If the officer’s statement was correct that Vega was standing close to Ponce, then the only way Vega could have shot Ponce under the chin was if he’d aimed his gun up against the man’s soft tissue and fired at point-blank range.
In other words, executed him.
Adele closed her eyes. She felt sick.
“This has to be wrong,” she said in a shaky voice. “I could see Jimmy losing his temper and making those stupid comments. I could. But the way the shooting is described—I refuse to believe it.”
“Adele—” Lindsey cupped his hands around his coffee mug. The mug disappeared between a wall of pale white fingers. “I’m not trying to hurt you or disparage the detective. But I wouldn’t be doing you or La Casa any good if I didn’t make you aware of all the evidence that’s starting to come in.”
“All the evidence?” Adele gave him a shocked expression. “There’s more?”
“There may be. Ruben heard from his sources that there’s a witness.”
“A witness? Who?”
“The person hasn’t come forward yet. Even Ruben doesn’t know who he or she is. But the word is, this person is highly credible. And Adele—?” Lindsey hesitated. “This person saw Vega shoot Hector Ponce in the head at point-blank range. If that’s the case, we’re not talking about an accidental shooting anymore. We’re talking murder.”
“Oh God.” Adele dropped her head into her hands. She felt like she was watching a car accident in slow motion. “What do I do?”
“Call for a grand jury investigation.”
“You want me to ask the district attorney to put my—my—Detective Vega—on trial?” Adele felt embarrassed to use the word lover, and boyfriend felt so adolescent. It reduced her deep and satisfying affections for the man to something that could fit inside a Taylor Swift song.
“The evidence may exonerate him,” said Lindsey.
“Or put him in prison!”
“That’s not your call,” said Lindsey. “That’s the grand jury’s. In the meantime, your friend Myrna in the DA’s office may be able to give you a better picture of what’s going on.”
“The only thing that is going to give me a ‘better picture, ’” said Adele, “are the autopsy and forensic reports.”
“The autopsy won’t be ready for days,” said Lindsey. “The forensics on the case could take weeks. Social media moves at the speed of light, Adele. You’ve got that symposium at Fordham University tomorrow. Gloria Mendez, the program coordinator, called me up this morning and asked if you could address the shooting in your keynote speech.”
Adele gave Lindsey a panicked look. “You didn’t tell her that Detective Vega and I are dating, did you?”
“Of course not,” said Lindsey. “But that’s just it. You’re a leader in the immigrant community. You will be addressing the largest yearly gathering of immigrant leaders in the state. If you get on that stage at Fordham tomorrow and don’t talk about the shooting and don’t demand a grand jury investigation, people will start to wonder. Pretty soon everyone will be talking. You’ll ruin your credibility. You’ll ruin La Casa’s credibility.”
“I’m not getting up on that stage with a bunch of half-truths and innuendos.”
“Then do your homework,” said Lindsey. “Investigate the shooting. You’re a leader. Lead. Which reminds me.” Lindsey rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a book and CD. He slid them across the table to Adele. The book was Ricardo Luis’s new memoir, Song of My Heart. The cover showed Luis in a black shirt unbuttoned to his navel. The CD was a headshot with a similar dimpled grin.
“Luis’s publicist passed these on to you and all the board members this morning. Luis is hosting a small party in Lake Holly this evening before he returns to Miami on Monday. He asked us to attend as a gesture of forgiveness and solidarity.”
“We’re being used to scrub his image.”
“Maybe so,” said Lindsey. “But he wrote La Casa a check for five thousand dollars this morning and issued a public letter of apology for his role in the shooting. It serves no purpose to alienate him.”
“I can’t go,” said Adele. “That would be a slap in the face to Jimmy.”
Lindsey gave her a pained look. “This is your job. You can’t just crawl under a rock when things get uncomfortable. The board doesn’t want to have to exercise its power here. But I’m sure you realize we can if we have to.”
Adele went very still. “Are you actually pulling rank on me, Dave?”
Although Adele was the founder of La Casa and ran its day-to-day operations, the budget, and ultimately the power to hire and fire, was controlled by Lindsey and the four other elected board members—all of them unpaid volunteers. For the board members, La Casa was a civic duty. For Adele, it was her livelihood.
“Think about what I’m saying, okay?” said Lindsey. “You’ve known this guy—what? Eight months? Be certain you understand what you’re staking your career—your reputation—on before you go jumping off a cliff.”