No Witness But the Moon(27)
Vega hadn’t been a homicide detective back when his mother died. He still worked undercover in narcotics. Now however, with a few dozen homicide cases behind him and his mind less clouded by emotion, there were so many questions he wished he’d asked. Why the 911 time lag? How did the wire come loose from the building’s security camera? Were there other videos from store security cameras in the neighborhood? From any of the Chinese takeout joints? In Vega’s defense, he had to be diplomatic about backseat driving the NYPD. Everything they sent him was done as a courtesy; they could have rescinded it at any time. But still—he should have pushed harder.
Now he had to. He scrolled through his cell phone and was able to locate a phone number for Mike Brennan. He dialed. The phone number was no longer in service. The Bronx detectives division would have Mike Brennan’s new number in Florida. They’d have John Renfro’s too. But there was no way they’d give them to Vega. No cop was going to stick his neck out for Vega at the moment, especially a cop from another jurisdiction. Then again, maybe Vega didn’t have to be the one who did the asking.
He dialed another number and got through on the third ring.
“If you’re not about to jump off a building, can you at least let me finish my lunch?” No doubt it was something smothered in tomato sauce, garlic, and cheese.
“Hey, Grec,” said Vega. “You’ve got a friend in the Bronx detectives squad, right?”
Greco stopped chewing and swallowed. “Tony Carlucci,” he said. “He lives in my neighborhood. Why?”
“I need him to get two phone numbers for me. One for a retired detective named Mike Brennan, and the other for a homicide detective who transferred to some FBI joint task force: John Renfro.”
“And I ask again, why?”
Vega told Greco about Ponce being the super in his mother’s building and what he’d found combing through the paperwork on her murder investigation. “These two detectives worked the case. I’m thinking maybe they can give me some background I’m missing. The cell I have for Brennan is no longer in service and I have no idea how to reach Renfro. Carlucci can probably get both numbers easily.”
Silence. For a moment, Vega thought the call had been dropped. When Greco finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Are you smoking that K2 shit or something? Have you been watching the news? Every immigrant group in the country wants to string you up by your cojones. They’re building a shrine to Saint Hector the Light Fingered as we speak. And you want to start investigating him? You want me to ask Carlucci to put other cops on the spot? Do you have any idea how that’s gonna look?”
“Nobody has to know,” said Vega. “All I’m asking is for Carlucci to get the cell phone numbers of two colleagues. He doesn’t have to say why. I’ll make the calls. Brennan and Renfro don’t want to talk to me? Fine. But what’s the harm in my calling them?”
“No. I’ll help you any other way, buddy. But I’m not feeding your paranoia.”
“Ponce waited seventeen minutes before he dialed nine-one-one about my mother, Grec. Her priest arrived before the cops did.”
“Yeah, so? Ponce was an illegal. You think he wants to call the cops and get questioned? He panicked and probably called the priest first and the priest told him to dial nine-one-one. If the guy was looking to hide his guilt, why call the cops at all? Why not just create a good alibi and let some neighbor find your mother and report it?”
Greco had a point. Vega walked over to the couch and sank down on one of the lumpy cushions. He felt drained. He couldn’t think straight anymore.
“Where are you right now?” asked Greco.
“Home.”
“Alone?”
“My daughter’s staying with me. She went to get groceries.”
“Good. When she gets back, go out someplace with her. Clear your head. Get some fresh air. Visit an old friend you’ve been meaning to see. You’re driving yourself nuts. Remember what I said about doing something good?”
“I remember. I’ll do something good.”
He’d go with Joy to the Bronx. To visit his mother’s grave. And while he was there, he’d take Greco’s suggestion and visit an old friend—someone who was likely to know a lot more than any half-assed sloppy police report.
Father Delgado.
Chapter 9
Adele and Sophia bought a Christmas tree on Saturday morning at the stand next to Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. It was a disaster. Someone watching them would have thought Adele was in the witness protection program the way she threw the hood of her jacket over her head and covered her eyes with the biggest, darkest pair of sunglasses she owned despite the fact that there was barely any sun. Get in. Get out. That was the plan. She grabbed the first tree she could find in her price range and stood it up for her daughter. A balsam. It smelled great even if it was shaped like an avocado.
“This looks good. Or this.” Adele grabbed the one next to it that had a big bare spot in back. Burl Ives crooned “Holly Jolly Christmas” over the tinny speakers by the inflatable Santa Claus.
“But they’re both so short!” complained Sophia.
“And fat, so there’s plenty of space on them to decorate!” Hmmm—new way to look at her own wardrobe.