Vega nodded. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She hugged him fiercely. He wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks for everything,” he said shyly. “See you around.”
“Huh. Let’s hope not.”
And then she was gone with only her words still ringing in Vega’s ears: You need someone to keep you honest. Fortunately or unfortunately, Vega knew just the man.
Every Friday at four P.M., Detective Louis Greco could be found at the Lake Holly 7-Eleven buying ten lottery tickets. Always ten. Always at the 7-Eleven on Fridays at four P.M. Louis Greco was nothing if not predictable.
Vega parked his truck next to Greco’s white Buick and waited until the old detective barreled through the doors. He had a New York Post tucked under one arm. His face registered nothing—which meant he already knew everything.
“Get in.” Greco sighed. “You want me to pretend I don’t know? Or should we skip right to the ‘get your ass back to work’ speech?”
“The DA just cleared me,” said Vega. “How could you know?”
Greco tossed the newspaper to Vega. The headline, RUBEN’S LAP OF SHAME, was splashed across the front page, complete with a picture of Tate recoiling from the very media that had made him a star.
Vega scanned the text. “So I take it his interns were getting private tutoring sessions from the professor. Whether they wanted them or not.”
Greco chuckled. “Baiting cops, copping feels—it’s all the same. Anyway, as soon as I heard, I figured there was no way the DA was going to make an example out of you now that Ruben Rapes-His-Secretaries was out of the picture. The political will was gone.”
Vega folded the paper and handed it back to Greco. “So how come I still feel like I’m carrying around a dead man on my shoulders?”
“Give it time, Vega. It’s not going to get better overnight. I told you, you’re different now. You always will be. Something good will come out of this eventually. You’ll see.”
“Not this time,” said Vega. “Hector gave his life to bring his granddaughter over here. And now he and his brother are both dead and that poor kid’s a mess. She’s struggling at school. She’s distressed at home. She needs help she’s never going to get. And she’s not the only one, either. Adele told me about this boy who just came over from Guatemala. He’s sleeping in the restaurant where he works.”
“You can’t save the world, Vega.”
“No. But I wish I could do something. These kids are here, Grec. They’re not going away. And it’s frustrating to know that they’re not getting the help they need on any level.”
“Yeah, well—help costs money. And you and I are working stiffs. What can you do?”
Vega bolted upright and put his hand on the door. He felt like a train was leaving the station and he had to run to catch it.
“Where are you going?” asked Greco.
“I think I may have just found my good.”
* * *
It took a week to arrange the meeting. Luis was in Miami the first time Vega called. He was prepping to go on a concert tour. He had interviews to do for his new book. Gradually however, the realities of the situation became clear. If Ricardo Luis was ever going to be rid of Jimmy Vega, he was going to have to meet with him at his home in Wickford. Alone. Both men had much to lose by broadcasting their encounter. And so by mutual agreement, nobody else was informed. Not Luis’s attorney. Not Vega’s department. Not Adele.
Luis was on his cell phone when his housekeeper ushered Vega into his home office. Vega stood admiring one of Luis’s guitars while he finished up the call. It was an acoustic Martin with an Indian rosewood fret board inlaid with mother of pearl.
“You are staring at that guitar like other men stare at a pretty girl,” said Luis when he got off the phone.
“Sorry.” For a moment Vega forgot himself, forgot why he was here. Music had a way of doing that to him.
“Would you like to play it?”
“May I?”
Luis nodded. Vega gently took the guitar from the stand and placed it in his lap. He strummed a few chords and felt transported. The strings were out of tune. Luis heard it, too. He made a face.
“Do you mind if I tune it up?” asked Vega.
“Please.”
Vega turned the tuning pegs to pitch and tried out little riffs, running his fingers up and down the frets. The sound was deep and rich with a buttery resonance that Vega could feel all the way through his body like he was the amplifier.
“I can tell you’re a real musician,” said Luis.
“My first love.” Vega kept his eyes on the strings, alternating between short riffs and chords. “But I’d be lying if I said that’s why I’m here.” Vega returned the guitar to its stand. “You shot Antonio Fernandez. I killed him. And we both know why he and Hector Ponce were really here.”
“Under the advice of my attorney—”
“Your attorney can’t do shit if this story hits the Internet,” said Vega. “Take it from someone who’s been there. It makes no difference what’s true and what isn’t.”
Luis raised an eyebrow. “So now you want to blackmail me? Is that it, Detective?”
“No.” Vega reached into his wallet and pulled out a picture of Marcela and Yovanna that he’d borrowed from Adele without telling her why. “This is Hector’s granddaughter,” Vega said slowly, pointing to the girl. “She’s the reason Hector came to you for money.”
“I know,” said Luis.
“She’s like a lot of children coming into the county these days to reunite with their families. These kids are traumatized,” said Vega. “Their symptoms are a lot like mine were after the shooting. The difference is, I can get help. They can’t. Their families don’t have the resources.” Vega’s eyes locked on Luis’s. “You do. You can help them.”
“Help them, how?”
“Fund a program through La Casa to give these kids the support they need so their families can heal and they can stay in school.”
“Do you know how many times a week people come to me for money?”
“You owe the Ponce family. I owe them.”
Luis got up and paced the floor. All the glamour seemed to fall away. Those perfect teeth. Those dimples. That sparkle that ignited whenever a camera was pointed in his direction. There was no camera now. There was just the two of them—and a whole lot of past to reckon with. Luis massaged his forehead.
“I was a kid, you know. Nineteen. Stupid and scared. But not a monster. If I could do it over—”
“There are no do-overs,” said Vega. “Believe me, I know.”
“If I do this, I need your word that you will not talk about . . .” Luis’s voice trailed off.
“There would be no purpose in that,” said Vega. “I’m sure your attorney has already told you that you can’t be prosecuted. I’m not out to destroy your life. I’m out to save someone else’s.”
Luis perched on the edge of his desk and studied Vega for a long moment. Finally he extended a hand. His gaze was sober. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Detective. I’ll ask my attorney to draw up the paperwork.”
“Thank you.” Vega shook his hand. “One final request.”
“Oh?” Luis stiffened.
Vega saw the picture in his head of that fruit stand. Two hopeful men off to find their fortune in El Norte. And a teenage boy who never got the chance. “I’d like you to name the program ‘Miguel’s Place’ after Hector’s son.”
“Miguel’s Place. Okay. And may I ask what you get out of this, Detective?”
Vega felt something drain from his chest. A heavy weight he’d been carrying since the night of the shooting. It wasn’t gone. It would never be gone entirely. But he could live with this ache. Maybe even learn from it. When he opened his mouth, he had only one word to offer Luis. The one thing he was hoping for.
“Peace.”
* * *
The biggest gifts they all gave each other that season didn’t come from a store. Adele gave Vega Diablo.
/>
“My client took a live-in position and gave the dog up,” said Adele. “I had a feeling she might. But don’t worry. Sophia okayed Diablo moving in with you. So long as you bring him down for frequent visits.”
It was the best gift anyone had ever given Vega. The dog made himself at home, taking over both the couch and three-quarters of Vega’s bed. The house didn’t seem lonely anymore with Diablo there to keep him company and go on runs around the lake with him.
Vega assembled a collection of his mother’s photographs for Joy, along with a note that took him a whole day to compose about all the ways she made him proud, “tattoo and all—just don’t get another.” Now that classes were out for the December break, Joy drove up often, spending more time with her father than she had since she started college. The shooting had brought them closer together. Vega wasn’t sure how or why but maybe Greco was right. Maybe something good really could come out of something bad.
Vega waited until a night when he and Adele could be alone in his lake house to give Adele her gift. They had already unwrapped a few silly trinkets and keepsakes for each other with Diablo sniffing and licking every one. They sat by the glow of charred logs in Vega’s big stone fireplace with Diablo at their feet. Then Vega took out an envelope that he’d wrapped in shiny red and green foil and handed it to Adele.
“It’s not a real gift,” he said shyly.
“It’s a gift certificate?”
“Uh, no. Open it.”
Inside the envelope was the initial paperwork to start Miguel’s Place, along with a check for $35,000 to La Casa to begin the funding.
Adele stared at it. “You got Luis to endow a program?”
“Yeah. In Hector’s son’s memory. For children like Yovanna and the boy you told me about who was living at Chez Martine.”
“Omar.” Adele touched his sleeve. “I can’t believe you remembered his story. Jimmy, this is amazing. How did you get Luis to—?”
“Let’s just say, this will put some demons to rest for both of us.”
Adele put the envelope down and leaned into him. Vega felt her lips, pillow soft against his unshaven cheeks. A heat rose within him that he’d forgotten existed. It flooded all the empty spaces that had been floating around inside of him. All the loneliness and yearning. It filled them with an urgency and passion that made him hold tight to Adele, hold tight to this moment.
Outside, the trees danced in the December wind and the night settled in heavily for the long siesta. Vega welcomed the darkness beyond because here, between them, within them, he felt only light.
Acknowledgments
This novel would not be sitting in your hands right now if not for a very special group of people who made it possible.
My thanks first to Norma Roldan and her daughter, Lisseth Valverde, who shared with me the ten years they spent apart while Norma worked in the United States and Lisseth grew up without her in Ecuador. I’m indebted to them for their honesty and insights, especially about the difficulties they faced once they were reunited.
Thanks also to John Christy, a former Aurora, Colorado, police officer who wrote a wonderful memoir, Sine Fratres: an officer involved shooting. John’s book and his gracious emails gave me a first-hand glimpse into what Jimmy Vega might experience after a shooting.
This book would have strayed badly if not for two very dedicated men who gave up so much of their time and energy to keep me honest. The first is Lt. James Palanzo of the Westchester County Police whose gut instincts are always right on target. The second is fire investigator and storyteller extraordinaire Gene West, who can take any ridiculous situation and turn it into something plausible and riveting. Gene—from my first book to this, my sixth, I could not have done any of it without you.
I would like to thank the incredible cast of people whom readers never see. My first reader, Rosemary Ahern, whose enthusiasm and story sense always guide me to my better self. My agent, Stephany Evans, and my editor, Michaela Hamilton, both of whom always have rock-solid judgment. And the entire staff of Kensington Books who have gone all out for the series: Michaela, of course. But also Norma Perez-Hernandez, Morgan Elwell, the sales and publicity staffs, and Steven Zacharius who has thrown so much support my way.
My thanks most of all to the people who have to live and/or listen to me through the ordeal of writing a book: my husband, Thomas Dunne, my children, Kevin and Erica, and my dear friend, Janis Pomerantz. Thank you, as always, for putting up with me.
Photo by Phyllis Garito
About the Author
Suzanne Chazin won widespread acclaim for the first mystery in the Jimmy Vega series, Land of Careful Shadows, and for its sequel, A Blossom of Bright Light. She is also the author of The Fourth Angel, Flashover, and Fireplay. She has twice been the recipient of the Washington Irving Book Award for fiction. Her fiction, essays, and articles have appeared in numerous magazines and newspapers, as well as the award-winning short story anthology, Bronx Noir. She lives in the New York City area. Visit her on Facebook or at www.suzannechazin.com.
No Witness But the Moon Page 31