Vega’s defense—his only defense—was that he was doing what he was supposed to do as a police officer. Then again, he thought he was doing the same thing Friday night, and look where that got him.
Vega slumped against the wall and woodenly offered the facts as he knew them. He told Greco about Yovanna, the loan, and the threatening calls to Marcela for repayment. Greco listened, his face contorted in stomach distress or concentration, Vega couldn’t say which.
“So Ponce owed some thug eight thousand dollars,” said Greco, trying to recap the basics. “Presumably borrowed to finance Yovanna’s little excursion to the U.S. When the thug heard Ponce was dead, he leaned on Marcela for repayment.”
“In a nutshell,” said Vega.
“But this opens more questions than it answers,” said Greco. “Where was Ponce Friday night?”
“In the woods at Luis’s house, I think,” said Vega.
“Where’s the proof?”
Vega told Greco about Joy’s friend Katie who saw a man who looked like Ponce running out of the woods. “She never heard the shots so she couldn’t say if she saw him before or after. But now I’m wondering if it was after.”
“I don’t know, Vega. A pothead scoring weed is not my idea of a good witness. And don’t forget, a neighbor gave the DA a statement that she saw you shoot Ponce point-blank. She didn’t see anyone else. For that matter, neither did Luis.”
Luis. Vega straightened. “Luis said he shot Ponce.”
“So?” asked Greco. “Luis wouldn’t know who he shot until the police told him the guy’s name.”
“Yeah, but unlike me, Luis saw the face of the man he shot. In good light. At close range. Ponce’s picture was all over the news. If the man Luis shot wasn’t Ponce, why didn’t he say anything?”
“Luis probably never gave the guy more than a passing thought except as to how it might affect his career.”
Greco’s phone dinged with a text. “My guys just brought Marcela in.” Greco sighed. “I hate telling people their loved ones are dead. And I really hate delivering that news twice.”
Vega left Greco and returned to the emergency room waiting area. It felt like hours had passed but it had only been twenty-five minutes. Adele still hadn’t come out. Vega was glad. He couldn’t tell her any of what he’d just found out.
He pulled out his phone and played a game to distract himself. He never felt normal hunger anymore, only sudden waves of intense desire for sugar or caffeine. He walked back to the vending machine, bought a Snickers bar, and another weak cup of coffee, and sat at a small table in the snack area trying to eat slowly and feel the food travel from his mouth to his stomach. The sweetness soothed him. He brought the cup to his lips—and froze.
Two uniformed police officers walked by. Between them stood Marcela and her husband, Byron, both of them looking grim-faced and cowed in the presence of so much authority. Vega ducked his head. He felt the cup shaking in his hands. It was only a few weeks ago that he’d driven Marcela home in the rain. He remembered walking her to her door, both of them huddled under his umbrella. How could he have guessed their lives would become entwined under such horrible circumstances?
Marcela didn’t see Vega, thankfully. She was too focused on her little boy, who looked like he’d just awoken from a deep sleep. The child was still wearing his pajamas and clutching a stuffed dog. Marcela handed him off to a young teenage girl accompanying the family. Yovanna? The teenager took the sleepy child in her arms and started heading for the vending machines.
Vega felt trapped, as if he’d been caught spying or shoplifting. He shoved the rest of the candy bar in his mouth and threw the wrapper in the garbage. He picked up the coffee to leave when the teenager walked into the small snack room with the little boy in her arms. The child was fully awake now. He’d spotted the candy in the machines.
“Quiero caramelos!” the boy whined. He wanted candy. The teenager shushed him. “I have no money,” she told him in Spanish.
Vega fished some change from his pockets and held it out to the girl.
“Here,” he said in Spanish. “For you and the little boy.” Vega couldn’t remember the child’s name. But he wouldn’t have used it anyway. It would have frightened the two children to think this stranger knew who they were.
The girl shook her head no and kept her eyes on the floor. Adele had said she was thirteen but she looked much younger than that. She had her mother’s dark skin, wide face, and Asian-looking eyes. Her clothes looked too small on her and more suited to spring than winter. She wore only a light pink windbreaker. Vega wondered if this was all Marcela had had on hand for her when she arrived.
“Candy! Candy! Candy!” the boy cried again in Spanish.
The teenager bounced the boy on her hip. “We’ll get candy later maybe,” she offered. But the boy kept up his chant.