Voice with No Echo

by Suzanne Chazin

  Vega shook his head. “You need to see it for yourself.”

  They stepped over the yellow crime-scene tape and walked up the driveway.

  “What’s this I heard about Adele getting arrested yesterday?” asked Greco.

  Vega decided to give Greco as neutral a recounting as possible. He was a friend, sure. But like Vega, he tended to side with a brother-in-blue.

  “Adele got a flat tire. Bale showed up and offered to change it for her. When he popped her trunk, he found seven grams of heroin in the spare tire compartment.”

  Greco offered a long, low whistle. “Not my business,” he said. “But did she give an explanation?”

  “Would you? If you’d never seen something before?”

  “Officer, it’s not mine, is the oldest defense in the book,” said Greco. “And it doesn’t usually work.”

  “It doesn’t need to,” said Vega. “The evidence backs her up. One of my lieutenants ID’d the confiscated heroin as part of an inter-agency sting six months ago. The drugs were all taken off the street and thrown into police evidence lockers throughout the county.”

  “Which argues that either you’re doing a little extracurricular dealing,” said Greco. “Or someone with a cop connection put it there.”

  “I think you know the answer to that one.”

  “Never a dull moment with you, is it, Vega?”

  Greco peeled back a piece of yellow crime-scene tape across the front door and unlocked it. The two men stepped inside.

  A death investigation is all bright lights and bodies in motion when it first happens. The aftermath, however, is entirely different. Like a stage once the actors have departed. The first thing Vega noticed was the smell. A mixture of mold from the wet basement mingled with a faint whiff of decay, like Parmesan cheese that had gone rancid in the back of someone’s refrigerator. Sunlight streamed through the long windows ahead of them in the living room. But all Vega could see was the dust motes in the air—detritus from all the bodies that had traipsed through Friday night, leaving a trail of dirt that crusted the carpets and floors.

  Everything else was silent. Light-filled and silent.

  Vega followed the grimy path past the living room, into the kitchen and over to the open door of the basement. He peered down. Even in the basement, light penetrated through the small casement windows. It wasn’t bright like the living room, but it was light enough to see. Vega gestured for Greco to take a look.

  “What, exactly, am I looking at?”

  “Everything,” said Vega. “Do you agree that you can see everything? Without switching on a light?”

  “So?”

  “I checked with the fire chief this morning before I drove here,” said Vega. “When his guys arrived on Friday night, there were no lights on in the Crowley house. That was before they cut the power. The neighbor who called in the flood? Edith Walker? She told me the same thing.”

  Vega pointed to the light switch at the top of the basement stairs. It was in the off position.

  “Dr. Gupta said Talia Crowley died at nine p.m. on Thursday night,” said Vega. “You tell me how she managed to string herself up down there in the dark. Because there’s no way that woman climbed these stairs and turned off this light switch afterward.”

  Greco frowned at the switch plate. “Maybe Lissette did it when she came here Friday morning.”

  Vega gestured to the light pouring in through the windows.

  “Why would she reach for a light switch at all on Friday morning? I checked the weather. It was sunny. You can see for yourself, there’s plenty of light in the house. If anything, we’d have been more likely to find a light on that Lissette didn’t notice.”

  Greco stuffed his hands in his pockets and circled the island counter in the kitchen. He didn’t like complications. On the other hand, he was too good of a cop to let them pass.

  “What you’re saying is—someone else turned off the lights on Thursday night after Talia was strung up—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Vega. “You asked for hard evidence to prove she wasn’t alone when she died. Well, here it is.”

  Greco cursed under his breath. “This doesn’t just prove that someone was in the house,” he grunted. “It proves that whoever was here more than likely killed her.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Jesus.” Greco drummed his fingers on the marble countertop of the kitchen’s center island. “You got any theories?”

  Vega began laying them all out, beginning with Talia’s STD that she likely caught from her husband and ending with Deisy’s wallet in Talia’s drawer.

  “You’ve got a wife looking for revenge,” said Vega. “You’ve got a fragile immigrant teenager worried about losing her asylum bid. You’ve got some con man with inside knowledge of ICE who manages to convince a vulnerable teenager that all she has to do to avoid getting deported is sleep with some rich dude at his house. And boom—you’ve got more than a messy divorce. You’ve got a human trafficking charge that’ll take down the DA. That’s more than enough motive for murder in my book.”

  “So where’s the girl’s phone that proves all of this?” asked Greco.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Vega. “But I think Talia did. That may have been what got her killed. And maybe Lissette too. There are so many pieces to this, the only person who can tell us all of them is Glen Crowley.”

  “All right.” Greco slapped the counter. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ve been dying to get a crack at Crowley since this case began. Now’s your chance.”

  Chapter 37

  Adele drove her Toyota to Mike’s Tires and begged a mechanic she knew to mount and balance a replacement while she waited. She texted Rabbi Goldberg from the waiting area:

  Tell Edgar we’re not going to ICE this morning. Ask him to sit tight. I’ll explain when I get there.

  Beth Shalom was busier than Adele would have expected on a Monday morning. Then she remembered why: the preschool. She could hear the happy chirp of little voices drifting up from the lower level of the building as she walked to the rabbi’s office. His secretary, a grandmotherly woman with stiff dark hair and glasses perched at the end of her nose, told Adele that the rabbi was on the phone.

  “Edgar’s in the sanctuary, waxing the floor. Would you like me to fetch him?”

  “That’s okay,” said Adele. “I’ll find him myself.”

  “The rabbi said you could use the conference room if you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  Adele dropped off her accordion file of papers in the conference room, then made her way to the sanctuary. She’d never been in Beth Shalom’s sanctuary before. It was a majestic space, all blond wood and high ceilings, like a concert hall. Sunlight streamed down from skylights four stories above where a catwalk encircled the windows. The only sound was the steady whoosh of Aviles’s mop across the stage.

  “Señora?” Aviles put down his mop and gave her a panicked look. “Rabbi Goldberg said we weren’t going to ICE this morning. I didn’t change into my suit.”

  “We aren’t going. Not yet, at least.”

  Adele stepped into a shaft of sunlight and glanced up. Three long gold chains cradled a lamp that twinkled in a delicate filigreed container.

  “What a beautiful light,” she said.

  “It’s the eternal light,” said Aviles. “It’s always lit to show God’s presence.”

  “We need Him now.” Adele gestured to the rear doors of the sanctuary. “Rabbi Goldberg said we could use the conference room to talk. Is this a good time?”

  “Of course.”

  Aviles stowed his mop and walked with Adele back to the conference room. Adele began speaking in Spanish as soon as Aviles closed the door.

  “We have a problem,” she began, taking a seat. “But I’m hopeful we also have a solution.” She told Aviles about her arrest last night, feeling red-faced and guilty all over again. She felt worse when she
had to tell him that someone had rifled through his paperwork and removed his passport and birth certificate.

  “The police?” Aviles whispered. He closed his eyes, as if absorbing the blow.

  “I know where I put those documents and they’re not there,” said Adele.

  “Can we go to ICE and explain?”

  “That would be futile,” she told him. “They’d just arrest you right away. There is hope, however.”

  Adele thumbed Aviles’s case file and pulled out the letter signed by Daniel Wilson. She placed it in front of Aviles.

  “This letter you got a month ago? Informing you that you were in danger of being removed? Do you recognize it?”

  “Yes,” said Aviles.

  “It was signed by an agent named Daniel Wilson,” said Adele, pointing to the signature. “Mr. Wilson retired from ICE five months before he signed that letter.”

  Aviles gave Adele a puzzled look. “How can that be?”

  “One possibility is that he signed that order before he retired, it got lost in the system, and someone changed the date and sent it out a month ago. The other”—she paused and settled her eyes on his—“is that he signed that letter when he was no longer an ICE agent—or someone not authorized signed it for him.”

  “But I have that other letter signed last week by a different agent,” said Aviles.

  “Marcus Tyler,” said Adele. “One of the agents who came to arrest you. I know. But he and Donovan were probably working off an order already put into the system.”

  “By Daniel Wilson?”

  “Maybe. Maybe someone else.” It frustrated Adele how sloppy the government’s record-keeping was. She’d heard so many horror stories of naturalized Americans and lawful green-card holders being arrested—even deported—because the Department of Homeland Security forgot to update their files.

  “The thing is,” said Adele, “because your temporary protected status has been rescinded, you are always at risk of deportation. Still, someone put you into priority removal. If you were put there by mistake or by someone not authorized to do so, we can maybe put the brakes on this.”

  “But you’re saying that even if the government made a big mistake—they could still deport me.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Adele. “The good news is, I have a connection at ICE. I’m hoping she can plead special circumstances and get us an extension so we can replace your passport and birth certificate.” Adele checked her phone again for the umpteenth time this morning. Michelle still hadn’t called.

  Aviles exhaled. He looked defeated. He pushed himself back from the conference table and rose.

  “There is something I want you to see, señora. If the ICE agents come. If they take me. Someone needs to know.”

  Aviles walked over to the colorful painting of the tree with Hebrew words running along it. He scanned the bookshelf of texts in English and Hebrew. Then he moved two aside and pulled out a padded manila envelope. It looked frayed and dirty around the edges like it had been sitting out somewhere for a long time. It was addressed to Lissette Aviles.

  “My son, Erick, found this and gave it to me when he visited yesterday,” said Aviles. “My family doesn’t know where Lissette is. But we know she was taken. And now, we know why. This.”

  Aviles opened the envelope and tipped a cell phone on the table.

  “Is this Lissette’s cell phone?”

  “No,” said Aviles. “Turn it on and see for yourself. I did.”

  Adele powered up the screen. She saw a selfie of a young and pretty Hispanic girl with dimpled cheeks and large, dark eyes. The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Adele showed it to Aviles. “A relative?”

  “I don’t know who she is,” said Aviles. “But Lissette must have. The gangsters who took her called me and told me to hand over a phone. We didn’t know what they were talking about. Last night, Erick went back to the cemetery where he saw them grab her. He found this envelope hidden behind one of the mausoleums there. The only thing inside was the phone.”

  Aviles sank heavily into a chair. “This is what they want, señora. I’m sure of it. They said they will kill my family if I don’t turn it over. The problem is—I don’t know if this phone is keeping my family alive or putting them at risk.”

  “We should call the police about this—”

  Aviles put a hand over hers. “No police. I don’t trust the police.”

  “Because of my arrest yesterday?”

  “Even if you weren’t arrested,” said Aviles. He folded his hands in his lap and tried to gather his words. “The two men Lissette met with on Friday—Erick saw them. One was a mara. But the other . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Was what?” asked Adele. “A police officer?”

  “He was wearing an ICE agent’s jacket.”

  Adele froze. She could hear the children downstairs singing a song in Hebrew and Rabbi Goldberg’s secretary talking on the phone down the hall. It all felt so innocent, so removed from the dark grip of paranoia that had become both their lives.

  “Now do you see why I cannot go to the police?” asked Aviles. “They could be involved in this. At the same time, I can’t just leave this phone here if I’m taken, knowing it might be the one thing that can save my family.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Adele.

  Before Aviles could answer, there was an urgent knock on the door.

  “They’re here,” said the rabbi in a choked voice. Neither Aviles nor Adele had to ask who “they” were.

  Adele’s breath quickened in her lungs. Her heart beat so loud, she heard it in her ears, echoing like a chant through the sanctuary. Aviles tucked the phone back in the envelope and returned it to the bookshelf. Adele opened the conference room door. Rabbi Goldberg looked like he was delivering a death notice.

  “Do they have a judicial warrant?” asked Adele.

  “They claimed they did,” said the rabbi. “I didn’t ask to see it. But I have to assume if they’re here again . . .” Rabbi Goldberg shot a glance in the direction of the stairway that led to the preschool below. The children must have been having snack. Adele could hear the scrape of chairs and some sort of pre-food prayer in little voices.

  “Adele,” Rabbi Goldberg said, looking at her. “We have small children on the premises. The agents told me they’re not going to break down our doors. They don’t want to make a scene. They just want to do their jobs.”

  “What do you want to do here?” Adele asked the rabbi. This wasn’t her call. She could fight for Aviles. But she couldn’t ask others to do the same.

  Rabbi Goldberg winced like someone had just stuck him with a needle. He hesitated. It was Aviles who spoke.

  “I must go, señora.” Aviles stood up on shaky legs and moved to the doorway. “I can’t ask any more of the rabbi and his congregation. They have done enough.”

  Chapter 38

  Glen Crowley was living above the carriage house at the home he used to share with his first wife, Charlene, in Wickford. And okay—he wasn’t sleeping in the same bedroom with her or sharing his-and-hers sinks, but it still seemed a little weird to Vega. He’d rather take a tent in the woods than move back in with his ex.

  Then again, nobody could do “forgive and forget” quite like Charlene Beech Crowley.

  “We’re going to need to get creative here,” said Greco on the drive over. “Make a script, catch him in some lies, and then go back and fill in the blanks later.” They were back in the unmarked brown Ford Taurus with the sticky stains on the floormats. The dispatch radio hummed with petty callouts. Locked keys in a car. A loose dog growling at pedestrians. A fender bender in front of the supermarket.

  “Are you suggesting we pull a good cop, bad cop on him?” asked Vega.

  “More like a Dumb and Dumber,” said Greco. “You know how DAs think. We’re all blue-collar morons who can’t spell.”

  “So who’s Dumb and who’s Dumber?”

  “Seeing as I got one foot on
a banana peel and one foot in a fishing boat in Florida somewheres, I’ll take the lead,” said Greco. “Crowley spared your ass from a grand jury proceeding last December. You’ve got more to lose.”

  Vega powered down his window. The air smelled like hay and horse droppings. Old money smells. They were in Wickford, after all.

  “We can get him,” said Vega. “I know a way.”

  “How?”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that Deisy Ramos recorded her encounter with Crowley on her missing phone,” said Vega. “Crowley cops to that, we’ve got motive.”

  “But we don’t know where the girl’s phone is,” said Greco. “Or whether she recorded the encounter.”

  “True,” said Vega, “but neither does Crowley.”

  * * *

  The Crowley estate sat on a bluff surrounded by horse farms and pasture. It was a century-old classic white clapboard Colonial with a wide front porch, a dormered third floor, and a slate-tile roof.

  “No way did Crowley divorce his wife and leave her all this,” grunted Greco as he turned onto the long driveway. Flowering apple trees shaded the approach, along with oaks so big, it would take three adults to encircle their trunks.

  “She comes from old Southern money, I guess,” said Vega.

  “Looks like a big chunk of it migrated north.”

  The carriage house was behind the main house. Greco thought it would be better to check in before they went sauntering back.

  “Edgar Aviles’s wife, Maria, used to work here as a maid,” said Vega. “Before she got sick with lupus.”

  “Huh.” Greco gazed up at the rows of leaded glass panes. “Hope she didn’t do windows.”

  Greco parked the Taurus on the edge of the circular driveway. They got out and bounded up the steps of the front porch to ring the bell. They’d expected a maid to answer, but Charlene herself greeted them at the door.

  “Detective Greco?” She flipped her silver-blond hair girlishly behind her shoulder. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  Vega had done thousands of interviews with victims, witnesses, and suspects over the years. Not one had ever described these meetings as a “pleasure.”