No Witness But the Moon(35)

“It’s tearing me up to think Ponce was right in my mother’s building—all this time—and I never questioned him,” said Vega. “I’m sorry to bring this to you but I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“You always have a place to go,” said Delgado. He spread his palms and gazed up at the brown water stains on the acoustical tile ceiling. “God is listening, Jimmy. Make your peace with Him. Ask for His guidance and forgiveness.” Delgado rose and made the sign of the cross.

“How can I just make my peace with God when I don’t know who killed her?”

“The peace you need to make has nothing to do with your mother’s life, Jimmy. It has to do with your own.”

In the narthex, Vega found Joy texting. “Let’s go home,” he said to her. The Bronx felt too weighted with memory.

Joy glanced up from her cell phone. Her eyes traveled past her father to the front doors of the church. Her jaw muscles had a clenched look to them.

“Did you know that Ruben Tate-Rivera just finished holding a press conference at Lita’s building? With Hector Ponce’s widow?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“He wants the district attorney to put you on trial.”

“He wants the DA to convene a grand jury, Joy. Not a trial. Not yet, anyway. Can we talk about this on the way home?” Vega zipped up his jacket. Joy stayed rooted in place.

“Dad? He’s calling on his supporters to march in protest.”

“Okay, so they’re marching. That’s their choice.”

“The march just kicked off from Lita’s building. That’s right around the corner from where we parked.”





Chapter 11


“Okay. Stay here. In the church. With Father Delgado,” Vega told Joy. “You’re safe in the church. I’ll get my truck and come back for you—”

“But I want to come with you,” said Joy. She sounded so young all of a sudden. All that charcoal eyeliner—even her rose tattoo—did nothing to hide the little girl she still was beneath.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes, chispita. Surely you can stay here by yourself for twenty minutes?”

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“Because you can’t!”

Vega hated the harsh tone he had to use with his daughter. But Joy had never seen how quickly a crowd could turn into a mob. She’d never witnessed the venom people could unleash when they knew they’d never be held accountable. He had. In uniform, he’d broken up brawls that started out directed at the brawlers and ended up directed at him. It was scary, all that anger. Like a wall of water coming at you. He didn’t want to chance an encounter like that with his daughter by his side. He didn’t want to alarm her, either.

“Look—” Vega put his hands on her shoulders. He spoke in a calm and measured voice. “Everything’s going to be fine. It’s just easier for me if you stay here and I come back for you.”

“But you’ll be okay? You’ll keep your phone on?”

“Of course. I’ll call you when I get to my truck.”

He slipped back into his sunglasses and baseball cap. Disguise or no disguise, if anyone in that crowd had taken a good look at his personnel photo on TV or on any one of hundreds of Internet websites, he might as well be trailing a spotlight.

He left the church by a side exit. If he turned south and walked a couple of blocks before heading north, there’d be less of a chance he’d meet up with the protestors. He knew the neighborhood at least. He knew the pawnshops and check cashing joints with their brightly colored awnings and flashing neon signs in the windows. He knew the bodegas with their racks of cigarettes and forty-ounce malt liquors by the registers. He knew the narrow walkways along the sides of buildings that could sometimes take him from one street to another. If he could just avoid being recognized . . .

The cold helped. People didn’t hang around in the cold. Vega turned left and then right. All the blocks in this area looked pretty much the same. Each side of the street was walled off by five-or six-story buildings the color of sand or mud with fire escapes zigzagging down their fronts like slashes of graffiti. In the windows, Vega could see air conditioning units and crosshatched metal gates, many strung with Christmas lights, some of them already aglow in the fading afternoon light. A few of the buildings had marble embellishments around their entrances attesting to a much grander past. But most looked liked their residents—sturdy and long-suffering. Along the curbs, dented sedans, some with faded and mismatched paint jobs, were parked nearly end-to-end. Fire hydrants, lampposts, and spindly trees sprouted from the pavements—all gunmetal gray this time of year.

His phone rang in his pocket. Adele’s name was on the caller ID. He didn’t want to pick up and let her know where he was. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to worry if he didn’t answer.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Can I call you back? I’m sort of busy right now.”

“Whatever it is can wait.”

Vega hoped the mob would be so accommodating. They were a block ahead of him, marching along the Grand Concourse. He saw raised fists and homemade signs. “Hands up! Don’t shoot!” they chanted. It was a large group—much larger than a simple press conference would suggest. Vega wondered if they’d picked up supporters along the way.