“I’m here with campus security? I sorta don’t want to alarm you. But somebody slashed all my tires in the parking lot and put a note on my windshield.”
Vega tried to find his voice. His sense of command. It was fading fast. “A note? What did it say?”
“ ‘Killer cop’s daughter.’ ”
Chapter 17
Adele smoothed the creases in her blue silk dress as she stepped out of her car. This is just a business event like any other business event, she told herself.
She wished she could make herself believe that.
Ricardo Luis had taken over the most expensive restaurant in Lake Holly for the evening, a new place called Harvest where a farm-to-table meal cost as much as six months’ worth of groceries. It was housed in a graceful landmark Victorian that used to be a funeral parlor. Adele was pretty sure the celebrity chef who bought the place had no idea that when Dave Lindsey brokered the property as a “location to die for,” he wasn’t kidding.
Adele checked her coat at the entrance. Her blue silk cocktail dress was all wrong for the event. She saw that right away. She looked like she was the maid of honor at a wedding in 1953. Adele was used to attending events full of earnest academics, dowagers, and politicians where dressing in anything other than worsted wool made her look young and hip by comparison. But truly hip people, she now realized, didn’t dress jazzy at all. There was an abundance of ripped jeans and linen jackets. The women wore clothing that was all about showing off skin, not covering it up.
Adele flattened herself against a pocket door and grabbed a glass of white wine off a passing tray. She searched the crowd for familiar faces. La Casa’s board members were all here, including Dave Lindsey and his wife. They were clustered in a tight group at the edge of the event like kids at a first dance. Adele did not see Ricardo Luis, which disappointed her a little. She could dislike him for distancing himself from the shooting. But there was no denying the thrill of meeting a celebrity. Perhaps he was just going to put in a cameo appearance.
“Ah, we meet,” said a booming voice over the chatter and music from a live salsa band in the next room. “And she’s even prettier than I’ve heard.”
Adele turned and took in the black-framed glasses and red bowtie. His trademark. Just in case you confused Ruben Tate-Rivera with some other black college professor-turned-activist. Or some other man who believed complimenting a woman on her looks still passed for high praise.
Adele forced a smile and extended a hand. She knew who Tate was. Everyone in the country knew who Tate was. Vega and other police officers hated him for his bombastic, antipolice rhetoric and penchant for publicity. They accused him of distorting facts to suit his preconceived notions of the world. But Adele had always argued that a free society needed a single-minded person like Ruben Tate-Rivera who embraced the claims of the poor and disenfranchised simply because they were poor and disenfranchised. She didn’t like his style. She didn’t think everything he said was true. But he forced the police and the media to take note of things they might otherwise brush under the table.
She wondered if she’d feel the same way now that someone she cared about was caught in his crosshairs.
“So nice to meet you, Professor,” said Adele. She’d heard he liked to be referred to as “Professor.” He was surrounded by a gaggle of young, fresh-faced assistants who no doubt called him that.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you speak at Fordham University tomorrow,” he said.
“You’re coming to the symposium?”
“Absolutely.”
The symposium was the largest annual gathering of immigrant coalitions in New York State. Strictly speaking, Ruben Tate-Rivera’s constituency wasn’t immigrants. It was activists concerned about police abuse of power. The two areas overlapped of course. But Adele liked to think that her clients were far more concerned with fair wages and a pathway to legal residency than they were their day-to-day relations with the police.
“I spoke to Gloria Mendez, the event coordinator, this morning,” said Tate. “She’s most anxious to hear your comments on yesterday’s shooting. I understand a lot of media will be there, too. This is an excellent opportunity to pressure the district attorney to convene a grand jury—maybe even get the governor to appoint a special prosecutor for the task.”
Adele froze. “I never said I was going to do any of that.”
Tate narrowed his gaze. “It would be—unfortunate—if you turned timid, Adele. The media is expecting a forceful response.”
“Why? Because you told them that’s what I was going to say? Who gave you the right to hijack my speech?”