No Witness But the Moon(77)

She blushed. “Is there someplace private we can talk for a few minutes?”

“My office is good.” Luis told Cifuentes he would be back in ten. Adele sensed he said it as much for her as for his producer. Ten minutes was all she’d get with him. She had to make it good.

Luis’s office was just down the hall from his home recording studio. The furniture was a glossy dark teak with maroon leather chairs. The bookcases were crammed with awards and photos of the singer next to presidents, recording stars, and athletes—even the Pope. There were photos of his model-wife and three beautiful children as well. But what drew Adele’s eye most was a grainy shot of a very young-looking Luis in a striped T-shirt and jeans that were too short for him. He was clasping a microphone and singing on a stage with a backdrop of corrugated tin.

“My first performance in Nogales, Mexico, when I was fourteen,” said Luis. “It was at a talent show. They called me tobillos.” He laughed. “I think you can see why. That’s all anyone remembered about that performance: my ankles.”

“I’m three-quarters the way through your autobiography,” said Adele.

“You are a fast reader.”

“It’s captivating. So you were nineteen when you came to the United States?”

“Came.” Luis smiled. “I like that. It sounds very—friendly. It wasn’t. I hopped the border, as they say. Walked through the desert. Dodged immigration every step of the way.” He shook his head. “That’s why I give La Casa money now. I understand these people. I am these people. God just happened to bless me with a voice, that’s all. And now I’m an American citizen.” Luis spread his palms as if he were about to belt out a song. Even up close, there was a certain larger-than-life quality about him. Adele wondered if he’d always had it or if he’d honed it over two decades of climbing the showbiz ladder playing two-bit dives and dressing up in ridiculous costumes on Sábado Gigante.

Luis gestured for Adele to have a seat. He rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

Adele shook her head no. She hated cigarettes but hey, it was his house.

He lit one and took a drag. Then he propped himself on the edge of his desk. “You came to ask me something, yes? My lawyer called me this morning and said the police wanted to arrange another meeting before I head back to Miami tomorrow. Maybe you know what it’s about?”

“I don’t, unfortunately.”

“Your boyfriend didn’t tell you?”

“No.” She swallowed back a mixture of anger and embarrassment at having to admit that.

“Maybe we will both know more after your speech this evening.”

“You’re coming?” asked Adele. “I thought that was—you know—?”

“A Mexican ‘yes’?”

Adele laughed.

“It’s true,” said Luis. “We Mexicans have a very hard time saying no. But in this case, I really am planning to come. My publicist thought it would be a good idea. So did Ruben Tate-Rivera.”

“Oh.” Adele felt sick to her stomach every time she thought about getting on that stage. “Mr. Luis—”

“Ric,” he offered.

“Ric,” said Adele. “I don’t know how to ask this. But did you ever meet Hector Ponce before Friday night? Maybe you hired him for a private event or something?”

Luis stiffened. “I already spoke to the police about everything, Adele. I don’t think this is a conversation that either of us should be having.”

“I know. You’re right. It’s just that—someone I met claims they saw Hector get into a black Mercedes you were driving.”

“What? When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“Here in Wickford. I can’t be more specific than that. This person isn’t comfortable coming forward.”

“And yet you are comfortable making an accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation,” Adele assured him. “I’m only asking because I’m desperate to understand what happened in those woods with Detective Vega. If I go on stage tonight and call for a grand jury to review the shooting, I’ve ruined his career. If I don’t, I may very well ruin mine. I’m searching for any morsel of information that could help make my decision.”

Luis leaned against the edge of his desk. He took a deep inhale of his cigarette and studied her for a long moment. He smiled but there was something forced around the edges. His easy warmth was gone, replaced now by stilted politeness.

“I wish I could help you, Adele. I do. But I have nothing to offer.”

“So it’s not true? You never gave Hector Ponce a ride?”

“I will say again: I have already made my statement to the police.” Luis stubbed out his cigarette. He walked over to his office door and opened it, a clear invitation for Adele to leave. “I wish you good luck tonight, Adele. I hope you find the answers you are looking for. I hope that Ruben is wrong about what’s going to happen.”

Her insides turned to jelly. “What did he say?”

“It was a compliment in a way, I guess. He said you were a good lawyer once and maybe you should go back to being one.”