“John Archer died at three this morning.”
“Aw, man.” Vega couldn’t believe the family would be burying Catherine and John in the same week.
“Mr. Carp’s got a lot on his plate today. He wants you to meet him for a racquetball game at eight at his fitness club in Clairmont.”
“He wants me to drive him from the game?”
“He wants you to play it, Vega. Don’t be late.”
Coño! There was no way Vega could get down to the county office building, exchange his pickup for Carp’s Suburban, and drive to his club in an hour. Vega explained the physical impossibilities to Prescott.
Not to mention that he didn’t play racquetball.
“Mr. Carp says it’s okay if you come in your personal vehicle and pick up the Suburban later. But he wants you at the club at eight.”
Vega let Diablo outside while he took the quickest shave and shower in history. Then he whistled for the dog to come in and left him fresh water and dry food. He ate a half-frozen bagel in his truck on the drive down, driving ten miles over the speed limit the whole way. He pulled into the circular drive of the Carp Athletic Center at seven fifty-five. The club was a huge adobe-colored collection of cubes that had a vaguely Southwestern feel—all except for the inflatable bubble of tennis courts in back. Out front, two Latinos waited in a heated shed to park cars. A health club with valet parking. Vega shook his head. If you couldn’t manage a walk from the parking lot to the club, what were you doing working out in the first place?
The front lobby had a black granite counter and a wall of rippling water that created a pleasing sound. The air smelled of lavender and vanilla—a far cry from the county police basement gym where the scent of mildewed towels mixed with sweaty jockstraps.
Vega gave his name to a blond receptionist in neon-pink spandex. Her eyes skimmed the length of his body. He was wearing a faded blue T-shirt, with his county police emblem in the corner, old nylon track shorts, and the same weather-beaten sneakers he used to jog around the lake at home. He had his suit in a garment bag over his shoulder. He straightened under her scrutiny. Male pride and all that.
“You brought some better sneakers, I hope?”
He deflated, feeling every one of his forty-two years. But he tried to suck it back. “I run in these at home.”
She shrugged, then passed him a guest key. “The men’s locker room is on your left. Use this key to store your stuff in a locker. Mr. Carp is upstairs, first racquetball court on the right. Andre can get you fitted with a loaner racquet and eye protection upstairs.”
“Thanks.”
The Carp Athletic Center was like a five-star resort. Two swimming pools the color of the Caribbean Sea. Three weight rooms befitting an NFL training camp. Big fluffy towels in a locker room with enough blond wood to deforest half of Sweden. Vega had no idea how much property Mike Carp owned, but this was definitely a first-class place.
Vega climbed the stairs toward the sound of rubber balls bouncing off walls. He found himself in a walkway overlooking an indoor track. On the right were six white rooms, with a wall of glass in front of each. One-way glass. Just like an interrogation room.
A young man with gelled hair and a body like braided rope outfitted Vega with a racquet and eye goggles and directed him to the first court. Mike Carp was standing at a blue line, practicing his serve. For a doughy man, Carp was surprisingly fast on his feet. His thick silver hair puffed up beneath his sweatband. His goggles made his blue eyes bulge even more than usual. He had strong legs beneath his tennis whites and thick shoulders and arms, which suggested he kept in shape despite the heft of gut beneath his shirt.
At a break between serves, Vega knocked on the door. Carp waved him in.
“Ah! Right on time. That’s what I like to see.” Carp wiped a bare arm across his forehead and studied Vega’s. The swelling had gone down around the stitches. Mostly, it just itched. “You heard about John Archer, I suppose?”
“Doug Prescott told me,” said Vega. “Tragic. I guess he had a heart attack.”
“Yeah, well. His heart stopped. That’s for certain.” Vega had a sense Carp knew more than he was letting on. He flicked a gaze down Vega’s faded police T-shirt, athletic shorts, and running shoes. “What do you say we play while we talk?”
“Happy to,” said Vega. “But I don’t know racquetball.”
“You play any sports? You look like you’re in good shape.”
“Played a lot of baseball when I was younger. I play some pickup basketball and softball now.”
“You can swing a bat, you can play this game.”
Carp reeled off the basics. One match. Three games. First two go to fifteen points. The last goes to eleven. Players only score when they have the serve. Carp won the volley for serve—a wicked fastball that went sailing past Vega’s face. Carp chuckled.
“Gotta keep on your toes, Jimmy.”
“I’ll try.”
“So . . .” Carp served. “Four commendations, huh?”
“Pardon?” Vega was trying to concentrate on the game.
“Your personnel record,” said Carp. “You got four commendations for your undercover work.”
“Uh, yes. That’s right.” Vega came in for a shot close to the wall.
“Scored very high on the shooting range recently too, I hear.”
Yesterday, Mike Carp couldn’t remember Vega’s name. Today, he knew his shooting score. Vega felt a bit unhinged by this change. He kept his mouth shut and focused on the little blue ball.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here today.”
Vega missed a shot. “Clearly, it’s not for my backhand.” He retrieved the ball and threw it to Carp, who bounced it at the serve line.
“When I asked for a driver, I figured your department was going to send me some dumb-as-a-brick rookie. But the way you took that hit at the campus yesterday—well, it got me thinking that maybe you had a little more going for you than that.”
Vega said nothing. Nothing he could say would be the words Carp wanted to hear. There were guys on Vega’s job who would sell their kids to have a staff post with the most powerful man in the county. Not Vega. The one job he coveted right now was the one he couldn’t seem to get back. And besides, the more he rose here, the more distance he put between himself and Adele.
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he completely missed a ball.
“Point for me,” crowed Carp. He turned to Vega. “So what does all this mean, right? ‘Get to the point, Mr. Carp.’ ” Carp laughed. He took a lot of pleasure being every voice in the room. Vega sensed he always was.
“I’m going to be making a big push for ‘Catherine’s Law,’” Carp continued. “As you can see, in the Latino community, this is not a popular law. I need someone like you at my side to help get the word out.”
Vega knew what “someone like you” meant here. Carp needed a token.
“I’m a cop, sir. Not a politician. I can protect you and enforce the laws. But I can’t advocate for your policies.”
“Because you’re afraid you’ll catch flak from other Puerto Ricans—other Hispanics—about my positions on immigration?”
Carp’s blue eyes held a challenge to them behind his goggles. Vega didn’t back down. “Because it’s not what I’m paid to do. It’s not something I’m comfortable with either.”
“Let’s finish up the match and then we’ll talk more,” said Carp. Vega tossed Carp the ball. He got behind the serve line, ready to serve again. Vega concentrated on the rhythm of the game, the release he felt smacking the ball, the pleasure he got scoring a point. When his body was in motion, he felt in command and sure of his every move. It was only in thought that he grew tense and uncertain.
Carp won the first game, 15–8. But Vega caught on after that. He won the second 15–13 and the third, 11–6. He knew he probably should have let Carp win the last game, but it wasn’t in him to hold back.
Carp removed his goggles and ran a to
wel across his face as they left the court. “Nice game for a man who’s never played racquetball.”
“Thanks. I try to catch on to things quickly.”
“I’d say you play to win. Just like me. So here’s the deal, Jimmy. I need someone like you to watch my back. That’s all. Loyalty—plain and simple. You take care of me? I take care of you.”
“ ‘Take care’—as in drive you?”
“Drive me. Handle my security. Take care of whatever incidentals I ask you to do. Keep me up-to-date on police matters. I’ve got a lot of enemies out there. People looking to destroy me at every turn. I see a guy I can trust? Who knows?” Carp shrugged. “There’s a good chance I might be sitting in the Governor’s Mansion in two years. And believe me, Jimmy, the people who’ve been in my corner all the way are going to be right there too.”
Carp didn’t ask if Vega was on board. Really, did he have a choice? It was what he kept trying to explain to Adele, if only she would listen. This was his job, for better or worse. He could do it badly or he could do it well. But either way, he had to do it. It wasn’t in him not to give something his best shot. Surely, she could understand that. She was exactly the same.
“Go take a shower and then drive your personal vehicle to the county garage,” said Carp. “Exchange it for my Suburban and meet me back up here after that, okay? I’ve got some paperwork I can handle in my office upstairs in the meantime.”
* * *
Vega left for the locker-room showers. Carp walked past the racquetball courts and up a flight of stairs to an office he kept at the club. He waited until he was inside to dial the number on his cell phone. The shower could wait. The other appointments could wait.
“Well?” Carp asked.
“He’ll do.” Two words. Lots of mouth breathing in between. “He’s smart. Hardworking. No political connections. Plus, he’s coming off that civilian shooting. That’s a big black mark that’s going to keep him in your corner.”
“But, uh—just in case—are we all set?”
“Yep. Hugh got his keys off the valet rack. We were finished in under three minutes.”
“And he won’t know?” asked Carp.
“Believe me, he could sell that truck three times over and no one’s gonna find it.”
“So he’s ours now?”
“Let me put it this way, we’ll have everything we need on him if he ever stops being ours.”
Chapter 25
It had been less than forty-eight hours since Adele first laid eyes on Wil Martinez. In that time, the teenager seemed to have shrunk. Or maybe it was just the bright, baggy orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit that overwhelmed him in that small courtroom. His legs were shackled beneath the defense table. His eyes sported deep purple valleys, probably from lack of sleep. He had a bruise on one arm, which Adele suspected wasn’t accidental. His black hair looked wild and uncombed.
“Mr. Martinez.” Judge Keppel said Wil’s name like it was an unpronounceable dish he was reluctant to order off the menu. “Do you understand what this hearing is about? That it’s to set an appropriate level of bail for the charges against you until such time as those charges are dropped or the case goes to trial?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wil.
“You are charged with obstruction of justice for lying to Detective Louis Greco about your brother’s whereabouts on the night of Catherine Archer’s murder and also for providing a false address.”
“Your Honor,” said David Stern, Wil’s public defender, “my client has cooperated fully—”
“Mr. Stern.” The judge peered over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses. “I will let you know when it’s your turn to speak. Mr. Martinez is not on trial for the obstruction today. There is no need to defend his actions.” Keppel turned back to Wil. “However, Mr. Martinez, you should understand that the charges currently against you aren’t necessarily the only charges you may face. The police are still investigating your brother’s connection to Ms. Archer’s murder. More charges may be forthcoming. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Wil’s voice was barely above a whisper. The teenager had to be quaking in his shoes at the enormity of what he was up against.
“Mr. McMillan?” The judge turned to the prosecutor. “What is the town’s bail request?”
“The town requests bail of a half-million dollars, Your Honor.”
Adele gasped. Stern, to his credit, was out of his seat.
“Your Honor—for an obstruction charge? That’s obscene.”
McMillan, the prosecutor, answered him. “Mr. Martinez is being held in part because he’s a potential accomplice in the murder of Catherine Archer—”
“A murder that the Lake Holly Police have yet to prove Mr. Benitez even perpetrated,” Stern pointed out.
“The facts speak for themselves, Counselor,” said McMillan. “A key chain belonging to Ms. Archer was found in a room shared by Mr. Benitez and your client.”
“A key chain that Ms. Archer could have given Mr. Benitez. As a gift. She was his English tutor.”
“We both know that’s highly unlikely.”
“And we both know that the only two people who can do anything but speculate on that are dead—one of them at the hands of the Lake Holly Police,” said Stern. “Which gives the state a mighty big incentive to hold my client—since he would be a prime witness in any lawsuit against the officers involved in the shooting.”
Silence in the courtroom. Adele had always considered David Stern young and green. She’d underestimated him.
Keppel frowned at the prosecutor. “Is that true? Is the state trying to discourage Mr. Martinez from exercising his civil rights?”
“The defendant is a flight risk, plain and simple, Your Honor,” said McMillan. “That’s the state’s only interest in detaining him.”
“But . . . half-a-million dollars?” asked Stern. “Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?”
McMillan shrugged like they were negotiating the price of a used car. “If evidence surfaces at a later date to suggest that Mr. Martinez is either a witness or co-conspirator to this crime, what guarantee does Lake Holly have that he’ll stick around to cooperate? He’s a foreign national with no firm address or fixed ties to this area.”
Keppel peered over the bench at Wil. “Mr. Martinez, do you have any relatives in the area? An uncle? Cousins? Anyone?”
“No, sir,” Wil mumbled.
“How about your parents—where are they?”
“My father died in Guatemala when I was small. My mother was deported back there three years ago.”
Adele closed her eyes and replayed her conversation with Wil on Sunday at the preschool. She saw in him the girl she had been at his age. Full of hopes and dreams and a determination to rise above her circumstances. Her family made that possible. But Wil had no one in his corner. All that potential was about to wither and die. If only he had someone to speak for him.
“So the people ask again,” said McMillan. “How can we be sure Mr. Martinez won’t disappear once he’s released? There’s no one with any standing in the community to vouch for him.”
Adele jumped up from her seat. “Your Honor.”
Keppel frowned. “Ms. Figueroa—again? We don’t need a translator here.”
“I apologize for the interruption, Your Honor. But you’ve known me in the community for years. What if I vouch for him?”
“Vouch for him how?” asked the judge.
“Well . . .” Adele wasn’t sure. “Check up on him. Make sure he’s working and going to school.”
Keppel tented his fingers to his lips and frowned. Adele could hear the ambient sounds of the small courtroom. The purr of a watercooler in back turning on and off. The buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights. Two secretaries conversing down the hall.
“It would almost be worth it to keep you out of my courtroom.” The judge laughed at his own joke. “I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. I’m willing to release Mr. Martinez on his
own recognizance.”
McMillan was on his feet. “But, Your Honor—”
Keppel put up a hand to silence him. “I will grant this on one condition.”
“What’s that?” asked Stern.
“That Mr. Martinez is under Ms. Figueroa’s guardianship.”
“You mean, that I check up on him?” asked Adele.
“No, Ms. Figueroa. I mean that he lives with you or lives in a similar arrangement that this court would agree to—say, with a board member of La Casa or another respected member of the community.”
“Your Honor, as I told you earlier, I’m no longer with La Casa. The organization is looking to distance itself from the shooting. Taking on the brother of the shooter, however innocent he may be—”
“So in other words,” said Keppel, “you’re asking this court to trust him to walk free. But you, yourself, are not willing to vouch for him on the same terms.”
“No, Your Honor. That’s not it at all. But I have a nine-year-old daughter and my ex-husband . . .” Now it was Adele’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “He would never consent to a stranger living under the same roof as our daughter.”
“I understand your dilemma, Ms. Figueroa. And I’m not insisting the defendant live with you. Only that you make suitable arrangements to allow him to remain under your supervision.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“That’s my offer. Take it or leave it. You, Mr. Martinez, and Mr. Stern have twenty-four hours to think about it while Mr. Martinez cools his heels back in jail. That should give you enough time to find someone this court considers suitable.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then Mr. Martinez stays in jail until he can either secure a half million in bail, the charges are dropped, or the case is adjudicated. At this point, I don’t see the Lake Holly Police dropping the charges or Mr. Martinez securing the bail. Which means he would remain in jail at least until his next court hearing.”
“And when would that be?”
Judge Keppel flipped the pages of a ledger in front of him. “Judging by my calendar, that would be at least three months from now.”
“But his DACA status will expire in the meantime,” said Adele. “He won’t be able to renew it if he’s in jail. He’ll fall out of legal status. Who knows what could happen then?”
A Place in the Wind Page 19
