Solero eyed the gray metal discs attached to each side of the barbell.
“A hundred and sixty? That’s all you press?” He sneered. “Well, tonight, Jimmy, you’re gonna press a whole lot more.”
He reached down and slipped an additional fifty pounds on each side. Two hundred and sixty pounds of weight—all of it ready to drop on Vega’s throat.
The glass door slid open.
“Freeze!” a female voice shouted. Diablo’s bark followed close behind. Vega could barely lift his head, but he recognized the familiar Bronx vowels, so like his own.
Solero straightened and grabbed the barbell. All he had to do was clear the holders. Gravity would do the rest.
One second. Two.
Diablo sprang forward, sinking his teeth into Solero’s shin.
“Get him off me! Get him off!” Solero squealed, dropping the barbell back in its holders and searching for anything to protect himself from the dog.
“Step away from the bench,” Michelle commanded Solero. “On the floor. Hands behind your head. Jimmy!” she shouted. “Call off your dog.”
Vega let out a loud whistle and Diablo bounded over to the weight bench, leaning over Vega to lick his face.
Michelle fished two sets of zip ties from her duty belt and cuffed Solero’s ankles and wrists. Then she patted him down.
“I don’t have my gun on me,” Solero insisted. “I didn’t plan on hurting Jimmy. He forced my hand.”
“Right,” Michelle grunted. “Tell it to your attorney.” She looked over at Vega. “He’s clean.” She found a set of handcuff keys in Solero’s pocket to unlock Vega’s wrists. Then he directed her to a drawer for scissors to cut him out of the duct tape. Michelle dialed 911 while Vega finished freeing himself. Diablo paced in front of Solero, growling.
“It’s okay, boy,” said Vega, balling up the duct tape and tossing it on the floor. He gave the dog a knuckle rub between his upturned ears.
“He’s a smart dog,” said Michelle while they waited for deputies from the sheriff’s department to arrive. “He deserves better than that dried chow I have in the back of my car.”
“He gets a steak dinner after this,” said Vega. He held Michelle’s gaze. “You too. How did you know?”
“I showed the picture of the key to a deputy whose brother’s a drummer. I didn’t even know drums had tuning keys. But as soon as he said that, I got a bad feeling.”
“You saved my life,” said Vega.
“Yeah, well—repayment for helping me get rid of Corn Dog all those years ago. So now we’re even.” Michelle looked around the big room with its fieldstone fireplace and beamed ceiling. “Nice place. You got a bathroom? All this excitement went straight to my kidneys.”
Vega directed her upstairs. Then he walked over to Solero and sat on the rug in front of him, staring at his former friend and fellow musician. His voice was soft, almost pleading, when he spoke.
“All I want to know is why, Richie.” Vega wiggled his fingers in front of Solero’s face. “We were supposed to be five fingers on a hand. Inseparable. Isn’t that what Danny always said? A family. You could have told us if you needed money.”
They all had money problems of one sort or another. Alimony. Child support. Home repairs. College expenses. A cop’s salary was steady, but nobody got rich off it. A lot of guys worked second jobs. Their wives worked full-time. They made it work. And Solero could have too.
Then again, maybe it was more than just money, thought Vega. Solero spent his work life around gangs and gang members. Maybe being around all that power and illicit excitement got to him. Made him lose his way little by little until he couldn’t find the path at all.
“Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” said Solero. “Then that piece of crap, Cheetos, threatened to open his fat yap to the DA after the jewelry store heist and the Ramirezes whacked him. Everything went south after that.”
Vega wasn’t interested in his pity party. “Where’s Lissette?” he demanded.
“I don’t have her.”
“You know where she is,” said Vega. “You convinced her you were an ICE agent. Made her believe her uncle was about to get deported. All she had to do to save him was find the phone Deisy Ramos left in Crowley’s house and turn it over.”
“But she didn’t,” said Solero. “She got spooked and ran when the kid showed up. We didn’t even know where the phone was until her uncle turned it on and we tracked it to the temple.”
“So where is she?”
Solero’s lips curled. “Get the U.S. Attorney’s Office to give me immunity and I’ll tell you.”
“Not gonna happen, Richie. So do this poor girl and her family a favor and tell me what you know.” Vega leaned in close. “It’s Crowley, right? He had Lissette killed after she killed Talia. Or maybe he had them both killed. To protect his reputation. He’s the only one with motive.”
Solero tossed off a laugh. “You believe that, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Chapter 49
Talia Crowley’s funeral was held at the Lake Holly Congregational Church, a nineteenth-century fieldstone church surrounded by ancient oaks and rhododendron bushes just beginning to bloom. The reverend was bald and sweaty and earnest—though it was clear he didn’t know Talia.
Vega wondered how much Glen had either. He got up to speak and delivered a believable performance as the loyal, grieving husband. But he left out any mention of his dead bride’s passion for cow trinkets. Or her talent as a water-color artist. Or her deep desire to have children. That was left to her sister, Lori, the one person who really grieved her loss.
It would be days, maybe weeks, before news of the district attorney’s encounters with Deisy Ramos and other human trafficking victims—in the county and in places like Taylorsville—broke and forced him from office. It would be months before all the different police agencies got a grip on the magnitude of the scam and the dozens of immigrants who’d been blackmailed—many of whom were too fearful to come forward and admit their involvement.
A search warrant of Ryan Bale’s and Karen Hurst’s homes and electronic devices turned up names, but the paper trail was long and tedious. Solero was in jail and wasn’t talking. The Ramirez brothers had been detained by the Mexican police. But Vega knew from past experience that international extraditions could be slow.
“Lucky us,” Greco griped. “We get to try those two dirtbags, send them to prison, and—because they were born here—we can’t even deport them when it’s over.”
Vega shook his head at the irony. Men like Aviles got deported. Men like the Ramirezes got to stay. Though at least Aviles had a chance at the moment. The feds needed his testimony. They would expedite a visa for crime victims that would allow him to live and work in the U.S. legally again. Vega had no doubt that when Aviles recovered from his injuries, he’d go back to work at Beth Shalom where he’d be welcomed by Rabbi Goldberg and the congregation, with Max Zimmerman front and center.
Vega smiled at the memory of Max telling him the story of the talking horse. Faith and hope. They turned out to be more important than Vega had realized. He needed a little of both himself at the moment.
People began filing out of the church and lining up to offer sympathies to Lori Danvers and Glen Crowley on the steps. Vega saw Maria Aviles and her three children in the receiving line. Vega pulled out his phone and texted Detective Omar Sanchez, who’d been sitting near them with his wife.
Did you confirm the connection with Maria? Vega texted.
Yes, Sanchez texted back. This morning. Search warrants are in place.
Vega pocketed his phone and turned to Adele seated next to him in the pew. She was fanning herself with the program. The church wasn’t air-conditioned. Everyone was overdressed. Vega shrugged out of his dark blue suit jacket.
“I’ve got some police business to take care of.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll catch you later, I promise.”
“Everything okay?”
“No. But I t
hink it will be.”
Vega ducked the long receiving line and headed out the arch of front doors. He found Charlene Crowley and her son, Adam, on the lawn outside, beneath the shade of a tall oak tree, accepting stiff hugs and air kisses from somber, sweaty men and women. Vega knew Charlene would be at the funeral. Not just because she was bringing Adam.
Because it would be bad manners to do otherwise.
She’d done herself up for it too. A stylish black blazer dress with double-breasted buttons, black kid gloves, and a small beret with a veil on top. Her silver-blond hair was cinched back in a bun. Her makeup was camera-ready. Adam stood beside her, sweating through a white shirt and black suit. His curly hair glistened along his scalp. His eyes were focused on people’s feet.
Vega planted his lace-up black oxfords in front of the young man. “Well?” said Vega. “Do they meet your approval?”
Adam didn’t smile. He didn’t remark on Vega’s bruised and swollen face. He just stared at Vega’s feet. “Nine-and-a-half, medium,” he said. “No tactical boots today.”
Charlene took in Vega’s battered face and brought a gloved hand to her chest. “Detective? Oh, my Lord—what happened?”
“Line of duty injury, ma’am,” said Vega. “But I’m all right. It’s healing.”
“Well, thank goodness. And thank you for coming. I’m sure it means the world to Glen.”
“I only wish we could have given him closure. Given Talia closure.”
“But you have, Detective. She’s at peace now.”
“I wish that were true, ma’am,” said Vega. “But the detective in charge—Detective Greco—he thinks she was murdered.”
“You mean that lovely man who adored my sweet potato pie?”
“That’s him.”
“I don’t understand,” said Charlene. “I thought the police ruled it a suicide?”
“They were going to,” said Vega. “But Detective Greco’s being”—Vega kicked at an imaginary stone at his feet—“such a hard-ass, excuse my French. He says if we can’t find the utility knife that Talia used to cut the washing machine hose, we have to open up the whole investigation all over again and start from the beginning.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Tell me about it,” said Vega. “I told him that knife’s probably still down there somewhere, tucked in the debris.”
“And what did he say?”
“Told me to find it. Or he’s opening the case again.”
“That’s a lot of work for y’all.” Charlene fanned herself with the program. Vega noticed her makeup was beginning to streak with the heat.
“A lot of work for the feds and the state police,” Vega corrected. “I think Greco’s bringing them into it this time. Listen,” he said, leaning in close. “Don’t trouble Mr. Crowley about this right now. He’s got enough on his mind. I’m sure the knife will turn up.”
“I’m sure.” She smiled. Vega noticed it falter on one side.
* * *
It took just forty-five minutes for Charlene Crowley, still wearing her black kid gloves, to punch in the electronic passcode to her ex-husband’s house, walk down the basement stairs, and place the utility knife she’d used Friday night inside a soggy rolled-up throw rug by the washing machine. She gave a small gasp of surprise when Vega emerged from an alcove behind the basement stairs, but she quickly recovered.
“How did you know?” she asked, more curiosity than venom in her voice. “One itty-bitty knife couldn’t mean all that much.” Her Southern twang had intensified, the only hint that she might be nervous.
“The light switch,” said Vega. “You turned it off before you left Friday night. Talia wouldn’t have hung herself in the dark.”
She folded her arms across her chest and thought about that for a moment. “Really, Detective.” She batted her eyes at him. “You can’t possibly believe an old gal like myself is strong enough to hang another full-grown woman from a pipe.”
“You didn’t need to be strong,” said Vega. “Just smart.” He pointed to the rack of weights in the corner. “Pulleys—ma’am. You tied weights to the other side of the rope and lifted her by dropping them. Only you put one of the weights back hastily. It was turned on its side. That’s what gave me the idea.”
“Oh, honestly.” She pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time. “Why would I do something like that?”
“You tell me,” said Vega. “You had wealth. Prestige. Social standing. Even after Glen left you for his pregnant mistress—”
“Do you know how hard that was to deal with? To hold my head high after what he did with that little tramp?”
“Then why protect your ex-husband?” asked Vega. “Why not let him get what’s coming to him?”
“Because his disgrace would be mine,” said Charlene. “I’m still the former wife of a prominent man. The mother of his children. If people knew . . .” Her voice caught. “All the years I put up with his abuse. His sex romps with underage girls . . . I would be ruined. Our family’s reputation. I’d dealt with all of it for thirty years, Detective Vega. I was not going to be undone by some truck driver’s daughter who wanted revenge.”
“How did you get her to take the Valium?” asked Vega. “Did you come over with a bottle of wine on some pretext? Maybe to ask her advice about Adam? That’s what I’m guessing. Then you slipped the pills into her glass when she wasn’t looking. She’d have no reason to fear you. Your charm. Your grace. No reason to believe you’d drug her into unconsciousness, then drag her down the stairs and hang her when she was too weak to fight back.”
Vega gestured to the utility knife barely sticking out of the rolled-up throw rug. “You watch too much CSI, Mrs. Crowley. You assumed the flood would wash away all the evidence. It never does. Not everything that counts can be counted.”
“Spare me your tired clichés, Detective. Who’s going to believe you? Detective Greco? All he cares about is my sweet potato pie.”
Vega walked over to what looked like a smoke detector. “You hear that, Grec? Guess that means no more pie for you.” Then he turned back to Charlene. “He’s upstairs, by the way. If you haven’t guessed already, this is all on video.”
“A video that proves nothing. You have no evidence. I’m just humoring you, Detective.”
“On the contrary,” said Vega. “We have two detectives at your house right now with a search warrant for a size-seven, water-damaged canvas pair of—what do you call them?” Vega feigned forgetfulness. “Oh yes—espadrilles. Talia’s espadrilles, to be exact. The ones you borrowed Thursday night when you realized that by cutting the washing machine hose, your own wet shoes would give you away.”
Charlene’s face slackened. She seemed to age before Vega’s eyes. “Adam,” she whispered.
“He’s quite the expert when it comes to noticing shoes.” She folded and unfolded the black leather gloves in her hand. “I suppose this is the point where I ask for an attorney.”
“We can do it that way,” said Vega. “Which means I’ll have to cuff you and frisk you right here. Or maybe on the lawn—in front of all the neighbors.”
“You have an alternative?”
“Yes, ma’am” said Vega. “Accompany us down to the station and swear out a full confession. You’ll leave here with no cuffs and we’ll just be a taxi service. In return, you tell us what happened to Lissette.”
“Talia’s housekeeper?”
“She wasn’t just Talia’s housekeeper, Mrs. Crowley,” said Vega. “She was your employee. You paid her, too. We confirmed it this morning with your former housekeeper, Maria. Her aunt.”
“I was only trying to help the family after Maria got sick,” said Charlene.
“That’s what Maria believed too. But that’s not the real reason and you know it,” said Vega. “You paid Lissette to spy on Talia. To figure out if she was trying to have another baby after she miscarried. That was your main purpose. You wanted to know if she was going to get pregnant again. But Lissette told you other stuf
f as well. How Glen had sex with young girls at the house. How Talia was planning to leave him and go public with the scandal. Even the alarm passcode came from Lissette.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I want an attorney.”
“That’s your constitutional right. Absolutely, ma’am.” Vega looked up at the video camera. “Hey, Grec? You still have that Eyewitness News reporter’s cell phone? She covers Lake Holly. Maybe she can get some footage of the arrest—”
“Okay. Okay, already. I’ll do it your way.” Charlene sighed heavily. “But I did not hurt Lissette. She’s perfectly safe.”
“Then where is she?”
“She’s my guest.”
“Your . . . guest?”
Charlene smiled, but there was something vacant and hollow in the gaze. She reminded Vega of a porcelain doll. Perfect hair and skin and nothing behind the eyes.
“I always take care of my guests.”
Chapter 50
It was Adam who led Vega and Michelle to the bolted root cellar door in the basement of Charlene’s farm-house estate. Lissette was there, down a short ladder, in a below-ground room with a cement floor, a wall of empty wooden shelves, and a bare incandescent bulb overhead. She was shoeless and naked with only a blanket around her. Her long black hair was greasy and tangled. A thick yoga mat doubled as a bed in one corner. A bucket stood in for a latrine in the other. A wooden door was wedged between two empty storage shelves to form a table of sorts. A tray of canned beans and the remnants of a blueberry muffin sat congealed on the plate with plastic utensils beside it. Yellow and purple wildflowers hung limply from an old yogurt container on top of the board, as if, in some chilling way, Charlene really did think of Lissette as her “guest.”
Lissette wept and made the sign of the cross as Vega and Michelle helped her up the stepladder. Michelle climbed back down and fetched another blanket to put around the young woman until they could find her some clothes. Lissette shook violently. Vega could feel her body quaking right through the blanket. He shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The room was cool but not cold. This was fear talking. Fear of being locked in a windowless space with no escape.
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