A Place in the Wind Page 14

  Carp flicked his eyes down Vega’s uniform. “We get a bomb threat or something?”

  “No, sir. You requested the county police send you an officer to drive some consultants.”

  Carp leaned his knuckles on his desk and rose. His suit jacket was off. His neck sagged over the collar of his shirt. Vega wasn’t the only one with collar problems, it seemed.

  “I ask for a rookie and they send me you? You’re no rookie.”

  “No, sir. My name is Jimmy Vega. I’m a detective with the county police.”

  “You’re a detective? What’s with the uniform?”

  “My bosses asked me to wear it.”

  “Huh.” Carp walked around to the front of his desk and perched himself on the edge. He moved like a man who expected things to get out of his way. “Come in. Close the door. My press conference is over. I don’t want those assholes in the media getting free scoops.”

  Vega stood before Carp. He felt the man scrutinizing him. Like a slave up for auction. Carp did not extend a hand.

  “Have a seat.”

  Vega sat in one of two tufted leather chairs facing Carp’s desk. Carp folded his arms across his chest.

  “What did you do?”

  “I was a patrol officer for eleven years,” said Vega. “And then I spent five in narcotics, mostly undercover, and then—”

  “I mean,” Carp interrupted, “what did you do to get sent here? You’re not driving me. This is peon work, Detective. So what happened? You take a bribe? Pinch some drugs from the evidence locker? Get in a fistfight with your boss?”

  “None of those things,” said Vega. “I was involved in another police department’s operations without authorization.”

  “Illegal operations?”

  “No, sir. Perfectly legal. I just failed to get clearance through the chain of command.”

  “Sounds like petty shit to me,” said Carp. “You shoot anyone?”

  “Negative,” said Vega. “But in the interests of full disclosure, I was involved in a separate incident in December that was a line-of-duty shooting. It was ruled justifiable.”

  “Aha!” Carp pointed a finger at Vega. “I thought I recognized you. You’re here because you’re damaged goods. Worth less to them than a rookie.”

  Vega said nothing. He hated to admit Carp was probably right.

  “Hey”—Carp shrugged—“it’s no skin off my back. So long as you don’t go cuckoo on me, you’ll do just fine.” He checked his watch. “I have my own driver, but he’s on another errand this morning. You can drive me over to the Valley Community College campus, meet up with my consultants there. I’m scheduled to inaugurate Valley’s new turf field in about an hour.”

  “I have a Crown Victoria in the lot downstairs, sir.”

  “I’m not riding in that piece of shit. I’ve got a Lincoln Navigator downstairs.” Carp opened a drawer and threw Vega the keys. “You’ll drive that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  The shiny black Navigator was equipped with police lights, radios, and an onboard computer console. It had all the bells and whistles of a patrol car, but without all the odd smells and broken parts no one ever bothered to fix. Vega opened the door for Carp. He slid in back.

  “You know the Valley campus, John?”

  “Jimmy, sir. And yes, I do.” Vega didn’t bother to tell Carp that his daughter went there. This man couldn’t remember Vega’s name. Vega doubted he’d care about his family.

  “When we get there, I’ll introduce you to Doug Prescott and Hugh Vanderlinden. You’ll be driving them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the car, Carp looked over some paperwork and handled several calls, talking in bursts of shorthand about quorums and motions and bill sponsorship. At one point, he caught Vega’s eye in the visor mirror.

  “I’m curious, Jim—”

  “Jimmy,” Vega corrected.

  “What’s your, um . . . ethnic background?”

  “I’m Puerto Rican, sir.”

  “You immigrated? Or were you born here?”

  “I was born in the Bronx.” Vega decided not to point out that everyone born in Puerto Rico was an American citizen and therefore didn’t immigrate when they came to the mainland. Still, the cultures and languages were different enough that both his parents felt like immigrants.

  “You speak Spanish?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fluently?”

  “I would say so,” said Vega. “It was the only language spoken in my home as a child.”

  “So, as a Spanish-speaking Latino, what do you think of that situation up in Lake Holly?”

  Vega felt like he was treading on a minefield. “You mean, the girl who was murdered?”

  “Yes. And that illegal who raped and killed her.”

  “I . . .” I am the boyfriend of a woman whose life’s work you despise. Vega could see no benefit in laying all his cards on the table here. It wouldn’t get him out of this assignment. And besides, he wasn’t going to be working directly for Carp anyway. He was going to be working for his associates. So he settled on the part of the tragedy he could speak truthfully about. “I feel terrible for the girl’s family. They must be devastated, as any family would be. It doesn’t seem fair that one man’s actions could do so much damage to so many.”

  “Precisely! My point precisely!” Carp slapped the papers on his lap for emphasis. “That’s the problem with all these illegals. You open the door. You let them in. We inspect our fruit from abroad so we don’t bring pests and diseases into our country. Why aren’t we as careful with people?”

  “I’m not sure I’d equate people with pests—”

  “Call them whatever you like,” said Carp. “But as a cop, surely you’ve had to deal with illegals who give you fake names and fake IDs. You have no idea if you’re talking to a garden-variety border hopper or a serial killer. You ticket them for driving without a license, and the next day, they’re driving again. You arrest them for beating up their girlfriend and nobody puts an immigration detainer on them—or the locals ignore the detainer so they’re back on the streets. And even when they commit a serious offense and get deported, they come right back. Tell me as a cop that that doesn’t frustrate you.”

  “It does,” Vega admitted. “But I try not to lump every situation under the same umbrella.”

  “But it is under the same umbrella. That’s what people don’t want to see,” said Carp. “A guy like me comes along and speaks the truth? Everybody wants to shoot the messenger. Or stick their fingers in their ears and sing ‘Kumbaya. ’ Doesn’t change the fact that it’s still the truth. Am I right?”

  “I guess it depends on where you’re standing.”

  Carp laughed like Vega had told a good joke. “Trust me, Jim. The only standing that counts is at the ballot box.”

  Vega didn’t try to argue with him. He kept quiet and pulled into the long drive that wound around the Valley Community College campus. Even in good weather, the campus felt like a cross between a truck depot and a small commuter airport. The buildings were low, gray, and block-shaped, with sharp angles and wide-open plazas that funneled and intensified every gust of wind. The trees were lean and planted in rows like sentries. In the dead of winter, the landscape took on a sinister edge. Snow settled along the flat roofs, giving the place the look and feel of a Soviet bunker.

  The cold normally drove students inside. But not today. On the main quad, above posters advertising an upcoming concert by the hip-hop group 5’N’10, Vega saw a banner that read: CARP IS CRAP—JUST REARRANGE THE LETTERS. Probably some smart-ass English majors put that up.

  By the time Vega pulled alongside the new turf field, a crowd of students had gathered. Many were waving signs that attested to a wide variety of issues they had with the new county executive. There was his immigration stance: NO HUMAN IS ILLEGAL! His building of that golf course: CRYSTAL SPRINGS=POISON WATER. And, this being a college, his refusal to support a freeze on tuition: FUND
OUR FUTURE, NOT YOUR PAYCHECK.

  Vega had a sense the new field dedication was going to be anything but a straightforward affair.

  “Pull around by the gym,” Carp instructed Vega.

  The county had obviously budgeted some bucks for the turf, but they could have done with an update for the building. Vega saw that as soon as he walked Carp inside. The whole place smelled of damp wood and sweaty gym socks. Water stains bloomed on the ceiling and chunks of plaster were missing from several walls. A group of white men in suits, wool overcoats, and fencepost smiles stood huddled and waiting for Carp by a large trophy case. There were handshakes all around. But not for Vega. He was hired security. Blue-collar muscle and nothing more.

  Vega eyed the trophies in the case. This being a very small college, they were all from third-rate leagues, many of them at least a decade old. Down the hall, Vega heard the clink of barbells being set down in the weight room and the thump of basketballs on the court. The athletes either didn’t know or didn’t care that their newly elected county executive was dedicating their field.

  Outside, however, was another story. Through the glass windows on the front doors, Vega noticed that the crowd of students was growing.

  “So. You’re our new driver.”

  Vega turned to see two men standing before him. One was tall and spindly, with a long nose like an anteater. The other had an ex-wrestler’s build and breathed through his mouth. Both wore aviator sunglasses, even though they were indoors. Vega introduced himself and extended a hand.

  “Hugh Vanderlinden,” the anteater replied. He shook Vega’s hand like he was doing him a favor. Vanderlinden gestured to the mouth breather. “This is Doug Prescott.” Prescott didn’t even bother with a handshake. He just grunted.

  A photographer arrived. A young Asian man. Student or staff, Vega couldn’t say. He ushered the men outside and lined them up in front of the new turf field. It was cold enough for Carp to have just done a photo op and left. But a lectern and microphone had been set up on a small riser, and sure enough, Carp moved to it like an addict to meth. A chorus of boos washed over the field. Carp seemed unfazed. Vega stood close by on the riser scanning the crowd. Whatever Carp’s politics, he was still an elected official and Vega had a duty to protect him.

  “This field is being dedicated today with taxpayer money,” Carp began. “Money from voters. The very same people who elected me to this office.”

  “I didn’t elect you!” one student shouted. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Carp didn’t seem to notice he was being heckled. Or maybe he didn’t care.

  “This morning, I sent a bill to the county legislature called ‘Catherine’s Law,’” Carp continued. “A girl only a year younger than many of you was brutally raped and murdered by an illegal.”

  “Who was gunned down by police!” another student shouted. There were hoots and applause.

  “The police were doing their job. This officer”—Carp gestured to Vega—“will tell you that the police were doing their job.”

  Ay, puñeta! Vega had spent the last seven weeks trying to live down that civilian shooting and get his life back to normal. And here was Carp, turning him into a poster boy for officers who used lethal force. He could feel all the hateful eyes on him—not for what he’d done. He doubted most of the students in the crowd even knew. Just being a cop was enough these days. People scratched your car. Slashed your tires. Drive-thrus refused you service—or worse, messed with your food. If you fought back in any way, someone always had a video camera. And you were automatically the bad guy. It didn’t matter what color your skin was, people saw the uniform and they judged. You were a redneck. You were a racist. You could have delivered five babies in the backseat of your patrol car, saved a toddler from a burning building, and caught the local pedophile lurking near the elementary school. You were still an ignorant bully and a brute.

  Vega had heard retired guys on his job who’d served in Vietnam talk about how they used to have to ditch their fatigues as soon as they got Stateside. People thanked soldiers now. Nobody thanked cops.

  Vega kept his gaze neutral as he searched the crowd for signs of trouble. Most of the protesters were young. They wore outlandish knit hats and bulky North Face jackets. They hefted backpacks and skateboards and checked their phones so much, Vega wondered how they could possibly pay attention to anything Carp was saying. Here and there, Vega saw older faces as well. Professors, most likely.

  And then he saw her. She was wearing a poofy hat with pom-poms on tassels and a tan suede jacket, which was probably on loan from her mother’s closet. The hat brought out the kid in her. The jacket, the woman. Joy. She had to have seen him. She didn’t let on. She was eleven the last time Vega was in uniform. As a small girl, she loved trying on her father’s eight-point cap. Back then, it sank halfway down her forehead. Now, Vega sensed, the whole getup embarrassed her. She turned her head and chatted with a girl next to her, like Vega was just one more official on that riser.

  “Catherine Archer’s death is a wake-up call to every American,” said Carp over the feedback on his microphone. “No longer can we allow lawless illegals to make a mockery of our way of life.”

  Carp went on to explain how his new “Catherine’s Law” would provide money for municipalities to fine and jail people for such misdemeanors as unlawful assembly, loitering, littering, public intoxication, and trespassing. It would beef up zoning codes to eliminate illegal rental units, strengthen penalties for minor traffic violations, and empower local police to work with federal immigration authorities to round up undocumented lawbreakers.

  Students booed. What did Carp expect? This was not going to be his kind of audience. But even so, Vega thought the crowd was getting worked up over nothing. “Catherine’s Law” was a proposal at this point. It would never pass.

  The districts with heavy immigrant populations, like Lake Holly, Port Carroll, and Warburton, would consider this new legislation a monumental headache that would only alienate their residents—documented and undocumented—and reduce civilian cooperation with the police.

  Rights groups would challenge the proposal’s legality, especially if it was only enforced in Hispanic communities. Local landlords—voters, all of them—would not take kindly to an overzealous application of their town’s occupancy laws.

  Even the police unions that backed Carp in the election might balk at having their members take on additional immigration duties without any commensurate rise in pay. Which meant that Carp’s proposal was nothing more than political grandstanding. Vega saw it. Why couldn’t the students? Eighteen-year-olds take everything too seriously, he decided. Especially themselves.

  “It’s a right-wing conspiracy!” one of the students shouted. Others cheered in agreement. A chant rose up from the crowd: “Keep your hate off our campus.” People raised their fists in the air. Things were heating up fast.

  Vega searched the crowd for Joy. He spotted her walking away. Good. He didn’t want her in the middle of this. She was joined by an older man in a battered felt hat and slouchy canvas coat. A long gray ponytail snaked down his back. Her professor. Also good. He probably had the common sense to steer them away from this growing agitation. Every time Carp spoke, the chanting grew louder and more belligerent.

  Vega kept his eyes on his daughter. She leaned into her professor. “Mr. Ponytail” snaked an arm around Joy’s waist and pulled her close. Uncomfortably close.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  An orange—soft, ripe, and round—came out of nowhere. Vega saw it a second before it banged against the side of the lectern. The campus cops hustled in the direction of where the orange had been thrown. But the idea had settled in the crowd’s head. Soon more things sailed toward the microphone. Soda cans. Crumpled flyers. Paper coffee cups. Plastic water bottles.

  Vega stepped in front of Carp and tried to lead him away from the microphone, but Carp shook Vega off. He was clearly a man who liked having the last word.

  “The peop
le elected me to bring law and order to this county,” Carp shouted. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

  Vega’s peripheral vision caught something green and heavy whizzing toward him. A beer bottle. Headed straight for Mike Carp’s head. Vega jumped in front of the county executive, pushing him down and covering his body with his own. The bottle smashed against the lectern. It sounded like crushed ice in a glass.

  Vega helped Carp to his feet as the campus police pushed through the crowd. Students scattered in every direction. No way was the bottle thrower going to give himself up that easy. Coward.

  “Are you okay, sir?” asked Vega.

  “Yeah.” Carp brushed himself off. He looked pale and shaky. “Animals. That’s what they’re educating here.”

  “I think it was just a few troublemakers,” said Vega. Something warm and wet slid down the side of his face. He brought a hand up to wipe it away. It came back bright red.

  “I think you need medical attention, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy. Finally. Vega pressed his uniform sleeve to a spot near his hairline. It didn’t hurt that much, but he could feel the gash. Two inches, by his estimate. He was bleeding heavily. The crowd had dispersed. Joy was gone. Vega was glad. She didn’t need to see something like this. It would upset her too much. He closed his eyes and replayed that image of the professor snaking a hand around his daughter’s waist.

  He didn’t need to see that either.

  Chapter 19

  “Get EMS on the scene,” Carp barked to campus security. “And the county police. I want a full investigation. I want the animals who committed this assault on a uniformed officer found, charged, and expelled from campus.”

  Vega sat in a waiting area of the gym just outside the locker room; he had an ice pack and towel pressed to his head. Fortunately, the gash wasn’t deep. A couple of stitches done in the emergency room would close it up at the hairline.