A Place in the Wind Page 10

  “You’re making me glad we don’t work together anymore.”

  “And you’re making me sorry we ever did. You’re jumpier than a meth addict in withdrawal.”

  “Adele’s risking her life here.”

  Greco took a bite of his Twizzler and chewed. “Her choice, Vega. You didn’t twist her arm.”

  “No, but I set this freakin’ scenario in motion.” He’d even given Adele a signal if she felt in danger or wanted to abort. All she had to do was tug on her earlobe. Vega would be down that staircase and on those mutts before they knew what hit them.

  “If all goes well, she’ll thank you for it,” said Greco.

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Greco frowned at the monitors without answering. Adele was pacing the playroom downstairs, neatening stacks of picture books and trying to scrape something off an edge of one of the cubbies. The whole preschool building had seen better days. Adele herself admitted that if the Victorian house hadn’t been donated to La Casa, they’d never have considered it for purchase. The front porch sagged. The chain-link fence around the playground was buckled and pulling off its supports. Inside, the scuffed wood floors sloped and there were water stains on the upstairs ceilings. Vega had fixed enough things in Adele’s Victorian to know what it took to keep a building like this even minimally functioning. The only good thing about it was that it wasn’t right near the community center—which meant the press wouldn’t have a clue about what was going down here on a Sunday afternoon.

  “Requesting radio check,” Greco muttered into his receiver. “Alpha check to Bravo, Charlie, and Delta.” Cops and military lingo. Vega rolled his eyes. Everyone confirmed. It felt like the rest of them were playing a game that only he and Adele could actually lose at. Vega looked up at a poster in the director’s office with a picture of two Hispanic parents reading to their children. He couldn’t believe they were about to take down a rapist and murder suspect in a place full of Tickle Me Elmos and Tonka trucks.

  Vega and Greco sat in that director’s office under the building’s eaves with the door closed, the lights off, and the venetian blinds pulled down to the windowsills. Steam hissed from the radiators and turned the room into a sweatbox. Vega and Greco grew hot and ill-tempered waiting for two guys who might never show. It was the same with every stakeout. Hours of boredom and discomfort. Seconds of panic and stress. If you let your attention flag for even an instant, it could be your last. Or your partner’s last.

  “For chrissakes,” Greco growled. “Martinez said he’d be here with Benitez at two. It’s almost twenty after. Just once, I’d like to meet a Hispanic who knows how to tell time.”

  “You’re looking at one,” said Vega. “I was never late.”

  “You don’t count,” said Greco. “You’re a cop. Bet you know to the minute how long you’ve got until you can collect your pension.”

  He had a point there. “How ’bout Adele?” asked Vega. “She—”

  Greco held up a hand for Vega to be silent and leaned into the receiver. “Repeat that, Delta?”

  Delta. Officer O’Reilly. Greco turned to Vega.

  “O’Reilly just picked up Martinez walking in this direction.”

  “Only Martinez?”

  Greco radioed the question. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Only Martinez. Looks like your boy got cold feet.”

  “Maybe Benitez wanted his brother to make sure it’s safe first.”

  Greco shot Vega a dubious look. He pushed on his earpiece. “O’Reilly says he’s carrying a backpack. Can’t tell what’s inside, but he says he doesn’t see anything heavy bouncing around.”

  A weapon. That’s what they were all worried about. If one of the brothers decided to pull out a gun or a knife, even being one floor above and in constant visual contact wouldn’t guarantee Adele’s safety. But there was no way to get closer without giving their location away.

  Vega saw Martinez approaching the building from the outside front video monitor. He was a scrawny teenager in a faded green goose-down coat that looked too big for him. The coat was so old that most of the stuffing had leached from the shoulders so it hung limply on his frame. He had a knit hat over shaggy black hair, which looked in need of a cut. His face was lean and sharp-edged. Vega estimated that he was no more than five foot seven and weighed perhaps 140 pounds. If he wasn’t armed, he didn’t present much of a physical threat.

  If he wasn’t armed.

  Martinez gave a quick visual sweep of the street before he bounded up the front-porch steps and rang the doorbell. Vega watched Adele on the monitor. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the bell rang.

  Adele smoothed her sweater down and finger combed her silky bob of black hair as she walked out of the playroom to the front door. Another monitor showed the view from the hallway. Adele unlocked the front door and Martinez stepped inside. He began speaking as soon as he entered. Vega could hear the general tenor of their voices below. They were calm and measured. He had a feeling Martinez was explaining why his brother wasn’t with him. If Benitez wasn’t coming at all, Adele could tug her earlobe and they’d abort the mission now.

  She didn’t.

  “Wish we could have wired her for sound,” said Vega. “We’d know what the hell was going on.”

  “She’s not a government witness,” said Greco. “I don’t give a crap if Martinez is reciting his ABCs at the moment. So long as his dirtbag brother shows up.”

  Vega watched the monitor. Adele was ushering Martinez into the kitchen and snack room in back by the door to the playground. Vega searched the monitors for one that covered that area. “Coño!” Vega cursed in Spanish. “Did Martinez tell her Benitez is coming through the back door?”

  “Don’t know,” said Greco. “Guess we’ll have to wait and find out. At this point, it doesn’t look like he’s coming at all.” Greco jerked a thumb at the monitor. “Christ. She’s making him hot chocolate. What is this? Caillou visits a takedown?”

  Vega kept his eyes glued to the kitchen monitor. It was tactically the worst room Adele could have chosen. It emptied into the fenced rear play yard—which made it less accessible to Jankowski, Sanchez, and the other cops on the street. Plus, it was covered in rows of pint-size tables all topped with colorful plastic chairs turned upside down like children doing headstands. Too much clutter. Too difficult to navigate if Vega had to get to her quickly. While he was thinking through the strategic problems, Greco cupped a palm over his earpiece again. He muttered into the receiver, “Delta. Repeat again?”

  “What?” asked Vega.

  “O’Reilly just got eyeballs on Benitez. He’s coming this way.”

  “That’s good.”

  Greco gave Vega a pained look. “O’Reilly said he’s staggering. Probably drunk. Which means he’s unstable. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  Chapter 13

  Wil Martinez looked even younger than Adele had imagined him. His faded olive-green parka hung from his skinny shoulders like some half-dead molting bird. His big ears stuck out beneath his shaggy black hair like the rest of him was waiting to grow into them. His chin contained only the barest hint of stubble and hope.

  “Please forgive me, señora, for putting you in this position.” He lifted his gaze before returning it to his wet, snow-caked sneakers. On the phone, Adele had heard a trace of Spanish accent. In person, he sounded totally American.

  She opened the door wider and blinked at the street. “Where’s your brother?”

  “I don’t know. I swear. I waited for him where he was supposed to show up. But he didn’t come. I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer. He knows where to meet us, so I’m hopeful . . .” Wil’s voice trailed off. Adele had a sense that he’d spent a good deal of his life being hopeful when it came to his brother.

  “Come in. Warm up.” Adele opened the door wider. “Can you call him?”

  “I tried. He’s not picking up his phone.”

  Adele closed the door behind them and locked it. She didn
’t want the brother running in here unannounced. “Wilfredo? Can I call you ‘Wilfredo’?”

  “Wil, if that’s okay. Only my mother calls me, ‘Wilfredo. ’”

  “Wil. Sure.”

  He stamped the snow off his feet and peeled off his thin knit gloves. He shoved them in his pockets. His ears had gone bright red. Adele couldn’t tell if that was from the cold or nerves.

  “There’s a kitchen in back. How about if I make you some tea or hot chocolate?”

  He smiled. It drew deep lines in his narrow features. Too deep for such a young boy. Adele had the urge to take him home and stuff him full of hot soup and casseroles.

  “Hot chocolate would be nice. Thank you.”

  She walked him back to the kitchen. She noticed that he kept a respectful distance from her. He was calm and measured, which made her feel less skittish too.

  “I’m sorry to take up your Sunday like this,” he said. “I wouldn’t have called you, except my brother—he’s had a very hard life. And a very scary time with police. He doesn’t trust them.”

  “The Lake Holly Police are fair,” said Adele. She swallowed back all the times she thought they weren’t. “I’ve spoken to the two detectives who will take him in. One of them is Mexican-American and speaks Spanish fluently. His name is Detective Omar Sanchez.”

  “I’m sure he’s a fair man, if you say he is. But my brother’s worst experiences were with the Mexican Police.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Wil shrugged. “It was a long time ago. And anyway, it has no bearing here. This man is not from the Mexican Police.”

  “No.”

  In the kitchen, Adele put a battered kettle on the stove and took down two mismatched cups from a cabinet, along with two packets of hot-chocolate mix. The tables were too low to sit at, so Wil walked around the room. He studied a wall with finger-painted pictures strung across it. He took out his phone, frowned at the screen, then put it back in his pocket.

  “No call from your brother, I take it,” said Adele.

  “No.”

  She tore open the packets and poured the powder into the cups. “Have you and your brother always lived together?”

  “When I was little. In Guatemala. I came here when I was six. And Rolando . . . didn’t.”

  “You have DACA status, I’m assuming?”

  “Yes,” said Wil. “I just applied for renewal. I hope this situation doesn’t change everything. These days, they look for any excuse to take it away.”

  Adele wished she could say that wasn’t true. DACA had been a godsend for so many young people when it started in 2012. It allowed immigrants who were brought here as children to come out of the shadows. They could finally get driver’s licenses, hold legal jobs that didn’t exploit them, and stop worrying about being deported. It wasn’t a panacea. It accorded no permanent legal status. It still barred them from voting, traveling abroad, getting government financial aid, or holding any job that requires a license.

  But it was something. A held breath of promise that, like a slowly leaking balloon, kept losing more air with every passing year. Instead of being the hoped-for pathway to citizenship, it was more like a slippery trail along the side of a cliff that led nowhere. Adele had clients who lost DACA on such technicalities as missing a deadline or getting arrested for a misdemeanor they were later acquitted on. Nothing was guaranteed now in Washington—least of all the fates of young immigrants like Wil.

  “At least you’re taking college classes. That’s good.” Adele didn’t give voice to the fact that very few of her DACA clients graduated four-year institutions. The burdens of paying all the costs and working full-time to help their undocumented families often stretched a four-year degree into an eight-year commitment. Most couldn’t do it. “What would you like to do when you graduate?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  The kettle boiled. She poured water into the cups.

  “I want to go to medical school.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s my dream, ridiculous as it is,” said Wil. “The way the law stands now, I’ll always be an illegal immigrant. I could graduate from a top medical school and I couldn’t even get a job as a dental technician because I’d need a license.”

  “I’m so sorry, Wil. I wish I had answers.” Adele put the kettle back on the stove. “If my parents had waited eight more months before they left Ecuador, I’d be in the same boat as you.” She took a spoon from a drawer and stirred the mixtures. Then she handed him one of the cups.

  “Thank you.” He cradled the mug in his hands and allowed the steam to wash over his face. Adele studied him more closely now. The long, bony fingers wrapped around the chipped ceramic. The prominent Adam’s apple. That little thrust of barely-stubbled chin that suggested intelligence and fire. And something else. Something that jingled like pocket change—obvious and hidden at the same time. She’d had that same combination herself as a girl.

  “So,” said Wil. “Your parents were undocumented?”

  “Yes,” said Adele. “My mother was pregnant with me when they came to this country. They pushed me to study hard. But when I told them I wanted to go to law school, they said that was impossible.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Harvard Law. Summa cum laude,” said Adele. “Editor of the Harvard Review. I graduated in the top five percent of my class. For a while, I was a pretty hotshot criminal defense attorney. Gave it up to help others like my parents.”

  “You had a choice at least.”

  “I know,” said Adele. “And for that, I thank their memories every day.” She took a sip of hot chocolate. “The world may change by the time you get to medical school. Do you have any idea what sort of doctor you’d want to be?”

  “An oncologist,” he said without skipping a beat.

  “A cancer specialist? Did you have cancer?”

  “My mother does.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Adele. “Did they catch it early?”

  “She found out six months ago. It was already stage four.”

  Incurable. “Oh, Wil.” Adele wasn’t sure what to say. “Does she have a good doctor?”

  “I hope he’s good. We’re paying him enough. But I really don’t know. He’s in Guatemala.”

  “Your mother doesn’t live here?”

  “She did. For ten years. An old deportation order caught up with her three years ago. She couldn’t outrun it—not without yanking me out of school again. She didn’t want to do that. Plus, I think she was tired. The running was getting to her. She went back and then this happened.” His voice grew thick. “Me and Lando have been paying her medical bills. If he gets locked up, I’m going to have to drop out of college. I have to help her.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Adele understood for the first time the enormity of what this teenager was up against. She’d grown so relaxed in his company that she’d almost forgotten why they were here. It felt like a punch to the gut to remember. “That’s a lot on your shoulders.”

  Wil kept his eyes on the chipped mug as he spoke. “I can’t believe Lando would hurt anyone.” Adele sensed Wil was talking to himself, weighing the brother he knew against the man he perhaps didn’t. “He drinks too much, sure. But he’s not a monster.”

  The teenager’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the number. “See?” He lifted the phone. “He’s calling now.” The boy put his mug on the counter and turned to take the call. He spoke in Spanish into the phone. Adele caught snatches of Wil’s end of the conversation: “Wait. You haven’t been . . . Are you crazy? No. That’s not what we agreed on.” And a phrase that sent chills down Adele’s spine: “Yes. Of course she’s alone.”

  Adele’s breathing kicked up a notch. She felt her fingers growing cold around the mug of hot chocolate even as her underarms turned sweaty. She knew Vega and Greco were watching. She knew that all she had to do was tug on her earlobe and Vega would be by her side in seconds.

/>   But Wil was standing before her, so young and hopeful. So determined to snatch some kind of reprieve out of this terrible situation. She had to give him a chance.

  He hung up and turned to her.

  “My brother.” He said the words like he’d long ago resigned himself to the weight of that burden. “I can’t believe him.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s drunk.” Wil shook his head. “He’s not dangerous, I swear. He’s just—he can’t help himself.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Down the street. I told him to come anyway.”

  “He . . . still wants to turn himself in?”

  “Yes. He trusts you, señora. You came by yourself—just like you promised you would. I told him to walk over here and you’d help him surrender. That’s still the plan, isn’t it?”

  Help a drunken, erratic, physically powerful convicted rapist and murder suspect surrender. Adele felt queasy. She’d conferred with plenty of criminals in her time as an attorney. But most were petty thieves, addicts, or white-collar defendants. And even at that, she’d dealt with them primarily in controlled settings, usually with a barrier between her and them or an armed officer right in the same room.

  This was different. She was on her own. And sure, Wil Martinez was a nice kid. But it was already clear he had no control over his brother.

  Tug on your earlobe. That’s all she had to do. Vega and Greco would run downstairs. Jankowski and Sanchez and the other cops stationed outside could pick Benitez up on the street. Do a takedown, as they called it. Pin him to the snowy ground. Frisk him. Cuff his hands behind his back. Yank him to his feet. Shove him into the back of a patrol car and process him at the Lake Holly station house. That’s what they’d been itching to do all along. She was just bait. She started to bring her hand up to her ear.

  No. She couldn’t do that. I gave my word. If she went against that, nobody in the Lake Holly Latino community would ever trust her again. She might as well turn her back on La Casa. The people at La Casa would certainly turn their backs on her.