No Witness But the Moon Page 14

  It wasn’t any different on his father’s side. Vega had three younger half sisters by his father, from two other women, all of them floating around somewhere in the New York area. His father was out there somewhere too, flawed and disappointing. That’s why Vega couldn’t look at family albums. They conjured up a longing for something he never knew he needed until those pictures reminded him that he did.

  Vega closed one of the albums and began to heft it into the carton. An envelope tumbled out. Negatives, most likely. His mother loved to keep negatives so she could make copies of pictures for family back on the island. But it wasn’t negatives. It was a letter, penned in Spanish on loose-leaf notebook paper. It took up about three quarters of the page. The script was beautiful—and not his mother’s. It was addressed: Mi amado. My beloved. It was signed at the bottom: Eres mi ángel. You are my angel.

  Mi amado. Eres mi ángel.

  Vega smoothed the letter out on the dining table. Then he pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, opened the billfold, and located the note card he and Joy had found inside the cellophane bouquet of flowers on his mother’s grave earlier today. He laid the note card next to the letter.

  The handwriting was identical.

  An electric spark zipped through Vega. He picked up the letter and began to read it. He struggled a bit with the penmanship and syntax. Still, he could make out the gist of the words.

  . . . Oh, how I struggle with our being apart. I grieve that it cannot be otherwise. Vega read the letter once, then twice. It was silly, frivolous stuff. It told him nothing about the letter writer or his mother. He searched the letter front and back for some sort of identification. He checked the envelope. He found nothing.

  Who would write such a letter to his mother? Vega couldn’t recall ever writing a letter like that. Not to Adele. Not even to Wendy. He was too much of a cop. He hated to commit anything to paper that might come back to haunt him. Or maybe he just wasn’t romantic enough. Adele probably would agree.

  Vega stared at the letter. So his mother had a secret lover. Someone who was still alive and knew her birthday. Someone who never came forward to introduce himself at her funeral. Was he married to someone else?

  Vega knew one person it wasn’t: his father. Orlando Vega never wrote his mother so much as a child support check. He certainly never penned any love notes.

  Then who?

  The microwave dinged. Vega pulled out the soggy lasagna and slid the little container onto a plate. He grabbed a second beer and sat down at the table. He drained the beer but managed less than half the lasagna before throwing it in the trash. He couldn’t find his once-robust appetite. Even the fried pork fritters that had looked so good in that cuchifritos joint earlier today couldn’t tempt him now. He felt stripped of sensation, a vessel someone had forgotten to fill. A collection of liquor bottles sat in the far corner of the kitchen counter—bourbons and rums. He reached for one of the bourbons then put it back. It was too easy to go down that slippery slope.

  What he needed was a distraction. He cleared the table, threw his plate and utensils in the dishwasher, and grabbed his guitar. His band had a club gig next week over in Broad Plains, but Vega couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to practice.

  Television. He flicked the remote. An HBO comedy. A Knicks game. An action thriller . . .

  The news. Coño! He was being betrayed at every juncture. Ruben Tate-Rivera had leaked those stupid comments Vega had made at the shooting to the media. Someone in that demonstration today had posted YouTube footage of Vega trying to defend himself against that mob. The commissioner of the county police was looking grave and dismayed by all of it. Vega angrily shut off the TV. No matter what happened from this point forward, it would always be his fault. And why was that? He hadn’t been drunk or angry or reckless when he shot Ponce. This wasn’t personal. And okay, he’d made a judgment error. He’d had two freakin’ seconds to react. Two. He’d like to see how well anyone in that mob would fare in the same situation. Or Ruben Tate-Rivera. Or his commissioner. They’d wet their pants.

  If he could take it all back, he would. He just wished the world would let him say how he felt instead of making him out to be some sort of monster. Hell, when a doctor makes a mistake and the patient dies, his malpractice pays up and his life goes on as if nothing happened. No one even speaks about it in polite company. So how come Vega was facing the prospect of going before a grand jury and maybe even going to prison?

  He wanted to crawl into bed and not wake up for six months. But he was too wired to sleep. What he needed was exercise and fresh air. He pulled on some sweatpants and track shoes and went outside. The air had a bite to it. He stretched and then started running, guided only by a sliver of moonlight through the trees. He saw one or two houses lit up in the distance but most of the places were dark and shuttered for the season. He turned down another community road and lost even those distant lights.

  The first three miles felt good. He got his rhythm. His breathing turned hard and even, draining his thoughts. He was sore from the pummeling he took in the Bronx earlier. But even with all that, the endorphins were kicking in and making him feel better. He took bigger strides. He picked up the pace. He wanted to exhaust his body in the hopes that this would somehow exhaust his mind.

  He went to leap over a tree limb that had fallen too close to the road in the last storm. But his back foot caught one of the branches. It held his body for the split second it took to lose his concentration and balance. His knee hit the pavement hard. He cursed. Nothing was broken at least. But his knee felt too bruised to run anymore. He would have to limp all the way back.

  He began walking along the deserted road—a road he’d traveled a thousand times in all seasons. He could probably close his eyes and find his way home. And yet for some reason he couldn’t fathom, his heart began to race. There were no streetlamps, only a dark wash of gauzy clouds that made the sky glow like a TV screen when the station has left the air. In the distance, he saw the blinking lights of an airplane. It was so high up that it trailed no sound.

  He was exposed. Alone. Or maybe not alone—and that was worse.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  His body refused to listen. His heart beat so hard it felt like it would jump out of his chest. He broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t catch his breath.

  Just stop it.

  He turned and turned again, his eyes checking and rechecking the woods for movement. Logic told him no one was here but he couldn’t get his senses to agree. Every gust of wind through the trees, every crack of a branch or groan of a limb made him dizzy with panic. It sounded . . . It smelled . . . It felt like . . .

  STOP IT!

  It felt just like the woods last night.

  He saw again that shadow of something to his right. He saw the slow, deliberate turn of Hector Ponce’s body as he reached into the front pocket of his jeans. He heard those shots from his gun. In his head, they resonated like cannon fire.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  “There is nothing out here!” Vega shouted.

  The sound of his own voice surprised him. The hoarseness. The desperation. The trees closed in on him. A strong wind rustled the dead leaves. They sounded like fingernails tapping on a gravestone. He felt engulfed by a wave of nausea even though there was almost nothing in his stomach. What was wrong with him?

  Goddamnit, what the hell was wrong with him?

  And then he saw it—a faint glow of headlights on the next road. The vehicle was traveling at a slow creep. A homeowner? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like the driver was looking for something. Or someone. Vega wiped the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his forehead and tried to catch his breath. Big white clouds of vapor formed in front of him, glowing like phosphorus in the moonlight. He watched the car turn onto his road and creep toward him, slowing as it approached.

  He was unarmed. Trapped. His back ached. His knee hurt to run. He stumb
led off the road and into the trees. He shivered as the sweat congealed on his skin. He’d become a feral shadow of his former self.

  The car was a dark red SUV. Maybe a Honda. It stopped along the side of the road. Vega crouched behind some bushes. He couldn’t see the figure that got out on the far side. The driver was alone. Could he outrun the person? Overpower them? Did they have a gun?

  “Good Lord, Detective! Bad enough you don’t return phone calls and I have to hunt you down in person. Don’t make an old lady like me go running through the woods after you.”

  Isadora Jenkins. She pushed back the hood of her jacket. The moonlight caught her white hair. Vega parted the bushes and stumbled forward. He felt like an idiot. He was shaking all over.

  Jenkins stepped around the car and frowned. “When did you last shave? You look like some mountain man who just wrestled a bear.”

  “I was running and I took a fall.”

  “You’re running and falling, all right. And most of it ain’t in your legs.” She blew into her gloved hands and studied him a moment behind her big round glasses. “The first night after is the worst, you know. The adrenaline wears off and everything gets real scary real fast.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She tossed off a laugh. “And they say cops are good liars. What on God’s green earth were you thinking going to the Bronx today and stepping into that protest?”

  “I was trying to reach my truck,” said Vega. “It’s my mother’s birthday and I wanted to visit her grave.”

  “Her grave is in the middle of the Grand Concourse?”

  “I went to see a priest I know. Is that against department policy?”

  “Unless he was giving communion on the center divide, I’d say so,” said Jenkins. “Captain Waring wants to see you ASAP. So get cleaned up and, for God’s sake, shave. You want people to treat you like a cop? Start looking like one.”

  Chapter 16

  Vega shaved and showered faster than he’d ever thought possible. Then he got in his truck and followed Isadora Jenkins to the county police headquarters. It had been only twenty-four hours since he’d walked out of this building, but already it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He fantasized on the way down of unclipping his shield and throwing it across Captain Waring’s desk when his boss started tearing into him. But whom was he kidding? Eighteen years in the county police meant no pension. Nada. Zip. What was he going to do at forty-two years of age? Stock shelves at Walmart? Resurrect his pathetic music career, or worse, his brief and extremely painful stint in insurance? He had mortgage and car payments. Joy was counting on him to help her with tuition. If his boss told Vega he had to file pistol permits for the rest of his career, then that’s what he was going to do.

  Vega daydreamed—not for the first time since the shooting—how much easier it would have been if he’d taken the bullet instead of Ponce. Live or die, at least he’d be a hero. Not this toxic embarrassment to everyone who’d ever cared about him.

  Vega parked in police parking and walked over to the civilian area to meet up with Jenkins. She wagged a finger at him.

  “What was my second rule after honesty, Detective?”

  “Shut my big, fat mouth.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s try to remember that.”

  They walked through the front doors and up to the desk sergeant who used to talk baseball with Vega. Now he just kept his head down and buzzed them in without a word. Doom and Gloom—a.k.a. Captains Waring and Lorenzo—were waiting for them in Captain Waring’s office. Waring’s office looked like a permanent Fourth of July celebration. There were stars and stripes and lots and lots of eagle depictions with tridents and guns—just in case you forgot Waring was a former Navy SEAL.

  What was missing—what was always missing—was any mention of Frank Waring’s other previous life as a professional Irish step-dancer. Vega had heard from some of the more senior guys in the division that Waring had been orphaned young and followed an aunt who’d raised him into the field. He was good—good enough to have had articles written about him. Yet Waring seemed even more embarrassed about his past than Vega was about the shooting. Maybe to a former Navy SEAL, high stepping across a stage in tight pants is worse than just about anything you could do with a gun.

  Captain Waring was sitting behind his desk when Vega and Jenkins entered. It was impossible to tell from Waring’s expression how much trouble you were in. Captain Lorenzo was no better. He was a gaunt, pasty-faced man who could make the words You won the lottery sound depressing. Lorenzo sat in the only comfortable visitor’s chair in the room. Two conference room chairs had been pulled in for Vega and Jenkins. They were definitely not comfortable and weren’t meant to be.

  “Close the door,” said Waring. His tone was soft. The softer it was, the more likely you were in trouble. Vega could feel his breath balling up in his chest.

  “We haven’t exactly been a good fit since you moved over to the homicide task force, Detective.”

  What was Vega supposed to say to that? Did he disagree and tell the captain he was wrong? Did he agree, which pretty much guaranteed his exit?

  Vega said nothing. In the hallway he heard phones ringing and cops talking to each other in loud, carefree voices. Vega doubted he’d ever feel that way again.

  “What you did today—publicly showing your face at that protest—was beyond stupid.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Captain,” Jenkins interrupted. She shot Vega a sharp look. “Detective Vega is aware of his missteps and has already taken appropriate steps to get himself into counseling so this doesn’t happen again.”

  Qué coño? Jenkins was telling his boss that he needed his head examined? Vega opened his mouth to contradict her. Jenkins glared at Vega, daring him. He shut it again.

  Captain Lorenzo spoke. “How soon?”

  Jenkins turned to Vega. She didn’t ask. She ordered. “Tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Who was going to see him on a Sunday? That shrink Greco had given him? He had her name somewhere in his wallet. Maybe she’d do him a favor. Maybe they could meet for half an hour and he could check off a box and everybody would be happy.

  “Yes,” said Lorenzo. “I think that’s a wise decision.”

  Waring already seemed bored with the topic. He didn’t care if Vega got therapy or not. He folded his arms in front of him. “I need some straight answers on more pressing matters—starting with the Wickford patrol officer’s testimony that got leaked to the media.”

  “Spontaneous utterances, Captain,” said Jenkins. She and Vega had already been through the transcript before they arrived this evening. “Detective Vega was under stress—”

  “I’m not talking about what he said,” said Waring. “I’m talking about where he was standing at the time of the shooting. Officer Franklin seems to believe Detective Vega was much closer to the suspect than fifteen feet when he shot him.”

  “Detective Vega and I have discussed the matter,” said Jenkins. “He stands by his original statement.”

  Waring looked at Vega but directed his question to Jenkins. “Does the detective have any explanation he’d like to offer as to why one of the bullets entered beneath the suspect’s chin?”

  Vega fought the urge to defend himself. He silently counted to five and waited for Jenkins to answer.

  “Detective Vega fired at the suspect’s center mass, as per departmental training and policy,” said Jenkins. “We believe the first three shots caused the suspect to collapse. The final bullet caught him under the chin as he was in the process of falling backward. My client is confident that ballistics will vindicate any suggestion that he aimed his weapon beneath the suspect’s chin and fired at point-blank range.”

  “Confident, hmm,” said Waring. He and Lorenzo traded quick glances. “The district attorney’s office has uncovered a witness, Vega. Someone who swears they saw you shoot Ponce point-blank in the head.”

  “That’s impossible!” Vega couldn’t contain himsel
f any longer. “I was never closer than fifteen feet from him!” He caught Jenkins scowling at him and sat on his hands—something he hadn’t done since he was a kid in parochial school and Sister Margarita was trying to get him to sit still.

  “Has the district attorney released the witness’s name?” asked Jenkins.

  “Yes,” said Waring. “She lives on Perkins Road in Wickford. Her house is adjacent to the woods behind Ricardo Luis’s estate. It was her spotlight that was shining into the woods where Ponce was shot.”

  Vega pictured a snoopy old dowager, wheelchair-bound, skin like an oyster, half-addled with dementia, looking out her window and mistaking a deer for him. She was probably confused. Maybe a little lonely. Those big estates in Wickford had to get pretty lonely.

  Jenkins must have been thinking the same thing because she asked Waring if he had a description of the witness.

  “I have a few notes from the DA’s office.” Waring put on his glasses and read a printout before him. “The witness is a thirty-eight-year-old former bond trader for Goldman Sachs. She’s now a stay-at-home mom with two boys, ages three and five. Her husband is a managing partner at Morgan Stanley.” Waring put the sheet of paper down and stared at Vega. “And for the record? Her vision is twenty-twenty, courtesy of LASIK surgery she underwent about a month ago.”

  Vega felt the rope slowly tightening around his neck. Jenkins, ever the good defense attorney, began exploring other angles. “So her mental and visual acuity are not in question, I take it. How about her politics? Would she have any reason to lie about what she saw?”