“Adele Figueroa.”
The chatter around her stopped instantly. People eyed her and pretended not to at the same time. They know my connection to the shooting. She suspected she knew why: Ruben Tate-Rivera.
“Ah, Adele. The lady of the hour.”
And there he was, in his trademark red bowtie, giving her a smile that was halfway between a smirk and a leer. He was surrounded, as always, by a gaggle of young, good-looking female assistants.
He sidled up to her. “Ricardo Luis isn’t coming.”
“He’s not?” She couldn’t deny a little dip of disappointment.
“His handlers have decided that he needs to keep a low profile from here on out. His publicist called me earlier and said he’s making no further public appearances or statements related to the shooting.”
“What changed his mind?” But even as Adele asked this, she knew. Her questions had made him uncomfortable today. Why, she couldn’t say. Still, none of this explained the media’s extreme eagerness to cover what amounted to a collegial gathering of activists.
“I saw you talking to reporters on the front steps,” said Adele. “There were more cameras out there than I’ve seen in all my years at one of these events.”
“The media goes where there’s a story.”
“And what story is that? Nothing I say—or you say—tonight is going to change the immigration debate in this country one iota.”
Tate frowned. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“What?”
Tate took her arm. “Come.” He turned to his assistants and told them he would catch up with them later.
“Where are we going?” He never traveled anywhere without an entourage.
“Someplace quiet.”
Farther down the hallway was an alcove with windows that overlooked a broad expanse of lawn and several gothic fieldstone buildings that made Adele forget she was in the Bronx. It was snowing harder now. Tiny flakes imprinted on the lead glass and then melted. The drive home was going to be hell.
“He didn’t call you?” asked Tate.
“Who?”
“The cop. Vega.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s an impromptu demonstration going on right now outside a charter school off the Grand Concourse. Know what they’re shouting? ‘Jail killer cops.’ ”
“I will not be cowed by a mob mentality,” said Adele. “The shooting didn’t even happen in the Bronx.”
“Adele, they’re not demonstrating about the Wickford shooting. They’re demonstrating about what just happened. Right here. This evening. In the Bronx. That’s why the news stations wanted to interview me just now. That’s how I learned about the situation. From them.”
“You mean some other cop just shot a civilian?”
“I mean your boyfriend just grabbed the granddaughter of the man he shot and dragged her out of a laundromat against her will. He’s inside that charter school with her now and no one’s quite sure what’s going on.”
“Jimmy? Yovanna? Why would either of them be in the Bronx?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps maybe you did. But apparently, he’s not even communicating with you.” Tate raised an eyebrow. “So tell me, do you still want to go on that stage and defend him?”
Chapter 37
“You can’t seem to visit the ’hood these days without getting in trouble, can you, carnal?”
Torres ushered Vega and Yovanna into the school lobby and locked the door behind them. He was still wearing a bulky hoodie and sweats from his basketball tournament earlier. “Now, what is this about?” he demanded. “And why in hell are you taking this kid anywhere against her will?”
Joy watched her father and Torres from a corner of the front entrance hall. Vega could tell by her sulky hooded expression that he’d failed her once again. “I’m sorry” wasn’t going to keep cutting it anymore.
“It’s not like it looks,” Vega assured Torres and his daughter. “It’s for her own good. She ran away from home. Her family’s got no idea where she is.”
Joy nodded to Yovanna who was looking sullenly at her wet sneakers. “Can’t she answer for herself?”
“She doesn’t speak English,” Vega explained to his daughter. “She needs to come back to Lake Holly with us. That’s where her family lives.”
Yovanna exploded in a sudden burst of panicked Spanish that he and Torres could understand but Joy couldn’t.
“He took something that belongs to me!” the teenager shouted, gesturing to Vega.
“What is she saying, Dad?”
Torres raised an eyebrow and answered Joy. “The girl says your father took something from her.” Torres turned to Vega. “What’s she talking about, Jimmy?”
“Nothing!” Vega didn’t want to go into it here. He wanted to get the girl home and look at the evidence himself before turning it over to the police. “It’s nothing. I’ll return it.”