A Place in the Wind Page 21

  “Really? He looked drunk to me.”

  “Dr. Gupta found some liver damage, which would be consistent with someone who abused alcohol long-term. Maybe he was on the twelve-step.”

  “You’d think his wife would be more forthcoming,” said Vega. “The guy’s dead. What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference in the world if you’re an Archer,” said Greco. “You don’t tell the community that your little princess got knocked up or that your paterfamilias is a recovering alcoholic with a pill problem. You don’t suggest that you’re swimming in debt and hanging on by your fingertips if the Crystal Springs Golf Resort doesn’t get built.”

  “Is that last part true?” asked Vega.

  “It is if Mike Carp decides to ditch the deal, now that Archer’s dead. Least that’s what one of the bankers in town who holds the loans told me.” Greco crumpled a piece of cellophane in his pocket. “This whole case is like a set of dominos that just keeps falling. Catherine’s murder. Archer’s death. Now, Steve’s son’s in the hospital and the whole town’s ready to explode. All because one little high-school girl tutored the wrong guy.”

  “You don’t know that yet.”

  Greco pulled up the collar on his coat. “Yeah, I think I do. And it’s not just because that would ease my conscience and Sanchez’s. Benitez was one of the last people to see Catherine alive. He had that key chain with her picture on it in his room. We’ve got that video that shows him buying beer for her at Hank’s Deli.” Greco’s dark eyes held Vega’s. “There’s one other thing too. One thing we haven’t made public yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something we found comparing Catherine’s phone records to Benitez’s,” said Greco. “Two days before Catherine’s death, Benitez made four calls to her phone over the span of two hours.”

  “He called her? Why would he call her?”

  “My theory? I think this guy was developing a fantasy life around her,” said Greco. “First, he swiped that key chain. Then he made those calls. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe the last one was to apologize. It sure explains why she’d follow him to that deli. She knew him. Maybe even trusted him a little. And all the while, he was building up some sort of sick scenario in his head.”

  “But the baby wasn’t his,” Vega pointed out.

  “Who knows if that wasn’t the thing that tipped him over the edge? He thought she was a virgin princess. He felt deceived. Or jealous.”

  One of the officers called over to Greco to ask him something.

  “Be right there,” said Greco. He turned back to Vega. “We’re not releasing this information—you understand? Bad enough that the community thinks this was a crime of opportunity. They don’t need to find out Benitez was stalking her.”

  Chapter 28

  Vega felt the cold, wet nose on his bare forearm first, followed by a steamy lungful of dog breath. Daylight had barely crested the horizon.

  “Ay, puñeta, Diablo! Were you a rooster in a previous life?” If Vega didn’t get up soon, he’d have seventy pounds of dog pouncing on his chest, along with whatever chewable goodies Diablo decided to refashion in his honor. Sneakers. Vega’s bike helmet. Pillows. The dog had the good sense at least never to touch Vega’s guitars or amps. He knew his limits.

  Vega swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped into sweats and a T-shirt. Diablo raced down the stairs and pressed his wet nose against the sliding glass doors to the deck. Clouds as clotted as spoiled milk hovered over a lake the same texture and hue. The world was devoid of color this morning. White hillsides. Gray stalks of trees. Frost on the glass. Heaven and earth were in agreement for once. It was impossible to tell them apart.

  Diablo pawed at the glass and barked.

  “You want to go for a run?”

  At the sound of the word “run,” Diablo tore around the living room in circles, his tail in the air, his little flaps jiggling on his upturned ears. Vega laughed.

  “Okay, okay. I hear you.” That was the thing about Diablo. He knew what Vega needed, even before Vega knew.

  The early-morning air tasted of peppermint and wood smoke. The burn felt good in Vega’s lungs. Invigorating. He and Diablo ran five miles around the lake, waving to the few other year-rounders who lived up here this time of year. They all knew each other. There was a camaraderie that wasn’t there in the summer when owners and renters and extended families crowded the place. Vega liked the off-season better.

  When they returned to the house, Vega saw a silver Mercedes idling in his driveway behind his truck. He stopped short when he caught the figure at the wheel. In the six years Vega had lived at the lake, he couldn’t recall his ex-wife ever visiting—not even to drop off Joy. Vega usually did all the shuttling.

  Wendy turned off her engine and cracked open her car door. Vega grabbed the dog’s collar. Wendy was allergic to dogs. Plus, Diablo was an effusive greeter. He could be intimidating if you didn’t know what a marshmallow he was.

  “It’s okay,” Vega called out, snapping a leash on Diablo’s collar. “I got him!”

  She stepped out of her car, but stayed close to the door. “He won’t bite?”

  “Slobber? Yes. Bite? No.” Diablo jumped eagerly as if to prove his point. “Is everything okay with Joy?”

  “Yes and no,” said Wendy. “I have a breakfast conference in Whitman Falls in about forty-five minutes. I figured I’d stop by on my way up. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Um . . . sure,” said Vega. “Come in. I’ll put Diablo upstairs so you don’t get all watery-eyed for your meeting.”

  Vega grabbed Diablo’s favorite rawhide chew and his water dish and took him upstairs. When he came back down, Wendy was standing by his sliding glass doors, looking out past Vega’s deck at the lake.

  “I can see why you like it here.”

  “It has its charms. The commute, unfortunately, isn’t one of them.” Vega peeled off a sweatshirt and tossed it across a chair in the dining area. He would have liked to have showered before talking to Wendy. But hey, it wasn’t like they didn’t know every inch of each other already.

  “Would you like some coffee? Tea? I have Joy’s herbal crap. Looks more like something you’d smoke than drink.”

  Wendy smiled. “Herbal crap it is.” She always got Vega’s sense of humor, even when she pretended not to. It was part of their shtick. He was the blue-collar wisecracking urchin from the Bronx and she was the princess—until she discovered it was much more comfortable being married to a king.

  Vega walked into the open kitchen area and put the kettle on. Wendy took a seat at the counter. There was an awkward silence between them. It had been years since they’d tried to converse one-on-one without a lawyer or Joy between them. Vega wanted the situation to feel natural. But inside, he still felt like that skinny twenty-three-year-old he’d been when he first met her—outmatched and outclassed in every way. She was an Ivy League Ph.D. fresh out of a relationship with a Jewish cardiologist. He was a commuter-college grad, five years her junior, dying behind a desk at an insurance agency and itching to go on the road with his band. Their relationship was supposed to be a fling. And then—surprise, surprise—Joy came along and everything changed. For a while, anyway. You can only pretend so long to be something you’re not.

  Vega searched his cabinets for a mug that wasn’t chipped. The only one was Max’s I Love You A Latke.

  “My, uh . . . condolences to the Archer family,” said Vega.

  “Thank you.”

  “This must be really hard on you.”

  “It’s hard on everyone.”

  “Yes. But . . .” He placed the mug on the counter in front of Wendy and held her gaze. “You personally.”

  “I’m not here about me,” said Wendy. “I’m here about . . .” She mouthed the words on the mug. “‘I Love You A Latke’? Where did you get this?”

  “From Adele’s elderly neighbor. It was supposed to be for Joy, but she didn’t want it. I’m goi
ng to hold it for her until she changes her mind.”

  “Hmmm.” Wendy studied the mug. “It might be a while.”

  The kettle boiled. Vega poured Wendy’s tea. He filled a glass of cold water for himself. It was the only thing he ever wanted after a long run.

  Wendy stirred her tea. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts. Vega didn’t rush her.

  “The other day at Catherine’s wake,” she began, “you got me thinking. About Joy and this professor. I think it’s more than a schoolgirl crush.”

  “What’s the attraction?” asked Vega. “Have you seen this guy? He’s like something out of Harry Potter. Professor Dumbledore after one too many bong hits.”

  Wendy laughed. It felt good to see her laugh. Her face turned soft and girlish. It loosened Vega. This was probably the most relaxed he’d felt in her presence since they were married.

  “I think this professor’s got a Svengali hold over Joy,” said Wendy. “She talks about him like he’s a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize.”

  “Have you confronted Joy about any of this?”

  “Confronted her, how?”

  “Asked her if Dr. Huggy’s put any moves on her, I don’t know. Mother-daughter talk.”

  “‘Moves on her’ is not mother-daughter talk, Jimmy. Mother-daughter talk is ‘which shoes would you like to borrow?’ If I ask Joy if she’s sleeping with her professor, she’ll only get angry and defensive. She’ll tell me I’m the last person who should judge her.”

  Vega fingered the beads of water on his glass. He didn’t want to admit that Joy had a point.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Wendy. “I can still read you like you have no skin. You’re thinking I lost my creds in that department years ago.”

  “It’s a little difficult to think otherwise with all the rumors flying.”

  “The rumors are wrong.”

  “Okaaay.”

  “Stop saying that like you don’t believe me.” Wendy threw up her hands. “Why do we always rehash the same history?”

  “Maybe because history repeats itself?”

  She pushed her stool back from the table. They’d been together twenty minutes and already they were fighting. “For your information—and only your information—John came to me as a psychologist, not as a friend or lover. That’s why I’m duty-bound not to reveal anything about our sessions.”

  “But he’s dead,” said Vega. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “The rules of confidentiality don’t end with death, Jimmy. Unless I’m given permission by his next of kin, I can’t discuss anything. Even telling you he was under treatment is technically a breach of confidentiality.”

  “In your circles? Admitting you’re seeing a shrink’s like offering up the name of your Pilates instructor.”

  “You know I hate that word.”

  “Okay, ther-a-pist. But either way, you know I’m right. So level with me, Wendy. It’s more than that.”

  Diablo whimpered from the bedroom upstairs.

  “I’m so sorry you have to confine him on my account.”

  “I’ll let him outside,” said Vega. “He never goes far. He knows where his meal ticket is.”

  Vega fetched the dog and let him out the front door. He hoped Diablo would find a stick to gnaw on. Something other than the garden hose, which now had nice big teeth marks in it.

  He walked back into the kitchen area. Wendy was staring at her tea.

  “Look, Jimmy,” she began. “If you knew the stress John was under, you’d understand why his sessions with me had to remain secret. That’s why we held them at odd hours. So people wouldn’t know.”

  “I hear he had big financial troubles on account of that golf resort deal he made with Carp.”

  Wendy raised an eyebrow. “How did you find that out?”

  Vega shrugged. “Not everyone is bound by the same stringent confidentiality rules as you. From what I saw at the vigil, Archer also had some drinking and drug issues to boot.”

  “You’re wrong. On both scores.”

  “So you’re telling me he died of a heart attack?”

  She slid away from the question. “Why does my relationship to John matter to you so much anyway?”

  “Because my . . .” He didn’t want to use the word “girlfriend” in front of Wendy. “Adele lost her job on account of Catherine’s murder and Benitez’s involvement. And now Catherine’s father’s dead under mysterious circumstances and I’m hearing he had financial troubles and was undergoing secret psychological treatment. All of it makes what happened seem less and less straightforward.”

  “John’s situation has nothing to do with Catherine’s murder,” said Wendy. “John was just trying to do the best for his family. And now . . .” Her voice drifted off.

  “Now what?”

  “His family is ruined.”

  “Because they can’t repay his business loans?”

  “Because Carp is going to pull out of their deal. The only insurance John had to stop him is gone.”

  “You mean, like, business insurance?” It had been two decades since Vega, the college accounting major, had had to deal with such things as annuity clauses and term conversions. He broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about them.

  “Not that kind of insurance,” said Wendy. “John had some sort of . . . video. I don’t know what was on it exactly, but I know it was important. It kept Carp from bailing. And it’s gone.”

  “When did it disappear?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. I believe he kept it in his safe.”

  “Can’t be more than half-a-dozen suspects who would have access to something like that. Did he call the police?”

  “No. That’s not the Archer style,” said Wendy. “I think John knew who took it. He didn’t want to make a fuss. He just wanted it back.”

  “I can let the Lake Holly PD know—”

  “Absolutely not, Jimmy. John is dead. His daughter’s dead. I have no idea what the future holds for Robin and Todd. That’s why everything I told you has to stay between us.” Wendy pushed her mug to one side. “Besides, I didn’t come here to discuss John. I came here to talk about Joy.”

  “You could have called me on the phone for that.”

  “But then I couldn’t have shown you this.”

  * * *

  Wendy took out her cell phone and scrolled down to a text message someone had sent her with a video attached. She handed her phone to Vega.

  “You don’t know this girl. She was in Joy’s high-school graduating class. She goes to Valley now—just like Joy. I warn you, the video is disturbing.”

  Vega pressed play. A naked white teenage girl lay faceup on an unmade queen-size bed in a room lit only by some incandescent bulb off-camera. At first, Vega thought she was asleep. But the position looked too uncomfortable for sleep. Her legs were splayed. Her socks were still on her feet. Her bra was unhooked and pushed up uncomfortably under her chin. Those were the only pieces of clothing she was wearing.

  She wasn’t asleep. She was passed out.

  Whoever was filming didn’t touch her, but he captured every part of her, leaving nothing to the imagination. Right down to the butterfly tattoo across her lower hip. Vega recognized her immediately from her short dyed purple hair and the ring through her nose.

  “That’s Zoe Beck, isn’t it?” asked Vega.

  “You know her?”

  “Joy mentioned that Zoe was friends with Catherine. I saw her approach the family at the vigil the other night. Where did you get this?”

  “Zoe’s mother is a cashier at Safeway. She knows Joy also goes to Valley and that you’re a cop. She was very distraught when I saw her at the store last night. She told me Zoe just dropped out of Valley. No explanation. Nothing. This girl was working three jobs to stay in. She had an internship she loved. Her grades were good. Her mother thought that Catherine’s murder was the reason. Then she found this video on her daughter’s cell. She tried to confront Zoe, but Zoe won’t talk abo
ut it. She said it was some frat boy who filmed her, but she won’t say more. Either she doesn’t know the boy’s name or she’s too embarrassed. She refused to go to the police.”

  Vega played the video again, this time paying attention to the girl’s surroundings. The room was so shadowy that Vega couldn’t make out much. The camera picked up plain beige sheets on a four-poster bed and a patterned plaid comforter that could have come from any standard department store. There was no ambient noise, save for a cat meowing off-camera.

  “Are fraternities allowed to have pets?”

  “The dorms aren’t, but the frat houses are, I think,” said Wendy.

  “You want me to talk to Zoe’s mom? I think it might freak Zoe out too much if I confronted her directly.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” said Wendy. “That would be good. Zoe may not know the boy’s name, but she could certainly identify him.”

  “If she’s willing to come forward, she can put this guy in jail.”

  “I think she’s humiliated,” said Wendy. “Which got me thinking about Joy. About how she thinks she can take care of herself—just like this girl, Zoe. But things can go horribly wrong—with lifetime consequences.”

  “We can’t tell Joy about Zoe,” said Vega. “That would be a breach of the girl’s privacy.”

  “I realize that,” said Wendy. “But maybe you can, I don’t know, impress upon Joy, as a cop more than a dad, how she’s got to watch out for herself.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Vega. “And if she doesn’t listen, maybe my next talk will be with Dr. Huggy.”

  Wendy finished her tea, Vega went outside to collar Diablo. He expected he’d have to whistle for the dog. But Diablo was in the driveway, pawing at something in the snow beneath the rear bumper of Vega’s truck. Vega snapped a leash on Diablo and then nudged him aside to examine the object. It was a GPS tracker. Vega scooped it out of the snow. It was black and rectangular, the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes. A small green light flashed at four-second intervals.

  Vega showed the tracker to Wendy when she stepped out of the house.