A Blossom of Bright Light

Book 2: Jimmy Vega Mystery

by Suzanne Chazin

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Award-winning author Suzanne Chazin returns with a stirring novel of deadly misdeeds and heartbreaking choices in a seasoned homicide cop’s hometown.

A split-second decision thrusts Detective Jimmy Vega into the epicenter of a disturbing case when a body is found near a gathering place for immigrants in upscale Lake Holly, New York. The cold-bloodedness of the crime and the innocence of the victim torment Vega. But so does the feeling that he’s to blame. Could the ravings of a delusional vagrant hold the key to the killing? And if so, why can’t the police locate him?

In a community gripped by fear of deportation, Vega needs the help of his girlfriend, activist Adele Figueroa, to gain people’s trust. But Adele is acting strangely, consumed by a secret that threatens to tear them apart. When the case takes a personal turn, both Vega and Adele discover that Lake Holly’s tranquil facade hides a terror of monstrous proportions, poised and ready to strike again. To confront the killer and save their relationship, Vega and Adele must forge a new level of trust — in each other, and in their most deeply held beliefs — to expose an evil that threatens to eclipse anything they’d previously imagined.

Written with equal parts passion and suspense, A Blossom of Bright Light takes readers on a journey of stunning revelations to uncover a small town’s most sinister secrets — and brightest hopes for the future. Mystery, sacrifice, and unremitting love converge in this gripping work by a master storyteller.

©2015 Blackstone Audio, Inc.; 2015 Suzanne Chazin

Release date: November 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

There are decisions you make in life without realizing you are making them. They don’t even seem like decisions at all until you’re suddenly bounding along, breathless as a husky in the snow, farther and farther from some elusive fork in the road where it all could have been different.

Had he seen the fork or even had an inkling it was there, Jimmy Vega could have saved so many things that night. His relationship. His conscience. A life. Had he thought with his head instead of points considerably farther south, he would have chosen far differently. It would have changed everything—because it wouldn’t have changed anything at all.

It was a Saturday evening in late October, a time when the trees flame with color and the leaf peepers form conga lines on the highways heading north from New York City. There was talk of a dusting of snow in the forecast. Lights flicked on early from windows decorated with carved pumpkins and paper ghosts cut by children itching for Halloween.

Normally Vega would have clocked in at work by now, but he’d switched tours with Teddy Dolan so Dolan could take his kids to their adoption agency’s fall dinner tomorrow. Normally Vega’s girlfriend of five months, Adele Figueroa, would be fetching her nine-year-old daughter from gymnastics, but Sophia’s best friend had begged the girl to sleep over. As a result, a rare and beautiful thing opened up on their calendars: a whole fourteen hours to spend together. Alone.

They knew how they were going to spend it, too. A log in Adele’s fireplace. Chinese takeout. Coronas and limes. Marc Anthony and Shakira on the stereo. The evening stretched out before them like a vast blue ocean waiting to be explored.

One minute, Adele was sitting with Vega in her funky, adobe-colored dining room, holding a fortune cookie playfully out of his reach, breaking off bits of it and rolling them around oh-so-suggestively on her tongue. The next, her phone was ringing in the kitchen, harsh and insistent. It was eight p.m. They’d been together just over an hour.

“Puñeta!” Vega slumped in his chair, the air suddenly gone out of him. He always fell into the Puerto Rican street vernacular of his youth when he got frustrated.

Adele rose and shot him a warning look. “It could be Sophia, you know.” Vega had to remind himself that they were on different sides of the parenting divide. Vega’s daughter, Joy, was eighteen, a freshman at the community college. He’d have fallen off his chair if she’d called him on a Saturday night.

It wasn’t Sophia. It was Rafael, the evening manager at La Casa, the Latino community center Adele had founded ten years ago and given up a promising law career to keep afloat. Not to mention her waste of a Harvard degree.

Vega could hear Rafael’s panicked, rapid-fire Spanish through the receiver. Something about Jazmin, his six-year-old daughter. It sounded like she’d gotten hurt.

“Oh my goodness,” said Adele. “Do you think the thumb is broken? Can she move it?”

Vega already had an idea where this conversation was headed. He blocked the doorway of the kitchen and waved furiously at her like she was standing on a cliff, about to jump.

“You’re not covering Rafael’s shift tonight, Adele. Tell him to close the center early if he has to take Jazmin to the emergency room.”

Adele ducked under Vega’s arms and walked back into the dining room. The table was littered with half-empty takeout cartons and palm-sized packages of soy sauce. Two brightly painted Mexican candlesticks sat among the ruins, their tapered candles still glowing with promise. She leaned over and blew them out. Ribbons of smoke curled from their snuffed wicks. Just like Vega’s evening—up in smoke.

She spoke into the phone. “Did you try Luis? Is he available to take the shift?”

More panicked words from Rafael. Adele turned her back. “Of course you have to go. Can he speak to me tomorrow?” Vega had a sense this wasn’t just about Jazmin anymore.

“Close the center,” he said again.

Adele ignored him. “So is Zambo there now?”

Zambo. That was all Vega needed to hear.

“Oh no. No way, Adele. You’re not going in for that drunk.” All the cops and social workers in the area had Zambo stories, and as a county detective, Vega had heard every one. Zambo wasn’t his real name. Vega didn’t even know his real name. Everyone just called him Zambo, short for patizambo—“bowlegged”—in Spanish. He was a homeless alcoholic from someplace in Central America with a penchant for religious delusions and a long string of petty misdemeanors that never quite rose to the level of deportable offenses. Vega was betting he’d just walked into La Casa with some new claim that God had personally singled him out for something other than an extra case of communion wine.

More chatter from Rafael.

“Zambo says he just saw Jesus.” Adele listened, then corrected herself. “The baby Jesus. In the arms of the Virgin Mary. In the woods behind La Casa.”

“Coño!” Vega cursed loudly enough for Rafael to hear. “Every time that mutt gets a couple of drinks in him, he thinks God’s sending him an Instagram.” Some of the local cops took bets on where Zambo would have a religious delusion next. Once he claimed the Virgin Mary spoke to him from behind the Slurpee dispenser at the Subway on Main Street. Another time, he saw Her at the Laundromat over on Sunset. He considered the Mobil gas station owned by two turbaned Sikhs to be sacred property because he saw the head of Jesus in an oil stain there.

Oddly, Zambo never seemed to see Jesus or Mary in church. Then again, Vega had spent years as an altar boy, and he’d never had anything that would qualify as a religious experience in church either.

“Tell him to lay off the extra-strength lagers,” Vega called out.

Adele’s mouth went slack. She slid a glance in Vega’s direction. He expected annoyance. He was behaving like a child. If she chewed him out later, he’d take his lumps without complaint. But what he saw instead stopped him cold. Not anger. Or frustration. Or any emotion with a shred of heat in it. No. There was something more tepid and sad in the watery set of her big, chestnut-colored eyes, the slight downturn in her full lips, the slow exhale from her chest. This was disappointment. And it sliced right through him because he understood that this was not the first time lately she’d given him that look. It had been building. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his subconscious, he knew that. But he hadn’t realized it fully until now.

Nothing had been said, of course. It was telegraphed in her shortened embraces, the way she no longer sent little “thinking of you” texts, or returned his with only xs or smiley faces at the bottom. Sometimes he’d catch her lost in thought. He’d tense and wait, but the words never came. People brought their troubles to Adele. Adele brought her troubles to no one—sadly, not even to him. Maybe because he was the source.

She cradled the phone to her ear and grabbed some plates off the dining table. Then she walked the stack past Vega into the kitchen and dumped them into her deep, cast-iron sink. Vega grabbed the cups and bowls and followed. Adele had a dishwasher, but the sink was so big, she and Vega always did their dishes by hand. Vega loved the routine. It reminded him of when he was a little boy in the Bronx, watching his mother and grandmother in the kitchen. Just thinking about his mother brought an ache to his heart. She’d been gone eighteen months now, murdered in a botched robbery in the Bronx. The police had yet to arrest a suspect. Every month, he called the station house for an update on the case, and every month, the only thing that changed was the name of the detective in charge.

“So I take it Zambo wants to show me the spot behind La Casa where he had his vision,” Adele said to Rafael over the clatter.

La Casa was only a five-minute drive from Adele’s house. Taking her there was no trouble at all. But Adele wouldn’t walk behind the center and come right back. She’d chat with clients and restock the copier and clean out the refrigerator and answer the half dozen e-mails that seemed to come in every hour at that place. And she’d be there until midnight. She might as well have kept her promising Wall Street law career for all the hours she put into that place.

Vega came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed himself into her body and breathed in the scent of her—vanilla and limes and something entirely her own. He massaged the muscles on either side of her spine, then brushed her silky black hair away from her neck and ran his lips down the contours. She shivered in response. He wanted more than anything to make love to her in front of the fireplace tonight. He wanted to buy sweet rolls and strawberries in the morning and dip them in whipped cream that they’d lick off each other’s lips.

He wanted her to look at him like she used to.

“Don’t go, Nena,” he whispered. He was the only man she’d ever let call her “baby” in Spanish. “Tonight belongs to us.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled a prayer over the phone that was disguised as a question.

“You think this is just another one of his hallucinations?” she asked Rafael.

Vega wanted to tell Rafael to do what he should have done in the first place and kick Zambo out. That mutt was probably only at La Casa because it was cold out tonight. Too cold to make trouble and chance having the Lake Holly police pick him up and dump him in neighboring Wickford like they always did when he got on their nerves.

“You can talk to Zambo tomorrow,” Vega whispered into her neck, his breath hot and moist on her skin.

Vega untucked Adele’s blouse from her jeans and snaked a hand inside, letting his fingers tease at the elastic of her underwear. Her body grew sweaty and liquid to the touch. There was a catch in her breathing, a moment when he had her, really had her, the way he used to. He could sense the wave breaking over her. Soon she would be bobbing in the current, her thoughts pulled out with the tide. He could feel them receding in the foam, a mere blip on the horizon. In an hour, they would lie in the afterglow of their lovemaking and forget they’d ever harbored any other thoughts.

Going . . . going . . .

She pushed his hand away.

“Fine.” Vega raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Some drunk means more to you than I do.” He stomped to the door.

“Rafael? Can you hold for just one moment? One moment, I promise.” Adele put the phone down and followed Vega to the front hallway. “Jimmy, please. Something’s wrong.”

“No kidding.”

“No, I mean with what Rafael’s telling me. Zambo’s never said anything quite so specific before. He called the woman he saw in the woods ‘the Lady of Sorrows,’ like the Catholic church in town.”

“It’s just another term for the Virgin Mary, Adele.”

“I know that. But this doesn’t sound like one of his usual rants. I feel like I should check it out.”

“How ’bout what I feel? That place has got you on a chain, Nena. Every time somebody over there needs you, you go running back. I’m tired of it.”

Vega grabbed his jacket from the coat tree. It was a bluff. He wasn’t leaving. Not really. He’d drive her over to La Casa and sit in a corner, hunched and sulky, checking his e-mail and playing games on his iPhone until she was ready to leave. He knew when they’d started dating last May that her life wasn’t her own. He’d tried hard to be happy with whatever part she gave him. God, he’d tried. But he was a man, after all. And he wanted her. Just this once, couldn’t he be the focus of her attentions?

Adele blinked at him. There was no disappointment for once in her gaze. Only longing. She walked over to the table and picked up the phone.

“Listen, Rafael? I—can’t come in tonight. I’m sorry—I just can’t. Close down the center. Tell Zambo I’ll speak to him another time. I hope Jazmin’s thumb isn’t broken. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

Vega tossed his jacket back on the coat tree and scooped up Adele the moment she clicked off the call. He could barely contain his excitement as he buried his head in her chest and felt the pleasing give of her flesh. He was seventeen again, awash with the thrill of a woman’s body. Awash with the thrill of Adele. “You won’t regret it, Nena,” he breathed into her hair, his voice husky with yearning.

Never in his life had he been more wrong.

It was the last good night’s sleep Jimmy Vega would have for a long time. At seven the next morning, his cell phone rang by Adele’s bedside. Both he and Adele sat up, certain they’d overslept. God forbid Sophia should come home and find them in bed together. Vega and Adele were careful to keep their relationship strictly platonic when the child was around.

The caller ID was blocked, and for Vega at least, that usually meant it was coming from a cop’s cell. Vega tried to wring the hoarseness out of his voice before he answered.

“Vega? Captain Waring.”

His boss. Commander of the county police department’s detective division. Vega wasn’t due at work until four p.m. He was about to protest that he’d changed shifts with Teddy Dolan, but Waring was ex-Navy SEAL. Police work to him was like the military, a 24/7 calling. Plus, you never contradicted a superior officer.

“How far are you from Lake Holly at the moment, Vega?”

“Umm,” Vega grinned. “Pretty close by.” He stroked a hand down Adele’s thigh and avoided her quizzical gaze. His own house was forty-five minutes north of Lake Holly, a little two-bedroom lakeside cabin he was still in the process of winterizing nearly six years after his divorce. He couldn’t afford to live anywhere in the county on a cop’s salary. He was on the promotional list for sergeant, but the list moved slowly and the pay raise wasn’t huge.

“We’ve got a situation near the Lake Holly turnoff to the parkway. The local PD is there now, but it falls under our jurisdiction. I want you to take the lead if you can get there within the next half hour.”

There would be no sweet rolls from the bakery this morning, no strawberries with whipped cream. Vega tried to swallow back his disappointment. He was looking forward to another couple of hours with Adele. The sheets felt so buttery, her flesh so cuddly. He loved the way her lemon-yellow walls caught the early morning sun and warmed it. He loved the two paintings hanging behind her mission-style bed, one of women washing clothes in a mountain stream, the other of people picking crops on a bright green terraced hillside—both gifts from clients who mythologized their birthplaces even as they ran from them.

He could lie to Waring and say he was tied up, but there was no denying that the familiar adrenaline rush was kicking in. Somebody was dead, and he was enough of a homicide detective to want to know why. Although he’d backed into being a cop when his girlfriend—later wife, later ex-wife—got pregnant and he couldn’t support a baby as a rock-band guitarist, the job had grown on him. Or perhaps more accurately, he’d grown into the job.

He’d worked at an insurance agency after college but couldn’t stomach being cooped up all day behind mountains of meaningless forms and spreadsheets. He liked the pureness of police work, the way it divided the world into right and wrong. True, he saw people at their worst. And, no doubt, it had colored his view of human nature. But he still believed in the essential goodness of what he was doing. He was there to make things better. If he’d wanted predictability, he should have stayed in insurance. Just the thought of it made him want to put a bullet through his brain.

“I can be there in ten minutes, Captain.” Vega felt Adele’s body shift to the other side of the bed. There was a coolness to the sheets where a moment before they had felt so warm and welcoming. He had a sense she would see a double standard in his willingness to work this morning when he’d given her so much grief about doing the same thing last night. Already, he was marshaling an argument in his head. This is a matter of life and death—not babysitting a social club and listening to some drunk yammer on about his hallucinations.

Wait. Scratch that. If he uttered even one word of what he was thinking, Adele would have his head. No matter how he phrased it, the subtext would be the same: My job is more important than yours. And yeah—he felt that. Deep down, if he was honest, he did. But if he’d learned one thing in thirteen years of marriage to Wendy, it was this: the more logic you bring to an argument, the more likely you are to spend the night on the couch.

Vega and Adele’s clash of careers had been a sore point in their relationship from the moment they started dating five months ago. He was a police officer who believed in upholding the law whether he agreed with it or not. She worked primarily with undocumented immigrants who were lawbreakers by their mere presence in the country. And then there were the myriad of smaller differences between them. He worked shifts, often stripping down to a T-shirt and jeans as soon as they were over. She worked all the time, moving from the day-to-day of running a nonprofit to the cocktail-hour dinner jacket schmoozing that got it funded. He tried hard not to take his work home with him. She filled their time together with stories of her clients and their troubles. He hated politics—left or right, it didn’t matter. She lived for it.

Some weeks, the only way he could see her was to suffer through some benefit dinner full of earnest, gray-haired patrons who asked what Latin American country he was from (Does the Bronx qualify?) and activists who considered a Puerto Rican cop at best a paperweight in a tie and at worst a sellout to his people. He and Adele were supposed to attend a fund-raiser for county supervisor Steve Schulman this coming Saturday night. Schulman was expected to win a seat in the U.S. Senate next month by a wide margin over his Republican opponent. Adele was a big supporter. She couldn’t wait. Vega was dreading the event—the dull pleasantries, the handshakes that felt more like hand-offs, the obsession with inside-the-Beltway politics that wouldn’t make one whit of difference in real people’s lives. Adele had been nagging Vega for at least a month to secure a rental tux for the event. He’d yet to do it.

He tried to push these thoughts from his head and concentrate on the case at hand. “Can you give me an idea what I’m walking into?” he asked Waring.

“A couple of day laborers went to relieve themselves in the woods behind La Casa,” said Waring. “They found a dead newborn in a pile of leaves, umbilical cord still attached.”

“A—baby? In the woods behind La Casa?” The words came out soft as a prayer. All the sunlight seemed to drain from the room. Vega felt the mattress shift as Adele leaned in closer. A prickly static filled the air. They both sensed that if they touched one another, the shock might kill them.

“A female,” Waring added. “The first officers on the scene said she appeared to be full-term. Possibly Hispanic. She wasn’t wearing any clothes or blankets. Only a disposable diaper.”

A baby. The baby—

“Jesus,” said Vega softly, echoing Adele’s conversation last night.

“Keep it together, Detective, all right?”

“Yessir. I didn’t mean—” No. Not now. Not until he knew more. Already his insides were curdling like he’d drunk too much coffee on an empty stomach. This had to be what Zambo claimed he saw last night. A baby. In the arms of the mother who likely abandoned her. There had been a window of opportunity to save this little life perhaps—and Vega had talked Adele out of it. He’d failed that child. He’d failed himself. He’d failed Adele.

Vega shot a glance at Adele now. She turned away from him and got out of bed. She was wearing one of his old denim shirts folded across her. The sleeves came past her fingernails. She shivered as she looked out the window at the sugarcoating of frost glistening on the grass and the swirl of dead leaves dancing across the driveway. Temperatures had dipped into the freezing range last night. The wind had picked up. The promise of winter was already on the horizon.

“Did the local PD find any trauma to the body?” Vega was hoping for something to convince himself he wasn’t to blame.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Waring. “Are you going or not?”

“Uh, yessir. I’m headed over right away.” Vega disconnected the call.

“I’m going with you,” said Adele.

“Oh no you’re not.”

Adele yanked a pair of pants out of a drawer and slammed the drawer shut with more force than she needed to. “A dead baby was found behind La Casa. My building!”

Vega grabbed his jeans off the back of her bedroom chair, stuffed his legs into them, and zipped them up.

“This is a potential homicide investigation, Adele. You can’t go anywhere near that crime scene.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a homicide investigation if you hadn’t—if I hadn’t—”

Vega walked over to her and held her firmly by her shoulders. She tried to fight him off, slapping at his bare chest. He absorbed the blows without letting go.

“Nena, look at me.” She wouldn’t. She was ashamed of him. What was he thinking last night, carrying on like some hormone-addled teenager? They’d had the whole night. An hour or two wasn’t going to make any difference.

“Zambo’s a crazy drunk who’s always telling stories. Did you rush out to that Subway store when he heard the Virgin Mary behind the Slurpee machine?”

“This is different, and you know it, Jimmy. I had a duty to check on this one, and I let you talk me out of it. I let that baby die.”

Vega released her and grabbed the rest of his clothes he’d slung carelessly across her bedroom chair last night in a rush of passion. He yanked his undershirt over his head and mismatched the buttons on his shirt three times before he got them right. He looked like the mess he felt, but it would have to do. “You didn’t let her die. I didn’t let her die. Her mother let her die.”

“Is that how you rationalize things? Is that how you sleep at night? I never should have trusted you!”

The words sliced right through him. He stopped buttoning his shirt and sank down on the unmade bed. She sat down beside him. He felt the heat of her hand hover over his back. Then it retreated. It was the retreat that hurt more than anything, that sense that she was already weighing her actions, weighing him.

He pushed himself off the bed. “I’ve got to go.” He shoved his wallet, keys, and Swiss Army knife in his jeans, then tucked his gun in his duty holster and belted it around his waist.

“Go, then,” she said. It sounded like a curse.

The Lake Holly police had already cordoned off the area behind La Casa by the time Jimmy Vega arrived. Save for one patrol car and a single unmarked, there was nothing on the street. All the businesses in this industrial neighborhood were closed on Sundays, all except for Adele’s community center, which didn’t open until the churches let out after noon. So the normal bustle was muted. The propane company’s red and white trucks sat idle. The gate around the auto body shop was locked up tight, the smashed cars on the other side of the razor wire huddled like defendants awaiting bail.

Vega didn’t want to waste time fetching a county police car, so he drove up in his own black Ford pickup and parked it behind the unmarked. He always kept a gym bag full of investigation essentials in his backseat. He started rummaging through the bag now for white coveralls, booties, a notebook, and a pen. The officer standing at the entrance to the cordoned-off area started walking over, all swagger and authority. Whatever the police said to the contrary, they all profiled. Vega never kidded himself into thinking that he was anything to them out of uniform but a toffee-skinned Puerto Rican with a gun.

The cop must have recognized Vega halfway over though, because his step relaxed.

“Hey, Detective.” His breath came out soft and cottony in the cold air. “You catching?”

“Affirmative,” Vega grunted as he pulled out a package of white coveralls to zip over his clothes. He wished he could remember the officer’s name without squinting at his nametag. Something Irish. Murphy? McNulty? He had skin like a radish—white except for the ears, which were bright red from the cold.

Vega did a quick inventory of what he needed to bring with him: radio, iPhone, disposable gloves, notebook. “Who’s doing the initial in your department?”

“Detective Greco. He’s up there now. You’ve worked with him before, right?”

On the hillside, Vega spotted a set of white coveralls through the canopy of orange and gold trees. From this distance, Greco looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving parade float. Perhaps more than one.

“Yeah. Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Funny. He said the same about you.”

Vega picked his way up the gentle slope, careful to disturb as little as possible. Leaves crunched like potato chips underfoot. A crow cawed overhead. In an hour or less, the hillside would be overrun by an army of crime-scene techs and personnel from the medical examiner’s office. But right now, the ground felt as pure and unblemished as the little life it once held.

Vega found Louis Greco standing very still in a patch of yellow maple leaves so iridescent they looked as if they carried their own light source. With his wine cask of a body and fringe of graying hair, he brought to mind a medieval monk. Vega had run into the man periodically since they’d last worked together. Their relationship was built on slinging jibes at one another and their respective departments. But none of that had any place here. This death was different, the stain so much greater. No one knew that more than Vega.

Greco tucked a cross inside his pocket. His voice was phlegm-choked when he spoke.

“Just saying a little prayer for her.”

Vega set his gym bag down on the root of a maple tree. He wished he felt the power and presence of God the way people like Greco did—the way his mother had. When Vega looked around, he felt only a void stripped of weight and meaning. What meaning could there be in bringing a child into the world only to take her out of it right away? And what if he were to blame for it all? Maybe he wasn’t enough of a Catholic to feel God, but he was still enough of one to feel guilt.

“Our guys, they’ve dubbed her Baby Mercy,” said Greco. “They figured she deserves some mercy, even if it’s only in death.”

Vega slipped on a pair of light blue nonlatex gloves and approached the body. She was lying on her back, her lavender-tinged umbilical cord curled to one side of her. Vega had forgotten how small newborns were. It had been a long time since he’d held one. She barely compacted the leaves beneath her. She wouldn’t have extended from his fingertips to his elbow.

She was full-term, though. And perfect. She had a beautiful, melon-shaped head with a fine dusting of black hair. There were dimples on her chubby limbs. She hadn’t been dead long. Her skin still had a milky tea color, and her eyes caught and held the light in their glassy, dark blue irises.

Vega squatted beside her. He saw no lividity marks—those purplish stains on skin when the heart stops pumping and the blood begins to settle. If her blood had begun to pool at all, it was pooling beneath her, which meant she had died in this position—on her back, faceup, staring in her unfocused newborn way at the trees that towered over her, regally indifferent.

“Two day laborers found her at six thirty this morning,” said Greco.

“In the open? Like this?” She was naked except for a baggy. . .