-offender registry and notify the registry and the police every time he moved. If Neil Davies was living here all these weeks, as Dominga claimed, he was not only looking at charges from assault to unlawful imprisonment, he was looking at immediate jail time for being in violation of his probation.
Vega radioed the county dispatcher that he needed two cars to respond from the Wickford PD: one to sit on the house until a relative or other caretaker could be found to look after Violet Davies, the other to process the arrest of her son. Dominga he would take care of himself. He’d take her statement and drive her and her baby to the hospital to get checked out. After that, Dominga would need a referral to a social services agency to help get her safely settled.
Vega pulled out his cell phone to dial Adele. She was the person he always called for these sorts of placements and referrals. He started dialing her number—
—and stopped.
She wasn’t the only person he could call on for a referral. There were other ways to get help for a woman in Dominga’s situation. He’d grown too dependent on Adele. That had to change. Starting now. He scrolled down his list of contacts until he came to Jenny Rojas. She was a social worker at the Sisters of Mercy down in Port Carroll. She was reliable. She’d be around to help Dominga as her case moved through the courts.
Adele wouldn’t. Not for Dominga. Not for him.
Vega walked back to the trunk of the Impala. “Okay. We’re going back to the house. I want you to get the baby and show him to me. Don’t tell Davies what you’re doing. Let me handle that. Then I want you to gather your things and the baby’s things, and once I call for backup, we’ll go down to the Wickford police station and you can swear out a complaint—”
“But where will my baby and I go?”
“We’ll get you checked out at the hospital, and then I’ll put you in touch with someone who can help you, don’t worry.”
Vega started to walk Dominga to the house. He looked down toward the front gate, half expecting to see the light bars of a couple of Wickford police cruisers ricocheting off the trees. He saw nothing. He listened for the crunch and pop of stones under tires or the squawk of police radios. He heard only the lazy creak of a loose shutter and the slow hiss of a storm door slowly shutting somewhere behind the house. He wondered if that’s how things were done here—nothing to alert the neighbors or disturb the cloak of civility.
A bush beside the garage rustled. And then Vega heard a noise that sucked up all the breath in his lungs.
A growl.
Vega took out his flashlight and shined it in the direction of the sound. Staring back at him were two ropy, muscular black shapes with phosphorescent eyes and pointed ears. Their huge jaws opened. Their canine teeth gleamed in the moonlight. A low rumble emanated from their chest cavities. It sounded like distant thunder.
Vega forced himself to breathe and remember his training. Don’t run. Don’t show your backside. His limbs went cold. The night air felt like buckshot to his lungs.
“Get behind me,” he ordered Dominga. “I want you to slowly walk around the back of my car and get into the front passenger seat. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she said in a tiny voice.
“Okay. Do it. Now.”
Vega reached into his pocket for the dog treats and threw them across the lawn away from the car, hoping the dogs would follow. It was a miscalculation. The dogs had no idea what he’d thrown and didn’t follow. Now he was out of dog treats and their white-orbed eyes were locked on Dominga.
“Carajo, no!” yelled Vega. His gun was too dangerous to even think of using out here in the dark with Dominga moving around. So he swung his heavy-duty flashlight overhead and stepped closer to the dogs, offering himself as bait. The bigger one lunged for Vega but connected with the casing of his flashlight instead. The dog’s teeth latched on tight, and Vega felt ninety pounds of pure muscle trying to wrestle him to the ground.
Sweat poured off Vega’s body as he fought to stay on his feet, fought to get a grip on the pepper spray in his pocket. He aimed it at the animal’s eyes and pushed down on the nozzle. A stream of aerosol whooshed from the container. The dog let go of the flashlight, yelping as it retreated across the lawn, where it began sliding its face against the grass. Vega knew that pain. At the police academy, instructors sprayed it in new cadets’ eyes so they would never forget the sting. But it was temporary, and more importantly, it was the only way to ensure Dominga’s safety. Behind him, his car door slammed. Dominga was safe inside. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The smaller Doberman retreated to a safe distance, where it continued to bark and growl. Vega lowered his pepper spray, convinced he was getting control of the situation. A light flicked on at the side of the house. Davies stuck his head out the door.
“Hey! What did you do to my dogs?”
Vega dropped his flashlight to his side. “Get your dogs secured now! Right now! Where I can see them!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Vega picked up a shadow of movement. A second later, a white-hot pain tore through his left calf muscle. He danced backward with the weight of the second dog on his leg and swung wildly with his flashlight. The dog yelped and ran away. Something warm and sticky began to ooze down his leg and into his sock. Blood.
“Your fucking dog just bit me!” he shouted at Davies. “Get them secured now!”
Where were the Wickford police? Vega was a good twenty minutes from Lake Holly Hospital, with no cop cars in sight. If this stupid dog had pierced an artery, he’d bleed out before help arrived. He pulled out his radio.
“Ten-seventy-eight, ten-eleven,” said Vega, giving the police codes for an injured officer and a dog bite incident. “Need an ambulance and animal control dispatched to 17 Barnes Lane.”
Vega opened the driver’s side door and sat on the seat to examine his leg. His left sock was saturated with blood. His beige khakis were ripped and stained where the dog had bit into his flesh. He was afraid to separate the fabric from his skin. It seemed to be stemming the blood flow at the moment.
“How bad is it?” asked Dominga.
“I’ll live,” said Vega. He pushed himself to his feet. At least he could still put weight on it. That was a good sign. “We need to get your baby, miss.” He limped to the door with Dominga in tow. Davies was waiting for them in the foyer.
“My dogs never bite,” said Davies. “You must have done something.”
If Vega had a dime for every dog owner who said that. He ignored Davies and spoke to Dominga in Spanish. “Show me your baby.”
Dominga disappeared up the stairs. “What did you just say to her?” Davies demanded.
Vega raised a hand for Davies to be silent. He didn’t have to be nice anymore. He was on solid legal ground now.
“Time to go, detectiveDetec
tive,” said Davies. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”
Vega gave Davies his flat I-don’t-give-a-shit gaze. “Does your mother have anyone who stays with her when you aren’t here?”
“You mean, besides Dominga?”
“Yes.”
“My cousin Laurie. Why?”
Dominga appeared on the landing cradling an infant boy with a tuft of black hair that stood straight up from his scalp, like a miniature Don King. He had the pruney, flattened face and glazed, unfocused eyes of a newborn, but at this distance at least, he looked reasonably healthy. Either way, Dominga wasn’t the mother of Baby Mercy. Vega turned now to Davies and focused his full attention on the man for the first time.
“Turn around, sir. Place your hands on the wall, feet spread apart.”
“What? You’re arresting me because my dog bit you?”
Vega began patting him down. “Trust me. That’s the least of your problems.”
Chapter 12
Adele glanced at the clock on the wall of her office. She had forty minutes to make it to Sophia’s school for this afternoon’s International Day. She would’ve gladly spent the next two hours with Charlie Gonzalez and Adam Katz exploring every option to fight Manuel Serrano’s deportation. But forty minutes would have to do.
“Thank you both for coming today,” said Adele as she handed Gonzalez and Katz their coffees and drew a faded blind over a wall of glass. It wouldn’t stop the smack and rumble of pool games that clients were playing on the other side, but it would give them the illusion of privacy. “Whatever happens, Manuel and I are both grateful that you are trying to help him.” Katz had given up a ton of billable hours for this case, and Gonzalez had a business to run, so their contributions weren’t chump change.
Adele took a seat behind her desk. Nearly every available inch of it was covered with stacks of papers. No matter how hard she worked, she never caught up. She blew on her coffee. Gonzalez put his down at his feet and walked over to her outside window. “Do you mind if I open it a little wider?” he asked. “It’s warm today, no?”
“Of course. Be my guest.”
A Blossom of Bright Light Page 10