A Blossom of Bright Light

by Suzanne Chazin

  She gathered the sheets in a pile and then realized she had no idea where the Gonzalezes’ washer and dryer were located. In the basement? On the first floor? Her family didn’t have a washer and dryer in their apartment. Mami used to take the clothes to a Laundromat down the street. After she died, that became Luna’s responsibility. She’d hated it then, but now she was glad she knew how to do this for her brother’s sake.

  She bundled everything in her arms with the dry part against her nightgown and crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. She didn’t see an obvious place for a washer or dryer, so she found the door that led to the basement.

  She’d never been in the Gonzalezes’ basement before. It looked warmer and friendlier than the rest of the house. The ceiling was the height of the ceilings in their apartment, not super high like in the rest of the house. There was a big playroom with shelves full of games. In one corner was a Ping-Pong table, in the other a giant flat-screen TV. The couch cushions looked lumpy but comfy. There was a quilt folded across one armrest. The rug had some reddish-brown juice stains across it.

  Luna opened first one door and then another, searching for a washer and dryer. The wall at the back of the house had a set of heavy dark blue drapes pulled across what appeared to be a sliding glass door. There were no other windows in the space, just three doors off the main room, one of them with a thick slide bolt across it.

  She opened the door beneath the stairs, but it turned out to be nothing more than a storage space for the Gonzalezes’ oil tank and water heater. She skipped over the door with the slide bolt. It was probably an exit to the garage and was likely locked to keep anyone from breaking in. The third door turned out to be the door to the laundry area. A gleaming white washer and dryer sat next to a shelf full of clean towels and laundry supplies. When Luna was all grown up, the first luxury she wanted after a car was a washer and dryer of her own. There was nothing more humiliating than having to fold your underwear in a public place in front of dozens of strangers.

  She tossed Mateo’s bedding into the washing machine and added the liquid detergent. For a minute, she forgot herself and looked for a coin slot. Then she remembered and turned on the machine. Maybe she could take a nap on the couch down here while she waited for the sheets to get washed.

  The sound of the water filling up the washing machine was comforting and familiar. The floral, powdery detergent scent reminded Luna of when she was little, trailing after her mother with her collection of plastic ponies when they first moved to Lake Holly and Mami cleaned people’s houses. Luna wanted to be that little girl again. She wanted someone to take care of her. Already she was experiencing things Papi would never know about unless she told him. If she told him. How could she tell him about this? Mateo would be mortified. The moment would have passed. Already, her father was a ghost on the landscape of their lives just as they were a ghost on his.

  She didn’t close the lid on the washing machine but instead stood over it and watched the water gradually fill up the drum. She stuck her hand under the warm gush and tried to feel something that might get her through the emptiness and anger. The machine was loud. The cascade of water echoed through the small, windowless space.

  “You’re up so late, chica.”

  She jumped and turned around. The señor was in the doorway of the laundry room, dressed only in a sleeveless white undershirt and plaid boxer shorts, his fat belly straining at the elastic waistband.

  “I—I needed to do some laundry,” Luna stammered, conscious suddenly that she was dressed only in her flannel nightgown. She hadn’t packed a robe in her garbage bag, and she hadn’t had time to change into sweats when she brought Mateo’s bedding downstairs.

  “Laundry? At this hour?” The señor took a step closer. Luna flattened herself against the washing machine. Her breath balled up in her chest. She tried to swallow, but her saliva was as thick as rubber cement.

  “I—I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Ah. Yes. I get that way too.” The señor took another step toward her. His eyes traveled the length of her nightgown. It used to be Mami’s. The gown buttoned to the neck, but Luna never buttoned it that high. The señor stared at her collarbone peeking through the open neckline and ran the back of one hand across his lips.

  “Do I make you nervous, chica?” He frowned, and Luna wondered if she was being rude for no reason. The señor had been generous to her family, inviting all of them to stay in his home, helping her father with his immigration problems. She couldn’t think of one harsh thing he’d said or done. What was wrong with her?

  “No,” she lied. “I’m just—tired. That’s all.”

  “Of course. This situation is so hard for you.” He took another step closer and reached out a fleshy hand. Luna thought he was going to touch her. She flinched.

  He reached behind her and flipped down the lid of the washing machine.

  “You need to close it for it to work.”

  She exhaled in relief. “Oh! Yes! Sorry.”

  He pulled his hand away, and the ridge of one of his knuckles rubbed up against the sleeve of her nightgown. It was a moment of contact, so brief that she couldn’t say if it was accidental or not.

  “You need to go to bed, chica. You have school tomorrow. I will put the wash in the dryer for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Things will work out here for you. You’ll see.” The señor smiled, but the curl of his lips never traveled to his eyes. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  He stepped back, and she bolted from the room.

  Chapter 25

  Vega knew he was in trouble the moment he walked into the squad room at county police headquarters on Friday morning and Dolan greeted him by jamming his index finger against his own head and pretending to pull the trigger.

  “The captain told me to fetch you the moment you came in.” Word must have gotten out about Vega’s little field trip to Wickford yesterday.

  “I didn’t go near Zambo’s body, I swear,” said Vega. “I stayed back behind the crime-scene tape.”

  “You mean there’s more?”

  “More what?” Vega tossed his keys on his desk and flung his jacket across the chair of his cubicle. It was a bright, sunny morning, but you’d never know it inside the building’s beige cinderblock walls. With its acoustical tile ceilings, heavy metal doors, and narrow windows, the entire place had the look and feel of a cell block. The cubicles further diminished whatever natural light and ventilation attempted to penetrate the gloom. Vega got out as much as possible.

  “All I did was suggest to Greco that the Wickford PD search for plastic liquor bottles,” said Vega. “How is that a problem?”

  Dolan dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Heads up, Jimmy. This isn’t about Zambo. It’s about your little visit to Charlie Gonzalez’s wife. Waring is pissed.”

  “Greco ratted me out?”

  “Greco has nothing to do with this. The captain got a call from Schulman. You know? Our county supervisor? The guy who authorizes our paychecks and is on his way to becoming our next senator? Tell you one thing, man. When you pick your targets, you aim high.”

  “Can I get some coffee first?”

  “I’d make it quick if I were you.”

  Frank Waring’s office was directly across from the homicide squad room. Cops were so often in the field that they never really took a lot of interest in their offices. Waring, however, was the exception. The cornerstone of his personality was his service as a Navy SEAL, and he hit you over the head with it as you walked in the door. He was only about five-eight and slightly built. But there was a chiseled toughness to his lean features that suggested he could not only go long periods without food, sleep, or water—he might actually enjoy it.

  All around the office there were framed photographs of Waring in uniform and plaques with the Navy SEAL anchor and eagle insignia. There were inspiring quotes and American flags and enough patriotic stuff to make it feel like the Fourth of July e
very day.

  What wasn’t visible in Waring’s office was a single stitch of the life he’d led before he joined the navy and became a SEAL. Vega had heard from other, more veteran detectives that Waring had been orphaned young and raised by his mother’s unmarried sister, who was an Irish step dancer and traveled a great deal. Apparently Waring showed talent as well, and as a teenager, he won trophies and scholarships for his dancing. The story was that he walked away from a lucrative career at the age of twenty-three to join the navy. Some detectives with a little too much time on their hands found newspaper clips online complete with pictures of a young Frank Waring in bright green vests and tight black pants doing a jig. These had been secretly shared around the office, along with such captions as: Captain Twinkle-toes and They’re after me Lucky Charms! Waring didn’t have a sense of humor, so none of this was ever said to his face.

  Waring was at his desk and on the phone when Vega knocked, but he waved Vega inside and gestured for him to close the door and sit while he finished up his call. He was dressed as Vega was, in an open-collared knit shirt and khaki slacks, his sidearm in a holster at his waist, his badge hooked on his belt. His voice rarely rose above the soft tenor of a PBS children’s television-show host. And yet there was something about being in Captain Waring’s presence that made even his favored subordinates like Teddy Dolan uneasy. He had a habit of pausing before he answered questions as if you probably should have figured out the answer for yourself. Vega never quite exhaled when Waring was around. He certainly didn’t exhale now.

  Waring hung up the phone and slowly turned to face Vega. He folded both hands underneath his chin. When Vega was nervous, he had a tendency to focus on stupid things. Right now, he flashed to that picture of a young Frank Waring in a green vest and tight black pants doing a jig. That was all he needed to have a goofy smirk on his face when the captain addressed him. Waring already didn’t care for Vega’s sense of humor.

  “I received a call from Steve Schulman this morning. Are you familiar with our county supervisor, Detective?”

  “I’ve, uh—met him.” Through Adele. But that was the last thing he’d bring up now.

  “Yes, well. I don’t know if he remembers the encounter, but he knows you now. Can you guess why?”

  “Uh, no sir.”

  “It seems you took it upon yourself yesterday to question the wife of one of Mr. Schulman’s chief campaign advisers regarding a case you’ve been removed from. Do you recall this conversation?”

  “All I did was ask Esme—”

  Waring raised a hand.

  “So you’re confirming that you made contact with Mrs. Gonzalez yesterday? Without any authorization from this department?”

  “My daughter tutors her son in math. They live around the corner from her.”

  “I fail to see where that connection gives you the right to barge into her house, thrust a flyer of a dead teenager in her face, and start interrogating her.”

  “She said that?”

  “To her husband. Who complained to Schulman. Who in turn accused this department of mounting a campaign to harass him and the Hispanic community. Charlie Gonzalez is like a god in Lake Holly. His wife is involved in all sorts of charity work. And her sole crime, as I understand it, was to run a clothing drive for the homeless to which your daughter might have donated some clothing.”

  “All I did was—”

  “Detective, your daughter is a person of interest in the death of this teenager, is she not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And it has also come to my attention that you have a relationship with a woman who’s involved with the Schulman campaign—a relationship that will be jeopardized if Schulman wins the election. Is this also correct?”

  Vega straightened. “Sir? I believe that’s nobody’s business.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you. But this is looking an awful lot like a witch hunt to me, spurred on by too much personal interest in this case. I’m ordering you to stay away from the Gonzalezes and anything to do with any part of this investigation. I don’t want it said that the county police prejudiced the outcome of this election in any way. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You have plenty of other cases to keep you busy, Vega. If you want to stay on homicide, I suggest you make better use of your time.”

  Vega spent the rest of the morning typing up two witness statements on the case of Lil, Flaco, and Ruby, none of whom had yet reached age twenty. Now Lil never would. Flaco—aka William Rodriguez—would see thirty, maybe even forty, from the inside of a prison cell. And the next time Flaco saw Ruby, if ever, she’d be forty pounds heavier with a teenager in tow who might very likely go down the same path. Their hopes and dreams—whatever they may have been—were pocket change they’d squandered before they even realized they had it.

  Vega knew something about squandered dreams himself. He looked up at the corkboard next to his computer. Tacked in a corner, away from all the time sheets and photographs and departmental memos was a faded photograph of him and three other men in their early twenties with baby faces and too much hair. It was the cover shot of the one CD Vega ever cut with his first band, Straight Money, the one he’d had to leave when Wendy got pregnant and he became a cop.

  As tough-edged as they all looked in the photo, posed around the wreckage of an old Camaro, Vega could see in hindsight just how callow and naïve they were. None of them made it as professional musicians. The drummer joined the army and later moved to Texas and became a mechanic. The keyboardist became a high-school science teacher in New Jersey. The bass player, who shared lead vocals with Vega, was now a supervisor for Con Edison way upstate. Vega suspected they still played weekend gigs like he did, hired out for weddings and bar mitzvahs and quinceañeras where no one really paid attention to anything but the beat, and all the songs were covers because people just wanted to hear what they already knew.

  By the afternoon, the medical examiner’s office had completed Lil’s autopsy, but the fax machine was jammed up, so Dr. Gupta’s office suggested Vega take the short drive over and fetch the paperwork himself.

  The autopsy results were waiting for Vega in a folder at the front reception desk. Vega took a moment to sift through the paperwork to make sure everything was in order and he had no questions. He was suddenly aware of a pair of bright orange and green athletic shoes standing in front of him. He lifted his gaze to take in a white lab coat over a skirt with orange and pink flowers on it. Dr. Gupta smiled at him.

  “Detective Vega. I was just going to call and ask if you had any interest in getting a copy of the Garcia autopsy as well.”

  “Garcia—?” Lil’s real name was Benito Diaz.

  “Ah, yes. I forgot,” said Gupta. “You probably didn’t know him as Saturnio Garcia, but rather by his bowed legs.”

  Zambo. Vega blinked at her.

  “You were looking for him, as I recall?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I assume you’re aware that the Wickford police found his body?”

  Clearly, no one had told Gupta that Vega had been taken off the Baby Mercy case. He felt just like a kid who’d been warned not to touch a hot stove, and yet here he was, reaching out for it with his bare hands. He couldn’t lie. But so far, at least technically, he hadn’t.

  “I guess Zambo—that is, Mr. Garcia”—Vega corrected himself—“died of alcohol poisoning?”

  “Do you have a moment? I think it would be better if I showed you.”

  Vega looked around as though he half expected Captain Waring to come charging out of some room equipped with a hidden camera and suspend him on the spot. But the only people in the brightly lit, plant-filled lobby were the receptionist and a couple of white-coated assistants on their way to lab rooms. No one was likely to know or care if Gupta told Vega about Zambo.

  “Sure. Show me.”

  For the second time this week, Vega found himself standing beside a steel vault, staring down at a dead bod
y. He did not grieve quite the same way for Zambo that he had for Baby Mercy or even for a teenager like Lil. He was able to judge this death with more clinical eyes. Still, it looked like a horrific way to go. Vega hadn’t taken a good look at the body when Greco unzipped the bag. Now, he was able to see a chalky white residue around Zambo’s mouth that looked like the powdery ash from a charred log. The man had the same white charring on his fingers too. Vega noticed that the fingers appeared to have shriveled up on themselves, as if the top part of each digit had simply melted away.

  “The immediate cause of death was tracheal edema,” said Gupta.

  “Which means?”

  “His windpipe swelled after he began vomiting massive amounts of blood.”

  “Hell of a way to die,” said Vega. “Is it common in alcoholics?”

  “I’ve seen it,” said Gupta. “But right away what troubled me is the necrosis in his fingers. Quite literally, the digits have been liquefied. That’s not from alcohol. Do you happen to know if Mr. Garcia was employed?”

  Gupta’s British inflections muted the horror of Zambo’s last moments. Even her questions had an air of normalcy about them, almost as if she were conducting a job interview.

  “He probably collected cans and stuff,” said Vega. “Maybe he picked up a few bucks from La Casa once in a while for some grunt job.” Adele was a soft touch. Vega was sure at some point she would have thrown a few dollars his way. “I doubt, however, that he was sober enough for regular work,” Vega added. “Why?”

  “Because his blood work showed extremely low levels of serum calcium. The toxicology screen confirmed my suspicions. Although his immediate cause of death was tracheal edema, the proximate cause was systemic hydrofluoric acid poisoning.”