No Witness But the Moon(102)

“Not this time,” said Vega. “Hector gave his life to bring his granddaughter over here. And now he and his brother are both dead and that poor kid’s a mess. She’s struggling at school. She’s distressed at home. She needs help she’s never going to get. And she’s not the only one, either. Adele told me about this boy who just came over from Guatemala. He’s sleeping in the restaurant where he works.”

“You can’t save the world, Vega.”

“No. But I wish I could do something. These kids are here, Grec. They’re not going away. And it’s frustrating to know that they’re not getting the help they need on any level.”

“Yeah, well—help costs money. And you and I are working stiffs. What can you do?”

Vega bolted upright and put his hand on the door. He felt like a train was leaving the station and he had to run to catch it.

“Where are you going?” asked Greco.

“I think I may have just found my good.”

*

It took a week to arrange the meeting. Luis was in Miami the first time Vega called. He was prepping to go on a concert tour. He had interviews to do for his new book. Gradually however, the realities of the situation became clear. If Ricardo Luis was ever going to be rid of Jimmy Vega, he was going to have to meet with him at his home in Wickford. Alone. Both men had much to lose by broadcasting their encounter. And so by mutual agreement, nobody else was informed. Not Luis’s attorney. Not Vega’s department. Not Adele.

Luis was on his cell phone when his housekeeper ushered Vega into his home office. Vega stood admiring one of Luis’s guitars while he finished up the call. It was an acoustic Martin with an Indian rosewood fret board inlaid with mother of pearl.

“You are staring at that guitar like other men stare at a pretty girl,” said Luis when he got off the phone.

“Sorry.” For a moment Vega forgot himself, forgot why he was here. Music had a way of doing that to him.

“Would you like to play it?”

“May I?”

Luis nodded. Vega gently took the guitar from the stand and placed it in his lap. He strummed a few chords and felt transported. The strings were out of tune. Luis heard it, too. He made a face.

“Do you mind if I tune it up?” asked Vega.

“Please.”

Vega turned the tuning pegs to pitch and tried out little riffs, running his fingers up and down the frets. The sound was deep and rich with a buttery resonance that Vega could feel all the way through his body like he was the amplifier.

“I can tell you’re a real musician,” said Luis.

“My first love.” Vega kept his eyes on the strings, alternating between short riffs and chords. “But I’d be lying if I said that’s why I’m here.” Vega returned the guitar to its stand. “You shot Antonio Fernandez. I killed him. And we both know why he and Hector Ponce were really here.”

“Under the advice of my attorney—”

“Your attorney can’t do shit if this story hits the Internet,” said Vega. “Take it from someone who’s been there. It makes no difference what’s true and what isn’t.”

Luis raised an eyebrow. “So now you want to blackmail me? Is that it, Detective?”

“No.” Vega reached into his wallet and pulled out a picture of Marcela and Yovanna that he’d borrowed from Adele without telling her why. “This is Hector’s granddaughter,” Vega said slowly, pointing to the girl. “She’s the reason Hector came to you for money.”

“I know,” said Luis.

“She’s like a lot of children coming into the county these days to reunite with their families. These kids are traumatized,” said Vega. “Their symptoms are a lot like mine were after the shooting. The difference is, I can get help. They can’t. Their families don’t have the resources.” Vega’s eyes locked on Luis’s. “You do. You can help them.”

“Help them, how?”

“Fund a program through La Casa to give these kids the support they need so their families can heal and they can stay in school.”

“Do you know how many times a week people come to me for money?”

“You owe the Ponce family. I owe them.”

Luis got up and paced the floor. All the glamour seemed to fall away. Those perfect teeth. Those dimples. That sparkle that ignited whenever a camera was pointed in his direction. There was no camera now. There was just the two of them—and a whole lot of past to reckon with. Luis massaged his forehead.

“I was a kid, you know. Nineteen. Stupid and scared. But not a monster. If I could do it over—”

“There are no do-overs,” said Vega. “Believe me, I know.”

“If I do this, I need your word that you will not talk about . . .” Luis’s voice trailed off.

“There would be no purpose in that,” said Vega. “I’m sure your attorney has already told you that you can’t be prosecuted. I’m not out to destroy your life. I’m out to save someone else’s.”

Luis perched on the edge of his desk and studied Vega for a long moment. Finally he extended a hand. His gaze was sober. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Detective. I’ll ask my attorney to draw up the paperwork.”

“Thank you.” Vega shook his hand. “One final request.”