No Witness But the Moon Page 23

  “Even when the truth is against an important person?”

  “What important person?”

  Omar wiped his hands on his white apron. He licked his chapped lips. He seemed to be weighing some secret he was deciding whether he could trust her with. Adele sat very still.

  “My mother,” he said finally. “She still lives at her employer’s house. Here in Wickford.”

  “She’s still a live-in? I thought after you arrived . . .” Adele’s voice trailed off. She saw at once what the boy was telling her. His mother’s living accommodations weren’t sufficient to take him in.

  “Omar,” she asked softly, “where are you living?”

  Omar kept his eyes on the carrot peeler. “I have a cousin. He lets me sleep on his couch sometimes. My mother does my laundry when she can at her employer’s. But some nights, my cousin has no room. So I—” Omar nodded back at the restaurant. The lovely cobblestoned restaurant with the glass mullioned windows. It was a great place to dine. It was no place for a seventeen-year-old boy to live.

  “Does your employer—?”

  “Jorgé knows. He sounds mean but he has a good heart. He is only the kitchen manager, however. The chefs don’t know. And the owner definitely doesn’t know.”

  “Do you stay over at the restaurant often?”

  “Not so much—until the weather got cold.”

  Adele knew what the boy was saying: When it was warmer, I sometimes slept outside.

  Omar kept his gaze on his work. Adele could only imagine the stress he was under. He had no place to live. He didn’t speak the language. He’d endured a traumatic journey. After so many years apart from his mother, he probably didn’t even really know her anymore. Nor could she take care of him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Adele was asking about Hector, no one except his boss, Jorgé, would even know the teenager’s situation.

  The boy must have sensed something in Adele’s gaze because his shoulders straightened. “I’m seventeen. A man. I can take care of myself,” he said. In his world, seventeen was a man. Adele decided to let his problems go at the moment and concentrate on his account.

  “So—when you were staying at the restaurant, did you see something?”

  He glanced up at her and then quickly looked away.

  “Omar, please. If this has something to do with the shooting, I need to know. Hector’s family needs to know.”

  “I want to help,” said Omar. “But I have family, too. I need this job. I have loans to repay. If I don’t pay, there is a man in my town back in Guatemala—he will take it out on my older sister!”

  “I promise you,” said Adele. “I will not tell anyone where I got the information.” After Vega’s breach of confidence, she would never divulge anything ever again.

  Omar took a deep breath. “Hector was one of the last people to leave the restaurant every night. Usually, Jorgé drove him and a bunch of the staff to the train station in Lake Holly. But one time, maybe three weeks ago, Hector told Jorgé he didn’t need a ride. Someone was picking him up. I didn’t want Hector to know I was sleeping here. I didn’t want to get Jorgé in trouble. So I pretended to leave and then came back and let myself in with the key Jorgé gave me.”

  “This friend of Hector’s? Was he the one who picked him up?”

  “No. His friend came by taxi to the parking lot. I saw them from the office window upstairs. That’s the room I sleep in because it faces the back so nobody can tell when a light is on. His friend didn’t have a warm jacket. Just a sweatshirt. I saw Hector give the man his spare jacket from his locker. Hector seemed concerned about him. Like they were good friends.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “I think he might have been Central American, too. He was about the same height and build as Hector. I thought maybe they had some sort of night job together. I just watched because I have nothing to do at night when I stay here. It gets sort of—lonely.”

  Adele felt something thud in her heart. She knew half a dozen La Casa volunteers who would gladly take this boy in. She just hadn’t known about his plight. How many other children, she wondered, were wandering around Lake Holly and Wickford and all these other little upscale villages in the same distressed state as Omar? Some, she knew about. The vast majority, she didn’t. Probably because—even if she did—there was little she could do for them. She barely had the funds to provide basic services to adult clients and their American-born offspring. She had nothing left for these lost children who were pouring in.

  “So who picked them up? Another taxi?” Adele asked the boy.

  “No. After about ten minutes, a black Mercedes pulled into the parking lot. Hector and his friend got in back. The driver powered down his window and threw out a cigarette he was smoking. That’s when I saw him.”

  Adele noticed Omar’s voice had turned to barely a whisper. His hands had grown shaky and he was having more trouble peeling the carrots.

  “This driver—is he the important person you were talking about?”

  Omar nodded. “Hector and his friend were probably hired to help at a party.”

  “A party?” Adele frowned. “But this is after Chez Martine closed for the night. You serve until ten P.M. So this had to be after midnight, yes?”

  Omar shrugged. “Maybe they stayed at the man’s house and worked the next morning.”

  “That’s possible,” Adele agreed. “But why wouldn’t you mention this to the police?”

  “Because everyone keeps saying that Hector went to his house to rob him. How can I say that I saw him pick up Hector and his friend in the restaurant parking lot maybe three weeks earlier? Nobody would believe me.”

  Adele felt something seize up inside of her. “Omar—are you saying that the driver who picked up Hector and the other man was Ricardo Luis?”

  “I must be wrong. If Hector worked for him before, how come nobody has mentioned it?”

  Yes. How come?

  “Thank you for sharing this with me,” said Adele. She fished a card out of her wallet and handed it to the boy. “This has my cell number on it. You find yourself without a place to stay some night, you call me. There are people at La Casa—board members and others—who will make sure you have a real home to stay in.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Please, Omar. I know you’re strong. But I’m a mother. I don’t want to see you worrying about this in January and February.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” He tucked her card in his shirt pocket. “I will think about it.”

  Outside Chez Martine, Adele checked her watch. She had a little over two hours before she had to pick up Sophia. Her sister Grace’s birthday card would have to wait. She fished that scrap of paper out of her wallet with Ricardo Luis’s cell phone scribbled across it.

  It wasn’t guitars she wanted to see anymore. It was him.

  * * *

  There were only five houses at the top of Oak Hill Road. Four of them were clapboard-and-cobblestone colonials set back from the road with wide front porches and gabled roofs. In the middle was a fifth house, a Spanish hacienda the color of a sun-bleached lawn flamingo. It had a red clay tile roof, stucco arches and enormous windows with black wrought-iron grilles. Adele wondered what the old-money CEOs thought of this second coming of the Alamo among their stately gray-and-white New England charmers.

  Adele parked her Prius by the curb and walked down the driveway, past several sedans and SUVs. It looked like Luis had other guests this morning. A housekeeper answered the door and Adele gave her name. She’d called before she drove over. She’d have never had the nerve to show up otherwise.

  The housekeeper told Adele to wait in the marble entrance hall by a sweeping staircase. Children’s laughter floated up from somewhere inside the house. Luis’s family must have flown in last night or this morning to be with him. Adele wondered if she’d get a glimpse of his fashion model wife, Victoria. From the pictures in Luis’s book, Victoria was an elegant P
anamanian, slightly taller than her husband with blond-streaked hair and high cheekbones.

  Oh God, she was becoming such a groupie.

  The housekeeper reappeared. “The señor will see you now.”

  Adele followed her through a hallway with a vaulted ceiling and dark polished wood floors. Their footsteps echoed. They turned and turned again until they were in a hallway lined with framed gold records and photographs of Luis holding up Grammy awards on the covers of various Latin magazines. The woman entered a small paneled room and gestured for Adele to have a seat. It felt like a doctor’s waiting area. Then a door opened. Adele recognized the stocky Hispanic man in the black beret from last night at Harvest. He nodded to her but didn’t give his name. Adele already knew it from speed-reading through most of Luis’s memoir last night when she couldn’t sleep. This was his producer, Oscar Cifuentes.

  “Ric’s in the studio.”

  “I interrupted a recording session? Oh my.”

  “Nah. We’re just fooling around. If he were really doing a recording session, you couldn’t be anywhere near the place. But he’s just hamming it up for a magazine photo shoot. Come,” said Cifuentes. “I’ll show you.”

  Cifuentes led Adele into a recording booth. A console that looked something like an air traffic controller’s workstation stared back at her. On the other side of the soundproof glass was Luis. He was dressed in a bright blue T-shirt with a swordfish on the front and a chambray work shirt over it. A set of headphones straddled his tousled black hair. His feet were bare, his khakis, unpressed. On one side of him was a guitarist, a black man with a shaved head. On the other was a Hispanic drummer with a skinny ponytail that looked like some pelted animal had died and ossified on his back.

  Vega would have been in seventh heaven to be in a recording studio like this with musicians of the caliber of the men with Ricardo Luis. Adele felt guilty she was here without him. Then she remembered last night at the hospital—the way he’d so cavalierly betrayed her. The way he’d refused to tell her anything about why Marcela and Byron were even there.

  There was a photographer in the recording studio along with Luis and the two musicians—a young Asian woman with a long braid of silky black hair. Luis mugged for the camera, offering up his trademark dimpled grin, pretending his drummer’s ponytail was a microphone. He was a natural comedic actor who could make his features bigger and bolder on command.

  “He’s just having fun in there,” said Cifuentes. “Do you sing? Play? You’re welcome to join him.”

  Adele thought about Vega’s frozen smile when she tried to sing and shook her head.

  “I’m afraid growing up I showed more skill at torturing notes than carrying them,” said Adele. “So they stuck a sword in my hand instead.”

  “A sword?” asked Cifuentes.

  “I fenced as a teenager.”

  “Yeah? Me, too.”

  “Really?” Adele seldom met anyone who fenced.

  “Sure.” Cifuentes winked at her. “You wanted a new set of hubcaps or a stereo, I was your man. That was fencing in my neighborhood.”

  Mine, too, Adele wanted to say. But it was too exhausting to explain that she was a scholarship kid in a YMCA program who happened to show some talent. Poverty was always exhausting—first, when you’re in it and later, when you try to explain how you outran it. So she changed the topic.

  “Do you think I could borrow Mr. Luis for a second? I have a couple of questions I want to ask him.”

  Cifuentes pushed a button on an intercom. “Hey, Ric. The lady from La Casa’s here. Can you take five?”

  Luis took off his headphones and stepped into the booth.

  “Hey, where’s the detective?” He probably thought that’s why Adele was here. She didn’t make it clear over the phone.

  “It’s just me, I’m afraid.”

  “ ‘Just you’ is good, too.” He touched her arm. “What can I do for a pretty lady?”

  She blushed. “Is there someplace private we can talk for a few minutes?”

  “My office is good.” Luis told Cifuentes he would be back in ten. Adele sensed he said it as much for her as for his producer. Ten minutes was all she’d get with him. She had to make it good.

  Luis’s office was just down the hall from his home recording studio. The furniture was a glossy dark teak with maroon leather chairs. The bookcases were crammed with awards and photos of the singer next to presidents, recording stars, and athletes—even the Pope. There were photos of his model-wife and three beautiful children as well. But what drew Adele’s eye most was a grainy shot of a very young-looking Luis in a striped T-shirt and jeans that were too short for him. He was clasping a microphone and singing on a stage with a backdrop of corrugated tin.

  “My first performance in Nogales, Mexico, when I was fourteen,” said Luis. “It was at a talent show. They called me tobillos.” He laughed. “I think you can see why. That’s all anyone remembered about that performance: my ankles.”

  “I’m three-quarters the way through your autobiography,” said Adele.

  “You are a fast reader.”

  “It’s captivating. So you were nineteen when you came to the United States?”

  “Came.” Luis smiled. “I like that. It sounds very—friendly. It wasn’t. I hopped the border, as they say. Walked through the desert. Dodged immigration every step of the way.” He shook his head. “That’s why I give La Casa money now. I understand these people. I am these people. God just happened to bless me with a voice, that’s all. And now I’m an American citizen.” Luis spread his palms as if he were about to belt out a song. Even up close, there was a certain larger-than-life quality about him. Adele wondered if he’d always had it or if he’d honed it over two decades of climbing the showbiz ladder playing two-bit dives and dressing up in ridiculous costumes on Sábado Gigante.

  Luis gestured for Adele to have a seat. He rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

  Adele shook her head no. She hated cigarettes but hey, it was his house.

  He lit one and took a drag. Then he propped himself on the edge of his desk. “You came to ask me something, yes? My lawyer called me this morning and said the police wanted to arrange another meeting before I head back to Miami tomorrow. Maybe you know what it’s about?”

  “I don’t, unfortunately.”

  “Your boyfriend didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” She swallowed back a mixture of anger and embarrassment at having to admit that.

  “Maybe we will both know more after your speech this evening.”

  “You’re coming?” asked Adele. “I thought that was—you know—?”

  “A Mexican ‘yes’?”

  Adele laughed.

  “It’s true,” said Luis. “We Mexicans have a very hard time saying no. But in this case, I really am planning to come. My publicist thought it would be a good idea. So did Ruben Tate-Rivera.”

  “Oh.” Adele felt sick to her stomach every time she thought about getting on that stage. “Mr. Luis—”

  “Ric,” he offered.

  “Ric,” said Adele. “I don’t know how to ask this. But did you ever meet Hector Ponce before Friday night? Maybe you hired him for a private event or something?”

  Luis stiffened. “I already spoke to the police about everything, Adele. I don’t think this is a conversation that either of us should be having.”

  “I know. You’re right. It’s just that—someone I met claims they saw Hector get into a black Mercedes you were driving.”

  “What? When?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in Wickford. I can’t be more specific than that. This person isn’t comfortable coming forward.”

  “And yet you are comfortable making an accusation.”

  “It’s not an accusation,” Adele assured him. “I’m only asking because I’m desperate to understand what happened in those woods with Detective Vega. If I go on stage to
night and call for a grand jury to review the shooting, I’ve ruined his career. If I don’t, I may very well ruin mine. I’m searching for any morsel of information that could help make my decision.”

  Luis leaned against the edge of his desk. He took a deep inhale of his cigarette and studied her for a long moment. He smiled but there was something forced around the edges. His easy warmth was gone, replaced now by stilted politeness.

  “I wish I could help you, Adele. I do. But I have nothing to offer.”

  “So it’s not true? You never gave Hector Ponce a ride?”

  “I will say again: I have already made my statement to the police.” Luis stubbed out his cigarette. He walked over to his office door and opened it, a clear invitation for Adele to leave. “I wish you good luck tonight, Adele. I hope you find the answers you are looking for. I hope that Ruben is wrong about what’s going to happen.”

  Her insides turned to jelly. “What did he say?”

  “It was a compliment in a way, I guess. He said you were a good lawyer once and maybe you should go back to being one.”

  Chapter 28

  Vega called Joy from Dr. Cantor’s driveway.

  “I did it,” he said. “I saw the shrink.”

  A heavy silence hung on the line. “And that’s supposed to make everything okay?”

  “No.” He felt small and powerless. He wanted so much to earn back his daughter’s respect. He had no idea how.

  “About last night—” he began. “I was only trying to protect you—”

  “Dad, when are you going to learn to quit rationalizing things and start owning up to them?”

  Vega closed his eyes. He wanted to do better. Joy deserved better.

  “I know I suck at apologizing.” It took all his willpower to admit that. “It probably cost me my marriage to your mother. Or helped, in any case.” He took a deep breath. “But for what it’s worth, I’m really, truly sorry for what I did. All of it. The shooting. My behavior on campus. And especially that fistfight last night at the diner. I embarrassed you. I embarrassed myself. I can’t bring back a man’s life. But I can try to make things right between us. I want to do that, chispita. If you’ll let me.”