A Blossom of Bright Light (31 page)

Chapter 43

A
state police trooper unlatched the bolt across the door that separated the car wash from the office.

“What the—?”

Vega pushed past him with Luna in his arms, both of them trailing puddles of water and white foam. She was breathing on her own at least now—a good sign. Still, her pulse was erratic and she was shaking uncontrollably. Vega laid Luna across a bench in the office and scanned the parking lot. He expected Esme to have taken the CRV and left. But the CRV was still parked in the exact same spot.

“Sir?” said the trooper. “I'm going to need to ask you—”

Vega cut him off. There was no time to spare. He fished a soggy wallet out of his wet pants and opened it to his badge and ID. “I'm a detective with the county police. I'm the cop who called in the shooting.” Vega didn't want the trooper to mistake him for the suspect. “The assailant is a thirty-one-year-old Hispanic female by the name of Esmeralda Gonzalez. She's armed. Have you apprehended her yet?”

“I just pulled in and saw your car parked down the road a little ways and the victim in that Mercedes. I haven't seen anyone else.”

Vega flashed on his last words to Adele:
Promise me you'll stay back where it's safe.

Coño!
For once, she'd listened.

He fished his cell phone out of his pocket. He couldn't get it to turn on. There were watermarks beneath the screen. He cursed.

“You need a phone?” asked the trooper, handing Vega his.

“Thanks. Do you have an emergency blanket in your car for the girl?”

“Affirmative. I'll get it now.” Vega dialed Adele. Her phone rang, then went to voice mail.

The trooper hustled back through the doors with a thermal blanket that looked like a roll's worth of aluminum foil. Vega spoke quickly. There was no time to spare.

“I need you to wrap the girl and stay with her until the ambulance arrives,” said Vega. He bent down so Luna could see him. “I'll be right back, Mija
.
My vehicle's parked just down the road. I need to check on something.” No way did he want to advertise that he'd brought a civilian to a crime scene. No way did he want Adele out there by herself.

His black leather lace-ups squished as he ran across the asphalt parking lot. Adrenaline was keeping him warm, pumping him up with anxiety and dread. She should have been at that gala for Schulman tonight. She should have been accepting a political post in Washington, D.C.—not out here on this dark, forsaken two-lane with a small-time cop who couldn't rescue a kid without nearly getting her killed. A lot of good he could do anybody now anyway. His phone was toast. It was possible his radio and gun were too. About the only thing that still worked was his cheap Timex watch. It showed eight thirty on the dial. The whole reason Adele had come out here was to try to free Manuel Serrano, and already, it seemed too late.

He turned onto the road and was momentarily reassured to see Adele standing behind the open front-passenger door of his car. Beneath her black coat, her green dress shimmered in the staccato pulse of red and blue police lights. But something in her face stopped Vega. Even in the hazy glow of police lights, he could see fear in the set of her jaw, the startled deer expression in her eyes. And then he realized why: Esme was standing behind Adele. He didn't need to see the gun to know it was there and that she'd willingly use it. She'd already killed the father of her three sons. She'd have no compunction about shooting Adele.

“Whoa, Esme.” Vega skidded to a stop. “You don't want to do that.” He spoke to her in Spanish, hoping the familiar sound might soothe her. He held his hands in the air. His body heat was wearing off, and his clothes had gone cold and clammy on his skin. Every movement felt like he was being jabbed with an icicle.

“Then give me the keys to the car and back off,” said Esme in Spanish. “I'll drop Adele off when I'm away from here.”

No way could he let her leave with Adele.

“Calm down, okay? I'll give you the keys,” Vega lied. “Just put down the gun. Nobody needs to get hurt. You've got no argument with Adele.”

“Give me the keys!”

“They're in my pocket, all right?” he said calmly. He took a step closer.

“Stay where you are.”

“I'm just trying to get them out. My fingers are cold. My clothes are wet.” He was shivering badly. He didn't want the tremors in his body to show up in his voice. She'd mistake it for fear. That was one thing he couldn't show, no matter how much he felt it. He pretended to dig in his pocket.

“Hurry up,” she demanded.

“My clothes are stuck to my skin. This isn't easy.”

He was playing for time. For what purpose? Even if ten police cars showed up right now, it wouldn't change the fact that Adele was Esme's hostage. He couldn't even get the jump on her with his gun. Hers probably worked. His probably didn't.

He dug into his pocket while he sized up the situation. He had Esme and Adele standing behind the passenger door of his county unmarked. He was standing a few feet in front.

“I'm getting the keys. Hold on.” He started to tug a set of car keys from his pocket. The wrong keys—the ones to his Ford truck. His next step depended on Adele—on her reading him and him reading her. Could they still do that? After all that had happened? Vega had to chance it.

He shot Adele a look as he pulled the keys from his pocket and pretended to fumble them. They landed in the gravel and dirt by his feet. Esme's eyes followed.
Now,
Vega's eyes screamed to Adele. She seemed to get his drift. Instantly, she took a small step sideways from the open car door. It was the break Vega needed. He leapt forward and pushed the passenger door into Esme, catching her body in the middle like a vise. He felt the spongy give of pinched flesh and muscle, the thud as her head hit the top of the door frame. Esme screamed and dropped the gun. Vega kicked it to the side.

“Shoot me!” Esme yelled at Vega as he maneuvered to the other side of the car door and grabbed her by the shoulder. He pushed her to the ground, thankful that wet handcuffs worked as well as dry ones. He snapped a cuff on one wrist. He had to sit on her to snap the other, she was fighting so hard.

Uniformed troopers and local cops began running along the side of the road to assist. Vega just hoped they didn't trample his truck keys. He didn't want to spend half the night searching through the bushes for them. He pulled Esme to her feet.

“I told you to kill me!” she screamed again in Spanish. She tried to head-butt him in a vain attempt to force his hand.

Vega pushed her hard against the car, then patted her down. “That would be your choice, wouldn't it?” he said between breaths. “You wouldn't have to live with what you've done. The humiliation. The guilt. But you're going to.”

“How about what
he
did? That girl was my daughter! That baby was my granddaughter!”

Vega stood very still as the full measure of the crime washed over him.

Esme hung her head and began to cry. “Do you see what he took from me?” she sobbed. “Do you understand
now?
Men make the rules. And women suffer. It has always been. It will always be.”

A uniformed state trooper walked up to Vega and pushed a heat-reflective blanket onto his shoulders. He must have been shivering more than he realized. He couldn't have processed Esme's booking if he tried. They would sort jurisdiction out later.

Adele was shivering almost as much as Vega. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. But he was too wet and grimy for that, and he didn't want any of the other cops to start asking questions about what she was doing here. They both got into the car and turned on the heater.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I don't know what ‘all right' is anymore.” She took a deep breath. “Is Luna . . . okay?”

“I think she will be—in time.”

“Esme shot her?”

“No, thank goodness.” Before he could say more, they heard the siren and saw an ambulance turning into the shopping center. Vega glanced at his battered watch. Eight thirty-five p.m. “I guess you lost your chance to spring Luna's dad. Maybe Esme has a point about men making all the rules. The powerful ones, anyway.”

Adele sat up very straight all of a sudden. She began rummaging through her handbag. “Not this time.” She pulled out her phone.

“What are you going to do?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” She hit a speed-dial number on her phone.

“Y'ello,” said a male voice as he picked up.

“Steve? Can you hear me?” Adele hit her speakerphone button so Vega could hear. There was congratulatory cheering in the background.

“I'm not talking about this Serrano situation anymore tonight. You hear me, Adele? I'm through.”

“Oh no, you're not. You're dialing Judge Hallard right now and promising him any goddamn thing you need to to bring Manuel Serrano back to his kids. And I'm calling him afterward to verify it's been done.”

“We already went through this—”

“Well, maybe you'd better go through it again. I'm at the police scene now. You don't even want to
know
about the shit that's gonna hit the fan tomorrow on this. If you don't get Serrano signed, sealed, and delivered back to New York by Monday and work to get him and Luna legal residency, when this storm hits I will see to it that every Hispanic organization in the northeast knows about your cozy little relationship with a longtime rapist and his murderous wife. By the time I'm through, you won't be able to run for a spot on the Lake Holly Garden Committee without exciting a media protest.”

Schulman's voice got soft and steely. “You've just put the nail in your political future. I hope you know that, Adele.”

“I'm calling Hallard in ten minutes. Come through or I start calling all my contacts.”

She disconnected the call and sank back in her seat, covering her face with her hands to blot out the spectacle of police cruisers and cops before her. Vega put a hand on her thigh.

“Oh God, Nena,” he said in a husky voice. “I'm so sorry.”

“I thought you wanted me to stay.”

“But not like this! Not stuck here because you burned all your bridges. It's like Greco said. You're a peregrine falcon. You need to fly at your own altitude.”

She took her hands away from her face and looked at him. “
Louis
Greco said that?”

“Yeah.”

Adele grinned. “And I thought his charms didn't extend beyond four letters.”

“But he's right.” Vega ran a hand through his wet hair. “I want you to do what makes you happy. Here or D.C. or—wherever.”

Adele's phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Judge Hallard.”

Vega watched her take the call. “Yes, eleventh-hour deal making. I quite agree. Yes, thank you, Judge.” She caught Vega's eye and gave him a thumbs-up. “You have a great trip to China.” She clicked off the call.

“So,” said Vega. “Serrano's order of removal will be rescinded?”

Adele nodded. “Hallard already looked at the case. He was waiting for the go-ahead. I want to tell Luna before they take her to the hospital.”

Vega laced his hand in hers. “You gave up a lot tonight.”

“Yeah. I guess.” She squeezed his hand. “Then again, maybe I held on to what counts.”

Chapter 44

T
he commuter plane touched down on the runway. Vega watched it through the windows of the waiting area. The county airport was a small facility, used mostly for corporate jets and a few discount carriers that took passengers to Florida in the winter. But it did a regular route to Washington, D.C.

Vega clutched a bouquet of peach roses—Adele's favorite—as he searched the crowd of passengers pouring into the baggage-claim area. He saw families with strollers, businesspeople with laptops and briefcases. And then he saw Adele. She was dressed in a navy-blue jacket and skirt and wheeling a carry-on suitcase. Her black-rimmed reading glasses were perched atop her head and brought to mind the high-powered lawyer she'd once been, as if her time at La Casa had just been a quiet interlude before she set off again for bigger horizons. Vega wondered if he should have worn something better for the occasion than faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap. Joy had urged him to dress up when she called to wish him good luck this morning. He should have listened. If there was one thing Joy knew about, it was clothes.

He rocked back and forth on the heels of his lace-up boots, the way he always did when he was nervous. His mouth was dry. It was late November and cold in the terminal, but already he was sweating. She hadn't spotted him yet. The wheels of her suitcase had gotten snagged on an upturned part of the walkway rug, and she was trying to lift the case over the hump. He wished she'd see him so he could read the verdict in her eyes. Her face at a distance told him nothing.

The last few weeks had been a roller coaster for both of them. Schulman easily defeated John Sawyer to win a seat in the U.S. Senate. Adele, however, was no longer part of that victory. In return for Schulman's grudging cooperation in getting Manuel Serrano's order of removal rescinded, Adele said nothing publicly on the Gonzalez scandal. In private, she told Vega she felt certain Schulman knew more about Gonzalez's proclivities than he let on. Regardless of whether that was true or not, the situation had soured both Adele and Schulman on any sort of partnership.

Vega kept reminding Adele that she'd made the right choice. She could never have worked for him after what had transpired. But in the days and weeks after the election, Vega began to understand the deeper dilemma Adele was facing. Up until that moment, her life as executive director and founder of La Casa had been a choice. Now, it seemed like a sentence. A door had been shut, and Adele grieved the loss. Her political passions and ambitions weren't separate from who she was; they were part of her. She could no more live without them than he could live without his music. And so, in late November, when Adele received a call from Judge Hallard to tell her he'd been impressed by her drive and had recommended her for a policy position at a think tank in Washington, D.C., Vega encouraged her to interview for it. And now here he was, standing at the airport, telling himself that whatever choice she made, he'd learn to live with.

If the past few weeks had taught Vega anything, it was that you could do a lot of damage pretending that people were other than what they were. Esme Gonzalez had been so consumed with her family's reputation in the Hispanic community that she'd covered up her husband's crimes for years. After Gonzalez's death, several more women came forward with allegations that they'd been raped by Gonzalez when they were teenagers. Most had been too embarrassed at the time to tell their families, much less the police. The community's silence had kept a predator in their midst for decades.

Esme now faced a spate of charges in the murder of her husband, Zambo, and Baby Mercy and the kidnapping and assault on Luna Serrano. She was not the only respected figure facing jail. Claudia Aguilar too was facing charges for accessory to manslaughter. The DA was talking about cutting a deal with Claudia, offering her probation in return for testifying against Esme. Just as with Schulman, Vega had a suspicion that the true level of Claudia's culpability might never come out. There were layers of denial running through this case, some of which Vega wasn't sure he'd ever unravel. The search warrant on the Gonzalez household had yet to turn up the source of the hydrofluoric acid Zambo had consumed—yet another part of the puzzle. Vega was betting it came from the car wash and was mixed in with cheap vodka, and that the bottle was long ago discarded by Esme. But Vega would keep looking. Even if it took months, he was going to try to trace every part of this case, if only because he owed it to that little baby.

Vega would forever grieve that he had failed to save her. Her mother at least had a name now: Mia Tavares. Vega located relatives of Esme's in Chiapas who provided records to confirm the girl's identity and agreed to take her and the baby back to Mexico for burial. DNA tests confirmed that Mia and the baby were indeed Esme's biological daughter and granddaughter. There were also indicators to suggest that Mia's father was a blood relation of Esme's, but Esme refused to discuss the matter and it had no legal bearing on the case, so Vega didn't press. There were some humiliations even Esme was entitled to bury with the dead.

At the door to baggage claim, Adele lifted her gaze from her suitcase. She broke into a broad smile when she saw Vega standing there awkwardly with the cellophane bouquet of wilted peach roses in his arms. Her sparkle had returned. If this job was what it took to bring it back, then so be it.

He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her waist. He leaned over and buried his face in her neck. He felt the pleasing give of her body as she welcomed him. Whatever else had happened in D.C., she hadn't lost her feelings for him. He felt reassured. He took her suitcase from her and pressed the bouquet into her hands.

“What's the occasion?” she asked.

“To celebrate,” said Vega. “You got the job, right?”

“Yes. And I turned it down.”

“What?”
Vega stopped in his tracks. People pushed past them in every direction. “But you wanted this.”

“I thought I did. But then I got down there and realized that what I really wanted was to have a choice. And I got one. My life is here, Jimmy. Sophia's life is here.
You're
here—”

“I don't want to hold you back.”

“I'm glad you said that. Because when I told them my decision, they offered me a position on their advisory board. So instead of relocating to D.C., I just have to fly down two days a month for meetings and be available for occasional conferences. It means we'll have to juggle our schedules a little more, but it's a great opportunity. I won't have to relocate. They'll put me up in a really nice hotel.” Adele gave him a tentative look. “So—are you okay with that?”

“On one condition. And it's make or break.”

“Oh.” She gave him a wary look. “What's that?”

He grinned. “You bring me the mints from your hotel pillow.”

“Deal.”

 

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Luna and her father would be making a turkey. In more than twelve years of living in this country as a family, they'd never cooked a turkey on Thanksgiving. Luna supposed on some level they'd never felt American enough to do it before. But everything was different now. Her father's order of removal had been rescinded, and Mr. Schulman had turned his case over to Mr. Katz to begin the process of getting green cards for both of them. La Bella Vita gave Papi his old job back. They returned to their apartment. They were gone for only a few days, so it hadn't been re-rented yet. They just had to take all their stuff out of storage.

Luna would be lying, however, if she said that everything was back to normal. Mateo still wet the bed sometimes. Dulce had developed a nervous tic of yanking out her hair. Papi had had to cut it short and make her wear hats to stop the habit. Luna now slept with Mateo's baseball bat under her bed. Papi tried to talk to her about it, but neither of them could find the words for that sort of conversation.

Luna wanted to be the girl she used to be. She wanted to do well in school and become a doctor so she could buy them all a house with a garden just like Mami had always wanted. But she couldn't unlearn what she knew. There was something broken inside of her, something she didn't know how to fix.

When the police finally returned their things from the Gonzalez house, they brought back her mother's begonia. It was dead by then. Luna couldn't stop crying over that plant. Papi remembered how Mami used to take cuttings from plants and make new ones. So they snipped a four-inch piece from the healthiest stalk and put it in water.

Nothing happened for a long time. And then the other day, Luna saw tiny white shoots at the bottom of the stalk. For the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful. A friend of Papi's who worked at the garden center brought them a nice pot and some potting soil. Luna and her father planted the little stalk and set the pot on the windowsill. Maybe, with enough time and patience, her mother's plant would one day bloom again. Papi thought it would.

Luna wanted to see the world the way he did. But she couldn't. She felt like those giant maple trees at her school that had a chain-link fence running through them. She couldn't get rid of the twisted metal inside of her.

She was waiting for the school bus to take her to La Casa one day when she caught a glimpse of those trees across the soccer field. It was late fall now. The trees were bare. Luna could see their trunks easily from the school parking lot, the way the fence sliced right through them, the way they'd grown around it. In the spring, she and her friends gossiped in their cool, deep shade. In the fall, they had leaf fights beneath their graceful branches. Looking up at those trees, no one would ever guess there was sharp metal buried inside.

Luna wondered if life wasn't like that—if people didn't all have, deep within them, some wound they could not heal, one they could only accept and grow beyond. For all their trauma, those trees had flourished.

If they could do it, then maybe so could her family. Maybe so could she.