“How did you know where you were going?”
Oliva pointed to the vaulted ceiling of the church where a fresco of saints acted out their own life-and-death dramas. “I followed the North Star at night. That was all I could do. My nose bled. My tongue swelled. My skin felt like it was on fire. On the fourth day, I spoke to the mountains.” He closed his eyes. “On the fifth, they answered back.”
Vega felt stung by the enormity of such suffering—the sheer loneliness of it. To die in the desert is to die twice. Once in the body. Once in the soul.
“The doctors told me that when two good Samaritans found me by an Arizona roadside, I had only hours to live,” said Oliva. “At the time, I believed I was the only one of the twelve to survive.”
“You didn’t know that Hector and Antonio—um, Edgar—had survived?”
Oliva shook his head. “How could I know? We did not travel under our real names. We could not draw attention to ourselves or our situation once we were here. I didn’t even know the name of the coyote who abandoned us. We called him “Chacho” because he had this little bit of facial hair beneath his chin. He was so young, I think that’s all he could grow, even after we were out there several days.”
“How did you find out Hector was alive?”
“Years later, when I lived in Queens, I met Father Delgado and told him my story. That’s when he introduced me to Hector. I moved up to the Bronx and began to work at the church. Neither of us knew that Edgar had survived. Not until Edgar contacted Hector through a cousin’s Facebook page.”
Oliva brushed a hand along the beveled edge of the pew in front of him. “You need to understand,” he said slowly. “Edgar wasn’t trying to be hurtful when he disappeared from his family. He was just living a very different life than they would have been comfortable with.”
Vega nodded. “They wouldn’t have accepted his homosexuality?”
“Probably not,” said Oliva. “At least not then. This was twenty years ago.”
“So what made him come forward now?”
“Edgar saw the book.”
“The book?”
Oliva rose. “Come. I will show you.”
Oliva ushered Vega out of the nave and into the hallway that connected the church to the rectory. They walked past Delgado’s office until Oliva came to a small janitor’s closet full of mops and brooms and cleaning supplies. Oliva felt around on a shelf for something.
“This is why Edgar contacted Hector.”
Oliva pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to Vega.
“Song of My Heart? A celebrity memoir? Why would Edgar care?”
Oliva took the book from Vega’s hands and thumbed through the well of pictures. “Look.”
Oliva pointed to a faded photograph of a young Luis in a hoodie and loose jeans. He was standing next to a graffiti-covered wall and talking to several Latino men, some of them old enough to be his father. Luis’s nose was broader than it was now. His cheekbones were less defined. Even his body was different back then. He had a teenager’s narrow and undefined torso. He was ropy from lack of food, not physical conditioning. His squint however, carried the same dazzling self-assurance he could still summon on a dime.
But it wasn’t Luis’s appearance that caused Vega to rear back. It was the man in the center of the group that Luis was talking to. A man with a soft chin and shy smile.
Vega lifted his gaze from the picture and stared at Oliva. He felt his lips forming around a question too terrible to contemplate. But he already knew the answer. There was only one way that Jesús Ricardo Luis Alvarez-Da Silva, a Mexican from the northern state of Sonora, could have ended up in the same photograph with Edgar Antonio Ponce-Fernandez, a Honduran trying to cross the border. Luis was “Chacho,” the teenage coyote who had gotten those men lost in the desert and then abandoned them twenty years ago. Luis was responsible for the deaths of six men and three teenage boys, including Hector’s sixteen-year-old son, Miguel.
“So that’s why Edgar and Hector went to Luis’s house. They knew.”
Oliva nodded. “Once Edgar saw the book, he was consumed with revenge. He wanted to find a way to get even with Luis. It was different for Hector. For him, it was all about Miguel. He never forgave himself for what had happened to his son. He thought the only way to find peace would be if he could make things up to his daughter, maybe by bringing his granddaughter here. So Hector and Edgar asked Luis for money. A few weeks ago. And he paid. But then . . .” Oliva’s voice trailed off. He looked suddenly embarrassed.
“But what?”
“I think maybe they got greedy. Maybe Hector gambled the first money. I don’t know. He changed after that. They both did. The money seemed to make things worse. It was like, no amount of money could ever be enough. They went back a second time. That’s when all the bad stuff happened.”
“And you? You went with them?”
“No.” Oliva waved his hands in front of him. “I told them that what they were doing would not bring them peace. Only God can do that. They wouldn’t listen. That journey—it took so much from me. My health. My dignity.” He took a deep breath. “And now, my friend and his brother.”
“Huh.” Vega stared at the book. “Why didn’t you come forward after the shooting?”
“I didn’t want to get my friends in trouble. I am talking to you now because now they are both dead. Nothing can hurt them anymore.”
“You’ll still need to make a formal statement to police.”
“No.” Oliva shook his head. “I told you what I know. I gave you Edgar’s book. I will not speak publicly against Luis.”
“But why?” Vega frowned. “Luis murdered all those people. He nearly killed you. Doesn’t it bother you that he’s beloved by the world and yet he did this terrible thing?”
“God will judge him. I will not,” said Oliva. “I gave my life over to God in that desert. You do what you need to do, Detective. But I am an old man. I have no stomach to fight anymore.”
“We will need to speak more about this.”
Oliva seesawed his head. “Father Delgado will leave if you don’t hurry.”
Vega could see that he wasn’t going to get any more from the old janitor today. He tucked the book under his arm and headed back into the nave.
“You should light a candle for your mother while you are here,” Oliva called after him. “It was her birthday yesterday, no?”
Vega stopped in his tracks and turned to Oliva. “How would you know it was her birthday yesterday? Do you memorize the birthdays of all the parishioners at St. Raymond’s?”
“No. I remembered because I saw the flowers Father Delgado bought for her grave.”
Chapter 34
Father Delgado had already left the church. Vega spotted the priest half a block ahead on the sidewalk. He could be headed in any direction. To a parishioner’s apartment. To the hospital. To a nursing home. Vega had to sprint before he lost him completely. He shoved Luis’s book inside his jacket. It was a softcover, thankfully. But it was still awkward to carry while running.
“Father Delgado!” Vega called out breathlessly.
The priest turned, his bushy silver eyebrows raised in surprise. He waited for Vega to catch up to him. “You came to Mass?”
“I came to see you. Vega huffed. “I’d be lying if I said I came for the Mass.” His eyes settled on Delgado’s for an extra beat. “I visited Martha Torres this morning. At Sunnycrest.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Your mother would have been pleased.”
“I think so, too. But not for the same reasons.” Vega caught his breath. The cold air felt like crushed glass in his lungs. He spoke the Spanish words before he could attach to them their full meaning:
“Eres siempre mi ángel.”
Vega noticed a twitch in the folds beneath Delgado’s right eye. Vega waited.
Silence. Delgado stood very still. The gentle smile was gone.
“Do you recognize those words?” asked Vega.
D
elgado met his gaze. The priest’s deep-set eyes looked more sunken than thoughtful. He’d always looked much younger than his nearly seventy years. Suddenly, with his white hair and shapeless black coat, he seemed thin and frail and not long for this world.
“Jimmy.” He exhaled the word. “Why are you asking me this?”
“I think you know.” Vega’s voice felt as frozen as the tips of his ears. “Tell me, are those the words of a priest to one of his parishioners?”
Delgado put a hand on Vega’s arm. “Maybe we should discuss this back in my office.”
Vega shook his arm away. “No! I want to know now! Were you in love with my mother? Did you kill her?”
“Dios mío, Jimmy! I would never hurt your mother! Never!”
“Martha Torres was lucid enough this afternoon to make me believe the person who killed my mother was someone she and my mother trusted,” said Vega. “You were at the apartment when the police arrived. You were covered in my mother’s blood. Ponce was covering up for somebody. That, I’m sure of. And that somebody was you.”
They were near the entrance to the D-line subway. Delgado gestured to the stairs. “Please, Jimmy. If you won’t come back to the church, then let’s at least not have this conversation on the street.”
Vega reluctantly followed Delgado down the steps into the subway tunnel. Stale, humid air rose to greet them, along with the vague scent of urine and fast food. On a Sunday afternoon, it was empty save for a homeless man in a shabby coat curled up sleeping beneath an advertisement for mattresses. Vega’s and Delgado’s steps echoed on the concrete. Delgado’s thick white hair looked as washed-out as a blank sheet of paper. His eyes had lost their sparkle.
“I did not kill your mother, Jimmy. I tried to save her life. I gave her CPR.”
Vega looked at him sharply. “You gave her more than that.”
“Yes.” Delgado exhaled. “I did.” He leaned against the grimy white tile wall of the station. He looked almost too feeble to stand. “I should have come forward a long time ago. I know that. I was weak and in my weakness, I caused a greater sin.” The old priest’s eyes turned watery when he met Vega’s. “She was the love of my life. But as God is my witness, I never once hurt her.”
“How long was this relationship between the two of you going on?”
“A long time.” Delgado closed his eyes. “I wanted to leave the priesthood over it at one point but she urged me to return to my vows. She believed this was what God had called me to do. She said if I left, I would always feel diminished in some way and she didn’t want that. So we kept our relationship platonic after that. But I never stopped loving her on an emotional level. Or spending time with her.” Delgado held Vega’s gaze. “Including on the day she died.”
“So how am I supposed to believe you didn’t kill her?”
“I was at a benefit dinner at the Holy Name Society when she died, Jimmy. A dozen priests saw me there. The police checked it out.”
Vega paced the grimy concrete. He wanted to haul off and hit the old priest for holding back all these years and maybe costing him a lead in her murder. “Ponce waited seventeen minutes before dialing nine-one-one,” said Vega. “Plus, he called you first. Why?”
“I really don’t know,” said Delgado. “I still think he panicked. But maybe it also had to do with the Chinese food.”
“The takeout food? That the police found on her dining table?”
“I bought it for your mother. She loved spareribs. Since I had a dinner engagement, I couldn’t stay.”
“So the missing receipt? The menu—?”
“Would have traced back to me.”
“That’s why you got rid of them.”
“No.” Delgado shook his head. “I would never do that. But maybe Hector did. He was not blind to what was going on between your mother and me. He saw me in the building all the time. I think he was trying to save me the embarrassment of the situation—save your mother as well. She wouldn’t have wanted it to come out, either.”
“He did more than destroy a receipt and menu for you,” said Vega.
“What do you mean?”
“He used those seventeen minutes before you arrived to disconnect the security camera in the front lobby and swap the recorded DVD for a blank one.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that! I never asked for any of this!”
“But you didn’t come forward, either,” Vega noted.
Delgado was silent.
“The DVD would have had footage of you entering the lobby with Chinese food,” said Vega. “The police would have been able to put you in my mother’s apartment—”
“And shown me leaving before her murder as well.”
“Well, there was somebody on that DVD who wasn’t innocent. And now we’ll never know who.”
They were both silent for a moment. Vega collapsed against the wall beside Delgado. He felt drained. A train rumbled into the station. There was a push of warm, fetid air, then a strong vibration and then a screech of brakes like two cats in a standoff. It felt like the perfect soundtrack to his derailed life.
“So that’s it?” Vega asked as the train left the station. He pushed himself off the wall and faced the old priest. “This murderer walks because of a DVD Ponce probably destroyed almost two years ago? Because you couldn’t man up about what you’d done? At least I’m facing my mistakes.”
“You’re right, Jimmy.” Delgado patted his shoulder. “I’ve confessed and repented my actions many times. And I’d gladly come forward now. But without this DVD you think existed—I don’t think anyone would be very interested in what I had to say.”
“When did you leave her that night?”
“At around six. I brought the food but she wasn’t hungry then. She said she’d have it later.”
“Was she expecting anyone?”
“No. She had no plans, as I recall.”
“Did she mention that she was going to call Martha Torres?”
“No. But they spoke often. It wasn’t unusual. Especially after Donna died.”
“Did Martha know about you and my mother?”
“Could she have guessed? I’m sure. Would your mother have told? No. She was a very private person. Even I didn’t know everything that was going on in her life.”
Vega stepped back, disgusted with Delgado, disgusted with himself. “Well, you should’ve known, Father. We both should’ve.” He threw up his hands and hustled up the subway stairs. The last pale gasp of daylight had slipped from the horizon. The sky was dark and glazed with thick clouds. It was snowing lightly now. Big fat flakes fell like ash, gray and gritty, melting quickly on the pavements. Night descended early this time of year. The store windows were cataract-clouded with steam or shuttered completely beneath roll-down metal security gates. Vega zipped up his jacket. He felt the cold in his bones. He still had Ricardo Luis’s book underneath his jacket. He felt unclean even carrying it.
He kept his baseball cap on as he trudged back to his truck. The snow made people bundle up and forget about anything but getting home. He wanted to do the same. He wondered if Joy had left the Bronx yet. When he got to his truck, he shrugged out of his jacket, threw Luis’s book on the seat, and dialed her cell. A part of him knew he should stay away from her right now. But another part of him craved the warmth and reassurance of her presence.
“Hey, chispita. I’m in the Bronx. Want a ride home?”
“What are you doing? Tailing me?”
“Nah. Visiting Freddy’s mom at the nursing home. I’m not far from the Bronx Academy. How about I swing by and pick you up?”
“Can you come in like, an hour?”
An hour? He didn’t want to hang around the Bronx for another hour. Then again, he didn’t want his daughter wandering around by herself down here in the dark and snow, either.
“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
Vega hung up and studied the frosting of white across his windshield. It was too cold to stay in his truck. He could trudge around trying to fin
d a place to get coffee, but the Bronx didn’t have a Starbucks on every corner. He could drive somewhere but he didn’t want to lose his parking spot and have to find another. If he showed up early to Freddy’s school, Joy might accuse him of spying on her. Vega needed someplace near the school that would be open on a late Sunday afternoon. Someplace warm and dry where he could hang out as long as he liked without being hassled.
And then it came to him. The place that had always made him happy as a child. The only thing missing was the two parakeets.
Chapter 35
EZ Clean was packed on a Sunday night. Little children scampered up and down the aisles, playing hide-and-seek while their mothers chattered in Spanish on their cell phones. Groups of young men talked sports while they shoved what looked like every item they owned into dryers. People were at the candy machine and the soda machine. The air was warm and humid—more like July than December.
Carmela wasn’t working this evening. There was another older woman at the front desk, her hair dyed so black that the gray roots looked like snow in her parting. She gave Vega a passing glance because he had no laundry in his hands. Not that that mattered in this neighborhood. People in the Bronx always treated the laundromat as a social club so it was conceivable he was just stopping in to visit a girlfriend. A patron called out to Snow Lady that he was having trouble working the card machine so Vega was able to breeze past without comment.
He used the bathroom at the rear of the building and bought himself a soda at one of the vending machines. Then he unzipped his jacket and settled into a molded plastic chair along a wall where he checked his cell phone to the conga rhythm of wet clothes thumping away in the dryers.
He was hoping for a message from Adele. There wasn’t one. He took that as a bad sign. Should he send her one? No. That looked too pathetic, too much like he was begging for mercy. His pride wouldn’t allow it. He thought about calling Dolan and telling him about Humberto Oliva and Luis. But that sort of conversation was best handled in a more private space than a laundromat. He’d call Dolan about it first thing tomorrow. As for what Father Delgado had told him? Vega had no idea how to handle that. His mother’s murder was under NYPD jurisdiction and nothing Delgado had told him altered the case very much at this point. Vega wondered if he’d do more harm than good if he exposed the old priest’s confession to any sort of public scrutiny.
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