“Would you prefer I tell them the real reason for your trepidation?” Tate’s eyes bored into hers behind those heavy black-framed glasses. He knew. Adele suspected the source of the leak. She searched out Dave Lindsey’s face just beyond Tate’s entourage. Lindsey tried to duck into the crowd but since he was a head taller than everyone, he was easy to spot.
“My private life is no one’s business,” said Adele. “Least of all yours, Professor.”
“Oh, come now,” said Tate. “I hope you aren’t seriously going to try to make excuses for this cop. His actions are indefensible. His comments since the shooting have been callous and outrageous.”
“How can you say that?” asked Adele. “How can anyone who wasn’t there speak about what happened?”
A small smile curled the edges of Tate’s lips. “But someone was, Adele. A witness. My sources tell me she saw Vega shoot Ponce point-blank in the head.”
“I’ve heard that. And I don’t believe it.”
“Why? Because the detective told you it didn’t happen?”
Adele seethed. She hated Tate for his arrogance and condescension. But she hated Vega too for putting her in this position. Here she was defending a man who wasn’t even willing to defend himself.
“Who is the witness?” asked Adele.
“I’m awaiting official release of her name,” said Tate. “She’s a neighbor, I think. When I find out, I’ll let you know. And then I suggest you rethink your position. You go on that stage tomorrow and don’t demand a grand jury investigation, you can kiss off a career in this field, Adele. Not a single person or group in that audience will be with you.”
“I will.”
The voice came out of nowhere, floating above the music and chatter and movement of waiters. It was a melodic voice with a strong Spanish accent. It carried a hint of the breathy vibrato he was known for. Adele had hoped she’d get to meet Ricardo Luis this evening. She hadn’t planned on doing it this way.
Everyone turned in Luis’s direction. For a celebrity, he seemed rather shy up close.
“I’m not saying I can defend what this police officer did,” Luis said hesitantly to Tate and the crowd. “But I did not sense any anger or hatred in him. Maybe he did what this witness is saying. Maybe he didn’t. But perhaps it is best to let the courts handle it from here, yes?”
His words took the heat right out of the conversation. Adele could have kissed him, she felt so grateful. Tate nodded curtly to Adele and eased away, surrounded as always by his assistants. Even Dave Lindsey backed off. Adele assumed Luis would too, but he stood there, holding out another glass of white wine to her. Adele couldn’t deny a little skip in her breathing. She’d never been this close to a celebrity before—and a good-looking one at that.
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “For the wine and for . . . um, coming to my rescue.”
“Politics bore me,” said Luis. “I’d much rather talk music and food. Life is too short for so much anger, yes?”
He was charming. She expected him to be charming in a crowd. But not like this. Not up close. He was shorter than he appeared onstage. Probably all of five-seven. He was probably pushing forty though he had none of the crow’s feet or random strands of gray that Adele had begun to notice when she looked in the mirror. He was dressed in a fitted black shirt that managed to look stylish and indifferent to fashion at the same time. He was attractive of course. But even beyond the dimpled smile and perfectly sculpted body, there was something magnetic about him. He radiated star power. Was that always there? Or just a result of his fame?
Stop it. You sound like a groupie.
“I don’t normally make a scene like that,” said Adele. “I must apologize, Mr. Luis—”
“Ric. Call me Ric. Everyone does.” He had a killer smile: lots of white teeth that shone almost as brightly as his liquid brown eyes.
“Adele.” She pressed a palm to the chest of her dress. Her sweaty fingers stuck to the shiny silk for a brief moment, which made her feel even more embarrassed at her choice of attire this evening.
“You don’t have to apologize, Adele,” said Luis. “I think it’s very—how do you say . . . open-minded?—to be head of an immigrant organization and still be able to defend a police officer.”
Adele laughed. “I’m not as open-minded as you think,” she said. “You see, the police officer who shot Mr. Ponce is my, my—I’m dating him.”
“Ay caray!” Luis smacked his forehead. He had a performer’s sense of gesture. Every emotion had an accompanying physical tic. “I had no idea.”
“Then you’re the only one Ruben Tate-Rivera hasn’t blabbed to. That’s why he was going at it so hard with me. He knows I’m not open-minded. Just torn.”
A stocky Latino in a black beret put a hand on Luis’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. Luis’s face slackened and then regained its trademark smile. He obviously could pull it out on command, like a pair of sunglasses. Adele assumed he would glad-hand her like a politician and slip away but he waved the man in the beret off and turned back to her.