A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  Chapter 36

  Vega drove down to the Lake Holly station house as soon as he finished talking to Jocelyn. He parked on the street and raced up to the desk sergeant. “Is Greco still here?”

  “You might catch him if you run. He just checked out.”

  Vega caught up with Greco as he opened the door of his white Buick LeSabre. Vega opened the passenger side and stepped into the pearl-gray crushed velour interior that Greco kept showroom clean. The Lake Holly detective gave Vega the same warm reception he might accord a carjacker.

  “I’m hungry, cranky, and armed, Vega. So if you want to see the sunrise tomorrow, you’ll get out of my car.”

  “Not until you see this.” Vega reached into the front pocket of his pants and pulled out the religious medal Jocelyn Suarez had placed at Benitez’s shrine. He dropped it into Greco’s lap. “This town is coming apart over a lie, Grec. A lie that needs to stop. Right here. Right now.”

  Greco draped the chain between his fat fingers and held it up to the light. “It’s a necklace.” Greco wasn’t enthused.

  “It’s a necklace that belonged to Rolando Benitez’s mother. Benitez gave it to a fifteen-year-old bleached-blond Latina the night Catherine Archer disappeared. A Latina who asked Benitez to buy beer for her at Hank’s Deli. While she waited for him. Outside.” Vega walked Greco through Jocelyn Suarez’s statement, including the part about Alex Romero taking the heat for a theft Catherine committed.

  “Convenient that this Lolita should come forward now,” muttered Greco.

  “She didn’t ‘come forward,’ ” said Vega. “She came to bring a candle to the shrine outside the deli. I just happened to see her. Take another look at the surveillance footage if you don’t believe me. Show Benitez’s brother the necklace. He should be able to tell you if it’s his mother’s. I know Adele’s in the process of springing him from jail.”

  Greco grunted. Vega wasn’t sure which was ticking him off more: Vega showing him the necklace or Adele springing Wil from jail.

  “C’mon, Grec,” said Vega. “Don’t you see? Catherine’s presence at Hank’s Deli was the only real piece of evidence that tied Benitez to her killing.”

  “Are you forgetting about that key chain of hers found in Benitez’s room?” asked Greco. “About those phone calls a few days before her murder?”

  “You don’t know that she didn’t give that key chain to Benitez. She was tutoring him,” Vega pointed out. “As for those calls, they could have been about anything. Without that surveillance video, you’ve got no real case. Nothing that would have stood up in a court of law. “

  Greco drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. A Lake Holly cruiser sped by, lights flashing.

  “If you’re right, this is going to cost Lake Holly a bundle,” he said. “Everybody’s already got their pound of flesh. The Archers. Our department. Mike Carp. This is gonna kill the town.”

  “This is gonna heal the town,” said Vega. “Lake Holly’s set for self-destruct. Every day, there are more fights. More tensions. More shrines to Benitez. If it’s all a lie, it’s bound to come out. The longer you delay, the worse the situation is going to get.”

  “I’m not just talking about Lake Holly taking a hit, you know,” said Greco. “This is going to go down badly with your boss. Carp’s getting a lot of mileage out of portraying Benitez as the bogeyman of every white American’s nightmares. This case may single-handedly vault him into the Governor’s Mansion. We come out with, ‘Well, maybe we were wrong,’ it’s going to get ugly, especially since we don’t have a replacement perp. Our only theoretical suspect is the baby daddy, and we don’t have a DNA match to anyone.”

  “I realize that,” said Vega. “That’s why you need to go back to this waiter, Alex. There’s stuff he’s not telling you about Catherine that may go to the heart of this case.”

  Greco tucked the medal in his pants pocket. Vega waited for him to lay out a plan. He didn’t.

  “You’re not going to bury that evidence, I hope,” said Vega.

  Greco’s eyes flashed. “I do my job, Vega. Did it when you were still having wet dreams and ogling centerfolds. And I’ll be doing it while you’re pumping gas for that egomaniac in a suit. Know why? Because I don’t try and light a candle with a blowtorch.”

  “Yeah? What was pulling your gun on Benitez then?”

  Greco opened his mouth to argue. But both their attentions were drawn to the wail of sirens. Two volunteer fire trucks sped past. Four officers dashed out of the station house and jumped into two cruisers. Greco powered down a window and called across to the nearest officer.

  “What just came in?”

  “A fire,” one of the cops answered. “Over on Industrial Drive. First due engine thought it might be an arson.”

  Vega pictured the cul-de-sac now. The propane company, with its stacks of white tanks. The auto salvage yard full of smashed cars behind razor wire and chain link. The small janitorial service, with a couple of barely functioning minivans in its lot. And one other building. The largest building there. The former seafood wholesaler that was now La Casa. Vega knew which building the fire was in before the cop confirmed it.

  Things had just gotten a whole lot worse.

  Chapter 37

  By the time Vega turned onto Industrial Drive, two fire rigs were lined up by the hydrant in front of La Casa’s parking lot. Their red lights flashed in staccato bursts across the bare trees and cement walls of the warehouse. Smoke the color of cigarette ash poured out the shattered front window. Men in helmets, black rubber boots, and fluorescent-striped turnout coats muscled hose lines through the smashed-in front doors. The sad little sign on the doors that had read CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE in English and Spanish had been torn aside and was lying in a soggy heap on the asphalt, its carefully Magic-Markered letters now a blur of unreadable smudge marks.

  Vega stood freezing near the curb and watched a hose line snake like a slick python across the empty front lot. Water pulsed through it like some undigested last meal. Still, more water spilled across the pavement, reflecting the flashing red lights on the rigs. Greco wagged a finger at Vega.

  “Stay out of the way, keep your yap shut, and I’ll try to give you some updates. Anything else, and I’ll get you forcibly removed—capisce?”

  Vega thought about the medallion in Greco’s pants pocket. It hadn’t been officially tendered as evidence yet. It would be so easy to lose. He knew what Carp would say in a situation like this: There are facts and there are truths. The medallion might be a fact. But the truth was in those soot-stained windows. In the wreckage of what had once been La Casa. No medallion was likely to change that. Not in the short run anyway. Vega just had to trust that his friend would do the right thing.

  He walked back to his pickup and texted Adele about the fire. She didn’t text back, so he got out of his truck and stood by the curb of La Casa’s parking lot, watching firefighters pour into the building and black water and debris pour out. A couple of firefighters took a circular saw to the roof and cut a hole to vent the smoke. No flames popped out—a good sign. The fire hadn’t gotten into the enclosed portions of the ceiling.

  Greco trudged over. He looked shaken. The uniformed cops were running yellow crime-scene tape around the parking lot and building. Again. Spectators were gathering. This was definitely going to make the news.

  “How bad is it?” asked Vega.

  “As far as the fire goes? It was small,” said Greco. “Mainly limited to the area by the front window. The smoke and water damage, however, is pretty extensive.”

  “Any indications it was arson?”

  “It was definitely arson,” said Greco. “Your classic Molotov cocktail. The chief and his men found a broken beer bottle and burnt rags near the front window. You can smell the kerosene.”

  “Do you think La Casa can rebuild?”

  Greco stared at the broken glass and soaked debris. “Structurally, the building’s still sound. A lot of the
contents are salvageable. Psychologically? I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does.” For all his dark jokes and bluster, Louis Greco had always possessed great affection for his community. He pretended not to care. But he did. And right now, he looked like he’d just been socked in the belly by his best friend.

  “Grec?” said Vega. “Lake Holly can’t go on like this.”

  Greco reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the medallion. He held it in his palm as if the Virgin Mary emblazoned on it could grant some of the grace she’d failed to offer in the parking lot of Hank’s Deli that Friday night. They needed that grace now. The whole town did.

  “I’m driving back to the station to enter this into the evidence log,” said Greco. “In the meantime, talk to Adele. Ask her if she can broker a meeting between the police and the Latino community. There are things we can tell them—like this new evidence. And there are things we still can’t—like Catherine’s pregnancy. But we need everybody on the same page.” Greco looked over at the firefighters packing up their hoses. “This shit stops, and it stops now.”

  “What about Carp?” asked Vega. “You want him to come?”

  “What I want”—Greco held Vega’s gaze—“is for him to stay the hell out of Lake Holly.”

  * * *

  Vega drove to Adele’s. As he turned down her street, he noticed a small crowd gathered on Max Zimmerman’s front step. Even with his truck windows closed, Vega could hear the anger in their voices. He double-parked across the street and dashed over.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Vega used his command voice. Lots of Bronx in the accent. If he was walking into something, he always took control.

  He recognized the figures at once. The large white woman in a heavy shapeless coat was Mrs. Morrison. The three lanky youths in NFL and NHL team jackets were her sons. Adele was in the middle of the melee, standing in front of Zimmerman as he leaned on his cane, trying to speak over the commotion. Benitez’s brother stood next to Zimmerman, tugging on the old man’s sleeve as if to coax him back inside.

  Mrs. Morrison saw Vega approach and pointed a gloved hand at Martinez. “You’re a cop. Arrest this criminal. He vandalized my minivan.”

  “It was an accident—” Adele sputtered. “Greg Morrison threw dog doo over the fence onto Mr. Zimmerman’s property and Wil threw it back. It accidentally landed on the hood of Mrs. Morrison’s minivan—”

  “My son did nothing of the sort,” the woman interjected. “That doo could have come from any dog on this street. It was a malicious act of vandalism. And don’t tell me that illegal’s not capable. I know who he is. I saw his picture in the newspapers. He’s the brother of that rapist and murderer. A person like that doesn’t belong in a neighborhood like ours. My family isn’t safe!”

  “Whoa!” Vega held up his hands. “Hold on, will ya? Calm down.” Puñeta! He knew that taking this kid in would only bring trouble. For Adele. For Max Zimmerman. But he had to de-escalate the situation.

  Vega turned to Adele. “You and Mr. Martinez,” he said formally, using his best cop voice, “take Mr. Zimmerman inside.”

  “But—” Adele went to argue, then caught his sharp look and obeyed.

  Vega turned back to Mrs. Morrison and her sons. “Send your boys home, ma’am. No sense them standing out here in the cold. You and me can talk about this across the street. By my truck.” Vega wanted to get the woman off Zimmerman’s property. Divide and conquer. That’s what he always did when he worked with a partner. He was alone here, but that was good. He didn’t want the Lake Holly Police involved if he could help it. It would only escalate the confrontation.

  Mrs. Morrison didn’t move. She frowned at Vega. He tried to soften his tone.

  “Mrs. Morrison—please?”

  He could see her debating whether or not to trust him. Beneath the pudgy face, there still lurked the soft outlines of a once-guileless young girl. Something had turned her hard and brittle with age. A deep disappointment. An illness. An unfair twist of fate. Life had made her wary. Vega had found as a cop that it was best to try to see the good in everyone—or at least the potential for good. He gave her a point for following him across the street to his truck. And another for sending her two older boys—one of them, likely, the poop slinger—back home. The youngest one—all of eleven—stayed behind, looking as surly and mistrustful as his mother.

  “The, uh, dog excrement,” Vega began. “Is it still on the hood of your minivan?”

  “Yep. Took pictures and everything. For my lawsuit.”

  “What if I asked Mr. Martinez to clean it off for you?” Vega offered. “Would that put an end to this argument?”

  “I don’t want that felon on my property!”

  “He’s not a felon, Mrs. Morrison. He’s a college student. With a clean record.”

  “I want him out of that house! And I’ll do what I have to, to make sure that happens!”

  Vega held her gaze like a school principal whose star student had just disappointed him. “You do realize that you just made a threat in the presence of a police officer? That if anything after this happens to Mr. Martinez, Mr. Zimmerman, or their property, that I’m going to have to alert the local police about your comments. At the very least, a judge is likely to issue a restraining order against you. Depending on the circumstances, he could throw you in jail.”

  “He’s the criminal? And I’d go to jail?”

  “Again, he’s not a criminal, Mrs. Morrison. He is a legal resident of the United States. He’s entitled to all the protections under our laws. Now, we can end this matter, right here and now, with Mr. Martinez cleaning off the dog poop, and you and your boys promising to stop throwing it into Mr. Zimmerman’s yard—”

  “We never—”

  “Uh.” Vega held up his hand. “We both know the truth to that.”

  Mrs. Morrison’s lips tightened and her eyes scrunched up. “Your girlfriend thinks because she called her boyfriend cop on me that I’m going to shut up about this outrage on our street?”

  “She didn’t call me,” said Vega. “I just happened by.”

  “Sure. Right. Well, you can throw all the threats you want at me, Officer. But what are you going to do? Threaten the whole neighborhood? The whole town? People are going to find out how that murderer’s brother is living on our street in that old man’s house. You can’t stop me. One way or another, I’m going to war over this!”

  Coño! Vega didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he had to do something. “Look, Mrs. Morrison, you’re wrong about this kid. Wrong about his dead brother. All the assumptions the police made about Catherine Archer’s murder? They were wrong. You think you’re protecting Lake Holly. But what you’re really doing is letting your fear get the better of you. It’s what’s destroying this town and driving everyone apart. Please. Listen to me. Not as a cop but as a man who loves this town, like you do. I spent part of my childhood here. Things don’t have to be this way. We can make a decision to stop this, here and now. While we still have a chance.”

  Vega had his back to Adele’s house. He didn’t notice the small figure in a bright lavender bathrobe as she padded across her front porch, down the stairs, and out to the sidewalk in bear slippers. He and Mrs. Morrison were locked in such a heated conversation that neither of them heard the small, sleepy voice call out to them from across the street.

  “Jimmy? Where’s Mommy?”

  Vega had grown past the stage of listening for small children’s voices and watching their every move. He caught the motion belatedly as Sophia stepped off the curb and crossed the street to his truck. He saw it all unfold before his muscles could react. Her lavender bathrobe and long tousled brown hair backlit by the glare of oncoming headlights. Her sleepy eyes growing wide and astonished as the beams grew larger, sucking the color from her skin.

  It took Vega only a second or two to process what was happening and leap into the road. He leapt out too late.

  Too late.

  “Billy! Billy!” Mrs. Morriso
n screamed.

  Another figure—smaller and faster than Vega—broke from his mother’s side and raced in front of the oncoming SUV. Tires screeched. Grit exploded off the pavement. Vega braced himself for the thud of little bodies striking several tons of rubber and steel.

  A shaken woman got out of her vehicle and ran around to the front bumper.

  “Oh, my God! Please, God!”

  “Ow!” said a petulant voice in a snowbank by the curb. Sophia. Vega ran over just as Billy Morrison was pulling her to her feet. Both children dusted clumps of dirty snow from their clothes. Neither of them had a scratch. Vega’s entire body turned into a bowl of jelly. He couldn’t stand. He knelt down and threw his arms tightly around Sophia. She seemed more annoyed than shaken.

  “Billy!” she fumed. “You didn’t have to push so hard!”

  The eleven-year-old wiggled out of his mother’s embrace. “Next time, look both ways, Soph. I’m not your crossing guard anymore, you know?”

  Of course, thought Vega. The children knew each other—maybe even liked each other, even if the adults didn’t. They were only about two years apart in age. Billy didn’t seem to comprehend the enormity of what he’d done. Neither did Sophia. But Vega did. And Mrs. Morrison too. She looked at her son with tears in her eyes. Vega saw a softness return to her face. Her voice was small and tired when she spoke.

  “Let’s go home, champ,” she said to him. “Let’s forget this ever happened and go home.”

  Chapter 38

  Catherine Archer and her father were buried at Holy Cross Cemetery one day before a snowstorm stopped the county in its tracks. By the time the snows had receded, the world seemed to have moved on. The turquoise ribbons in town grew limp and faded, until one by one they all disappeared. The candles for Benitez soon went the same way. The wounds in the town became less visible. But the scars remained.

  Meetings were held between community leaders and the police. Everyone agreed that things needed to improve. No one agreed quite how.