No Witness But the Moon(50)

His words took the heat right out of the conversation. Adele could have kissed him, she felt so grateful. Tate nodded curtly to Adele and eased away, surrounded as always by his assistants. Even Dave Lindsey backed off. Adele assumed Luis would too, but he stood there, holding out another glass of white wine to her. Adele couldn’t deny a little skip in her breathing. She’d never been this close to a celebrity before—and a good-looking one at that.

“Thank you,” she said shyly. “For the wine and for . . . um, coming to my rescue.”

“Politics bore me,” said Luis. “I’d much rather talk music and food. Life is too short for so much anger, yes?”

He was charming. She expected him to be charming in a crowd. But not like this. Not up close. He was shorter than he appeared onstage. Probably all of five-seven. He was probably pushing forty though he had none of the crow’s feet or random strands of gray that Adele had begun to notice when she looked in the mirror. He was dressed in a fitted black shirt that managed to look stylish and indifferent to fashion at the same time. He was attractive of course. But even beyond the dimpled smile and perfectly sculpted body, there was something magnetic about him. He radiated star power. Was that always there? Or just a result of his fame?

Stop it. You sound like a groupie.

“I don’t normally make a scene like that,” said Adele. “I must apologize, Mr. Luis—”

“Ric. Call me Ric. Everyone does.” He had a killer smile: lots of white teeth that shone almost as brightly as his liquid brown eyes.

“Adele.” She pressed a palm to the chest of her dress. Her sweaty fingers stuck to the shiny silk for a brief moment, which made her feel even more embarrassed at her choice of attire this evening.

“You don’t have to apologize, Adele,” said Luis. “I think it’s very—how do you say . . . open-minded?—to be head of an immigrant organization and still be able to defend a police officer.”

Adele laughed. “I’m not as open-minded as you think,” she said. “You see, the police officer who shot Mr. Ponce is my, my—I’m dating him.”

“Ay caray!” Luis smacked his forehead. He had a performer’s sense of gesture. Every emotion had an accompanying physical tic. “I had no idea.”

“Then you’re the only one Ruben Tate-Rivera hasn’t blabbed to. That’s why he was going at it so hard with me. He knows I’m not open-minded. Just torn.”

A stocky Latino in a black beret put a hand on Luis’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. Luis’s face slackened and then regained its trademark smile. He obviously could pull it out on command, like a pair of sunglasses. Adele assumed he would glad-hand her like a politician and slip away but he waved the man in the beret off and turned back to her.

“We are similar, you and me? You and I?” said Luis. “Forgive me. I learned my English the way most immigrants do. While working my butt off.”

“Your English is fine,” said Adele. “It’s you and I. But we can switch to Spanish if you’d prefer.”

“No. I need the practice. Thank you.”

A waiter walked over with a platter of colorful finger foods that took longer to explain than to eat. Adele would have been fine with pigs in a blanket.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m also torn,” said Luis. “I’m very grateful to the police officer for coming to help me so quickly. But I’m sad that a man died as a result.”

“I wish you could say that publicly,” said Adele.

“I have,” said Luis. “I issued a statement through my publicist. And I gave a donation to your organization.”

“No. I mean what you’re saying about Detective Vega.”

“Ah.”

Another person came up to Luis, a black woman with platinum-blond hair whom Adele vaguely recalled seeing on the cover of some fashion magazine.

“Adele.” Luis touched her arm. “I would like to talk more to you about this officer and his situation. Can you give me—maybe forty-five minutes to greet everyone? Then can you meet me by the back doors of the kitchen? I’ll need a cigarette by then.”

“You smoke? But your voice?”

Luis winked at her. “Don’t tell my agent, okay? He thinks I’ve quit.”

Dave Lindsey caught up to Adele when Luis slipped away.

“That didn’t go too well with Tate back there.”

“It might have.” Adele held his gaze. “If my chairman of the board didn’t see fit to broadcast my private life to the public.”

“People know, Adele. Whether I tell them or not. Some already knew and now they all do. Besides, how else could anyone explain your behavior? You spoke to the DA’s office. You confirmed all the incriminating facts. And yet you’re still refusing to call for a grand jury investigation.”

“I’m not refusing. I’m weighing it.”

“What’s to weigh?”

Adele blinked at him.

“Okay. I get it,” said Lindsey. “If you stand up on that stage tomorrow and call for a grand jury investigation, your life with this man is over. But let me ask you this: if you found out he executed an unarmed man at point-blank range, would you really want a life with him after that? You’ve spent ten grueling years building La Casa. You’ve spent what?—a few months?—dating this guy. Are you really willing to stake your whole career—La Casa’s credibility—on what he did in those woods?”