A Blossom of Bright Light

by Suzanne Chazin

  Adele tucked the envelope in her bag. “Of course. I’d be delighted. I’ll read it over tonight.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Gonzalez watched Adele practically skip through the maze of phone banks and computers. Then he closed the office door and stared at the piece of paper on Schulman’s desk with all of Judge Hallard’s contact information. Schulman tented his fingers in front of him and said nothing for a long spell. When he did speak, it was one word:

  “Well?”

  Gonzalez and Schulman went back years together politically. One word was all that was needed.

  Gonzalez sat back in his chair, his belly like a small pillow in front of him. He studied his fingernails. He kept them clean now. Scrupulously clean. He hadn’t always had that luxury.

  “Adele is very—enthusiastic at times, yes?” asked Gonzalez slowly.

  “And this is bad?”

  Gonzalez gave Schulman a painful look. “She does not always understand the situation.”

  “Speaking of situations, I didn’t like making that call to the county police yesterday. I don’t like to play bully.”

  “I understand, Steve. I don’t think it will be a problem again. That’s why we need to deal with this the right way. We need to understand that there are issues involved.” Gonzalez held Schulman’s gaze.

  “And by issues, you mean personal issues?” asked Schulman.

  “Yes. Personal issues.”

  Silence.

  “These personal issues,” said Schulman. “Is it too late to, um—deal with them another way?”

  “In the time frame we’re talking about? Yes. I would say so.”

  Schulman reached across the desk and crumpled the piece of paper with Judge Quentin Hallard’s cell phone neatly typed out. He tossed it in his trash.

  “These issues will remain personal this time, I trust?”

  “You have my word.”

  Chapter 29

  A soft rain dripped off the leaves and glistened under the streetlights as Vega made the familiar rights and lefts that had come to feel second nature to him now. He wondered if this would be the last time he’d pull up in front of Adele’s little blue Victorian on Pine Road. Last summer, he’d replaced the floorboards on her front porch and rehung a couple of doors. A few weeks ago, he repaired some of the shingles on her garage roof. It wasn’t even his house and he felt so much nostalgia for it. He was happy here. He was happy with Adele. He couldn’t imagine being happy without her ever again.

  Adele’s porch lights were on, but her house was dark. Vega found a parking spot four doors down and decided to wait a while to see if she’d come home. He sat in his car—watching the street, watching her driveway—and brooded about the case. None of it made any sense. He had a teenage mother dressed in Joy’s hoodie who had died in childbirth, and the only person who could identify her was another teenager with the IQ of a five-year-old. He had her baby, abandoned to die in the woods, and the only witness was a delusional alcoholic who was now dead himself from poison that no one could find. And he had one of the most politically powerful Hispanic couples in the county linked in very tenuous ways to all of it. By a disabled teenager, a drunk, and his ex-wife’s maid. What was he missing?

  Everything leaves a mark.

  Vega was positive that Esme knew the girl and knew she was pregnant. The fact that Esme hadn’t come forward suggested she was covering up for someone. The baby’s father? A few days ago, Vega would’ve thought that it was some love-struck, pimply-faced nephew of Esme’s who’d panicked that his girlfriend was about to give birth. But that was before the DNA came back on Neto. Now Vega knew he was looking for a man who had to be pushing forty, at least, to have fathered both children. So he was looking for a forty-something-year-old man who had fathered a child with a fifteen- to seventeen-year-old girl. In New York State, that was a felony—reason enough for Esme to want to cover it up.

  Mia lives with him.

  It had to be Charlie Gonzalez.

  Still, like Greco said, Vega needed more than the word of a mentally disabled teenager. He needed something to prove that this might have happened before. He clicked on his dashboard computer and typed “Carlos Gonzalez” into the Department of Motor Vehicles database. Hundreds of Carlos Gonzalezes appeared on the screen. Vega typed Gonzalez’s address into the system and eliminated all but one. The file before him contained Gonzalez’s date of birth and the Social Security number that had been issued to him after he became a U.S. citizen. Vega copied those and fed them into a national crime database. He expected to find nothing. Gonzalez had a reputation for being squeaky clean. He wasn’t even much of a drinker.

  One arrest did come up, however. It took place nineteen and a half years ago, when Gonzalez was twenty-seven, before he became a citizen. The charge? Sexual assault of a minor. The alleged victim was a girl of fifteen.

  Inés? The age corresponded to Neto, but there was no way to tell. Police work was an entirely different game two decades ago, much less about science and much more about witnesses. The victim’s name had been expunged from the record because of her age. There was no DNA, and apparently by the time the charges were brought, no physical evidence either. The victim eventually dropped the charges. It would have been a hard case to prove without physical evidence anyway. In all likelihood, if Gonzalez had gone to trial, he would have been acquitted—

  Unless Neto was the product of that rape. Neto’s paternity could have been tested. Neto’s birth would have made the case stick. And since Gonzalez only had a green card at the time—not citizenship—a conviction would not only have meant jail time, it likely would have resulted in deportation. Clearly, Charlie Gonzalez had a lot to lose.

  So what happened? How had the two families managed to coexist and even thrive in the same town under such a shameful secret? They didn’t avoid each other, that was for sure. Esme shopped at Claudia’s store. Neto worked at Charlie’s car wash. How was this possible if Gonzalez had done this terrible thing?

  Vega had an idea how. He typed Claudia Aguilar’s name into the database. No arrests came up, but ICE records showed that the person who sponsored Claudia and Inés for green cards was Carlos Gonzalez—who had obtained his own citizenship less than a year after his unnamed victim dropped her assault charges. Vega dug a little deeper and found real estate records that showed that Gonzalez bought the building Claudia’s store was housed in within a year after the dropped charges. Gonzalez also cosigned a loan to help finance the opening of the store.

  Vega sat back from the glow of his screen and felt a vague queasiness come over him. Up until this moment, he’d always loved walking into Claudia’s bodega. He loved the lemony scent of ripe guavas, the rows of prayer candles, the exotic foods and spices that served as poignant reminders of a motherland that for him, at least, was as imagined as it was real. But he felt something dark and unsettling now when he thought of those rough-hewn plank floors and ropes of yellow and green plantains hanging from the ceiling. Beneath the homespun comfort there was something rancid. Something that smelled to him an awful lot like blood money.

  Up ahead, he saw two headlights pull into Adele’s driveway. He got out of his car and jogged over, pulling his collar up against the rain. Sophia jumped out of the car and ran under the eaves of the porch.

  “Hey there, Sophia.”

  The girl smiled back shyly. She was all stick limbs and big teeth, just like Joy at that age. Vega had a sense the child liked him but was afraid to show it too much out of loyalty to her dad. Vega never pushed. He didn’t want to become Wendy’s Alan in some other divorced father’s life.

  He noticed that Sophia was still wearing her soccer uniform and cleats. “Little late for practice, isn’t it?”

  “I had dinner afterward with my friend Katie. Mommy had to work—again.”

  Vega noticed Sophia didn’t mention D.C. He wondered if he wasn’t the only one who’d been left in the dark. He found himself getting annoyed with Adele that she hadn’t told
her own daughter yet. It didn’t seem fair to spring it on her all of a sudden. Not his business, he supposed. But still.

  Adele got out of her car and walked up the front steps carrying a bulging briefcase. She didn’t look happy to see him.

  “I can’t talk tonight, Jimmy. I haven’t eaten. Sophia needs a shower before bed, and I’ve got part of Steve’s speech for tomorrow night to look over.”

  “I’m happy to spring for pizza or Chinese for the two of us while Sophia takes a shower.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Adele didn’t like doing “dates” when Sophia was in the house. Vega knew that. But this was important.

  “I really think we need to talk.”

  Rain hammered the porch roof. Adele remained rooted in place.

  “Guess what?” Sophia blurted into the silence. “I’m taking guitar lessons!”

  One more thing Adele hadn’t told him.

  “She’s only had one lesson so far,” said Adele, as if to excuse the omission.

  “Can you show me how to play chords?” Sophia asked Vega.

  “Uh—” Vega looked at Adele. “—If your mom says it’s okay.”

  He was playing good cop to Adele’s bad, just as he used to do with Wendy over Joy. Old habits die hard.

  Adele sighed. “You can stay for pizza. And then I have to work.”

  In the house, Adele seemed preoccupied and tense. Vega tried to stay out of her way.

  “The teacher wants me to strum ‘Kumbaya,’ ” said Sophia, leading Vega into the living room and handing him her nylon-stringed guitar. “That’s so boring.”

  The guitar was out of tune. Nylon strings always went out of tune quickly. Vega preferred steel. He tuned it up. “What do you want to play?”

  Sophia named a song Vega didn’t know by an artist who was probably the current bubblegum favorite.

  “Can you sing it?” he asked.

  She did—better than her mother, though Vega would never tell Adele that. He quickly picked out the melody and figured out the chords. He had a good ear and could usually replicate a pop song on the guitar note for note in under ten minutes. He handed the guitar back to Sophia and began to show her the fingerings. She tried to do a bar chord, holding her entire finger horizontally across the strings, but they just buzzed. She looked disappointed.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get it in time,” said Vega.

  Adele called out from the kitchen. “Time to take a shower, Sophia.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Now.”

  “Just five more minutes?”

  “I said now!”

  Sophia returned her guitar to its case and stomped upstairs to the bathroom. She slammed the door. When Vega was sure the child was out of earshot, he walked over to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway. Adele was standing at the counter with her glasses on, reading what appeared to be Schulman’s speech and scribbling in the margins. She didn’t lift her head to look at him. Vega could see the soft swells of her breasts pushing against the buttons of her pale pink blouse. He felt the same tug he always felt—in his loins, his lips, his arms, but most of all, his heart.

  “She was having fun,” said Vega softly. “You could have let her continue a little longer.”

  Adele put her pen down and flipped her glasses on top of her head. “Sophia’s beginning to get attached to you—in case you haven’t noticed. Why are you making what I have to do even harder? Or is that your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “Coming over here tonight unannounced. Charming Sophia. Trying to stir up dirt on the Gonzalezes yesterday.”

  “You think this is some sort of plan? To get you to stay?” Vega clenched his jaw and tried to control his anger. “I came here tonight to warn you, Nena. You need to be careful.”

  “In other words, I need to turn down the job in D.C.” Adele crumpled up an envelope sitting next to her paperwork and threw it in the garbage.

  “You’re not even listening to me.”

  “I am. And what I’m hearing is that you don’t think we can put a few hundred miles between us and keep a relationship going.”

  “That’s not it.” He paced the kitchen. “Okay, maybe it was before.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But not now. Now, it’s something real. Something you need to know.”

  He finally had her attention, and he wasn’t sure how to start. He took a deep breath. “You texted me this afternoon that Inés told you she was raped at fifteen, yes? And the man who raped her is Neto’s father.”

  “That’s what I gather.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know who the rapist is.”

  “Who?”

  “Charlie Gonzalez.”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  “Gonzalez was arrested nineteen years ago in Lake Holly for the sexual assault of a minor. The victim eventually dropped the charges, and less than a year later, Gonzalez not only sponsored Claudia and Inés Aguilar for green cards, he bought Claudia’s building and cosigned a loan so she could start her grocery store.”

  “He’s a very generous man.”

  “You know any other businesses he’s done that with?”

  “I haven’t asked,” she said coolly.

  “Adele, the police have DNA that says Neto Rivera and Baby Mercy were fathered by the same man. So Baby Mercy’s father is at least around forty—”

  “For all you know, Baby Mercy’s mother is near forty too, so whatever the relationship was, it was completely consensual.”

  “It couldn’t be. Not in the eyes of the law.” Vega held her gaze.

  Adele saw the truth without him saying. She gripped the edge of the counter. “Oh God, Jimmy.” She looked pale and shaky. “That teenage girl on Joy’s campus. You’re not saying she’s—”

  “I’m not saying anything, Nena. As a police officer, I can’t. Do you understand?”

  She closed her eyes and tented her fingers to her lips as if in prayer. “That’s two young teenage girls over the space of two decades,” she whispered. “If what you’re saying is true, they can’t be the only ones.”

  “I suspect not.”

  “I trusted him.”

  “That’s what molesters do. They get people to trust them.”

  The pizza deliveryman rang the doorbell. Sophia opened the bathroom door and called down the stairs that her shower was over and she was ready to say good night. Adele looked suddenly overwhelmed. She sank down in a chair and put her head in her hands. “Oh God,” she mumbled. “Oh God.”

  “How ’bout you say good night to Sophia while I pay the pizza guy, okay?”

  Adele nodded and went upstairs. Vega paid for the pizza and moved Adele’s papers to one side on the kitchen counter to make room for the box. On top of the first page he noticed some handwriting: Adele—can you look this over for Steve? Thanks, Charlie. Vega stared at the handwriting then stared at the torn envelope in the trash. He felt something percolating in his gut—part hope, part fear. It would answer all their questions. It would generate a hundred more.

  When Adele returned to the kitchen, Vega pointed to the envelope in the garbage.

  “Did Gonzalez give that to you?”

  “Yeah. It contained Steve’s speech.”

  “Did he lick it?”

  “I think so. I don’t remember.” And then it dawned on her. She was still enough of an attorney to realize what he was asking. “Oh no, Jimmy. No! You don’t mean—”

  “If his saliva’s on the envelope, we’ll know once and for all.” Vega grabbed a set of dishwashing gloves by the sink. “Get me a clean Ziploc bag, will you?”

  Adele opened a drawer and held a bag out to him. Vega fished the envelope out of the garbage, stuffed it into the bag, and sealed it. “I’ll get this tested at the lab tomorrow.”

  “How fast will you know?”

  “Probably within a couple of hours. Why?”

  “The cook who’s being deported? Manuel Serrano? I encouraged him to let the Gonzalezes take custody
of his children.”

  Vega went very still. “How old are they?”

  “Seven, nine—and fifteen.”

  “And the fifteen-year-old—?”

  “Is that girl I like, Luna. You’ve heard me mention Luna.” Adele smacked her palm to her forehead. “Oh God, Jimmy. What have I done?”

  Vega walked over to Adele and wrapped his arms around her. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “But—I should’ve. I, of all people.”

  Vega chucked a fist under her chin and brought her eyes up to meet his.

  “Why ‘you’ of all people?”

  A terrible darkness flashed in her eyes. And in that moment, he knew.

  “Nena,” he asked softly, rubbing her shoulders, “when you were young, were you—?”

  She pushed out of his embrace. “If you’re right about Charlie, I will never forgive myself, Jimmy. Ever.”

  Chapter 30

  Papi called! Luna was so excited, she babbled like a preschooler when Doña Esme picked up the phone on Friday evening and the operator asked if she’d accept the charges. Her father being her father, he spent the first two minutes of the call apologizing profusely to Doña Esme for asking her to pay for it.

  Dulce and Mateo hogged the phone. Dulce seemed to forget where Papi was. She told him about the upcoming Halloween parade at school and how her friend Caroline was going as a princess and Dulce could only go as a ghost. Luna wanted to strangle her sister. She sounded so petty and self-absorbed. But judging from Papi’s voice on the Gonzalezes’ speakerphone, he didn’t seem to mind. There was a lot of noise in the background where he was: voices, bells, metal doors slamming shut. It sounded like the locker room at school. Luna suspected he was having a hard time hearing all of them anyway, and Dulce’s banter was probably about as much as he could concentrate on at the moment.

  There was no privacy. Not on his end. Not on theirs. His answers were short. His pauses were long, as if he could only catch some of their words over the noise. Mateo told Papi he’d had a math test today at school that he didn’t do well on. Papi told him to study harder, but they all knew how impossible that was right now, so Papi ended up reassuring Mateo he’d do better next time.