No Witness But the Moon(89)

“And you? You went with them?”

“No.” Oliva waved his hands in front of him. “I told them that what they were doing would not bring them peace. Only God can do that. They wouldn’t listen. That journey—it took so much from me. My health. My dignity.” He took a deep breath. “And now, my friend and his brother.”

“Huh.” Vega stared at the book. “Why didn’t you come forward after the shooting?”

“I didn’t want to get my friends in trouble. I am talking to you now because now they are both dead. Nothing can hurt them anymore.”

“You’ll still need to make a formal statement to police.”

“No.” Oliva shook his head. “I told you what I know. I gave you Edgar’s book. I will not speak publicly against Luis.”

“But why?” Vega frowned. “Luis murdered all those people. He nearly killed you. Doesn’t it bother you that he’s beloved by the world and yet he did this terrible thing?”

“God will judge him. I will not,” said Oliva. “I gave my life over to God in that desert. You do what you need to do, Detective. But I am an old man. I have no stomach to fight anymore.”

“We will need to speak more about this.”

Oliva seesawed his head. “Father Delgado will leave if you don’t hurry.”

Vega could see that he wasn’t going to get any more from the old janitor today. He tucked the book under his arm and headed back into the nave.

“You should light a candle for your mother while you are here,” Oliva called after him. “It was her birthday yesterday, no?”

Vega stopped in his tracks and turned to Oliva. “How would you know it was her birthday yesterday? Do you memorize the birthdays of all the parishioners at St. Raymond’s?”

“No. I remembered because I saw the flowers Father Delgado bought for her grave.”





Chapter 34


Father Delgado had already left the church. Vega spotted the priest half a block ahead on the sidewalk. He could be headed in any direction. To a parishioner’s apartment. To the hospital. To a nursing home. Vega had to sprint before he lost him completely. He shoved Luis’s book inside his jacket. It was a softcover, thankfully. But it was still awkward to carry while running.

“Father Delgado!” Vega called out breathlessly.

The priest turned, his bushy silver eyebrows raised in surprise. He waited for Vega to catch up to him. “You came to Mass?”

“I came to see you. Vega huffed. “I’d be lying if I said I came for the Mass.” His eyes settled on Delgado’s for an extra beat. “I visited Martha Torres this morning. At Sunnycrest.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Your mother would have been pleased.”

“I think so, too. But not for the same reasons.” Vega caught his breath. The cold air felt like crushed glass in his lungs. He spoke the Spanish words before he could attach to them their full meaning:

“Eres siempre mi ángel.”

Vega noticed a twitch in the folds beneath Delgado’s right eye. Vega waited.

Silence. Delgado stood very still. The gentle smile was gone.

“Do you recognize those words?” asked Vega.

Delgado met his gaze. The priest’s deep-set eyes looked more sunken than thoughtful. He’d always looked much younger than his nearly seventy years. Suddenly, with his white hair and shapeless black coat, he seemed thin and frail and not long for this world.

“Jimmy.” He exhaled the word. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I think you know.” Vega’s voice felt as frozen as the tips of his ears. “Tell me, are those the words of a priest to one of his parishioners?”

Delgado put a hand on Vega’s arm. “Maybe we should discuss this back in my office.”

Vega shook his arm away. “No! I want to know now! Were you in love with my mother? Did you kill her?”

“Dios mío, Jimmy! I would never hurt your mother! Never!”

“Martha Torres was lucid enough this afternoon to make me believe the person who killed my mother was someone she and my mother trusted,” said Vega. “You were at the apartment when the police arrived. You were covered in my mother’s blood. Ponce was covering up for somebody. That, I’m sure of. And that somebody was you.”

They were near the entrance to the D-line subway. Delgado gestured to the stairs. “Please, Jimmy. If you won’t come back to the church, then let’s at least not have this conversation on the street.”

Vega reluctantly followed Delgado down the steps into the subway tunnel. Stale, humid air rose to greet them, along with the vague scent of urine and fast food. On a Sunday afternoon, it was empty save for a homeless man in a shabby coat curled up sleeping beneath an advertisement for mattresses. Vega’s and Delgado’s steps echoed on the concrete. Delgado’s thick white hair looked as washed-out as a blank sheet of paper. His eyes had lost their sparkle.

“I did not kill your mother, Jimmy. I tried to save her life. I gave her CPR.”

Vega looked at him sharply. “You gave her more than that.”

“Yes.” Delgado exhaled. “I did.” He leaned against the grimy white tile wall of the station. He looked almost too feeble to stand. “I should have come forward a long time ago. I know that. I was weak and in my weakness, I caused a greater sin.” The old priest’s eyes turned watery when he met Vega’s. “She was the love of my life. But as God is my witness, I never once hurt her.”