No Witness But the Moon(59)

Sophia looked down at Diablo. “I want a glass of milk and I think Diablo needs to pee.”

“I’ll take him out,” Vega offered.

“No. Stay there, out of the way.” Adele turned to Sophia. “Come down and get your milk, lucero. I’ll take the dog out.”

Sophia was in a half sleep so she glided right through the foyer without even lifting her head in Vega’s direction. Adele guided her around through the living room to the kitchen so that she wouldn’t see Vega. The dog followed dutifully behind. Adele got the child a glass of milk and secured Diablo’s leash to go outside.

“I want to take Diablo outside,” Sophia insisted.

“It’s late. You should go back to sleep.”

“You never let me take him out. I’ll watch him. I promise.”

“Okay. Just in the back yard.”

The child grabbed her purple coat, snow boots, and mittens and went out through the back door. In her wake, there was nothing but cold air and silence. Adele walked back into the foyer where Vega was standing in the shadows. His skin was a tapestry of bruises.

“I should go,” he said. “I’m like a wrecking ball right now.”

“No, please. We both need to cool down. And besides, I need your advice on something. Something police-related. But if I tell you, I need your assurance that it will stay between us.”

“Adele, I can’t know that until you tell me what it is.”

She closed her eyes, caught between keeping a confidence and maybe saving a life. “It has to do with—a child.”

“Sophia?”

“No. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.”

The bright lights in the kitchen felt like an assault. Vega blinked and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He eased himself into a chair while Adele scooped coffee into the coffeemaker. He studied her shimmery blue silk dress from behind, the way it pulled tight across her backside. Where had she gone in his favorite dress? Without him? He wiped a swollen hand across his chapped lips. He wanted her. God, he wanted her.

“So you went out tonight?” He asked the question as casually as he could.

“A business function.” After a few beats she added, “A party. Given by Ricardo Luis.”

“Huh.” He felt like someone had stuffed an old sock into his chest where his heart used to be.

“Jimmy, it wasn’t my choice. Dave Lindsey ordered me to go. What could I do? The man gave La Casa a donation after the shooting.”

“How nice for him. He gets applauded and I get lynched. Maybe I should start unbuttoning my shirts down to my navel and sing forgettable songs.”

“He offered for you to go see his guitar collection sometime.”

“I’m sure Captain Waring would be thrilled for me to have a heart-to-heart with someone who might very well testify against me.”

“It was still a nice gesture. He gave me his cell number if you ever change your mind.”

“He gave you his cell number?” Vega noticed Ricardo Luis’s autobiography lying on the kitchen table. “And you’re reading his book, too?”

“He gave autographed copies of his book and CD to all the board members. You don’t have to get jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” Vega began thumbing through the well of photographs. The more current shots were full of color and life—even the candid ones of Luis roughhousing with his three children by an enormous pool next to a whitewashed mansion surrounded by palm trees. The old photos were much grittier and darker. His dimpled smile was absent. His closed lips were a slash devoid of emotion. There was only a gritty, hard-muscled look to his body and a dull, hungry cast to his eyes. Even his facial proportions were different. His nose was broader. His cheekbones were less defined. His eyelids had more droop. This wasn’t genetics. This was plastic surgery. No doubt every tooth in his head had been straightened or replaced as well.

“I started reading the book a little this evening,” said Adele. “He wrote a lot about his childhood in Nogales, Mexico. It was pretty rough.”

“He didn’t write anything, Adele. It’s fluff—probably made-up fluff—written by some ghostwriter. I’ll bet Ricardo Luis isn’t even his real name.”

“Well, it’s part of his real name. His full name is Jesús Ricardo Luis Alvarez-Da Silva.”

“Man, you really do have a crush on him!”

“I do not!” Her eyes told otherwise.

Vega slammed the book shut and tossed it on the table. “It doesn’t matter.” It felt better to tell himself that. “You said there was a child you wanted to talk to me about.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “A thirteen-year-old girl. She just came over from Honduras.”

“You mean she was smuggled over,” said Vega. “Nobody just ‘comes.’”

Adele poured water in the coffeemaker without answering.

Vega sighed. “Not a pretty choice—deciding whether your kid’s safer in the hands of a bunch of sleazy coyotes or walking the gang-infested streets of Honduras. But if she’s here now, what’s the problem? She’s got a court date with immigration or something?” They both knew that even if the child had been caught at the border and ordered to plead her case with immigration, court cases could drag on for years so she was in no immediate danger of being sent back.