A Blossom of Bright Light (15 page)

Vega passed a copy of the flyer to her and Inés.

“Do you recognize her?” Vega asked the women.

“The girl—she's dead?” asked Inés.

“Yes,” said Vega. There was no way to disguise the obvious.

“I don't know her,” said Inés. “How did she die?”

“That's still under investigation.”

Claudia stared at the flyer. “Where did you find her?”

“She was discovered on the grounds of the community college campus,” said Vega. “Maybe you've seen her around town?”

Claudia tucked a wiry strand of hair back into her bun. She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.”

“Can I put up a flyer on your bulletin board?” He nodded to the overflowing corkboard by the register that was filled with notices for English tutors and courier services. “Maybe someone in town will recognize her.”

Claudia hesitated. She had the reaction Adele had predicted. But like many Latinos, she hated saying no, especially to an authority figure. Instead, she took the flyer and mumbled, “I'll see what I can do.” Vega was already betting the flyer would get tossed in the trash as soon as he was out the door.

The men took Vega's conversation with Claudia and Inés as their cue to be excused. Vega heard the sleigh bells jingle as they slipped out of the store. Inés was leaning on her elbows, biting her pouty lips and staring at the flyer, when Neto came over again, asking for his sandwich.

“Oh, sorry,” said Inés. She walked off to make it, leaving the flyer still resting on the counter. Neto pointed a stubby finger at the photograph.

“Mia's—sleeping?”

“Mia?”
Vega felt his breath cinch in his chest. “You
know
her?”

Neto screwed up his face and bit down on his lip just like his mother. “That's Mia.”

Claudia hustled over. “Neto! Don't make up stories!”

Vega ignored her and focused on Neto. “How do you know Mia?”

“I see her with her mami. At the car wash. She likes Chicha, my dog. She says hi to me. A lot of people don't say hi to me.”

Vega pulled out a pen. “When did you see her last?”

“When?” Neto repeated.

“Today? Yesterday? Last week?”

Neto shook his head vigorously back and forth like he was trying to shake something loose.

“You see?” said Claudia to Vega. “He doesn't understand. You're wasting your time.”

“Doña Claudia,” said Vega, using his most respectful tone. Adele would have his head otherwise. “Please let me be the judge of that.” He turned back to Neto and decided to try a different approach. “So Mia's mother is a customer of the car wash?”

Neto frowned. “Customer?”

Carajo!
Vega hated to admit Claudia was probably right. “Mia's mother—she gets her car washed there?”

“Oh yes. Yes! She gives me a good tip!”

“So other people have seen Mia at the car wash?” Vega was hoping he could find another witness.

“I don't know,” said Neto. “Mia goes away sometimes.”

“Where does Mia live?”

“In a birdhouse.”

“A birdhouse?”
Coño!

“I told you,” said Claudia. “Neto doesn't understand.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Vega tried every which way to get something more out of the teenager—a description of the girl, a description of her mother—the name of another witness. Neto wanted to help, but he was so suggestible that in the end, Vega couldn't tell whether anything Neto readily agreed to had actually happened. After fifteen minutes, Neto seemed on the verge of tears, and Adele was glaring at Vega like he'd just water-boarded the kid. As soon as they got into his car with their sandwiches, she exploded.

“What the hell did you think you were doing in there?”

“I wasn't doing anything.”

“You were riding Neto like he's a suspect. He's a disabled kid, Jimmy! His grandmother and I go back years.”

“I asked him a few questions, that's all.”

“And he answered them because he trusts you.
Claudia
trusts you. Because we're—we're—”

“—We're what? I don't even know myself anymore.” Vega tossed his sandwich to one side. He suddenly didn't feel very hungry.

Adele blinked at his reflection in the window, then slumped in her seat. “You're not coming to Schulman's gala Saturday night, are you?”

“To watch you dump me publicly?”

“I never said we had to break things off. That was your idea.”

“And how are we supposed to have a relationship with me here and you down in D.C.? I'm supposed to tuck my laptop between the sheets and pretend it's you in bed beside me?”

“That's all I am to you? A friend with benefits?”

“
Ay, puñeta!
Of course not!”

“Then why can't you support my desires and ambitions?”

“I do! I know you're smart—much smarter than I'll ever be. And I want what's best for you, Nena. It's just—why is it that what's best for you is not to be with me?”

They were both silent after that. Then Adele laid a hand tenderly on his thigh. “I want you, Jimmy. That part hasn't changed.”

He pulled her toward him and cupped her face in his hands. He brushed a calloused thumb across her mouth, then leaned in and gave her a long, sensual kiss, his tongue softly caressing the contours of her lips until they parted and she welcomed him, the sandpaper thrust of his tongue, his hot breath on her neck, the stubble of his skin.

The temperature inside his Impala rose ten degrees. Already, he felt sweaty with desire. He brushed her hair back from her neck and ran his fingers playfully down to her collarbone before he remembered he was on duty in an unmarked police car. He pushed away and took a deep breath like some pimply-faced adolescent caught French-kissing behind the school.

“Sorry,” he said when he'd regained his composure. “Losing my job's one way we can be together.”

Their eyes met in the reflection of the front windshield.

“Maybe when you get off work tonight,” said Adele, “we should talk—”

Her words were interrupted by Vega's cell phone. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He cursed under his breath. “It's Greco. I have to take it.”

“Vega,” he answered, the way he always did when on duty.

“Where's Joy?” Greco growled into the phone. An odd question.

“Dunno. Probably finishing up her classes. Why?”

“Can you get hold of her?”

“We already cleared up everything with Dolan this morning.”

“From your mouth to God's ear, Vega. Joy's gonna need to come home ASAP. And you're gonna need to call a lawyer. Dolan's executing a search warrant at your ex's place as we speak.”

“What?”
Vega leaned forward, his muscles suddenly rigid. Adele must have sensed the change because she put a hand on his elbow and gave him a quizzical look. He shifted away. He didn't want any distractions at the moment.

“Your pal Dolan just finished paying a little visit to WastePro Management,” said Greco. “Lake Holly has a contract with them for garbage pickup.”

“So?”

“Seems Dolan got that lady state trooper to take her dog to their sorting facility down in Port Carroll. And the word coming back ain't good. That mutt just picked up traces of the dead girl's blood on a quilt—”

“Which could have come from anywhere, Grec.”

“Not when the quilt has your daughter's name on it in laundry marker.”

V
ega dropped Adele back at La Casa with a thumbnail sketch of his conversation with Greco and a quick “I'll call you later.” He managed to get hold of Joy by phone just as she was about to leave campus to meet with a student. He told her only that the police were at her house and she should cancel her afternoon tutoring sessions. He didn't want to alarm her more than he had to. Instead, he asked her to meet up with him in a commuter parking lot ten minutes south of town so he could explain things more fully. Thank God Greco had given him a heads-up. The man had broken every rule to do it—and Vega would be forever grateful.

As soon as Joy's white Volvo pulled into the parking lot, Vega nosed his blue Impala behind her, parked, and let himself into the Volvo's front passenger seat. He began speaking as soon as he shut the door. There was a good chance that his guys were on the lookout for her car, and he didn't want to get spotted before they'd had a chance to talk.

“That state police trooper on campus yesterday?” he said. “The one with the dog?”

“Daisy.” There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice. She still saw that culturally confused German shepherd as some cute pet-shop puppy instead of the relentless police tool it had been trained to be. She jingled her keys, already bored by what she perceived would be some sort of parental lecture.

“Well,
Daisy,
as you say, is at your mother's house right now. With the trooper. And they're not giving demonstrations. This is for real, Joy. Detective Dolan obtained a warrant to search the property.” Vega wanted to deck that Irish bastard with his smooth-as-Guinness charm for going behind Vega's back today. But he knew it wasn't personal. Dolan wouldn't be a good cop if he allowed himself to be blinded by their friendship. Taking that stupid dog to the dump was a clever bit of police work. It required no warrant, so no one would have been any the wiser if it had produced nothing. Of course, once that dog found Joy's quilt, all bets were off.

“You told me about the search warrant on the phone,” said Joy impatiently. “I guess if they have to do it”—she shrugged—“I understand.”

“You understand? You
understand?
” Vega felt his blood pressure rising, felt it pulsing up his neck and through the arteries to his brain until his whole head throbbed from it. “That dog you like so much uncovered a quilt in the dump today in Port Carroll with your name on it and this girl's blood.”

“A quilt? I didn't throw away a quilt in Port Carroll. Why would I go all the way down to Port Carroll to do that?”

For a smart girl, she could be pretty thick sometimes,
thought Vega. “The garbage company that picks up trash in Lake Holly has their sorting facility in Port Carroll. The quilt is yours, Joy. It has your name on it in laundry marker.”

“But I don't know her!”

“I've got a witness who says her name might be Mia.”

“The only Mia I know is Mia Soloff. We were on the same tennis team in high—”

“She's not Mia Soloff!”

“Okay, Dad. Chill.”

“Chill?
That girl was found in
your
hoodie, on
your
college campus, and now her blood is on
your
quilt.”

“You think I'm lying?”

“Are you?”

“How could you even ask me that?”

Vega slumped in his seat and rubbed his eyes. “I want to believe you, Chispita. I do. But see . . .” He couldn't tell her about the link between the dead teenager and the abandoned baby. It could compromise the whole investigation. Yet he had to know what he was dealing with here. He just had to.

“The other day when we were at the hospital, you asked me what would happen to a girl who abandoned her baby—do you remember?” asked Vega.

“I remember.”

Vega closed his eyes and chose his words carefully. “You—expressed a lot of sympathy for a woman in that situation.”

“So?”

“If someone like that came to you—would you—would you maybe try to do something to help them?”

“Help them how?”

Vega leveled his gaze at her and spoke the words slowly. “Make the child go away.”

“What? You mean like an abortion?”

Vega wanted to scream the facts to her:
A teenage girl died in a botched childbirth. Her blood was found on a quilt with your name on it. Her body was buried on your college campus. Wearing your hoodie. Her newborn was smothered by a female hand in the woods not far from where you live.
People were sent away for twenty-five to life on less evidence than this.

Instead, he stayed very still and said nothing.

“I didn't help anyone get an abortion, if that's what you're asking me. Is it, Dad? Did this girl die from an abortion?”

“I can't comment.” He sighed. “You'll need a lawyer.” He dialed Wendy's cell and explained the situation as best he could. He had to repeat, “I don't know” and “I can't comment” so many times, Wendy finally hung up on him. Then he called Dolan and told him Joy was coming home and he would be following her in his unmarked.

Twelve minutes later, they were pulling up to Wendy's house, a massive whitewashed Georgian with columns down the front, a three-car garage, and a wide, Belgian-block-lined driveway that bisected a nearly treeless acre of lawn.

There were six police vehicles parked at the curb and along the driveway by the time Vega pulled behind Joy's Volvo. Cops in and out of uniform were traipsing through the double-height front entrance door, yammering on their radios, treating the whole event like a giant opportunity to milk some overtime. A lot of them knew Vega, so his presence had a chilling effect on the scene. They kept their heads down as soon as they caught sight of him or ducked back into the house to avoid an encounter. Cops defined the world as “us” and “them.” They didn't have a clue how to handle a situation where “us” and “them” were one and the same.

Dolan hustled over as soon as Joy got out of her car. He kept his body language light and breezy, but there was no mistaking the forced good humor in the smile beneath his bushy blond mustache as he extended a hand. Joy must have felt it too. She looked pale and shaky when she shook it. Dolan held out his hand to Vega. Vega ignored it, gesturing instead to the gridlock of black-and-whites.

“Jesus Christ, Teddy! Did you have to turn this into a freakin' circus?” Behind the neighbors' expensive window treatments, they had to be taking notice.

“I can't change the rules just because she's your daughter, man. Serving a search warrant's a messy business. You know that. Believe me, I don't want this any more than you do.”

“How long did you wait to search the dump after we met this morning? Ten minutes? Did you even take a piss first?”

“C'mon, Jimmy. In my shoes, you'd have done the same thing. I didn't expect to
find
anything. This”—Dolan gestured to the open front door and squawk of radios inside—“is as much of a surprise to me as I'm sure it is to you.” Dolan turned to Joy. He kept that used-car salesman's smile on his face. “Joy? I'm gonna need to talk to you for a little bit.”

Vega stepped in front of her. “My daughter talks through her lawyer. Same as any suspect with half a brain.”

“That's the way you want to play it?” asked Dolan. “You want a formal arrest? Your daughter handcuffed in front of all your ex-wife's neighbors?”

“Daddy!” Joy started crying. It was finally dawning on her what she was up against. “I didn't do anything. I swear!”

“Shhh.” Vega put his arms around her and pulled her close. The shushing wasn't just to calm her—it was to shut her up as well. For all Vega knew, Joy could be protecting someone else, someone whose full culpability Joy didn't even fully understand yet. A statement like, “I didn't do anything” was all prosecutors would need to convict her as an accessory down the line.

“Please don't let them arrest me, Daddy!”

Vega rubbed her back and stared over it at Dolan. “He's not gonna arrest you. If he were, he'd have done it already.” They both knew that no cop gives a damn about neighbors if he's got enough evidence to slap on the cuffs. Dolan's threat was a bluff to get Joy to talk. She couldn't see it, but Vega could. His heart lifted slightly. If Dolan didn't think he had enough for probable cause, there was still a chance to set things right.

“Go inside,” Vega instructed her. “Find your mother. And don't open your mouth to
anyone
. Not even to Mom. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Dad.” Her voice sounded swallowed and scared. Vega waited until she'd gone inside before he spoke again.

“Level with me, Teddy. What have you got?”

Dolan shook his head. “Enough to arrest her, despite your little show of bravado just now.”

“Then why haven't you?”

“Because I'm a dad and a cop too, Jimmy. Andre and Keisha will be teenagers one day, and I don't want to take a fellow cop down that road if I can help it.” Dolan held his gaze. “That's why the best thing for Joy right now is to talk to me.”

“Yeah, right,” Vega snorted. “Let her swim with the sharks.”

“Sounds like you think she's guilty.”

“She's not.”

“Says every parent.”

“No. I know by her dopey, glib answers that she's telling the truth. Plus, I've got information that may clear her.”

“Yeah? What?” asked Dolan, not really listening.

“I just came from Claudia's bodega in town. Her teenage grandson ID'd the dead girl as someone named Mia who visits the car wash where he works. He mentioned her visiting with her mom.”

Dolan pulled out his notebook. “Go on.”

“That's—sort of it,” said Vega. “The grandson's mentally retarded—”

“So in other words, you don't know if any of it's accurate.”

“It bears checking out.”

“And I will.” Silence.

“See, the way this works,” said Vega, “is that you offer me something now.”

More silence.

“All right. I'll begin,” said Vega. “As I understand it, you went to WastePro's dumping facility down in Port Carroll and the dog found a quilt with Joy's name on it and the girl's blood—”

“Who told you that?”

“The tooth fairy.” Dolan probably knew where Vega got his information from, but it did neither cop any good to start pointing fingers. “Are you sure it isn't Joy's blood?” asked Vega.

“Positive,” said Dolan. “I can't give you any details, but we're awaiting a DNA matchup, and I'm ninety-nine percent sure it's gonna be a match to the dead girl on campus.”

“Okay. So you found her blood on Joy's quilt. A lot of it?”

Dolan hesitated. “I can't answer that one.”

“You find it on anything besides the quilt?”

Dolan ran a hand across his shaved head and looked away. “Jesus, man. I shouldn't even be talking to you—”

Vega could feel Dolan disengaging. He plowed ahead. Joy's life depended on it. “If you'd found evidence of the dead girl in the house or any of the vehicles, Joy would be in custody now. So I'm guessing you haven't gotten another hit outside of that quilt at the dump.”

“We haven't checked Joy's car yet. She had it with her.”

“Which backs up my theory that you haven't found blood elsewhere or you wouldn't be all that concerned about checking her Volvo.”

Dolan didn't argue. Vega knew he was right. “So we're back to the quilt at the dump. Did my ex-wife tell you whether she'd given it away like she did the hoodie?”

“She said she gave both items away over the summer. But she's got nothing to back up her claim. She didn't give it to a store. She says she put a couple of trash bags of donations together sometime in July or August and gave them to Rosa, her live-in housekeeper, to dump in the bins over by the shopping center.”

“Doesn't mean that's not what happened.”

“And what are the odds, Vega, that a dead girl is in possession of
two
items of your daughter's in separate locations and your daughter's
not
involved?”

“For all you know, maybe Rosa knows the dead girl. Maybe she helped out at the house and she cut herself at some point—”

“We interviewed Rosa. She says she never saw the girl before.”

“Not for nothing, but my daughter's saying the same thing. Why take Rosa's word?”

“Because the girl wasn't found wearing Rosa's hoodie.”

Vega tried a different tack. “Listen, Teddy—I want to do the right thing. If Joy's involved, I want her to own up to it. So convince me. I believe you that the dog found that teenager's blood on Joy's quilt. But what's that prove? Nothing, in my book.”

“All of that trash the dog went through was picked up today in Lake Holly,” said Dolan.

“It could have come from anywhere in Lake Holly. Can you say for sure that it came from Joy's garbage?”

“No. But you're focusing on the wrong part of the equation,” said Dolan. “
Where
we found our evidence is the one thing keeping your daughter out of jail this minute. But you need to focus on
what
we found and why it's the whole case.”

“Blood—I get it. From the girl.”

Dolan held his gaze, and a slow dawning crept into Vega, curdling the remains of the ham and cheese sandwich he'd eaten earlier.
Blood.
From a teenager who'd just given birth. A girl whose body showed no external wounds when Vega saw her in the woods yesterday. This wasn't a cut or scrape. This was—