And then she saw it. A thick religious tract about Jesus in Spanish. It was inside a clear plastic envelope. It looked like some free piece of literature one of the religious societies might give away. She could feel the hard press of something tucked inside the tract. Something round and flat. The size of a saucer. A disc. Yes. This was what she was looking for. This was where her father had stashed it. Marcela nearly wept with relief to think she’d found it.
She carefully folded up the envelope and tucked it into her bag. “Thank you,” she said to Alma. She meant it for once. Without knowing it, Alma had just turned over the one thing that would wipe out her father’s $8,000 debt.
And more importantly, it would spare her daughter’s life.
Chapter 24
“Her name is Yovanna,” said Adele as she handed Vega a cup of coffee from the emergency room vending machine. Vega took the cup gratefully just to feel the warmth in his hands. His pants and boots had mostly dried but he’d been so cold out there in the woods with Sophia that he couldn’t shake the chill.
“You mean the Honduran girl you were telling me about earlier?”
Adele nodded. Her gaze shifted to the emergency room doors. It would be a while before Sophia’s ankle got X-rayed. Adele’s ex was in with the child now. Vega got the impression Peter blamed Adele for what had happened tonight.
“Would you like me to speak to him?” asked Vega, nodding to the doors. “This whole situation is really my fault.”
“He’ll blame me no matter what you do,” said Adele. “And let’s face it, I blame myself.” She stared down at her blue silk dress. Splotches of mud covered the front. Her makeup had gone blurry around the eyes. Vega squeezed her hand. He didn’t know what else to do. He’d started out the evening determined to keep his distance from both Joy and Adele, to spare them the pain of his association. Yet somehow he’d loused things up anyway. But even so, for a moment tonight, when Sophia was wrapped in his jacket and they were making their way up that muddy embankment, he’d felt a great sense of purpose. He saw himself as the man he used to be—the man he wanted to be again. He just didn’t know how anymore. So he sipped his coffee, which tasted like sweetened water, and tried to hang on to the notion that he could still do good in the world even if he’d done something bad.
They settled into an area far from the television and vending machines. “So tell me about this girl,” said Vega.
“Her mother and stepfather live here in Lake Holly.” Adele played with the chain around her neck, sliding the cross back and forth. She was still wearing that thing. Vega wondered who she thought she was praying for. If it was Vega, God had a wicked sense of humor. She cleared her throat. “The girl’s mother is Marcela.”
“Huh? I thought Marcela had a little boy.”
“She does. Yovanna was living with Marcela’s mother in Honduras. She just arrived about a week and a half ago.”
Vega felt the knowledge roll like a bead of dew across the surface of his brain for a moment before slowly sinking in. “Wait, do you mean to tell me that you spoke to Marcela today? You didn’t talk about me, did you?”
“I wouldn’t do that. And besides, what could I talk about? You don’t tell me anything.”
He let the dig pass. “Did she tell you about why her father went to Ricardo Luis’s house?”
“She insists he’s not a thief. But I also gathered from the conversation that Hector borrowed money to pay for Yovanna’s passage and he hadn’t paid it back.”
“So you knew her daughter was coming?”
“I knew she’d arrived,” said Adele. “I can’t ask more than that. It would be—inappropriate—given my position.”
“Not to mention that what she did is illegal.”
“A child belongs with her mother, Jimmy. Look what we just went through with Sophia and tell me you don’t believe that.”
“In my heart? Of course I believe it. In my head? I don’t have an answer.” Vega shot a glance at the doors beyond the brightly lit waiting area. A television screen glowed across the faces of anxious people waiting their turn to be admitted. His mind was racing. He wasn’t really thinking of Marcela and her daughter. He was thinking about Hector Ponce.
“So Ponce borrowed money to smuggle his granddaughter from Honduras,” said Vega. “Presumably from someone with far less friendly repayment terms than Hudson United—and no free pens. How much did he owe?”
“Eight thousand dollars.”
Vega let out a long whistle. “Not bond-trader big. But certainly a huge chunk of change for working people, never mind immigrants.” Vega was already building a case in his head. Vega’s friend, Freddy Torres, had said that Ponce was a gambler. Maybe Ponce was counting on a big score and when it fell through, he got desperate. Ricardo Luis dined regularly at Chez Martine where Ponce worked. The Wickford police had already established that. It would have been a simple matter for Ponce to lift Luis’s address from credit card receipts and make the hit.
Except Ponce didn’t have a car or a means to get away.
“Jimmy? Are you listening to me?” Adele sounded frustrated. “This isn’t about Marcela’s father. It’s about Yovanna. Marcela told me this gangster gave her a week—one week—to come up with eight thousand dollars or he’d kill her daughter.”