The Fragile Edge, page 6
“I’m not FBI,” said Vega. “They don’t tell me those things.”
“Some nut guns down a court officer and wounds a judge in broad daylight. You’d have to think they’d catch him quickly.”
“Apparently not or the media would know about it.” Vega, too, was surprised. And chilled. There were surveillance cameras and license-plate readers everywhere in Broad Plains. This guy had evaded them all. This wasn’t dumb luck. It was preparation—the sort of preparation only someone with a lot of experience could pull off. Someone who had killed before—and could kill again.
* * *
By the time Vega pulled onto his gravel driveway, a late-day sun glowed like an overripe cantaloupe through the pines, turning the bungalow’s weathered white paint a syrupy color. Vega powered down the windows of his black Ford pickup and drank in the scent of old rowboats on the lake below, mixed with the aroma of damp earth and the ash from someone’s campfire. Diablo barked out a greeting from inside.
He was home.
They got out of the truck. Vega went in first. Diablo rushed him with delight, covering his cheap suit in equal parts slobber and dog hair.
“Happy to see you too, pal,” said Vega, giving Diablo a scratch behind the ears. The mutt—part German shepherd, part retriever—had come into Vega’s life at its darkest moment, right after the shooting. He was a gift from Adele—probably the greatest gift of his life. Diablo loved him when he didn’t love himself.
Vega let Diablo outside; the dog never wandered far. Then he vacuumed what he could of the dog’s hair and opened the windows. The whole cabin consisted of one big room downstairs, flanked by a stone fireplace on one wall and the kitchen on the other. A set of stairs led to two small bedrooms and a bathroom under the eaves. The vacuuming didn’t take long. He must have done a good job because Adele didn’t sneeze—not even after she’d showered and changed into one of Vega’s old T-shirts and a pair of his track shorts. He greeted her at the bottom of the stairs with a glass of white wine while she still had a towel wrapped around her wet hair.
“I’m defrosting a steak,” he said. “After my shower, I’ll put it on the grill.”
She smiled at him playfully. “You are a man of many talents.”
He pulled her toward him. “Some better than cooking, I hope.”
“Let’s see.” She put her glass of wine down on the kitchen counter and slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. The western light streamed in through the windows, framing her in a halo of gold. Vega slipped a hand beneath the shorts and felt the soft warmth of her skin, the way it grew sweaty from his touch. They made love on the rug by the fieldstone fireplace while a soft breeze flitted in through the sliding screen door to the deck.
By the time Vega showered and fired up the grill, the sky flamed a bright tangerine. They ate on the deck, laughing and talking about nothing in particular—which was just the way they both seemed to want it this evening. Then they cleared their plates, grabbed Diablo’s leash, and took him on a walk around the lake, which glowed pink as the sun sank low over the hills. In winter, Vega’s lake community was a ghost town. Only a handful of people lived here year-round like he did. In summer, however, houses came alive with the sounds of children and dogs. Hamburgers sizzled on grills. Sandcastles and plastic shovels dotted the little lakefront beach.
The children were gone from the beach by this hour. Which was just as well since Diablo could never resist a swim. As soon as they hit the sand, he raced forward and waded in, dog-paddling until he found a stick floating near the shore. He brought it back to Vega for a game of fetch, shaking his fur off at the exact distance calibrated to give both him and Adele a thorough shower.
“I just hope he doesn’t decide to dry off by rolling on the sand,” said Vega. “I’ll be walking on grit for days.”
The sky stayed bright, but the earth around them began to fade. They sprawled on the sand—Adele tucked between Vega’s legs—and watched Diablo chew the stick he’d fished out of the water. He was so easy to please.
Adele sat up suddenly and patted her chest.
“What’s wrong?”
“My Dad’s religious medal. It’s gone.”
“Are you sure you put it on this morning?” She wore it mostly for good luck—not every day. Her father gave it to her when she was a child, to make her feel safe when her parents had to leave her and her sister alone at night to clean offices. Vega could picture the medal now. It was a small gold disk, the size of a nickel, with a raised engraving of a veiled saint bowing her head in prayer. Saint Mariana de Jesús de Paredes, the patron saint of Ecuador. Her parents’ homeland. If Vega closed his eyes, he could still feel the delicate links of the gold chain through his fingers and the raised nubs of the saint’s halo worn smooth by the years. He could still picture the Spanish words inscribed on the back, lines from the Catholic prayer, Ave Maria: El Señor es contigo. The Lord is with thee.
Adele began frantically raking her fingers through the sand. “I put it on this morning. As a prayer for good luck at your trial.”
So much for the power of prayer, thought Vega. He touched her hand. “It’s not here, nena. I’m sure of it. When we made love earlier, you weren’t wearing it.”
“Oh God.”
“Did you have it in Anniston?”
“I don’t know.” She stopped raking and sat back on her heels, her eyes glassy. Vega knew how much that necklace meant to her. Her father died when she was sixteen. She had so little to remember him by.
“Come on.” Vega pulled her to her feet. “I’ll bet it fell off in my truck.”
* * *
It wasn’t in the truck. Or on the driveway. The last blush of daylight was fast disappearing over the smoky lavender hillsides. They wouldn’t find it now. Mosquitos buzzed in the thickening darkness. A chorus of cicadas rose and fell like waves crashing to shore. Snatches of chatter and music wafted from houses normally silent most of the year. It would all disappear in a few weeks once summer residents packed up for the season. Already, the air felt graced by the first breath of autumn.
“We can search again in the morning,” Vega promised. “You can call La Casa North and I’ll see if the courthouse has a lost-and-found.”
Adele didn’t look encouraged. “It’s gone,” she said wearily. “I’ll never find it.”
“We will.” Vega hoped he was right. He knew this wasn’t about a lost piece of jewelry. It went much deeper, to a time Adele rarely spoke about when her parents—both undocumented—left Adele and her younger sister alone at night because they couldn’t afford childcare. Every time they left the house, Adele feared they might get arrested and deported, never to return. It was a heavy burden for a child. Vega knew about heavy burdens and how they could shape a young life. He had only to think of Kaylee Wentz.
Later, when they were snuggling on the couch, Vega told Adele about his encounter with Kaylee at the protest.
“That Kaylee? The one you saved?” Adele was shocked to hear she was dating a white supremacist. “Does she believe those things?”
“I don’t know what she believes anymore,” said Vega. “Mostly, she looked scared. Of him. Of her drug charge. Of losing custody of her little boy. She needs help.”
“Maybe you should talk to her,” Adele suggested. “Now would be a good time while her jerk boyfriend sits in jail on an assault charge.”
“Yeah. Maybe tomorrow I’ll track her down,” said Vega. “She said she lives with the boyfriend. His arrest report would show their address.”
Adele’s cell phone rang. She frowned at the number. With Sophia away in Cape Cod, she was always on alert.
“It’s Rafael.” The evening manager at La Casa. A comma of concern settled along one side of her lips. Rafael never called at night for mundane things.
“Put him on speaker,” said Vega. He knew as well as Adele that if Rafael was contacting her, it wasn’t for a busted light switch or a lack of folding chairs for an evening class.
“Rafael?” Adele’s voice came out hoarse and tentative. Rafael’s was just the opposite—rapid-fire and breathy as he addressed her in Spanish. He spoke perfect English, but for some reason with Adele, he always used Spanish. Maybe it was because that’s what they used mostly at La Casa.
“I heard about that mess in Anniston this afternoon,” he began. “Ramona said they were skinheads. White supremacists.” Ramona was Adele’s assistant.
“They certainly looked like it,” Adele replied in Spanish. “The Anniston police arrested about half a dozen of them.”
Silence. Vega expected to hear the clack of balls on the pool tables in La Casa’s recreation room or the chatter of clients. He heard nothing.
“Rafael?” asked Adele. “Is everything okay?”
“We had to close the center down this evening. Someone called in a bomb threat.”
“A bomb threat? When?”
“Forty minutes ago. I called the police and sent everyone home,” said Rafael. “A couple of Lake Holly officers searched the center, inside and out. They didn’t find anything.”
“Are they going to investigate?”
“Detective Greco promised to look into it tomorrow.”
Louis Greco. Vega was glad his friend had been assigned to the case.
“Who spoke to the caller?” asked Adele.
“I did.” Vega heard the slight tremor in Rafael’s voice. He was a social worker, not a cop. He didn’t come to work each night thinking it might be his last. “I wish you’d never gotten involved with that community center in Anniston, Adele.”
“Did the caller mention it?”
“Oh, he mentioned it, all right.” Rafael took an audible breath. “He said to stay out of Anniston or people will die.”
Chapter 8
“You look like you pulled an all-nighter at a college frat,” said Isadora Jenkins when she met with Vega the following morning before court.
“Hey.” Vega pointed to his suit. “You said I should wear the same suit with a different shirt and tie. You said juries want to see humble civil servants—not Miami Vice.” The jacket felt sweaty and lived in. Vega hoped no one got too close.
“I’m not talking about the outfit. I’m talking about the detective inhabiting it.”
“Someone called in a bomb threat to La Casa last night,” Vega explained.
“Everyone okay?”
“For now.” Vega wanted Adele to close down La Casa for a week or two while Detective Greco investigated. Adele refused. She said La Casa was a lifeline for the community. She was not about to be bullied. The argument that followed led to a sleepless night for both of them.
“Let’s hope that’s the only bomb of the day,” said Jenkins.
The crime-scene tape had been removed from the courthouse security lot, but the place was far from back to normal. In front, the flag flew at half-mast. Court officers wore black mourning bands across their badges in honor of Darryl Williams. Security was beefed up. More searches. More metal detectors. Snipers on the roof. The lost-and-found was closed—had been since the shooting. If someone happened to find Adele’s religious medal in the building, there would have been no way to turn it in.
Vega was starting to lose hope—in more ways than one.
“Detective Vega,” Bernard Carver addressed him again on the witness stand. “How would you characterize your record as a police officer?”
Make your comments to the jury, Isadora Jenkins had warned him. Always the jury.
The now-five jurors and two alternates—four men and three women—looked hotter and more irritable today. Some fanned themselves with a two-for-one Denny’s flyer some joker was handing out on the corner. Vega’s favorite juror, a heavyset, middle-aged Latina, was gone. She’d suffered a panic attack about coming back to the courthouse after the shooting. The judge had replaced her with one of the alternates—a surly-looking, young white man who gave his occupation as “T-shirt artist.” Not the sort of career choice that engenders law-and-order attitudes. Vega was betting he had a few Bad Cop, No Doughnut shirts among his merchandise. Vega forced himself to think of the man as open-minded.
Or at least, not ready yet to fry his ass.
“I would characterize my nineteen years with the county police as very good,” Vega began. “I have four commendations for undercover work bringing down several major drug distributors in the region. I have a clearance rate of almost ninety percent as a detective. As a patrol officer, I received three community policing citations—one for delivering a baby by the side of the road. Another, for rescuing an elderly man trapped in a burning vehicle. And a third, for providing life-saving emergency aid to a six-year-old after a shooting.” Kaylee Wentz. Vega wondered if he’d done all that much to save her after all. “I was also recognized as Hispanic Officer of the Month right before I made detective.”
Vega expected Carver to cut him off or dismiss his awards as the equivalent of Cub Scout badges. Carver didn’t—which surprised Vega. Maybe his awards didn’t mean that much to the jury. But hey, how many of them had ever done even one of these things?
It’s why he became a cop, wasn’t it?
Well, no. Scratch that. He became a cop for more practical reasons. But that was initially. As time went on, he grew to love being a police officer. He was proud of helping people in times of crisis and protecting them against criminals and abusers. He didn’t like a lot of the old-boy aspects of the job. He wasn’t into the control. But he’d made this life his own and he was good at it. Couldn’t these people on the jury see what a decent guy he was?
Carver let Vega talk himself out. It didn’t take long. Vega wasn’t the type to embellish his accomplishments. He’d stated them and that was that. But still, Carver stood there, as if he expected more. The sheen in the attorney’s light gray silk suit picked up the silver streaks in his hair and the gloss of his straight, likely veneered, and very white teeth.
“I’m sorry, Detective. I thought you were going to talk about all of your accomplishments.”
“I just did—to the best of my memory.”
“I suppose your memory doesn’t include your work with the Lake Holly Police Department.”
“I do a lot of work with a lot of local departments in the county.”
“I’m referring, specifically,” said Carver, “to your work in apprehending a felon back in January. You do recall that, don’t you?”
Vega felt a slow crawl of acid from his stomach into his esophagus. He shot a panicked look at Henry Zaroff and Isadora Jenkins at the defense table. Zaroff closed his eyes and muttered a curse under his breath. Jenkins laced her fingers together and shot Vega a dark look. Vega read the warning in her eyes: Don’t go there. It’s a trap.
Vega stumbled about for an answer. “That was a Lake Holly Police investigation—”
“But you were there, weren’t you?” Carver demanded. “You helped set up the surrender. A surrender that resulted in the police fatally shooting the suspect.”
“Objection!” Jenkins was on her feet. “Your Honor, Mr. Carver is discussing a case that my client had no connection to. He did not shoot that suspect, who was armed, by the way. He was not part of that investigation in any capacity.”
“Oh, come on, Counselor,” Carver retorted. “Do you really intend to insult the judge—insult this jury—by suggesting Detective Vega was a mere bystander? That he just happened to be inside a locked Lake Holly preschool on a Sunday afternoon while a police surrender was taking place? And by surrender, I mean, shoot first—ask questions later.”
“Objection again!” said Jenkins. “Counselor’s remarks are inflammatory and egregiously false. The suspect in Lake Holly was a felon and a convicted rapist who took a civilian hostage at knifepoint. Those are the circumstances of the shooting. And none of it involved Detective Vega.”
“Sustained,” said Edgerton. “Strike that last exchange,” he told the stenographer. “Counselors, control yourselves. We are conducting a civil case here. And I do mean ‘civil’ in every sense of the word.”
“My apologies, Your Honor.” Carver gave a courtly bow. “I will move along.” He turned to Vega. “Just one more question, Detective. Did you get approval from your department to be present at that surrender?”
Jenkins was on her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This isn’t germane to the case.”
“I’ll allow it,” said Edgerton.
“No,” said Vega. “I did not get approval.”
“And how about Lake Holly?” asked Carver. “Did the lead detective involved in the surrender get permission for you to be there?”
“You would have to ask Lake Holly.”
“I certainly will, Detective.” Carver’s eyes glinted like knife blades. “But I suspect you already know Lake Holly gave no such permission.”
“Objection,” said Jenkins. She had to be tired of saying the word. “Counselor is asking Detective Vega to speculate.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
“I’ll withdraw the question,” said Carver. “But let me just ask you, Detective Vega—were you reprimanded in any way for being present at an officer-involved shooting without your department’s permission?”
“Your Honor,” Jenkins tried again. “Can we please move along from this completely irrelevant line of questioning?”
“The detective will answer the question,” said Edgerton.
All eyes settled on Vega. He could have just said “yes” or “no.” But neither answer would sit well with the jury. If he said “yes,” he would come off as a bad cop who had done something wrong. If he said “no,” he would look like the cowboy Carver was painting him to be—a cop who could do anything and get away with it. It was a classic lawyer question. Vega settled on what he thought was the best course of action.
“I was exonerated.”
“Really? You were exonerated?” Carver’s thin lips curved with just a hint of a smile. “Tell me, Detective: How were you exonerated?”
“In a departmental hearing.”
“A hearing. I see.” Carver’s smile got broader. Like a kid at Christmas. Vega had no idea why. He was just stating the facts. Without any embellishment.
