Land of Careful Shadows (8 page)

Vega went to argue, but Greco hollowed a fist to his lips and cleared his throat. He didn't care about Joy's close call on the tracks. He was only curious when he was paid to be.

“Wanna tell Detective Vega here about our boy Reyes?” asked Greco.

Anderson pulled out his radio and presumably relayed a command to temporarily halt the trains coming from both directions into the station. Then he cautioned Greco and Vega to stay on the gravel along the outer side of the tracks. “Don't want to have happen to you what happened to Reyes.”

Vega ran his eyes over the rails. There were two parallel steel tracks lying flat to the gravel with pressure-treated wood slats in between. Beyond them, set off to the side, was the third rail. It was elevated about six inches off the ground and covered—except for the underside—in a black, shock-resistant casing. During the day, it was easy to see, easy to stay away from. But at night, in the dark, running, Vega could see how easy it would be to cross the first two tracks and think you're in the clear, only to trip on the third rail. A moment of contact, that's all it would take. There were 625 volts of direct current running through that rail. Reyes would have fried from within long before he was pulverized from without.

“That's the camera that caught Reyes's image,” said Anderson, pointing it out on the overhead walkway. “Detective Greco's seen the footage. Reyes is running at a forty-five degree angle from where I'm standing. At two-eighteen a.m. on March twenty-seventh, he crosses the tracks, looking over his left shoulder while he's running. He's pitched slightly forward. He must have not seen the third rail because three seconds later the footage shows him collapsed across the northbound tracks. The medical examiner said he died of cardiac arrest from electrocution, which is probably just as well because at two twenty-two a.m. a northbound Harlem Line four-car turned him into hamburger meat.”

“He's looking over his left shoulder?” asked Vega. “Wouldn't that suggest someone was chasing him?”

“It would,” said Anderson. “The question I keep coming back to is, why aren't we picking up the chasers?” He led Vega and Greco away from the tracks and gave an “all clear” on his radio. Then he pulled out a hand-drawn map from a pocket in his jacket and unfolded it.
Definitely ex-military
, thought Vega. It could have been an attack plan.

“This is the route from the Lake Holly Diner to Reyes's apartment,” said Anderson. His finger drew an upside down L, beginning at the diner and ending on Elm Street in
La Frontera.
Vega saw right away what the problem was. The train station wasn't on his route home. Vega frowned at the drawing, then bounced a look from Anderson to Greco.

“So, if Reyes was headed straight home, why was he running in the direction of the train station? Is that what you're wondering?” asked Vega.

“I was thinking maybe he had a señorita he liked to see after work,” said Greco. “But Reyes's sister said he always came straight home after his shift. He was too tired for anything else.”

“Here's the real problem, no matter how you slice it,” said Anderson. “Greco and I have been pulling video footage from that time and date at the banks around town. They're the only ones with cameras that operate twenty-four-seven. Nothing is coming up. We've got footage of three people using three different ATMs during that time period and we've interviewed them all. None of them saw anything and none of them fits as a suspect.”

“Maybe Reyes's attackers weren't on foot,” Vega suggested.

“We've considered that,” said Greco. “The cameras don't pick up license-plate numbers, unfortunately. But even if you consider that option, we only had a few cars in town at that hour, and that includes one of our own cruisers and a couple of emergency vehicles.”

“Emergency vehicles?”

“There was a call-out for chest pains that night to our ambulance,” Greco explained. “Bob Rowland, our volunteer fire chief, was out and about in his SUV, probably for the chest pains call. And one of our officers was in his cruiser. Everybody's been interviewed and no one saw anything.”

“So what does this mean, exactly?” asked Vega. “That Reyes was hallucinating and just decided to wander across the tracks? 'Cause from what you're saying, it sure as hell looks like he was being chased.”

“We think he may have been pulled into a car and beaten,” said Anderson. “We think he may have managed to escape somewhere near the train station and run across the tracks. But we need a witness. No witness, no case.”

“That—” Greco told Vega, “is where you come in.”

“Me?” This wasn't his case. Greco had made that amply clear at the station.

“See, I went back over the particulars of the Reyes case this morning,” said Greco. “And there was one person we never got to talk to after Reyes died: the other busboy who worked the same shift with him at the diner.”

“So you want me to talk to him?”

“We want you to
find
him,” said Greco.

“Okay. What's his name?”

“José Ortiz.”

A
busboy at the Lake Holly Diner told Vega that José Ortiz had a cousin in town, a woman named Claudia, who might know where Ortiz had disappeared to. The busboy didn't know the cousin's last name but he knew she had a son who attended the Head Start preschool that was part of La Casa.

Vega was both reassured and discomforted by this information. Reassured, because now Adele Figueroa could provide a path to Ortiz through his cousin Claudia. Discomforted, because he had to wonder if that hadn't
always
been the case. Wasn't it possible Adele
knew
Claudia was Ortiz's cousin all along? And, if she could withhold information about Ortiz, wasn't it possible she was also withholding information about the woman at the lake?

Adele was impossible to get hold of. She was in meetings every time Vega called. She didn't return messages. Not that Vega's ex-wife was any better. In between calling Adele, Vega put in a call to Wendy at Granville Middle School where she worked part-time as the school's psychologist. He wanted to know why Joy wasn't working with Dr. Feldman anymore or whether Wendy was aware of her and Kenny's breakup. Both women were unreachable. Story of his life.

He gave up reaching Adele by phone and tracked her down physically to La Casa's preschool around the corner from the main building. The preschool was housed in an aging Victorian with a bowed front porch. The backyard was enclosed in chain-link fencing and scattered with sandboxes, swings, and toys. A couple of dozen preschoolers, all Latino, ran about the yard, their voices filled with the hard exuberance that was the same in any language. Vega felt a sudden pang thinking about the baby in the flyer. He hoped she was in some playground like this somewhere. He didn't want to think she was another Desiree and he was already too late.

Vega watched two boys spinning a tire swing, wrestling with it and each other as they tried to hurl their bodies onto the rim. That's when he caught sight of a figure crouched over a small girl, tying her shoelaces. She was turned away from him so he had time to study the long curve of her neck and the smooth pink-white of her skin that reminded him of the inside of a seashell. Her blond hair mirrored the sun.

He felt such tenderness for Linda at that moment as he watched her brush dirt off the little girl's knees and zip up her jacket. She was a natural mother. He could see that. It radiated off her skin like pollen, infusing everything she touched. He could only imagine how hard it must have been for her to discover that she couldn't have any children of her own.

She rose to her feet and Vega felt a sudden panic that she might see him spying on her. He quickly ducked into the building.

He found Adele on the second floor, in what had once been a bedroom of the house and had now been converted into a makeshift office of the preschool. The room was oddly shaped to accommodate the flue of a fireplace that had been boarded up on the first floor. Plaster fissures ran up the walls like geothermal fault lines. The floors creaked when he walked across them, announcing his presence.

Adele was seated behind a desk overflowing with folders of papers in no discernable order. Across from her sat a young mother with a toddler on her lap. The young mother's long, black hair was pulled back tightly into a ponytail. A small fringe of stray hairs framed her round, high-cheekboned face. The toddler sucked on a lollipop, her dark eyes staring up at Vega as if she half-expected him to break into song. A new preschool candidate, Vega supposed. He knocked on the doorframe.

“Ms. Figueroa? Sorry to bother you but we really need to talk.”

“Perfect timing. I got your messages. Have a seat.” Adele gestured to an empty chair across from the young mother. Then she turned to the woman and spoke in Spanish to tell her Vega's name and title. He didn't see why all this was necessary. The woman was going to be leaving anyway. The mother started telling Adele in Spanish that she needed to catch the three o'clock bus. But Adele looked at her watch and replied that the woman had plenty of time and motioned for her to stay seated.

“Uh, Ms. Figueroa?” said Vega. “I need a few minutes of your time in
private.
” He spoke in English. He had a sense the mother didn't speak much English.

“I think she should stay for what you have to say.”

That's when it hit him. “Is this Claudia?”

“Claudia?” Adele laced her fingers under her chin. She had a way of making Vega feel a step behind in all their encounters, like he was always walking in on the punch line without hearing the joke.

“A busboy at the Lake Holly Diner told me José Ortiz has a cousin in town named Claudia.”

“Claudia Acevedo, yes,” said Adele. “She has a three-year-old son, Damian, who attends preschool here.”

Vega felt a cinch at the back of his neck, a tightening in his jaw. He'd been as honest as he could yesterday. And for what? So she could play games with him until she could tip off Ortiz? He braced a fist on one thigh and leaned forward.

“Do you mean to tell me that you knew
all along
that I could find Ortiz through his cousin?”

“Detective—”

“—This is not some moot court at Harvard, you know, Ms. Figueroa. I found out this morning that Ortiz worked with Ernesto Reyes. He was the last person to see him alive. He may be the
only
person who can help the police find out whether Reyes was chased to his death. Don't you care about that? Or about the fact that his wife, Vilma, could be the body we found in the lake?”

“She's not. I can assure you.”

“What are you, Ortiz's lawyer all of a sudden?”

“No, Detective. But this”—she gestured to the woman in the chair—“is Vilma Ortiz. And her daughter, Bettina.”

The young mother, who clearly didn't understand a word of their conversation in English, bowed her head slightly at the sound of her name. Vega regarded her warily. He'd been blindsided by Adele on one too many occasions to look pleased that his supposed victim was sitting right beside him.

“I already know how your suspicious cop mind works,” said Adele.

She turned to the mother and asked in Spanish for ID. The woman rummaged through her purse and produced a Lake Holly library card and a bottle of prescription eye medicine, both in the name of Vilma Ortiz. She handed them to Adele who turned them over to Vega. That was about as good an ID as Vega was likely to get from an undocumented woman in the state of New York. He handed them back to Vilma with a quick
gracias.
Then he pulled out a pad and pen from a jacket pocket.

“Can I have your current address and phone number, señora?” He asked in Spanish.

Vilma shot a hesitant look at Adele who nodded. In a soft, childlike voice, Vilma gave Vega her cell phone number and an address in Granville. Vega was able to verify the cell number on the spot by dialing it and having Vilma answer. The address was more problematic. He tapped his pen on his notebook. Adele seemed to read his mind.

“You're not here to hunt down José Ortiz for a missed court date, Detective,” she said in English. “You're here to ask for his cooperation as a witness in a potential homicide. You start playing heavy-handed, you'll likely just scare the Ortizes off.”

“Are you the appointed spokesperson for the family now?” he shot back. “I should arrest
you
for obstruction of justice.”

“On what grounds? I knew as little as you did yesterday. I'm just better at talking to people than you are.”

“And when were you going to tell me about these talks? When the Ortizes sent a postcard from Miami?”

“As soon as I knew why they ran. You know it too, apparently.”

“Reyes.”

Adele nodded. “Vilma tells me José knows the police want to speak to him about Reyes but he's afraid because of the harassment charge. He feels he's in enough trouble with the police already.”

“So he skips out on his court date? On his rent? He doesn't think that's going to get him into
more
trouble?”

Adele sighed. “You're asking a man who's had to run from authority figures his whole life to suddenly trust them. It doesn't work that way. I already told Vilma that her husband's best defense is to follow the law. But even I'm not always persuasive.”

Vega thought about Vilma's beating six weeks ago and wondered whether a man like Ortiz could be persuaded of anything by a woman. He handed Vilma his business card and issued his own plea in Spanish. “Please, señora—tell the señor to call me. The police might be able to work something out with the missed court date. But he needs to come forward. Ernesto Reyes-Cardona has a family too. A sister right here in Lake Holly who believes he was chased to his death. Your husband is the only one who might know what happened.”

“But my husband says he didn't see anything.”

“There may be some small thing he has forgotten that might be important. The police will never know unless they interview him.”

The young mother tucked Vega's business card in her bag and rose, clutching her daughter tightly in her arms. She bowed her head. “Thank you very much, señor, señora. You have been very kind to speak to me today. I will talk to my husband. I will tell him to speak to you.” Vilma sounded willing and compliant but Vega knew from experience that poor Latinos always showed deference to authority. It did not necessarily mean they would follow through. Vilma looked at Adele. “May I leave?”

“The detective has no legal right to detain you.” Adele shot Vega a look that dared him to contradict her. She could feel his fury even before she'd finished seeing Vilma and Bettina to the door. He had his legs stretched out in front of him until they reached halfway under her desk. He'd taken over the room.

“Look, Ms. Figueroa,” he said as soon as Vilma was out of earshot. “I don't like the way you do business here. You should've called me as soon as you got a lead on Ortiz.”

Adele calmly took a seat behind her desk. She sat very straight in her chair and looked Vega in the eye. She was not the sort of woman who crumbled when a man berated her. This center would never have come into being if she were so easily cowed by men with power.

“You said, as I recall, Detective, that you wanted to
talk
to Mr. Ortiz. Which implies you needed his cooperation. If I'd simply turned over his whereabouts to you, he would have run, or developed amnesia, and you'd have nothing.”

“You think anything's different after our little sit-down today?”

“I think Vilma will try to persuade her husband to come forward.”

“Like she persuaded him not to beat the crap out of her six weeks ago—huh?” Vega took her silence for affirmation. “Take it from me, Ms. Figueroa, he'll never come forward. People like him always say one thing and do another.”

“People—like—him
.” She repeated Vega's words slowly. “Are you referring to lawbreakers or immigrants without papers?”

“Technically, they're one in the same.”

Adele felt something cold and hard settle in her gut. A vestigial response she could never entirely suppress. She would always be fourteen around cops.

“My mother and father had no papers, Detective Vega. They were hard-working, law-abiding people. Their sole crime was to want a better life for their children. In my book, they were heroes. So don't talk to me about your
technicalities.
”

Vega ran the back of his hand across his lips and regarded her for a long moment. He wore no rings—wedding or otherwise. She had a sense he was divorced.

“The police give your parents a hard time when you were growing up?”

“My parents never gave them cause.”

“Doesn't mean it didn't happen.” He leaned forward, chin resting on tented fingers. His eyes changed color in different lights, she noticed. Yesterday, they were the color of bittersweet chocolate. Today, with the sunlight streaming through the office, there were flecks of dark honey in the irises. She realized he was looking for an honest answer.

“My mother and father were teachers in Ecuador. Here, they scrubbed office toilets. They dreamed of owning their own business—just a little immigrant phone service center—nothing fancy. But that's impossible if you're undocumented. So they found a neighbor who was legal. She agreed to put her name on all the paperwork in exchange for a share of the profits. My parents worked for five years to get that business off the ground. Eighteen hours a day, every day. My sister and I had to raise ourselves. We didn't even see them except at work. When they finally started to turn a profit, the neighbor stole it all. Changed the locks on the doors. Took everything. All the phone cubicles my father had built by hand. The computers. The bank account. I went with my father to the police to help him file a complaint and the officers laughed at him.
Laughed.
They called him a wetback and said he got what he deserved. He never got over it. Two years later, he died of a heart attack. He was only forty-eight.”

“I'm sorry,” Vega said softly. “That must have been hard.”

Adele nodded. She couldn't remember telling that story to anybody.

“The cops in Lake Holly—they give you a lotta grief?”

“Comes with the territory. But it's not just them. Grants and donations have been down since the Shipley incident. Our preschool director just left because she could get twice the money elsewhere. And in June, our lease at the community center is up. The landlord's not sure he wants to renew.”

“Commercial property should be a cinch to rent in this economy,” said Vega. “I'll bet you can get your pick.”