Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  You got sent away.

  “That’s where you got the idea from,” Vega mumbled.

  “What idea?”

  “That I got sent away. I didn’t get sent. We moved,” said Vega. “From the Bronx to Lake Holly.”

  “That wasn’t it,” said Michelle. “I was, like, eight when you moved up to Lake Holly. I remember that. You got sent away when I was really small.” She was silent a moment. Thinking. “You want,” she said, “I can just ask Pop.”

  “No,” Vega growled. “I don’t want anything from that man. And besides, what would he know about me anyway?”

  “Oh, come off it, Jimmy. You act like Pop walked out and never saw you again. Until your mom moved up to Lake Holly, we saw you all the time.”

  “He didn’t support me—”

  “He barely supported me,” she replied. “Am I angry about it? Hell, yeah. The neighborhood gave men a pass. It still does. And it’s wrong. But Mom’s made peace with the past, and I’m trying to as well. I force myself to focus on the happy stuff.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Hey—remember Corn Dog? That old wino who used to curse at me and Denise and throw things at us for playing jump rope on the corner?”

  “You were scared of him,” Vega recalled.

  “Damn straight, I was. Remember how you mixed up a packet of Kool-Aid and water, sprinkled it on him, then convinced him that that old lady at the botanica had poisoned him?”

  Vega flushed at the memory of that cantankerous old drunk trying to scrape the “devil’s spell” off his jacket.

  “I was a mean bastard.”

  “You were a good brother,” said Michelle. “Or whatever you want to call yourself. You must’ve been about ten at the time. I must’ve been about seven and Denise, five. We laughed so hard, remember? He slept in the park after that. Never bothered us again.”

  Vega smiled. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “I can’t believe you forgot.”

  Chapter 16

  Paws and Claws was in a strip mall on the approach into downtown Broad Plains. There was a colorful sign out front with whiskers and pawprints all over it and a display window full of the accoutrements of the well-heeled pet: fancy leashes, ergonomic feeding bowls, dog toys that cost more than a new video game.

  Vega once made the mistake of buying a really nice dog toy for Diablo. A green rubber artichoke that the vet said would keep him from chewing up Vega’s hundred-dollar running shoes. Diablo buried the twenty-dollar artichoke the first day he got it—and promptly returned to chewing Vega’s sneakers. Now, Vega just left out an old pair and accepted the consequences.

  Vega told Michelle the rubber artichoke story as he pulled into the parking lot. She laughed.

  “You’re so lucky to have a landlord who lets you keep a dog.”

  “I don’t have a landlord,” said Vega. “I own a little cabin on a lake up in Sullivan Falls.”

  “Wow. That’s like being on vacation every day,” said Michelle. “All my boys ever get to see is my apartment, my mother’s apartment, and Tía Gloria’s place.”

  Gloria. Vega stiffened at the name. He hadn’t thought about Michelle’s aunt in years. Michelle must have caught the change in his demeanor.

  “Come on, Jimmy. You can’t still be sore at Gloria. She had nothing to do with my mother and your father getting together. She was as broken up about it as your mother.”

  “I don’t know about that either way,” said Vega. “What I do know is that her stupid cat nearly blinded me in one eye when I was in kindergarten. Then she accused my mom of poisoning him.”

  “Did she?”

  “How the hell do I know?” said Vega. “I was five.” Michelle lifted her chin to the sign for Paws and Claws. “Good thing we’re visiting dogs.”

  * * *

  A chorus of barks greeted Vega and Michelle as soon as they entered Paws and Claws. It came from the glass-enclosed playroom on the other side of the store. A white girl barely out of her teens with a nose ring and tattoos came out of the room.

  “Hey there,” said Vega. “Is Lori Danvers in? I believe she’s expecting us.”

  The girl’s eyes turned glassy.

  “I can’t believe what’s happened,” she said. “I just saw Talia last week in the store. She seemed fine.”

  “She didn’t have a dog, did she?” Vega hadn’t noted any evidence of an animal in the house. No leash or feeding dishes or dog hair.

  “I don’t think so,” said the girl. “She just came to visit Lori.”

  A second door in the back opened and a woman in her late thirties stepped out. Vega recognized her from the photographs in Talia’s house. Her hair was dyed very blond—much blonder than Talia’s. She’d obviously been dying it for many years because the shafts were stiff like doll hair and the ends were shredded and frizzy. But there was no mistaking a family resemblance. She had Talia’s same big charcoal blue eyes that looked straight at him without guile or pretense, just like the picture of Talia he’d seen at the station house.

  She brushed a hand down a black apron covered in dog hair.

  “I just finished trimming a yellow Lab. They shed everywhere. You’re not allergic, are you?”

  Vega and Michelle shook their heads. “No, ma’am,” Vega answered.

  “Good.” Lori extended a hand to Michelle first and then Vega. Vega had told Michelle in the car that whoever Lori Danvers shook hands with first should take the lead. So the ball was in Michelle’s court. For now, anyway.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Michelle said. “Our condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you. This is all sort of a shock right now.” The skin beneath Lori Danvers’s eyes twitched, but she fought back the urge to cry and turned to the girl with the nose ring. “Harrison’s in the playroom if Mrs. Lawrence returns while I’m in back.”

  “I’ll take care of him.” The girl looked adoringly at the playroom window where a big yellow Labrador retriever stood up on his hind paws, licking the plate glass until it was a blur of slime. “Who was a good boy for his haircut?” she cooed. “Yes, you are, Harrison! Yes, you are!”

  Lori led Vega and Michelle past the dogs into a small break room. Even back here, Vega could smell the dogs and hear their barking. Lori gestured for Michelle and Vega to take a seat at a round plastic table in the center of the room. She brushed off the crumbs of what looked like a morning muffin and offered Vega and Michelle something to drink. They both declined.

  Vega expected they’d have to work up to the death. Family members often spent a good deal of time sharing random details about their loved ones—things that mattered only to them. Last meals together. Favorite vacations. Childhood memories.

  But not this time.

  Lori walked over to a corkboard above the coffeemaker and pulled down a postcard with a photograph of a golden retriever eating a pizza on the front. She handed it to Michelle, who flipped it over. On the back, in girlish print, were the words: Saw this card and thought of Roscoe. See you for dinner Saturday! Love, Talia. Vega noticed the postmark on the card was from this past Tuesday—only forty-eight hours before she died.

  “You see this card?” asked Lori, fixing both Vega and Michelle in her gaze. “I got this yesterday in the mail. Tal and I were supposed to meet for dinner this evening. Does that sound like a woman who would hang herself? Somebody did this to her. I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Michelle assured her. “To look at all the possibilities.”

  Vega gestured to the postcard. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’m going to need to take this into evidence.”

  Lori’s face crumpled. “Oh please, Detective. It’s my last correspondence from her. There’s nothing of importance on it. Roscoe’s my dog.”

  “I understand,” said Vega. “I can assure you, you’ll get it back. But we need it to do a thorough investigation. Look, why don’t I snap a photo of it now and send it to your phone? That way, you’ll have my cell phone co
ntact and the postcard together.”

  That seemed to mollify her. She gave Vega her cell number. Then she found him a clean zippered sandwich bag. He took a photo of the front and back of the postcard and texted it to her. He tucked the postcard inside the bag and slipped it into their evidence folder.

  Lori stared at the photos Vega had just texted to her and wiped a hand across her eyes. “I have all these photos of her on my phone. It’s like she’s still here.”

  “The dinner date you scheduled for this evening,” asked Michelle. “Was it a regular thing?”

  “We got together when we could,” said Lori. “I tried to be here for her a lot after the miscarriage. I guess you’d call it more a ‘stillbirth.’ She was seven months along when it happened.”

  “How was she handling it?” asked Michelle.

  “She was depressed. Who wouldn’t be? She talked to a shrink a couple of times.”

  “Did the doctor prescribe any medications?”

  “I don’t know.” She seemed to register the line of questioning. “You didn’t find drugs in her system, did you?”

  Michelle shot a questioning look at Vega. Cops like to hold back as much information as they can, but it’s always a juggling act. Sometimes, giving information is the best way to get it. Vega gave a slight nod of the head and Michelle continued.

  “The medical examiner found alcohol and Valium in her system,” she told Lori. “The alcohol was probably only a couple of glasses of wine or the equivalent. But the Valium was more on the order of four days’ worth of tablets. Mixed with wine, that’s a potent sedative.”

  Lori stiffened. “My sister did not have a drug or alcohol problem, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Not suggesting,” said Michelle. “Only asking.” Clearly, they’d touched a nerve. “Was her husband supportive when she miscarried?”

  “Huh.” Lori rolled her eyes. “More like, relieved.” Michelle and Vega exchanged glances. Lori’s tone was much colder when she spoke about Crowley.

  “He didn’t want to become a father again?” Michelle pressed.

  “I think he intended Talia to be a fling,” said Lori. “But when she got pregnant . . . she was thirty-four. How many more chances do you get at thirty-four?”

  “Did her husband try to talk her out of having the baby?”

  Vega noted that Michelle repeatedly referred to Crowley as “her husband.” Not “Glen.” It was a nice touch. It kept everything centered on Talia. Michelle was an able interviewer—far better than Vega would have expected.

  Lori sat back in her chair and took a moment to ponder the question.

  “Glen didn’t pressure her to end the pregnancy. Nothing like that. But I know he wasn’t overjoyed either. He has two grown children from his first marriage. His daughter’s a prosecutor in New York City. But his son’s . . . I guess you’d say he’s autistic.”

  “Did they argue about her continuing the pregnancy?” asked Michelle.

  “They might have at some point. I know he had a temper.”

  “By temper, do you mean, he shouted? Hit? Vandalized her things?”

  Lori picked at some dog hair on her apron. She responded without looking at either of them.

  “I never saw any marks or bruises.”

  Vega thought that was a funny way to answer the question. Almost like she was convincing herself. Vega thought the question was too central to the investigation not to lean a little harder on Lori for an answer.

  “Ms. Danvers,” said Vega. “Did your sister ever indicate that her husband might be physically abusing her?”

  Silence. Vega heard a customer in the front of the store collecting one of the dogs, maybe Harrison, the Labrador retriever. He could hear the jingling of dog tags and the bark of other dogs echoing down the hall. Lori shot a glance over her shoulder as if she hoped her assistant might come in to fetch her. When she looked back, Vega saw something haunted in her eyes.

  “Look,” Lori began. “When I said I thought my sister didn’t commit suicide, I wasn’t saying I thought Glen did anything to her. I mean—my sister’s life changed in so many ways after she married Glen. There are probably all sorts of things I don’t know.”

  “We’re not accusing anyone,” Vega tried to reassure her. “But if there’s something you recall—some interaction that you think would be helpful for us to know—we’d like to hear about it.”

  “She wanted to hire a private investigator.”

  The words ripped like an electric current through Vega’s veins. He could see that Michelle felt it too.

  “Did she tell you why?” asked Michelle.

  “No,” said Lori. “We were . . . I guess you’d say we were closer before she and Glen got married. After, Talia was just . . . in a different world. Socially and economically.”

  “She told you she wanted to hire a private investigator but she didn’t tell you why?” asked Michelle.

  “I think it had to do with Glen. But no, she didn’t say.”

  Vega found that hard to believe.

  “Listen,” said Lori. “The only reason I know she wanted to hire a private investigator is because my ex-boyfriend’s one and Talia asked for his number.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Vega.

  “Billy Kelso. He’s a former cop out of the forty-eighth precinct in the Bronx, but he lives here in Broad Plains. I don’t even know if Tal called him in the end.”

  “Can you give me his contact information?”

  Lori scrolled through the contact tab on her cell phone until she found it. She texted it to Vega.

  “Did your sister think her husband was cheating on her?” Vega asked.

  “That’s what I figured.” Lori smiled sadly. “It’d be karma, right? My sister stole another woman’s husband. And someone else steals hers.”

  “Do you know if Talia ever cheated?” asked Michelle.

  Lori looked surprised at the directness of the question. “No,” she said. “She was ‘the other woman’ and all before they were married. But no. Talia wasn’t like that. She was in this for real, even if maybe Glen wasn’t. I mean, Talia wasn’t the first woman Glen Crowley cheated with.”

  “Talia told you that?”

  “I think she just knew. Or maybe she knew because Charlene, Glen’s first wife, told her.”

  “Charlene talked to Talia?” This surprised Michelle.

  “Often. That’s like, freaky, right?” Lori looked at Vega and Michelle for confirmation. “I’m sure, behind closed doors, Charlene was embarrassed and angry at what happened. I know I would be. But publicly, she was all honey and smiles. You’ve met her, right?”

  “Only in passing,” said Vega. “At law enforcement events.”

  “I met Charlene this morning,” said Michelle. “At the Lake Holly police station. She was bringing the cops fresh-baked muffins to thank them for their help with the case.”

  “That’s Charlene.” Lori tossed off a laugh. “Martha Stewart on steroids. But she’s a good mother to Adam.”

  “Adam’s the DA’s son?” asked Vega.

  “Yeah,” said Lori. “He works as a stockroom clerk at a shoe store in Lake Holly. My sister had him over for dinner regularly. I think Charlene appreciated that.” Lori shrugged. “Like I said, Talia and Charlene brokered some sort of truce. They even shared housekeepers. Well, sort of. Tal’s housekeeper, Lissette, was the niece of Charlene’s housekeeper, Maria.”

  “Speaking of Lissette . . .” Vega opened his phone and showed Lori a copy of the photograph of the two Hispanic girls he’d found in Talia’s drawer. “Do you recognize them? Maybe they’re related to Lissette?”

  “I don’t recognize them,” said Lori. “But like I said, Talia didn’t tell me everything.”

  Chapter 17

  Rabbi Goldberg walked down the short flight of carpeted stairs to the front doors of the synagogue. Red flashing lights lit up the wall in front of Aviles, bouncing off the glasses on the faces of most of the board members.


  Nobody said a word. The only sounds Aviles could hear were Sam Lerner’s steady wheezes and the ding of a text coming from Leo Hirsch’s phone—which was turned up all the way. So much for his pendulous ears. He was obviously hard of hearing.

  The rabbi’s voice was tight, devoid of its normal authority. He was speaking to a man—no, two men—at the front doors. The men’s words didn’t travel up the stairs where Aviles could hear them. But their tone did. There was something muscular about it. An insistence that lacked negotiation or compromise.

  These men wanted something—and they had every intention of getting it.

  “Well, I’m not standing here like a scared rabbit,” said the señora, her French accent, as always, making the words seem inviting even when they weren’t.

  “Me neither,” said Max Zimmerman, his Eastern European accent less melodic, but no less firm. The señora held out an arm to Zimmerman and together, they walked down the stairs, leaving Sam Lerner and the three other board members—Leo Hirsch, David Stern, and Ben Levine—standing there, hiding in the hallway. With Aviles. The only one who had reason to hide. The four board members all became self-conscious at once and followed.

  Edgar Aviles hung back, listening to their voices. He could hear now that they were also joined by the cantor, Rachel Bloom. Everyone started talking at once. The flurry of voices blocked out the two visitors’ conversation.

  Aviles retreated down the hall to the conference room. He peered out a corner of the window onto the parking lot. At the curb, he saw a dark blue sedan—the same one, he was pretty sure, he saw in front of his house this morning. The sedan had no lettering on the side, just a portable lightbar pulsing insistently against the windshield glass, bouncing off the cedar siding of the temple. Still, he knew in every fiber of his being who they were.

  ICE.

  Had the rabbi called them? Had one of the board members? Aviles supposed it didn’t matter. They were here now. The synagogue would turn him over. He couldn’t get away.