No Witness But the Moon(34)

“I can’t lie about what I don’t feel.”

Delgado winked at him. “Politicians do it all the time.”

Vega laughed. It was the first laugh he’d had since the shooting. The release felt good.

Joy walked back into the nave, said hello to Father Delgado, and then excused herself to return some texts near the doors.

“Shall we speak in my office?” Delgado asked Vega.

“Thank you. That would be great.”

The church, with its heavy stone walls, wood rafters, and stained glass could have come straight out of the fifteenth century. Delgado’s office however, was a pedestrian 1970s vintage with beige plaster walls decorated in equal parts crucifixes and Yankee memorabilia. Vega took a seat in a well-worn leather chair. Delgado took another chair across from him rather than choosing to sit behind his desk. Vega appreciated the priest’s desire to make this visit as informal as possible.

“Father.” Vega ran a hand through his black wavy hair. He wasn’t sure how to begin. “You knew my mother well. Did you also know the man who was—” Own it, damn you. “The man I killed? Hector Ponce?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Was he a member of the church?”

“His family attends St. Raymond’s. He was also friends with our church custodian. The man you just met.”

That explained the probing look the janitor had given him. Delgado frowned and shifted in his seat. “Are you asking out of personal curiosity? I would assume, given the uh—situation—you aren’t asking as a police officer.”

“No, no,” Vega assured him. “I have no police powers here. I’m asking because I read that Ponce was the super in my mother’s apartment building.”

“Yes. He was,” said Delgado evenly.

“He was also the first person to come across my mother after she was beaten.” Vega held the priest’s gaze. “You were the second.”

“Yes. Hector called me. I gave your mother last rites.”

“You gave her CPR,” said Vega. “And I never thanked you.”

“I expect no thanks for being where God intended me to be.”

“I wish God had put you there a little sooner.”

Delgado took a deep breath. He looked genuinely pained. “I wish the same. Believe me.”

“I went back through the time frame of the crime,” said Vega. “It appears that Hector Ponce waited a full seventeen minutes before he dialed nine-one-one.”

The priest put a hand on his knee and leaned forward. “Jimmy—may I call you that?”

“Sure.”

“Your mother, God rest her soul, has been dead almost two years. Why are you revisiting this now? Do you honestly believe that Hector had something to do with your mother’s death?”

“I don’t know. But those seventeen minutes are giving me pause.”

“I’ve known Hector many, many years—longer than I’ve known my church custodian even. He was a good man. A flawed man, perhaps. But a good man.”

“What do you mean ‘flawed’?”

Delgado shook his head. “I’m a priest, Jimmy. I will not speak against the dead. I can tell you this however: if he made any bad choices, they were done out of love and loyalty—never in hatred or anger.”

“But—seventeen minutes,” Vega repeated.

“Surely you must realize that given Hector’s—immi-gration status—he was panicked about speaking to the police.”

“And you think that’s all it was?”

Delgado didn’t answer. Vega tried a different tack.

“There’s a picture the press has been circulating.” Vega took out his cell phone and scrolled through it until he came to the photograph. “Ponce had this snapshot in his hand when he was—when I shot him,” said Vega. “Have you seen it?”

“I’m trying to hold myself back from all the details of this case right now,” said Delgado.

“I understand. But it would be helpful if you could tell me anything about the picture.”

Delgado squinted at the screen. He pointed to the man standing on the right. “That’s definitely Hector when he was younger. I know he had a younger brother and son who died a long time ago. That could be them.” Delgado handed back the phone. “I’m guessing you aren’t allowed to speak to the family.”

“I’m not even allowed to do what I’m doing now,” Vega confessed. “I’m just trying to see if there’s a connection. You’re telling me Ponce was a good man. Yet he broke into a celebrity’s house and tried to rob him. And my mother was beaten to death and robbed in the same building where he was the super. What would you think if you were me?”

“I would ask the same questions,” said Delgado. “But I’m afraid I don’t have any answers. We’re all capable of great deeds and terrible sins. Hector loved his two sons by Alma very much. And yet he abandoned his other children in Honduras. It went against everything he believed in. And yet he did it. Why? I don’t know.”

“If he could do that,” said Vega, “maybe he did this, too.” Vega rubbed his sweaty palms along his thighs. The adrenaline from last night had worn off but he still felt like a meth addict in withdrawal. He broke out in a sweat easily. He couldn’t sit still for long. He got up and paced the room.