“If you believe that, then we definitely don’t belong together!”
There. She’d said it. In anger, yes. But there was some truth to her words. Witness or no witness, Adele wasn’t sure she could ever reconcile the man she loved with the man who took an innocent life.
Sophia appeared at the top of the stairs in a T-shirt and fuzzy pajama bottoms with brightly colored cupcakes emblazoned on the fabric. Her long dark brown hair was tangled. She rubbed her eyes. Diablo panted and danced by her side.
“Mommy? You and Jimmy are yelling. I can’t sleep.”
Vega shrank into the darkened archway of the dining room. He didn’t want to frighten the child with his battered face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Adele. “I didn’t mean for things to—I’ll leave.”
“No.” She put out a hand to stay him. “Not like this.” She turned to Sophia on the stairs. “Go back to sleep, lucero. We’re just having a discussion. It’s okay. We’ll be quieter, I promise.”
Sophia looked down at Diablo. “I want a glass of milk and I think Diablo needs to pee.”
“I’ll take him out,” Vega offered.
“No. Stay there, out of the way.” Adele turned to Sophia. “Come down and get your milk, lucero. I’ll take the dog out.”
Sophia was in a half sleep so she glided right through the foyer without even lifting her head in Vega’s direction. Adele guided her around through the living room to the kitchen so that she wouldn’t see Vega. The dog followed dutifully behind. Adele got the child a glass of milk and secured Diablo’s leash to go outside.
“I want to take Diablo outside,” Sophia insisted.
“It’s late. You should go back to sleep.”
“You never let me take him out. I’ll watch him. I promise.”
“Okay. Just in the back yard.”
The child grabbed her purple coat, snow boots, and mittens and went out through the back door. In her wake, there was nothing but cold air and silence. Adele walked back into the foyer where Vega was standing in the shadows. His skin was a tapestry of bruises.
“I should go,” he said. “I’m like a wrecking ball right now.”
“No, please. We both need to cool down. And besides, I need your advice on something. Something police-related. But if I tell you, I need your assurance that it will stay between us.”
“Adele, I can’t know that until you tell me what it is.”
She closed her eyes, caught between keeping a confidence and maybe saving a life. “It has to do with—a child.”
“Sophia?”
“No. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.”
The bright lights in the kitchen felt like an assault. Vega blinked and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He eased himself into a chair while Adele scooped coffee into the coffeemaker. He studied her shimmery blue silk dress from behind, the way it pulled tight across her backside. Where had she gone in his favorite dress? Without him? He wiped a swollen hand across his chapped lips. He wanted her. God, he wanted her.
“So you went out tonight?” He asked the question as casually as he could.
“A business function.” After a few beats she added, “A party. Given by Ricardo Luis.”
“Huh.” He felt like someone had stuffed an old sock into his chest where his heart used to be.
“Jimmy, it wasn’t my choice. Dave Lindsey ordered me to go. What could I do? The man gave La Casa a donation after the shooting.”
“How nice for him. He gets applauded and I get lynched. Maybe I should start unbuttoning my shirts down to my navel and sing forgettable songs.”
“He offered for you to go see his guitar collection sometime.”
“I’m sure Captain Waring would be thrilled for me to have a heart-to-heart with someone who might very well testify against me.”
“It was still a nice gesture. He gave me his cell number if you ever change your mind.”
“He gave you his cell number?” Vega noticed Ricardo Luis’s autobiography lying on the kitchen table. “And you’re reading his book, too?”
“He gave autographed copies of his book and CD to all the board members. You don’t have to get jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” Vega began thumbing through the well of photographs. The more current shots were full of color and life—even the candid ones of Luis roughhousing with his three children by an enormous pool next to a whitewashed mansion surrounded by palm trees. The old photos were much grittier and darker. His dimpled smile was absent. His closed lips were a slash devoid of emotion. There was only a gritty, hard-muscled look to his body and a dull, hungry cast to his eyes. Even his facial proportions were different. His nose was broader. His cheekbones were less defined. His eyelids had more droop. This wasn’t genetics. This was plastic surgery. No doubt every tooth in his head had been straightened or replaced as well.