“C’mon, man,” Vega urged Dolan. “Cut me a break and give me what you got on the suspect. It’s eating me alive.”
Dolan cursed under his breath. “He had a social security card in his wallet under the name Antonio Fernandez,” Dolan said finally. “He had a pristine-looking Atlanta, Georgia, public library card under the same name, too.”
“You think the ID’s real?”
“His wallet didn’t contain a driver’s license. My guess? The social security card is a forgery. He got the library card with it to establish another form of ID so he’s probably here illegally. He broke into Ricardo Luis’s house so I’m guessing he’s probably got a criminal record. We won’t know until we lift his prints and send them through the computer, however. That could take a few hours.”
“Is that everything you found?”
Silence. Holiday lights on the passing houses flashed and faded in the glass. Vega had almost forgotten that Christmas was less than three weeks away. A few days ago, he and Dolan were bemoaning the glacial pace of promotions off the sergeant’s list. Now they were on opposite sides of a divide that could never be breached. Vega wondered if he’d ever feel normal again.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Vega insisted.
“Nobody said you did.”
“Then stop freezing me out of the loop here.”
“Jimmy, you’re not in the loop. You’re sidelined. Nobody removes their own appendix, comprende?”
“I feel less like a patient at a hospital and more like the stiff at a funeral.”
“There’s not much to tell, okay? We found a paycheck in one of his jacket pockets. From Chez Martine.”
“The French restaurant in Wickford?”
“Yeah, but it was made out to someone with an entirely different name at a Bronx address.”
“You think he stole the paycheck?”
“That, or he was using multiple aliases from multiple states.”
Vega nodded. They’d both experienced the frustration of arresting an undocumented suspect who used different parts of their name to confuse the police and make it harder to track identity or past arrests.
“Anything else to suggest a Bronx connection?”
“He had a New York City Metro card and ten Lotto tickets from a Bronx bodega in the same inside pocket as the pay stub. He had a small rosary with a crucifix in there, too.”
“Great.” Vega massaged his forehead. “So the suspect I shot just went from being a gangbanger who raped little girls to some religious busboy who just wanted to show me a picture of his family. Our department’s storing the evidence, right?”
“Yeah. We’re handling the homicide and Wickford’s handling the robbery.”
“So you can get access.”
“And your point is?”
“I want to see the photo he had in his hands,” said Vega. “I want to take a look at the contents of his pockets.”
Dolan pulled a face. “No can do, Jimmy.”
“A few quick shots on your iPhone. Come on, Teddy. What’s the harm in texting them to me? I want to try to understand.”
“You may never understand.” Dolan shook his head. “In the Marines, we didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about whether our enemies tucked their kids in at night. Nothing good can come of that. You’ve got to let it go.”
“I will. I promise. Once I see that photo and the other stuff.”
“Aw, for crying out loud—” Dolan went to rail at Vega but pulled back at the last moment. Vega read something awkward in his eyes. Pity? God, he hoped not. That was the last thing he wanted from anyone.
“I can’t be your inside man, Jimmy. No promises. But let me see what I can do.”
Captain Waring was expecting Vega and Dolan at the station house. Dolan ushered Vega through the back doors. Under the best of circumstances, their boss, Frank Waring, inspired a certain trepidation among the detectives in the homicide division. He wasn’t a big man. He had the lean, angular look of a Depression-era dustbowl farmer and a voice that rarely rose above the decibel level of a librarian. But he was an ex-Navy SEAL and considered cops like Vega who hadn’t served in the military inferior to those like Dolan who had. Vega and Waring’s relationship had never been warm and fuzzy since Vega moved from narcotics to homicide two years ago. This latest incident wasn’t likely to improve the situation.
“How are you holding up, Detective?” asked Waring. The captain’s gray-blue eyes registered no genuine concern except perhaps for what this incident might do to his own career.
“Fine, sir,” said Vega. You don’t say “okay” to Captain Waring.
Waring turned to a uniformed sergeant named Lasky. “Sergeant? Please get the detective a glass of water.” The water had nothing to do with any worry over whether Vega was properly hydrated. “Sergeant Lasky will take you down the hall for a urine sample.”