Land of Careful Shadows (20 page)

J
immy Vega would have walked right past the few shards of broken glass. He would have walked by the cracked tree limb with the round three-inch depression that turned the bark concave and stringy like the inside of an underripe pumpkin. In a month, the woods would have leafed out too much to have ever found it. In a year, the limb would be too rotted, the glass too fragmented and scattered.

He found it only because he happened to look down and see something metallic. He'd assumed it was a bit of foil from a gum wrapper or the crushed remnants of a beer can. But it was a crucifix. Mud caked the carved depressions on Christ's tarnished body. Rust stains pitted the bird wings that dangled from each side of Christ's outstretched arms. The metal was already being reclaimed by the earth that had once delivered it up. But even with the damage, Vega recognized the crucifix as the one he'd seen around Maria's neck in the picture of her and her baby. He took a picture of it on his cell phone now to show Greco. Maria Elena had been in this spot, maybe even died in it, next to shards of broken glass and that odd round depression in a cracked tree stump.

“You think Maria was killed by a hit-and-run?” asked Adele while they were both sitting in his pickup, waiting for the police to show up.

“Don't know,” Vega grunted, staring at the picture on his cell phone. The truth was, he'd stake his badge on it, but he didn't want to say that to Adele right now. He didn't want to say anything that could come back to bite him on a witness stand. It didn't mean he wasn't sure. Vega had spent too many years in uniform documenting car accidents not to recognize the telltale signs. He'd stood no more than ten feet from the side of Lake Holly Road, a winding two-lane that Adele herself had just had a collision on, albeit with a deer. There was no shoulder, no streetlights, and he already knew that Maria walked this way to meet up with Morales.

“If that's the case,” said Adele. “Then Rodrigo is innocent.”

“Maybe,” said Vega. But there were no maybes about it in Vega's opinion. Morales didn't have a car. There was no way he could have killed Maria like this and no way he'd have stood by and let her die if someone else had. As Morales said himself, he and Maria had been through too much together.

“What are you going to do?” Adele asked him.

“If the fingerprints haven't gone through the system, we'll release Morales.”

“And if Greco already put them through?”

Vega stared straight ahead at her reflection in the windshield. “It's not my fault, Adele. I couldn't have known.”

“You mean he'll be deported?”

“As soon as ICE gets the prints, they'll run them through their database and see that he's got a criminal record and a prior deportation order. They're bound to fax over an immigration detainer. I've seen it happen in under twenty minutes.”

“Can't you call it back?”

Vega shook his head. “On what grounds? That he's not here illegally? He is. We caught him. For the wrong reasons, but he's been caught all the same. It's toothpaste from a tube, Adele. It only flows in one direction.”

Two cars barreled along Lake Holly Road in quick succession, one in each direction, sucking the currents of air along with them. Each time Vega's body geared up for the police cruiser and each time he felt the tension of knowing it hadn't yet arrived. He couldn't leave the scene until a Lake Holly uniform showed up—first for Adele, and second, to secure the accident scene across the road until the specialists arrived. Not that time was really the issue here. If Morales's fingerprints had already been entered into the federal database, Vega could be at the station right now and it wouldn't matter.

“A man's whole future is at stake here,” said Adele.

“Don't you think I know that?”

“So that's it? You're just going to shrug it off?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She turned her face away from him. “Nothing. You're good at that.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to a rhythm only he could hear, a habit when he was nervous.

“My mother was murdered last year at her apartment in the Bronx,” Vega said softly. “A botched robbery.” His voice sounded oddly compacted, like it was traveling through snow. “I drove down as soon as I found out. Spoke to a detective on the scene. He barely acknowledged me. He kept forgetting my mother's name. While I was trying to get information from him, he took two cell calls about his girlfriend's birthday party. I'm a fellow officer, this was my mother he was talking about and he treated the whole thing like we were discussing a piece of broken furniture.” Vega fought the choke in his voice. “So I know what it feels like to be on the other end, Adele. I'm not indifferent here. Just powerless.”

She nodded. “I'm sorry about your mother.” Then she placed her hand on top of his. It was a momentary gesture—she took the hand away quickly—but so unexpected that it undid something inside of Vega, shook loose all his thoughts, made them seem as petty as pocket change. It had been awhile since he'd felt this zero gravity sensation around a woman. He didn't think it was possible anymore.

Vega studied her reflection in the windshield. Her makeup was soft and blurry around the eyes and her lips had the pouty texture of a pillow just waiting for someone to press against it. He'd been fantasizing about those lips ever since he left the dance floor last night. He pictured himself pressing down on them now, running his hands along the curves of her thighs, cupping those full breasts to his chest—

—
Puñeta, coño!
Was he crazy? Bad enough that he was looking at a possible police brutality charge. Did he want to tack on sexual harassment as well?

A siren broke the spell. Vega was almost glad of it. He jumped out of his truck like it was on fire and drank in the cool air as he flagged down the cruiser. As soon as it pulled behind him, he ran over and tried to get the officer up to speed on the situation. Then he tried Greco's cell again. Still no answer. He tried the desk sergeant. He was handling another call.

“Go,” Adele urged him as she stepped out of his truck. “I'll catch up with you at the station.”

“Are you sure—?”

“—Go.” He noticed a flush to her cheeks. He wondered if she'd read his thoughts in the truck. He hoped he hadn't embarrassed her. He felt pretty embarrassed himself right now. He ducked into his truck and pulled back on the road. He tried Greco again. Still no answer. He came around a blind curve and had to bear down on the brake. In front of him was a long line of traffic behind a payloader crawling along at fifteen miles per hour. The entire road was one long no-passing zone. Not that he could have passed anyway. There were three cars between him and the payloader. He didn't even have his light bar with him today.

He cursed and pounded the wheel. He was getting himself worked up—for what? Morales could always hop the border again—

—
If he had another five thousand dollars, which he most likely didn't.

And then there was the risk. Every month, things got tighter. The fence became stronger, the U.S. patrols more numerous, the Mexican gangs more deadly. Vega had heard that the gangsters were forcing immigrants to mule drugs in order to cross these days. They were holding people hostage in safe houses without food or water, beating and torturing them until their families agreed to pay thousands more for their release. Twenty years ago, guys like Morales could fly from Guatemala to Mexico, hike across the California desert, hop a flight from L.A., and be in New York by dinnertime. Now, they had to accomplish the whole journey on foot or smuggled in car trunks and tractor-trailers. The process took weeks, sometimes months. Hundreds died every year in the crossings.

Chances were, if Rodrigo Morales got deported, he'd never overcome all the odds a third time. Maybe Vega had found enough evidence to keep him from a long prison sentence. But he'd tinkered with the man's fate just enough to sentence him and his family to a lifetime of poverty—or worse, a fatal attempt at another crossing. Many people would say he was one more illegal in a country chock-full of them. But Vega's mother was one more homicide in a neighborhood chock-full of them. That sort of math is always a slippery slope. If one person doesn't matter, pretty soon nobody does.

Vega tried Greco's cell again. Still no answer. He was in sight of the station house now. He pulled into the parking lot, parked across two spots, and ran into the building. He was sweating like the police were going to deport him instead of Morales. He followed the sounds of Greco's voice to the detectives' bullpen. Greco was leaning back in his chair, a red Twizzler in his mouth while Tony Ross, a uniformed officer with a shaved head and brown mustache, told a dirty joke. Something about a hooker, a football coach, and two congressmen. Or maybe it wasn't a joke. Maybe it was just the latest newspaper headline. You could never tell these days. Ross and Greco looked at him like he'd interrupted a Papal benediction.

“Well—did you?” asked Vega breathlessly.

“Did I what?” asked Greco.

“Did you get my messages? About Morales?”

“About his fingerprints? Yeah.” Greco yawned.

“Did you send them to the Feds already?”

Greco gave Tony Ross a pointed look, then shrugged. “What's the difference?”

“C'mon, Grec, don't dick around with me. Did you send them or not?”

“Jeez Vega, what's your problem? Morales isn't the president of some banana republic, you know. He's an illegal. A felon. One raid, one misdemeanor and he'll be gone anyway. Or is this about the fact that you've got the hots for Adele Figueroa?”

Vega felt as if the ambient temperature of the room had just been raised twenty degrees and someone was aiming a spotlight in his direction. He wanted to hit Louie Greco. He wanted to haul back and slam his bread-dough body across the partition. Knock the whole damn thing down. They'd have his badge for that. Maybe even his pension. But right now, it almost felt worth it to see the surprised look on Greco's fat face. Perhaps Adele had awakened some feeling inside of him, some sense of who he was and why it mattered. But that had no bearing on his actions here. He was doing this for reasons a man like Greco would never understand. There was the law. And then there was what's right. Most times, they were the same thing. But not always. Not always.

Greco went to fish a Twizzler out of a cellophane bag. Vega grabbed the bag and flung it across the room. It thudded against the copy machine. Red rods of dyed and processed sugar scattered on the floor like a child's set of pickup sticks. Greco reared back in his chair, his mouth open to somewhere between a curse and cry of shock. Vega rested his hands on the armrests of Greco's chair and leaned in close.

“Maria Elena was killed by a hit-and-run, man. A hit-and-run. Rodrigo Morales doesn't even own a goddamned bicycle. He's not our guy. I will stake my badge on it, which is probably what's gonna happen anyway once Porter gets ahold of me. Now, one more time, Grec—did you send off the prints to the Feds? Yes or no?”

“Okay, okay. Relax. Keep your shirt on, Vega. They're here. At the station. Took me and Tony freakin' forty-five minutes to get a decent set and you went and spoiled everything.”

Vega straightened. Something inside of him unclenched and took flight. He felt loose and limber the way he used to as a small boy on that first warm day of spring when he could shuck his jacket on the walk home from school and feel the sun on his bare arms. He had undone the damage. He had spared a man who would never know how close he'd come to losing everything. Or maybe he would know. Vega already sensed that Morales was not a stupid man. But in the end, it didn't matter. Jimmy Vega didn't do it for Morales. He did it for himself. As he'd told Bobby Rowland, you have to be able to look yourself in the mirror.

“Where's Morales?”

“Where do you think? Back in his holding cell.” Greco gave a longing look to the Twizzlers scattered across the dusty floor. “I cancelled the arraignment and told the assistant district attorney assigned to the case to sit tight until I spoke to you. All I can say is: this better be good, Vega. 'Cause if you're wrong, I'm personally gonna nail your ass to the wall.”

“W
ho the hell would be dumb enough to want to make an accident look like a homicide? 'Cause sure as shit, she didn't tie
herself
down in that lake.”

Vega didn't know the answer to Greco's question. All he knew was that the evidence coming in from the county police's accident reconstruction team matched his gut intuition. The crucifix Vega photographed at the site perfectly matched the one around Maria's neck in their original photo. The glass by the roadside was from a broken car headlamp. Forensics would have to match the paint chips to a make and model of car and Dr. Gupta would have to see if they could uncover any microscopic bits of hair or skin from the depression in the tree but Vega felt confident they were looking at a hit-and-run.

He wanted to release Rodrigo Morales immediately but Greco felt they should wait until they could hand him over to Scott Porter when he showed up for the now-cancelled arraignment.

“Morales trips and falls or gets mugged between here and home, and you
know
Porter's gonna be screaming we had something to do with it,” Greco explained.

Vega saw his point. Besides, Morales had waited this long. An hour more or less wasn't going to make any difference.

They were sitting in Greco's cubicle poring over Maria's immigration records when Vega received a text message. He was hoping it was word from Verizon that they were faxing over her phone records. But it was Adele. He started to text her back when he caught Greco scrutinizing him over the tops of his glasses.

“A word of advice, amigo?”

Vega stopped texting and straightened. “You want us to be amigos, don't call me that.”

“Fair enough.” Greco nodded. “But my advice stands: you gotta do a better job of keeping your personal inclinations out of this case.”

“I haven't done anything—”

“—Ah”—Greco put up a hand to silence him—“You can feed that bullshit to Adele when she texts back—again—in five minutes.” Greco nodded to Vega's phone. Vega bit his lip. Greco was a better cop than he gave him credit for. “Far as I'm concerned, on your own time you can drape yourself in Puerto Rican flags, dance a salsa, and petition to hand out green cards like they're lotto tickets for all I care. But here, you're a cop. We work together, that's gotta be your only allegiance. You get my drift?”

“I would never compromise an investigation.”

“Never say never. It's a dangerous word.” He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on top of his belly. “See, basically I like you, Vega, even if you go off half-cocked at times. Problem is, Adele does too. But she's got an agenda. And better legs.”

“I'm not dating her, you know.”

“Not yet.”

Vega put his phone away. Adele would have to wait. He shot a glance at Greco's garbage can beneath his desk where the package of Twizzlers now resided. “Does this have anything to do with a certain projectile I launched from your desk earlier?”

“No. But you owe me two packages tomorrow, ya hump. Now do some work for a change instead of busting my balls.” Greco tossed Vega Maria's immigration records. Full name: Maria Elena Jimena Santos-Alvarez. It showed just one arrest in a mass immigration raid at a food processing plant in Perkinsville, Iowa, eight years ago when she was twenty-two.

“I'm starting to think she snuck back in the country illegally at some point and had the kid,” said Greco. “When ICE arrested her in Perkinsville, she told the agents she was unmarried and childless.”

Vega read her file. It indicated that Maria was transported to Cedar Rapids after the arrest and charged with felony identity theft for having purchased a stolen Social Security card—the same crime that Morales was arrested for in Rhode Island six years later. Just as in Morales's case, the charge was plea-bargained down to a misdemeanor. She spent five months in a federal prison camp for women in Greenville, Illinois, before being deported back to Guatemala. Alone.

“There's no indication that she was deported along with any family members,” said Greco. “I know some of these people, when they get arrested, they don't tell ICE they got kids because they're afraid they'll get deported too. But that's 'cause they think they're gonna get to stay. This woman knows she's getting deported. I would think if she'd had any kids at that point, she'd want them with her.”

Vega agreed. There was no record of Maria entering the United States before or since that time, but both Vega and Greco knew that immigrants often crossed the border in both directions illegally without getting caught. Odds were, she'd had the child in Guatemala or she'd made some subsequent trip to the United States in which she'd given birth.

“Least we know we're looking for a kid who's probably younger than eight,” said Greco. “Question is: Where was she born? In the States? Or Guatemala?”

“We get the phone records, I'll call her mother,” said Vega. “She can probably tell us a lot.”

The desk sergeant buzzed Greco to let him know Scott Porter had arrived. Adele was also in the lobby.

“You fetch Morales,” said Greco. “I'll handle Porter and Adele.”

Rodrigo Morales was sitting on his bunk, elbows on his knees, his head between his hands. He looked up at the sound of the outer metal door opening. Instinctively, he got to his feet and backed against the wall of his cell. He wore his fear with the same hyper alertness as that deer Adele had just hit on Lake Holly Road. His eyes searched for sudden movements. His breathing seemed rough and shallow. He'd been in the same muddy, blood-smeared clothes for more than twenty-four hours. His face was shadowed in stubble. His fingers were black from fingerprint ink. The swelling on his lip had gone down, replaced by a brownish scab surrounded by varying pigments of purple. He looked like he needed a month's worth of sleep.

“Good news, man,” said Vega. “You're cleared. Scott Porter's upstairs. We're just finishing up the paperwork and then you're free to leave.”

“I—I am?” Morales's legs gave out and he sank down on the vinyl mattress pad covering the bunk. His eyes turned glassy. He pressed his blackened fingertips together and touched them to his forehead as if offering a prayer. His hands were shaking. Vega gave Morales a moment to collect himself before speaking.

“Her name was Santos, Rodrigo. Maria Elena Jimena Santos-Alvarez. She was thirty years old when she died. We still know nothing about her daughter.”

Vega watched Morales's face, watched the knowledge spread across his features like watercolor on paper. He wasn't bluffing. He really didn't know her name.

“The case is still open, man,” Vega told him. “So if you hear anything about what happened to Maria or you find someone who knows her daughter, you let us know, okay? We find out you didn't, it's going to be a different story.”

“I understand.”

Vega unlocked the cell door. It creaked as it swung open. The noise was jarring. It stopped your heart, made you feel for a moment the finality of a life lived inside such a space. Vega knew Morales felt it too. He shuffled out of it quickly as if it might have the power to suck him back. Vega unlocked the outer door. “You want Scott Porter to drive you home?”

“It's okay. I can walk.”

Vega eyed the man's boots. Going without socks the other day had been agony. He couldn't imagine going without decent shoes.

He led Morales upstairs to the room where he'd been processed to give him back his personal effects. He didn't have many: a cheap watch with a scuffed dial face and a cracked leather band. A key on a knotted piece of string, presumably to the room he lived in. A dog-eared photograph of three dark-haired children in front of a tidy, one-story white cement block house with a clay-tile roof. A wallet woven of brightly patterned cloth with three singles in the billfold. He showed them to Morales.

“Is that all you had in there?” The original inventory receipt stated that the wallet contained three dollars but Vega didn't want Morales later claiming that the cops had lifted a roll of twenties from him.

“Yes. Three dollars.” Vega wondered if the guy had any money at all. The only other personal items were a few coins totaling under fifty cents and a pair of shoelaces that looked as if they'd disintegrated when the officer took them out of his work boots. Morales strapped the watch back on his wrist. Then he took the wallet, key, and photograph.

“Your children?” asked Vega, pointing to the picture of the two girls with a boy in the middle. He guessed the older girl to be about twelve. She had her father's serious eyes.

Morales nodded. Vega waited for him to add something, but of course Morales wouldn't. A poor man may not have much, but he always has his story. It's his and his alone and he doesn't have to share it with anybody if he doesn't want to. Morales picked up the shoelaces and squatted down, patiently and methodically trying to relace the shredded nylon through the eyelets of his work boots. The ends of the laces were frayed and his hands were too shaky. Finally, he just stuffed the laces into his pocket and straightened.

“I will lace them later.”

“How are you going to walk?”

“I can manage. Thank you.”

“Maybe I can find some tape or string—” Vega offered. But Morales shook his head.

“It's okay. I just want to leave.”

They found Greco, Porter, and Adele in the front lobby of the police station. Adele gave Vega a smile and Vega looked away. He felt like Greco noticed every glance between them. He hoped to hand Morales over and concentrate on the new direction of the investigation. But Porter had other ideas.

“I need a moment before my client is released to speak to him privately,” said Porter.

Vega and Greco exchanged wary glances. Porter was going to try to convince Morales to assert police brutality. His charges would be much more credible now that the police had released him, just as Captain Waring had feared. Morales was probably pissed at all Vega and Greco had put him through. This would be his chance to exact some revenge and a little cash for his troubles.

Greco opened his arms like a maître d' welcoming his favorite patron. “C'mon, Scott. Let's be reasonable here. No harm done.”

“I suspect my client feels quite differently.”

Morales had no idea what the men were saying. Vega could read the panic in his eyes. He thought they were going to detain him again. Vega spoke quickly in Spanish.

“Your lawyer wants you to go back inside the station, Rodrigo.”

“No, no, no!” said Morales.

Porter scowled at Vega and spoke in Spanish as well. “The police have already let you go, Rodrigo. They can't arrest you. They just don't want you to press charges against Detective Vega for what he did to you.”

“Can we not have a UN summit here?” Greco demanded. “I'd like to be able to speak my own language in my own country and know what's going on.”

Adele translated while Vega and Porter played tug of war in Spanish with Rodrigo in the middle.

Porter: “If the detective hit you—”

Vega: “—It's a crime to lie, Rodrigo. You can go to jail—”

Porter to Vega: “—Perjury works both ways, you know,
Detective.
”

Finally, Morales waved his hands in front of his face. “No! I don't want to press any charges. I just want to go home. Please.” Morales looked over at Adele. “Señora Adele. Please can you take me home?” Clearly Morales had had enough of all of them, Porter included.

“Of course, Rodrigo.”

Porter wasn't ready to give up so fast. “If you were mistreated in any way, Rodrigo. You don't have to be afraid to step forward. They can't send you to jail for that—”

“—No,” said Morales. He waved his hands vigorously in front of him as if his words were not enough to make them understand. “Thank you, Señor Porter, for your concern. But I tripped. I was not hit. That is the truth.” Morales turned his bloodshot eyes to Vega. Vega gave the slightest nod to the man. A silent thank you. For one brief moment, each had held the other's fate in his hands. And it had gone well for both of them. So very often in Vega's experience, it doesn't.

“All right.” Porter threw up his hands and sighed. “I'm done here.” He seemed almost sorry that was the case. He left quickly, barely acknowledging any of them, including his former client. Adele and Morales headed out to the parking lot. Greco told Vega the cell phone records had just been faxed over from Verizon. They had a lot of work to do.

Vega looked through the heavy glass doors of the station house. It was dark now. Evening was here, but the sky remained a bright blue that would deepen soon. Already, lights glowed yellow behind curtains in the apartments on the other side of the station house. The phosphorus street lamps surrounding the parking lot made it feel like a stage, hushed and expectant before the opening curtain. He could see Morales walking beneath the too-bright lights, the way he had to shuffle his feet like they were still shackled, the way the open toe of his work boot kept tripping him up. Vega couldn't see the boot in the darkness but he could see the way the man compensated for it, the limp in his stride, the way he had to keep his head down, ever wary of stumbling.

“Catch up with you in a moment,” Vega told Greco.

He pushed open the doors of the police station. He wasn't wearing a jacket and the night had grown cold. He jogged across the parking lot to Adele's car. Morales had just gotten in and she was about to do the same.

“Adele! Wait up.”

She turned, her face unreadable under the harsh glare of lights.