“Would they do that?”
He saw something flicker in her eyes. And he realized, of course, that he was not the first person to ask Adele Figueroa for help, nor was he likely the last. As head of La Casa, she’d probably witnessed miraculous family reunions and excruciating separations. The memory of each seemed to linger in her eyes. No one could say which Edgar Aviles would turn out to be.
She grabbed his hand. Her palms were sweaty. “If you are a praying man, now would be a good time.”
Chapter 18
Lori Danvers’s ex-boyfriend, Billy Kelso, wasn’t working on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. He was playing softball with a team of cops from all over the area called the Blue Avengers. They were leading five to two against a group of firefighters called the Red Devils. Firefighters could hit—but nobody could run like a cop.
Getting shot at made every officer fast on his feet.
The baseball field was in a park just north of Warburton that had once been a factory. The land had the sanitized look of an EPA cleanup site. All the trees were the same stunted height and the earth so pancake flat and free of stones, it had to have been backfilled.
“You still play?” Michelle asked Vega when they pulled into the parking lot. “I remember you were good.”
“Pickup games here and there,” Vega replied. “I’m more about my music now. Got a wedding gig tonight with my band, Armado.”
“You call yourselves the Spanish word for ‘armed’?”
“We’re all cops.”
“I see,” said Michelle. “Truth in advertising, I suppose.”
They both slipped on sunglasses and walked to a set of metal bleachers on the other side of the dugout. The benches were pitted and dusted with pollen. Vega took a seat and texted his daughter to make sure Joy was still pet-sitting Diablo tonight. Michelle kept her gaze on the game.
“I texted my mom and asked her about that photograph I gave you.”
“And?” Vega looked at her.
“She told me to mind my own business and not ask Pop. She said it might upset him.”
“What kind of response is that?”
“Not one I expected.”
“Did she . . .” Vega had to force himself to say the words.
“Did she say anything about me getting sent away?”
“I didn’t even get that far. She practically hung up on me.” Michelle lifted her sunglasses and massaged her eyes. “I’m sorry I gave you that picture, Jimmy. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
Vega was happy he was wearing sunglasses himself. It gave him something to hide behind. He searched the field. The cops were at bat. Kelso had told Vega he’d be wearing the number 23 on his jersey. Vega spotted him now. He was a big white guy with wavy brown hair going gray on the sides and muscle just starting to turn to flab. He was on deck, swinging two bats above his head—totally unnecessary. It was never strength that made the play. It was timing. Connect too early, the ball limps in as a grounder. Connect too late, it’s a fly pop. Baseball, more than any of the other major sports, was physics in motion. It had a rhythm all its own. Maybe that’s why the musician in Vega liked it so much.
It was the top of the fifth inning. The Avengers had no outs. Vega and Michelle would just have to wait until Kelso struck out, was tagged out, or brought in a run.
Michelle’s phone dinged with a text. She looked at the screen.
“You were right,” she mumbled. “Aviles was at the synagogue.”
Vega felt the air leave his lungs. “So, he’s in custody?”
“Negative.” Michelle scrolled through the message. “It seems your girlfriend intervened. Told Tyler and Donovan they needed to get a judicial warrant.” Michelle narrowed her gaze at Vega. “You didn’t . . . tip her off or anything, did you?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since I saw her at the station.”
“Well, somebody did.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Vega. “And not for nothing, if ICE wanted to arrest Aviles, they should have gotten an order signed by a judge, same as I’d have to.”
“ICE is allowed to arrest on an administrative warrant,” she reminded him.
“On the street,” said Vega. “But Aviles wasn’t on the street. You talk about the law—where’s the law in that?”
“Aviles is an illegal alien,” said Michelle. “Not an American citizen or legal permanent resident.”
“He’s a janitor with no criminal record and a sick kid.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that his status has been revoked,” she countered. “What do you want us to do? Open the borders to everyone?”
“No.”
“So? Somebody’s going to be kept out. Or sent back. That’s why we have laws. So we can control who gets in and who doesn’t.”
Kelso swung at the first pitch and missed. The umpire called a strike.
“All I’m saying,” Vega grunted, “is that the laws don’t work. Average folks are getting hurt while the mutts walk free.”
“It’s our duty as Americans to keep unwanted intruders out of our country.”
“Those unwanted intruders pick our vegetables, mow our lawns, bus our dishes, and care for our children,” said Vega.
“Then let them get in line for a visa like everyone else.”
Vega watched the ump call a second strike on Kelso. He turned to Michelle and raised his mirrored sunglasses so she could see his eyes.
“All right,” he said. “Hypothetical situation. Say there was a boat full of immigrants heading to your shores. A thousand men, women, and children. Good people who wanted to apply for valid visas. But there was a wait list that stretched for years and the quotas were so small, there was no way they’d be admitted anytime soon. If they returned home, there was a good chance they’d be subjected to violence. Maybe even killed. Would you let them in? Or turn them away?”
“Hypothetically?” Michelle seesawed her head. “I’d tell them what I just told you—wait your turn for a visa.”
“A visa that might never come?”
“Yes,” she replied. “A visa that might never come.” Even Michelle knew that the odds of getting into the United States legally from many countries was next to impossible. Short of great wealth, marriage abroad to an American, or a Nobel Prize, it wasn’t going to happen.
“That’s just what the United States did,” said Vega. “In 1939 when a passenger ship full of European Jews sailed from Germany to Cuba. Cuba wouldn’t take the refugees so they pleaded with the United States. We turned them away. More than a quarter of those men, women, and children died in concentration camps.”
Max Zimmerman, a Holocaust survivor himself, had told Vega that story one night over dinner at Adele’s. Vega sat transfixed as Max described what it must have been like to sail so close to Miami that the people on board the ship could see the lights of the harbor. Vega couldn’t imagine their anguish as they sailed away, many to their doom.
“I guess, in retrospect . . .” Michelle’s voice trailed off. “It would have been good if the United States had eased restrictions a little. But okay.” She slapped her thighs. “Let’s go the other way. Let’s say we took in every single person in Europe back then who was facing potential death. Jews. Gypsies. Gays. Communists. People in war zones. People facing starvation or bombings or other war atrocities. You overload a lifeboat? Everybody drowns. There is no good solution.”
Vega turned back to the game. He had no answers. He much preferred the sweet simplicity of sports where everyone played by the same rules and there was always a ref to remind you what they were. He watched Kelso reject a third pitch that went low and make contact with the fourth—a high pop—that the third baseman caught.
They waited for Kelso to notice them on the bleachers. He walked over.
“Mr. Kelso?” Vega rose and extended a hand. “Detective Jimmy Vega, county police. This is my partner, Agent Lopez.”
Kelso wiped his sweaty palm on his uniform pants and shook their hands.
“Call me Billy. Billy’s fine.”
He was tall and broad-shouldered with blue eyes and a dimpled grin. The kind of man who probably turned all the girls’ heads in high school. His features had widened and coarsened since then. The blue eyes had grown suspicious—as they always did in cops. The wavy hair, stubborn and bristly. The dimples looked like puckers in flesh just beginning to sag.
“What’s a county detective teaming up with ICE for?” Kelso asked them cheerfully.
Kelso’s grip slid away when Vega told him.
“You’re kidding,” said the ex-cop. “I just spoke to Talia the other week.”
“Well, that answers one of our questions,” said Vega. “Maybe we should take a little walk. Can the team spare you for a moment?”
“Sure.”
There was a track on the other side of the rec field. A soccer game was going on in the center. Moms with strollers were walking the perimeter. Vega, Michelle, and Kelso stood on the side and watched them.
“So how did it happen?” asked Kelso. “Gunshot? Drugs? Must be bad for you to walk me over here to talk.”
“We’d like to keep this conversation between you and us at the moment,” said Vega. “She was found hanging in her basement.”
“Holy . . .” He let out a whistle. “Lori must be a basket case. They were close.”
“We interviewed her sister this morning,” said Vega. “She said she used to date you.”
“A while back, yeah.” Kelso didn’t elaborate. The breakup must have been mutual—or at least, mutual enough that there were no bad feelings.
“Lori said you used to work for the NYPD and you’re a private investigator now.”
“That’s right,” said Kelso. “I left about four years ago. Took a bullet in a robbery and said, ‘I’m outta here.’ ”
“Sorry to hear that,” Michelle offered.
“It was a graze,” said Kelso. “No permanent damage. I was burned out by that point and glad to leave.”
“You like PI work?” she asked.
Kelso shrugged. “I don’t get shot at, which is good. Most of my cases are cheating spouses and divorcing couples who want to find their partner’s hidden assets.”
“Did Talia fall into either of those categories?” Vega slid the question in smoothly. Talia was dead, but Kelso could still invoke client confidentiality in absence of a court order. Vega and Michelle were hoping to avoid that.
“Look, guys.” Kelso ran a hand through his bristly hair. He seemed nervous all of a sudden. “Talia spoke to me. But I didn’t do any work for her. As a matter of fact, I brushed her off.”
“Why?” asked Vega. “What did she want you to do?”
Kelso hesitated. “I don’t want to be your source on this. I don’t want the blowback.”
“You don’t have to be our source,” said Vega. “Just tell us what she said. If it was something really out of the ordinary—”
“That’s just it,” said Kelso. “It wasn’t. It was the sort of bread-and-butter work I do every day. I just didn’t want to do it for the DA’s wife. I gotta operate in this county, you know?”
Vega and Michelle traded looks. They both saw where this was headed.
“Are you saying Talia wanted to hire you to catch her husband cheating?” asked Vega. “He had another mistress?”
Kelso tossed off a nervous laugh. “He ain’t into mistresses these days. Least not after getting his former one knocked up.”
“Hookers,” Michelle muttered under her breath.
Vega thought about that massage parlor up in Taylorsville. He’d sensed all along he was on the right track.
“That’s not even the worst of it,” said Kelso. “Talia thought at least one of them was underage. A human trafficking victim.”
“Holy . . .” Vega felt like he’d grabbed a live wire. Everything inside of him thrummed with nervous energy. They’d just gone from marital problems to misdemeanors to felony charges with federal implications. “Did she provide you with any evidence?”
“I didn’t want any evidence,” said Kelso. “I told her to call the police. This wasn’t a PI case. A PI case brings down a marriage. She was talking about bringing down the man. The last thing I wanted was to go up against the DA.”
Vega wondered if that was the last thing Talia Crowley wanted too.
Chapter 19
Fourteen-year-old Erick Aviles was biking home Saturday evening, balancing a bag of milk, vegetables, and tortillas from Claudia’s bodega on the handlebars of his bike. He was happy to have someplace to go and something to do. Anything to avoid being inside his apartment with his weepy mother, his little brother and sister, and the endless parade of neighbors and friends who tried to console them and offer advice.
Edgar’s employers will help him . . .
La Casa has lawyers on staff . . .
Noah’s doctors can write a letter . . .
Erick felt like he was drowning in good intentions. No one could help them. Not really. His father’s immigration troubles were the only part they knew about. The rest, his family was covering with a lie. Each time the question of Lissette came up, his mother would look away and say she had “gone to visit friends.”
Over and over, Erick replayed the events at the cemetery, like a level in a video game he couldn’t get past. Everything that happened was his fault. If he hadn’t cried out, maybe those men wouldn’t have taken his cousin. Maybe Lissette could have just given them whatever they wanted and they’d have let her go.
At the top of the hill, Erick drank in the scent of damp earth and green shoots. It reminded him of a time, not so long ago, when spring meant grabbing his soccer ball and running out to play with friends. He wanted to feel like that again. Like the boy he’d once been.
He pushed off the pavement and let his feet dangle away from the pedals as he coasted down the hill, feeling the exhilaration of unbridled speed as the bike gained momentum. The road had just been paved so the asphalt was as smooth as icing. The crews hadn’t even painted yellow stripes down the middle yet. The wind hit his face, raking his hair in every direction. He turned his eyes upward and watched the streetlights play peekaboo between the lush canopy of trees.
He was so focused on the trees that he didn’t notice the big black SUV until it pulled up alongside his bicycle—so close that Erick saw his own reflection in the dark tinted glass.
The back door swung open. Rap music poured out. A burly Latino in a well-worn leather jacket eyed Erick. He had skin like a jicama—all pitted and uneven.
“Métete,” the man commanded in Spanish. Get in.
Erick backed away from the door.
Jicama-man cursed. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, okay?” He spoke in English this time, with a Spanish accent. “I’m here about your cousin. I’m here to tell you she’s fine. Get in and I’ll show you.” He smiled, showing two gold teeth.
“No.”
“Look, cipote,” the man said in a weary voice, using the Salvadoran slang for “child.” “If I wanted to hurt you, I could do it anywhere. Anytime. You think I’m gonna pick a busy street? With you on your bike? Leave the bike. Bring your groceries and get in the car. We talk and then I’ll drop you back here.”
Erick looked up and down the street. The dry cleaners behind him was already closed at this hour on a Saturday. So was the nail salon and the barbershop. Cars drove by, but the big black SUV shielded them from seeing Erick. He could run—but like the man with the pitted jicama skin and gold teeth said, he could find him anywhere.
And besides, Erick owed it to Lissette to help her. It was his fault this mara had her in the first place.
He set the bike down on the sidewalk, grabbed his groceries, and climbed inside the vehicle. The interior smelled of weed and body odor. The driver pulled away sharply from the curb. Erick could only see the back of the driver’s head and his tattooed neck, but he recognized the pelt of hair that rested on top. The driver looked at Erick from the rearview mirror and Er
ick saw his crazy eye track outward as it had done that night in the graveyard. He immediately regretted getting into the vehicle. His voice broke when he tried to speak.
“Where are we going?”
“Like I told you. Around the block.” Jicama-man pushed Erick down and grabbed both of the boy’s arms. He shoved a grease-stained hand into the front and back pockets of Erick’s jeans and the pouch of his hoodie.
“Hey!” the boy cried. “Stop!”
The man tightened his grip as he pulled Erick’s cell phone from the pouch of his hoodie.
“That’s my phone,” Erick cried.
The man examined the phone, then pocketed it. “You’ll get it back,” he said. “Where’s the other phone?”
“I don’t have any other—”
“Is it in your apartment?”
“Lissette has a phone. She had it with her—”
“Not hers, baboso. The one from her employer.”
“I don’t know about any other phone.”
“Well, you better know,” said the man. “You better find it.” He flung Erick against the inside of the car door. “Your cousin’s life depends on it. Your whole family’s lives depend on it. I don’t get that phone, it’s not just Lissette you gotta worry about anymore. It’s your brother. Your mother. Your sister. Even your father. We can get to him too. Make no mistake.”
Erick started to shake. The SUV turned the corner and cruised down a block of bungalows with basketball hoops over their garages and American flags over their front doors. Erick smelled someone cooking hamburgers on a grill. Everything looked so tranquil. So safe.
Erick felt a million miles away—like he was in another country. In a way, he supposed, he was.
Jicama-man grabbed Erick’s hoodie tight around his neck. “Listen up,” he growled. “That phone is your life. You find it and turn it over, you live. You don’t, you die. And don’t get any ideas about turning it over to the police. We’ll know if you do. You’ll be dead before the first cop car shows up.”
The SUV turned the corner and turned again. They were coming up to the spot on the pavement where Erick’s bike lay on its side, untouched, like a dead body. The SUV pulled to the curb. The man with pitted skin released his grip on Erick’s hoodie and flung open the back door. Traffic pushed past them, headlights reflecting in the rearview mirror, then bouncing back on the man’s scarred face. His eyes looked like two black river stones, slick and cold. He threw Erick’s bag of groceries on the curb.
Voice with No Echo Page 13
