No Witness But the Moon(16)

“I must have dozed off,” said Adele. “I didn’t realize you were back.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He ran his fingers along the black and white linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Sorry I got back so late. I’d have helped you clean up.”

“It’s okay. It didn’t take that long. Come upstairs, mi amado. Take a nice hot shower and come to bed with me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going to be able to sleep. And—uh—I don’t know if I’m good for much else right now.”

“We can just hold each other.”

Silence. Vega stroked the dog.

Adele stared at the empty Corona bottles. “Drowning your sorrows isn’t the way.”

“I had three beers. Not a quart of vodka.”

“Still, we need to find a better way through this.” She touched his shoulder. “I know you say you can’t talk about the shooting. But it’s not like I would tell anyone.”

“I can’t, Adele. It’s just wrong. For you. For me.”

“Are you afraid that I might judge you?”

He tossed off a laugh. “You’re already judging me. And don’t tell me you aren’t because I know you, nena. If we weren’t sleeping together, you’d be calling for my blood right now and telling the DA that I had to have done something wrong or that man would still be alive.”

“Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I would have. But I’m here, goddamnit. I didn’t desert you. What more do you want me to say? That I’m okay with what happened? That my clients will be okay with it? I don’t know that they will. You’ve put me in a bad place.”

“I’ve put you in a bad place.” Vega smiled sadly and got to his feet. Diablo danced nervously around his legs. “Maybe I should go.”

He was like a man with a bad sunburn. The slightest chafe sent him into agony.

Adele blocked the doorway. “Please, querido. You don’t have your truck. You’ve been drinking. The last thing you need right now is to be alone.”

They stood staring at each other for a long, awkward moment. The dog gave a little bark of anticipation. Vega reached down and patted Diablo behind the ear. The dog leaned in closer. Vega could soothe that mutt in a way he couldn’t soothe himself or Adele right now.

His cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and squinted at the number.

“Joy?” asked Adele.

“Nah. She called me earlier. When I was out with Diablo. It’s Dolan. He’s pulling an all-nighter, too.”

For Teddy Dolan to be calling this late, Adele assumed it had to be bad news.

Vega turned his back to Adele and braced an arm against the doorframe that separated the kitchen from the mudroom. Adele couldn’t make out the conversation except for his “Huhs” and “You sure?” and a scattering of curses in English and Spanish.

“Nah. You did the right thing calling. Thanks for texting over the pictures, too.”

He hung up without turning to face Adele. He leaned his forehead on his arm and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke. “Dolan got hold of Marcela. She ID’d the body. It’s her father, Hector Ponce. She recognized the rosary in his coat pocket.”

“Dear God. Poor Marcela.”

Vega flinched. Adele could have slapped him and done less damage. She tried to recover. “Sorry. I’m just surprised Teddy would call so late just to tell you that.”

“He didn’t. He called to tell me that he ran a check on Marcela’s father’s fingerprints and nothing came back.”

“No arrests? Not even a record of deportation proceedings?”

“No. I’m sure the press will be reporting this little tidbit as soon as it hits the wires so I thought you should know.”

“Oh, mi amado.” Adele hugged him from behind.

“Jesus,” Vega said thickly. “Maybe I really did kill an innocent man.”

“I’ll try to do some damage control for you. I’ll tell my clients and the community—”

“It’s not going to matter what you tell them.” Vega turned to her. “This thing is already bigger than you and me. Dolan told me there’s media interest from outside the area. You can’t keep those dogs at bay for long. They’ve already found out about the photograph.”

“Photograph? What photograph?”

Vega tapped his iPhone and pulled up the photograph Adele saw him looking at earlier. It was a picture taken before the digital age of three Hispanic males—two strapping men in their thirties and a teenage boy. Adele wondered if one of them was Marcela’s father at a younger age. All three males were dressed in scruffy, loose-fitting jeans, baseball caps, and T-shirts. They were posed in front of a fruit stand with bananas hanging in bunches on a cord overhead. From the muddy road, broad leafy trees, and misty jungle mountains behind the stand, Adele guessed they were probably in Central America or southern Mexico. They stood next to each other, slightly stiff and self-conscious-looking but with the straight shoulders and shy smiles to suggest something hopeful about the occasion.

“Why is everyone so interested in the photograph?” she asked. It was evidence of some sort. From her defense attorney days, Adele recognized the long string of numbers—a case number—in the corner.