No Witness But the Moon Page 5

  It was ten-thirty P.M. by the time Marcela returned to the old frame house where she and Byron rented their tiny apartment. She climbed the narrow wooden staircase. Behind the closed doors of the other five apartments, she heard game shows and soap operas blaring in Spanish from televisions. She heard salsa, rap, and cumbia rhythms from radios. Babies cried and adults raised their voices and lowered them again, aware that the thin walls were never constructed to shelter so many different families. The house was built up against the easement for the railroad tracks and every thirty minutes or so, Marcela heard the peal of the train whistle, followed by a push of air that rattled every window in the house. Pictures never stayed straight on walls and dishes left too close to the edges of tables often found their way onto the floor. She’d lived in this apartment for three years now. The rumble of the train had found its way into her dreams.

  She heard raised voices behind her own front door as she unlocked it. Byron and Yovanna were in the living room, their angry faces lit only by the glow from the television that took up nearly the entire space along one wall.

  “You’re not my father!” Yovanna shouted before running into the bathroom and slamming the door. Byron paced the floor in front of the couch and ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “You think I wanted this? She goes or I do!”

  In the doorway between the living room and bedroom, three-year-old Damon stood in his Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas, clutching his favorite stuffed dog and sobbing. Marcela walked over to her son and scooped him into her arms. He curled willingly to her body. She smelled the little-boy scent of baby powder and milky sweat at his neck. She held him close and shot her husband an angry look over the child’s head.

  “You woke him up! How could you?”

  “I woke him up? Me? Your daughter did this,” said Byron, gesturing to the locked bathroom door. “She’s been nothing but trouble since she got here!”

  Marcela swayed Damon gently back and forth, making shushing noises.

  “Please, mi vida, she’s been through a terrible journey. She won’t even tell me what happened—”

  “And that’s my fault? I asked her to come? I work two jobs, Marcela. You work hard, too. We are exhausted. We barely get by raising Damon. How are we supposed to live like this?”

  “Things will get better.”

  “How? How will they get better?”

  Marcela had no answer. She was the mother of two children. They were like her right and left arms. Perhaps one was painful at the moment. Perhaps one didn’t work the way she had hoped. But there was no question it was part of her body. She could not live without it. She opened her mouth to try to explain this to Byron. Her cell phone rang before she could get the words out. It was almost eleven P.M. Nobody she knew called her at this hour. She sat on the couch with Damon snuffling into her shoulder and fumbled with the phone buttons to answer.

  “Aló?”

  “Is this Marcela Salinez?”

  The man on the other end was a native English speaker. Maybe the husband of one of her housekeeping clients. She rarely spoke to anyone but the women.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Detective Theodore Dolan with the county police. Are you home right now, ma’am? May I come by and speak to you?”

  Marcela hesitated. “Why do you want to speak to me?”

  “I think it would be best if we discussed this in person. Do I have your correct address?” The officer rattled it off. Marcela barely had the strength to confirm it.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will be there in ten minutes.”

  Marcela hung up, panicked and shaky at all the reasons a police officer might want to visit her house at this late hour on a Friday night.

  Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the real one.

  Chapter 5

  Adele Figueroa was so preoccupied with the shooting this evening that she completely forgot about the dog in her kitchen until she heard the sound of nails tapping like uncooked rice on the linoleum floor. The brown-and-tan short-haired mutt jumped up to the gate Adele had temporarily installed between the kitchen and the rest of the house. He was a Golden Retriever/German Shepherd mix. People told her that such dogs were gentle like retrievers and smart like shepherds but apparently, this dog hadn’t read the American Kennel Club manuals. He was dopey and skittish and an insomniac to boot. She was already regretting saying yes to keeping this monster, even for a couple of weeks.

  “Hey there, buddy,” Vega called out from the front foyer.

  The dog’s long, slender tail wagged hyperactively. His floppy upturned ears jiggled with excitement. His big pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth, giving him a goofy expression. Adele felt a pepperiness at the back of her nasal passages. Time to pop another allergy tablet.

  Vega threw his jacket on the coat rack by the front door. His eyes, so flat and hooded on the drive over, suddenly brightened. His whole body seemed to relax. They’d both been stiff and tentative around each other in the car. Every comment felt like a minefield.

  “What’s his name?” asked Vega.

  “Diablo.”

  “Devil? He looks kind of sweet to me.” Vega walked over to the gate and saw at once how Diablo had earned his name. “Uh-oh.”

  Adele came up behind him. “Oh my goodness. Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!”

  The entire kitchen floor was littered with open cereal boxes, crushed chocolate-chip cookies, and chewed up bits of paper towel. To make matters worse, Diablo had peed over everything. The dog had no shame about what he’d done, either. He trotted about the chaos like an artist showing off his latest masterpiece.

  “Huh. Well, I get the name at least,” said Vega. “How about if I take Diablo for a walk and then come back and help you clean up?”

  Adele sighed. “There’s a leash by the back door. And a spare key as well if I’m in the shower.”

  Vega slipped his jacket back on and climbed over the gate, his boots pulverizing the mess even further. He fetched the leash and whistled for Diablo to follow. The dog bounded over, tongue panting, tail wagging furiously. He stood perfectly still while Vega fastened the leash to his collar. It had taken Adele ten minutes this morning to manage the same feat.

  “Little piece of advice, pal,” said Vega, scratching the dog behind the ears. “You want to stay in the señora’s good graces, don’t mess up like this again.”

  Vega looked over at Adele. She read the plea in those dark moody eyes. She wanted to reassure him that none of what had happened tonight made a difference to their relationship. But she knew him too well to lie. Instead, all she said was “I’ll get my broom.”

  As soon as the back door slammed shut, Adele opened the kitchen gate and began sweeping the mess into several huge plastic trash bags. Cereal and mashed cookies crunched under her feet. Wet urine-scented bits of paper towel stuck to her broom. Damn this dog! Damn the client who stuck him with me! And damn me most of all for my unforgiving little heart!

  Her insides felt like they were being torn in two directions at once. A part of her wanted more than anything to give Vega the comfort and reassurance he desperately needed. But the other part couldn’t staunch the rage and grief over the fact that he’d shot an unarmed man. And not just any man: the father of a woman Adele knew and loved. A woman who had helped raise Sophia.

  Marcela Salinez was more than her nine-year-old daughter’s babysitter. She’d been with Adele through her early years as an insecure new mother. She’d lived through the fledgling years of La Casa when it was still struggling for a place in the community. She’d quietly endured the rockiest patches of Adele’s former marriage. And Adele in turn had witnessed the blossoming of Marcela’s life. Marcela met her husband, Byron, when he came over with a friend to paint Adele’s garage. Adele was at their wedding. She was at the christening of their adorable little boy, Damon. And although Marcela no longer babysat full-time, she was still very much a fixture in Sophia’s life. Now, with a single moment of callous indiscretion, Vega
had destroyed everything. For Adele and Sophia, even if the child didn’t know it yet. Adele couldn’t imagine ever breaching this divide.

  Worse still, Adele was now at the mercy of police protocol—and this angered her, too. As soon as Adele realized who the dead man might be, Vega called Detective Dolan from her car and gave him Marcela’s cell phone number. Adele wanted to call Marcela herself but Dolan and Vega asked her not to. There was a procedure for such things. In police work, there was always a procedure. An officer—in this case, Dolan—had to deliver the news in person. Marcela had to be escorted to the medical examiner’s office to make a positive identification. Adele was limited to offering up any information on other family members who might need to be contacted.

  “I think he has a second wife and a couple of children in the Bronx,” Adele told Dolan. She didn’t have an address, phone number, or even the second wife’s name—if she was indeed a wife at all. It was not uncommon for immigrant men to leave families back in their home countries and start new ones here. The years of separation and loneliness often became too much to maintain ties. Adele had no idea whether Marcela’s father was such a man but given that Marcela spoke so rarely about him, it was a strong possibility.

  Adele wrestled the garbage bags into the trash can out back. It felt good to put all her anger into something physical. Who are you angry at? she asked herself. Jimmy? You knew he was a police officer when you started dating him. You knew this could happen. Besides, as much as Adele loved Marcela, it certainly appeared that her father had committed a serious crime.

  Yet no matter how hard Adele tried to accept that logic, she couldn’t wrap her heart around the situation. If any other cop had been involved in the same scenario, as head of La Casa, Adele would be demanding a meeting with the county police to review the matter and putting pressure on the district attorney’s office to convene a grand jury. Yet she couldn’t do any of that here. In a few days—maybe less—everyone in the community would know that her lover was the cop who’d shot and killed an unarmed undocumented local dishwasher. Adele would look like a hypocrite if she sided with Vega. She’d look like a heartless careerist if she didn’t. So she held her tongue—which was unfortunately attached to her heart—while they both stumbled about in their separate prisons of guilt and grief. His over what he’d done. Hers over what she could not do.

  She ran a mop twice over the kitchen floor until she was sure she’d gotten rid of the smell. Vega and Diablo had been gone forty-five minutes. Adele decided to give him another fifteen before she called his cell. Maybe the walk was helping him clear his head.

  She went upstairs to take a quick shower and slip into her nightgown. She drifted off to sleep briefly and then jumped up and blinked at the clock. Two A.M. Was Vega still out? The lights were off downstairs, all except for a dim glow coming from the kitchen. Adele grabbed her robe and padded softly down the stairs.

  “Jimmy?”

  “In the flesh,” he answered hoarsely.

  She found him seated on the step separating the mudroom from the kitchen. His blue button-down dress shirt was untucked from his pants and open to his white T-shirt beneath. His sleeves were rolled up. Diablo’s head lay across his lap. There were three empty Corona bottles from her fridge by his side. He was staring at a picture on his cell phone screen, the faint light bleaching out the warm bronze of his face. He caught her looking at him and clicked off the photo. Even with only the fluorescent lamp above the stove for light, she could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

  “It’s cold out there.” He wiped a sleeve across his face. “The wind really gets to you.”

  Something heavy settled on her chest. The man she loved would rather pour out his anguish to a dog than to her. She knelt down beside him. The dog didn’t stir.

  “I must have dozed off,” said Adele. “I didn’t realize you were back.”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.” He ran his fingers along the black and white linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Sorry I got back so late. I’d have helped you clean up.”

  “It’s okay. It didn’t take that long. Come upstairs, mi amado. Take a nice hot shower and come to bed with me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to be able to sleep. And—uh—I don’t know if I’m good for much else right now.”

  “We can just hold each other.”

  Silence. Vega stroked the dog.

  Adele stared at the empty Corona bottles. “Drowning your sorrows isn’t the way.”

  “I had three beers. Not a quart of vodka.”

  “Still, we need to find a better way through this.” She touched his shoulder. “I know you say you can’t talk about the shooting. But it’s not like I would tell anyone.”

  “I can’t, Adele. It’s just wrong. For you. For me.”

  “Are you afraid that I might judge you?”

  He tossed off a laugh. “You’re already judging me. And don’t tell me you aren’t because I know you, nena. If we weren’t sleeping together, you’d be calling for my blood right now and telling the DA that I had to have done something wrong or that man would still be alive.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I would have. But I’m here, goddamnit. I didn’t desert you. What more do you want me to say? That I’m okay with what happened? That my clients will be okay with it? I don’t know that they will. You’ve put me in a bad place.”

  “I’ve put you in a bad place.” Vega smiled sadly and got to his feet. Diablo danced nervously around his legs. “Maybe I should go.”

  He was like a man with a bad sunburn. The slightest chafe sent him into agony.

  Adele blocked the doorway. “Please, querido. You don’t have your truck. You’ve been drinking. The last thing you need right now is to be alone.”

  They stood staring at each other for a long, awkward moment. The dog gave a little bark of anticipation. Vega reached down and patted Diablo behind the ear. The dog leaned in closer. Vega could soothe that mutt in a way he couldn’t soothe himself or Adele right now.

  His cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and squinted at the number.

  “Joy?” asked Adele.

  “Nah. She called me earlier. When I was out with Diablo. It’s Dolan. He’s pulling an all-nighter, too.”

  For Teddy Dolan to be calling this late, Adele assumed it had to be bad news.

  Vega turned his back to Adele and braced an arm against the doorframe that separated the kitchen from the mudroom. Adele couldn’t make out the conversation except for his “Huhs” and “You sure?” and a scattering of curses in English and Spanish.

  “Nah. You did the right thing calling. Thanks for texting over the pictures, too.”

  He hung up without turning to face Adele. He leaned his forehead on his arm and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke. “Dolan got hold of Marcela. She ID’d the body. It’s her father, Hector Ponce. She recognized the rosary in his coat pocket.”

  “Dear God. Poor Marcela.”

  Vega flinched. Adele could have slapped him and done less damage. She tried to recover. “Sorry. I’m just surprised Teddy would call so late just to tell you that.”

  “He didn’t. He called to tell me that he ran a check on Marcela’s father’s fingerprints and nothing came back.”

  “No arrests? Not even a record of deportation proceedings?”

  “No. I’m sure the press will be reporting this little tidbit as soon as it hits the wires so I thought you should know.”

  “Oh, mi amado.” Adele hugged him from behind.

  “Jesus,” Vega said thickly. “Maybe I really did kill an innocent man.”

  “I’ll try to do some damage control for you. I’ll tell my clients and the community—”

  “It’s not going to matter what you tell them.” Vega turned to her. “This thing is already bigger than you and me. Dolan told me there’s media interest from outside the area. You can’t keep those dogs at bay for long. They’ve already found out about the photograph.”


  “Photograph? What photograph?”

  Vega tapped his iPhone and pulled up the photograph Adele saw him looking at earlier. It was a picture taken before the digital age of three Hispanic males—two strapping men in their thirties and a teenage boy. Adele wondered if one of them was Marcela’s father at a younger age. All three males were dressed in scruffy, loose-fitting jeans, baseball caps, and T-shirts. They were posed in front of a fruit stand with bananas hanging in bunches on a cord overhead. From the muddy road, broad leafy trees, and misty jungle mountains behind the stand, Adele guessed they were probably in Central America or southern Mexico. They stood next to each other, slightly stiff and self-conscious-looking but with the straight shoulders and shy smiles to suggest something hopeful about the occasion.

  “Why is everyone so interested in the photograph?” she asked. It was evidence of some sort. From her defense attorney days, Adele recognized the long string of numbers—a case number—in the corner.

  Vega didn’t answer. He turned the screen away from her and went to scroll past the picture.

  “Huh.” He frowned.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—wait. No—” He wasn’t looking at the photograph anymore. He was looking at a cell-phone shot of a pay stub with the same case number in the corner.

  “Did that belong to Marcela’s father?”

  Vega ignored the question. He turned to where the light was better and enlarged a portion of the image on the screen.

  “Holy—” He slumped against the doorway. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Adele.

  “Look at the address on his pay stub.”

  Adele read it off. “Three fifty-four, One hundred and Seventy-Sixth Street in the Bronx. That was his home address I guess. So?”

  “That was my mother’s building.”