A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  “You have my offer, Ms. Figueroa. The rest is up to you.”

  Stern took Adele aside the moment the hearing was over. She’d had only a minute or two to exchange words and promises with Wil before the guards led him away.

  “That’s a mighty big carrot you just negotiated back there,” Stern told her. “I’d like to help you, but I’ve got a big caseload and I don’t know a soul who’d take this kid in.”

  “Me neither,” Adele admitted. “Maybe I can get Lake Holly to drop the charges.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  * * *

  Adele walked downstairs and into the Lake Holly station house. As soon as the desk sergeant saw her, he got busy with some paperwork.

  “I need to speak to Detective Greco.”

  “Concerning?”

  “A matter for Detective Greco.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  Greco kept her waiting a good ten minutes. When he did appear, it was with a set of car keys that he flipped around his fat fingers. “I’m beginning to think you have a crush on me,” he grunted. “Did somebody slip another valentine in your mailbox?”

  “No. And that’s not funny,” said Adele. “Especially given what happened last night at the vigil.”

  “You want to talk?” asked Greco. “It’ll have to be on the way to my car.”

  A gust of wind tugged at the door as they opened it, slamming it back on its hinges. An American flag snapped like folded sheets on the pole above. Not a day Adele wanted to have a conversation outdoors.

  “Did you speak to Teódulo Gomez?” she asked as they headed to the parking lot. “He told me in court this morning that Benitez was with him when Catherine was murdered.”

  “We interviewed him.” Greco beeped open the doors of an unmarked Toyota Camry.

  “And?”

  “And nothing,” said Greco. “Gomez said he and Benitez were drinking together under the bridge Friday night. He couldn’t tell us what time that was, how long they were there, what Benitez was wearing, or whether anyone else saw them. Only thing he seemed sure of was that they were drinking Bowman’s Vodka mixed with lemon-lime seltzer. He’s as much of a witness as my neighbor’s cat.”

  “Maybe you can find the containers under the bridge,” said Adele. “See if there’s any validity to what he’s saying.”

  “Finding those containers proves nothing,” said Greco. “Not when they were there or who they were with. And that’s my final word on the matter. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with Wil Martinez,” said Adele. “He’s in jail because of his connection to his brother. If there’s a chance Benitez is innocent, Lake Holly could drop the obstruction charges—”

  Greco held up his hands. “Nothing doing.”

  “Why? Because you’re afraid he’ll sue the police over his brother’s shooting?”

  “His brother’s shooting was justified,” said Greco. “The DA’s not gonna see it any differently. Your boy’s not coming out because there are too many loose ends.” Greco ticked them off on his fingers. “We haven’t found Catherine’s phone. We don’t yet have her phone records—”

  “You’re telling me why the case against Benitez isn’t wrapped up,” said Adele. “You’re not telling me why you’re so sure he’s your guy.”

  Greco jingled his keys. “Call it cop’s intuition.”

  “Well, your ‘cop’s intuition’ seems to have no problem with charging a man who ended up on the wrong side of an unfair fight and socking him with a fine he can’t hope to pay.”

  “Fine’s been paid. In full,” Greco growled. “Wanna know who paid it?”

  “Who?”

  “Todd Archer.” Greco’s eyes screwed up tight as bullets. “This poor kid—his sister’s been murdered by an illegal. His father just died of a heart attack hastened by another illegal. And yet he has the charity of spirit to tell one of our officers at the hospital last night that he doesn’t want any more hate and suffering. We would have let Gomez go on that alone, but he’d already been charged. So this morning, Todd paid the fine.”

  “Wow. He’s a great young man.” She meant it. She wished she’d gotten to know him under better circumstances.

  “Yeah. He is.” Greco opened his car door. “So let’s drop the high-and-mighty crap about all your other victims. The only real victims here are Catherine and the Archer family. They’re priority one. Everyone else can take a number.”

  Chapter 26

  Vega quickly discovered that it didn’t make much difference whether he was working for Mike Carp, his two consultants, Prescott and Vanderlinden, or the ambassador to Zimbabwe. The job was pretty much the same. Drive the Suburban. Park the Suburban. Stay quiet while Carp texted and made phone calls. Vega drove to meetings, civic events, and press conferences all over the county, then sat bored and cold in the car while Carp made speeches or dedicated some new school, post office, senior center—take your pick. At some locales—VFW halls, churches, and, go figure, bowling alleys—people cheered him. At libraries, student gathering centers, and any towns with people of color, he was booed.

  Never had ten hours felt longer in Vega’s life. Never had he ached more to talk to Adele. But she hadn’t called or texted. The more time passed, the harder it became for him to make the first move. He had long arguments in his head. Arguments where he pointed out every logical reason why she had no business being angry with him. But each time he tried to commit his words to text, they fell flat. Calling would have been even harder. And so he sat and brooded and checked his screen as often as he could in the hopes that she’d be the one to find a way through their divide.

  “I need you to deliver something for me on your way home,” said Carp. He handed Vega a big manila envelope wrapped in plastic. The address was for a law firm in an industrial part of Lake Holly not far from La Casa: Kenner & Kenner. Vega had never heard of the firm.

  “You can count the delivery time toward your weekly hours,” said Carp. “I won’t be needing you tomorrow until about noon.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Vega. “I’ll drop it off.”

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Vega nosed his pickup off the highway and into Lake Holly. A knot tightened in his stomach as he drove past La Casa and saw large DO NOT TRESPASS signs and police sawhorses out front.

  The address for the drop-off was a two-story stucco building that must have been built by contractors with whatever was left over from various jobs. One side of the building was brick face. Another was tile. The plate-glass entrance doors were trimmed in a brass color. The double-hung windows had low-rent aluminum frames. The front doors were open, but the only people in the building at this hour seemed to be the Hispanic cleaning crew. Vega looked on a Velcro board in the lobby to see which office belonged to Kenner & Kenner. Maybe he could just leave it on a secretary’s desk.

  He took the stairs to the second floor and counted off doors until he found the right one. The roar of an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner down the hall drowned out all ambient noise. Vega tried the door to Kenner & Kenner. It was locked. He followed the vacuum sound to a plumbing contractor’s office that was still being cleaned. A chubby Hispanic man was moving a suction wand over the carpet. Vega knew the man would never hear Vega’s movements over the noise, so he stepped in front of him and held up the manila envelope. The man turned off the vacuum cleaner.

  “Excuse me, señor?” said Vega in Spanish. “I need to deliver a package to a law firm down the hall. Can you let me in?”

  The man rifled through a set of keys in the pocket of his jeans until he found the right one. Vega trailed him down the hallway and thanked him for unlocking the door. He stepped inside and turned on the light. The man’s cell phone rang. He turned away to take the call, leaving Vega to try to figure out where to put the package.

  The address was Attn: Sarah Kenner. Vega assumed Sarah Kenner was one of the partners. Both partners had the same la
st name. Siblings? Parent and child? Husband and wife? Vega searched the wall of degrees and certifications for answers. Mark Kenner’s JD degree from Cornell was prominently displayed. He’d graduated ten years ago. Sarah Kenner’s JD degree from Cornell was from the same period. Odds were, the Kenners were husband and wife. Tax attorneys, according to their certifications. They’d probably met in law school, just like Adele and her ex. Adele. Vega felt the pain of her name like an ulcer.

  Vega noticed something else on the Kenners’ wall of degrees. Sarah’s undergraduate degree. From Oberlin. The name on it wasn’t “Kenner.” It was “Langstrom.”

  Sarah Langstrom.

  The only Langstrom that Vega had ever heard of was Joy’s professor. Was this a relative?

  If so, his boss would be furious. From what Vega had gathered from Joy, Jeffrey Langstrom was a vocal opponent of Carp’s Crystal Springs Golf Resort. No way would Carp want to do business with anyone connected to an enemy. Carp divided the world into friends and foes. Or as he called it, “the loyal ones” and the “backstabbers.” “Backstabbers” got punished, no matter how small the disloyalty or how long ago it was inflicted. The other day, Vega overheard Carp tell the maitre d’ at one of his restaurants to remove a reservation for a party of ten because the man who’d booked it had once publicly insulted him.

  Vega had no idea what the insult was. But Carp’s fury over it chilled him. If he didn’t tell Carp about Sarah Kenner’s possible connection to Langstrom, and Carp found out, would he blame Vega?

  I’m only delivering a package, Vega told himself. But he knew there were no “onlys” to Mike Carp. Maybe the safest thing to do was figure out if there was a connection and then decide.

  Three doors led off the waiting area. One of them had Sarah Kenner’s nameplate on front. Vega tried the handle. It was unlocked. He stepped inside. The bookshelves were crammed with legal volumes. The shiny wood desk was scrupulously neat. What was he looking for? He couldn’t say.

  He walked around to her chair and placed the package on the center of her desk. Next to her phone, he noticed a collection of photos. They were the usual assemblage of family snapshots. A pale, frizzy-haired, young white woman appeared in several. Sarah, Vega supposed. In one, she was holding a baby in her lap and posing with a balding man, who was probably her husband, Mark. In another, there were two children. Both girls. In still another, there was some sort of large gathering with babies and children and a very old and hunched woman in a wheelchair. An older man was leaning into the shot on her right.

  A man with a gray beard, glasses, and a long ponytail. Jeffrey Langstrom. Which meant Sarah Langstrom Kenner was Jeffrey Langstrom’s daughter. Or perhaps his niece? Either way, she was family.

  Did Mike Carp know? Should Vega tell him?

  A woman’s scream echoed through the hall, followed by panicked Spanish chatter. Vega threw the package down on Sarah Kenner’s desk, slammed the office doors, and raced down the corridor. The voices were coming from below. From the lobby. Vega dashed down the stairs. The cleaning crew—two men, two women, all Hispanic, and probably all or mostly related to one another—were standing by the glass front doors, staring at a young white man who had staggered into the vestibule. He had two black eyes and was bleeding from the nose.

  Vega took out his phone and dialed 911. He reeled off the address of the building, identified himself as a cop, and asked for police and an ambulance. The cleaning crew started to back away. The last thing they wanted was to be involved in a situation with a beat-up white man.

  Vega took out his shield. “Police!” he told them in Spanish. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. I promise. But you can’t leave until the police arrive to take your statements.” Then he turned his attention to the white man. He bent down. That’s when he recognized the wide, fleshy face and beginnings of a double chin beneath the young man’s stubble.

  “You’re one of the guys I saw at the vigil the other night,” said Vega. “Kicking over those candles. What happened?”

  The young man wiped his sleeve across his bloody nose. It looked broken. Whatever he’d done to that drunk at the vigil, it looked as if it had come back in spades to him.

  “Goddamn beaners!” snarled the man. “Three of them ganged up on me! They’ll pay for this. They’ll all pay for this.”

  “The police and an ambulance are on their way,” Vega assured him. “Do you know the three men who did this to you?”

  “Bunch of cockroach spics. They should all go back to Mexico!”

  “But do you know their names?”

  “No.” His voice came out choked. He was probably swallowing blood.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brad.”

  “Brad what?”

  The young man hesitated.

  “Look, Brad, the cops are going to ask you the same question as soon as they arrive.”

  “They won’t have to,” he said. “They know me.”

  “They’ve arrested you before?”

  “No. My dad’s Steve Jankowski. He’s a detective in town.”

  Chapter 27

  Two uniforms arrived, followed by the EMTs. One officer took Brad Jankowski’s statement, while the EMTs loaded him onto a gurney and started a saline drip. The other cornered the panicky cleaning crew—probably all undocumented—and, with Vega’s help translating, got their sketchy interviews and even sketchier contact information. Vega’s own witness statement could wait. The cops knew that unlike the cleaning crew, he’d stick around.

  Vega was finishing up with the other officer and the cleaning crew in the lobby when he felt a gust of cold air at his back. He turned to see the glass doors open and Louis Greco shuffle in. Greco frowned at the finger smears of Brad Jankowski’s blood on the panes. Vega caught something he rarely saw on Greco’s face. Some rent in that perfect mask of Zen indifference that Greco feigned at most crime scenes. He couldn’t be neutral here. Brad Jankowski was the son of a colleague. This was personal.

  Vega walked over. “If you’re wondering,” he said to Greco, “I called this in.”

  “So I heard.” Greco managed to stuff down whatever he was feeling before. The lake went still again, with no evidence of the disturbance beneath. “You seem to be single-handedly responsible for ninety-nine percent of the mayhem in this town, Vega. And you don’t even live here.”

  “I was delivering a package for Carp.”

  “Yeah? Next time play errand boy someplace else.” Greco thrust his chin at the front-entrance doors. “Take a walk with me.”

  Outside, the moon had a sharp, stainless-steel edge to it. The snow looked like discarded pieces of Styrofoam along the curbs, shaved down to little more than a dandruff dusting on the rooftops and awnings. Everything in this part of Lake Holly was closed at this hour. The propane company. The auto salvage yard. The wholesale carpet warehouse.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” said Greco. “This whole town’s a powder keg about to explode. Fistfights at the high school. Graffiti in the parking lots. And your boss there, Carp, ain’t helping things by mouthing off with that ‘Catherine’s Law’ every chance he gets. All that thing will do is give us paperwork headaches and set the clock back twenty years on race relations in Lake Holly,” said Greco. “Hate to say it, but I’m actually beginning to wish La Casa was back in business and your girlfriend was running the show. At least things were smoother.”

  “For the town and for me,” said Vega.

  “She still sore at you for working for Carp?”

  “I don’t know,” said Vega. “We can’t seem to talk to each other without yelling right now.”

  “You need to find something you both agree on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think I am? Dear Abby? What do I know about anybody’s love life?”

  “Speaking of love lives, have you found that waiter yet?” asked Vega. “The one Todd Archer fired from the Magnolia Inn?”

  “A
ffirmative,” said Greco. “Todd didn’t have any information, but one of his waiters had a cell phone contact. We located him down in Port Carroll. He goes by the name ‘Alex Romero.’ ” They both knew “Alex Romero” probably wasn’t the waiter’s real name or all of his real name, in any case.

  “I’m guessing there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” said Vega.

  “We ran Romero’s DNA. He’s not the baby’s father. Claims he never had sex with Catherine. According to him, Catherine was a look-don’t-touch kind of girl.”

  “Somebody touched,” said Vega.

  “Yeah, but not him. Plus, he has an alibi for the night of her murder.”

  “Huh.” Vega fingered the raised stitches on his forehead. He couldn’t wait to get the thread out in a few days. “You find her phone yet?”

  “Negative. We got the printout of her calls. But it looks like she’s one of those girls who uses instant messaging, so the records aren’t quite as useful as we’d hoped.”

  “No calls on the night she disappeared?”

  “Nothing after she went to La Casa,” said Greco. “Before that, she made one call to the Magnolia Inn, apparently to check her work schedule, and one to that friend of hers with the purple hair—”

  “Zoe?”

  “That’s the one. We interviewed her and she said she and Catherine made plans to see each other Saturday for lunch.”

  “You think Zoe knew Catherine was pregnant?”

  “She never mentioned it when we interviewed her. In truth? I’m not even sure Catherine knew. Or if she did, she was keeping it to herself. That Archer family’s nothing if not secretive. I’m not convinced John Archer even died of a heart attack.”

  “He looked pretty out of it at the vigil,” said Vega. “I was wondering if he suffered an overdose of pills mixed with booze.”

  “The ME’s office is still running the tox screen,” said Greco. “I can’t tell you if he was under the influence of any drugs—legal or otherwise. But I can tell you they didn’t find any alcohol in his system.”