“It would be great if you could say that publicly.”
“I wish I could, Adele. But the media, the fans—they could turn against me in an instant. It’s bad enough that I shot this man. All the anti-gun people now hate me. Never mind the fact that every celebrity in Hollywood who is anti-gun walks around with an armed bodyguard. The double standard is ridiculous.”
“You don’t have a bodyguard?”
“I do in Miami. I have to. Here for the most part, I can escape from all of that.”
“Sounds like you don’t like fame all that much.”
“It’s got its upside, sure.” He held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and took a long pull. Up close like this, without a camera or spotlights, Adele could see the scrawny Mexican street kid he’d once been.
“The problem is, everyone wants something from you,” said Luis as he exhaled a long blast of smoke. “Even when you give, it’s never enough. They always want more. When I made that nine-one-one call, I just wanted it to be over.”
“It? You mean the robbery?”
Luis leaned against the building’s shingles and looked past Adele to the parking lot. “If there was a way I could make things better without destroying my career, I would. I didn’t grow up like this.” He gestured to the Mercedes, BMWs, and Escalades that lined the lot, their chrome and paint sparkling like they’d just come out of the showroom.
The man in the black beret whom Adele had seen earlier hung out the kitchen door. “Ric. You’re needed inside.”
Luis stamped out his cigarette. “See what I mean?” “It’s a shame,” said Adele. “Under different circumstances, Jimmy would have been thrilled to meet you. He’s a musician, too.”
“The detective? What does he play?”
“Guitar. In a club band. They call themselves ‘Armado.’ ”
“Hah.” Luis laughed. “Sorry. It’s just—Armed—that doesn’t sound like the best band name for a man who just uh, did what he did.”
“I know. All the band members are in law enforcement. That’s where the name came from.”
“Hold on a moment, please.” Luis went into the kitchen and emerged a few minutes later with a scrap of paper. “This is my private cell phone number. Please tell the detective that if he would ever like a tour of my home recording studio or guitar collection in Wickford, I would be happy to give him one.”
“Thank you,” said Adele. “That’s very kind of you. But I doubt his department would let him.”
“I understand. I’m just trying to offer a—cómo se dice?—a peace offering?”
Adele tucked the scrap of paper into her purse. “I’ll let him know.” She ducked back through the kitchen and found Dave Lindsey.
“I’ve got to go.” Adele didn’t want to pick Sophia up too late from her friend’s house. The girl’s family was doing her a favor as it was.
Lindsey leaned in close to speak over the music. “Margaret Behring,” he shouted.
“What?”
“Do you know a Margaret Behring?”
“I’m on the board of the Lake Holly Food Pantry,” said Adele. “Of course I know Margaret. She coordinates all the volunteers who help stock the shelves.” Many of the pantry’s needy clients were also clients of La Casa.
“Margaret lives in Wickford. On Perkins Road. Right behind Luis.”
Adele stepped back as the realization of what Dave Lindsey was saying sank in.
“You don’t mean. She’s not—”
“Tate just told me. She’s the one who witnessed the shooting.”
Chapter 18
Rage coursed through Vega’s veins. The sort of rage he’d never known his entire life, not even when Wendy told him she was pregnant with another man’s twins. It bypassed all logic and reason. It clawed at his core, snarling and feral, ready to leap out at the son of a bitch who’d threatened his daughter.
I will kill the hijo de puta who slashed my little girl’s tires. I will bash his brains in. I don’t care if they send me to jail. I’m going anyway.
How was it possible that he’d killed a man last night and felt only guilt and regret? And now, not twenty-four hours later, he felt only desire to do the same thing?
You want a killer cop? Bicho es! I’ll give you a killer cop!