Voice with No Echo

Vega knew he should walk to the station house, get in his truck, and drive straight home. He was officially on medical leave. His chest stung with each intake of breath. His head throbbed. The swelling on the left side of his face made it difficult to drive. Yet he burned with a deeper hurt and pain that no amount of painkillers or rest could help him with.

He walked the few blocks to the Lake Holly police station and got in his truck. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Michelle. The child in him wanted to confront her with everything he suspected about her aunt. The adult in him knew better. ICE was scrambling to find their mole. That was her focus right now and it should be his. It served no purpose to derail it with personal crap that was thirty-five years in the past.

Her voice was breathy and concerned when she picked up.

“Jimmy! Oh my God, I heard. Are you okay, mano? We’re going crazy here, ever since the news broke about Ryan Bale.”

“I just got discharged from the hospital.” Vega tried to keep his voice cool and professional. This wasn’t the place to rehash ancient wounds. “Thank you for intervening on Edgar Aviles’s behalf. He saved my life.”

“I understand he’s now fighting for his,” said Michelle.

“Adele got word that he’ll pull through,” said Vega. “So, what’s the update on your end? Have you got any leads on who your mole might be? Because Bale definitely had one.”

Michelle hesitated a moment. Vega realized she was probably speaking from her not-so-private cubicle. “Can I call you right back?”

Vega checked his phone messages while he waited. There was an email he’d missed earlier, from Greco, reminding the investigators that Talia Crowley’s funeral was tomorrow. Vega knew that after the blows he took today, no one would expect him to go. But he would. He had to. He felt a great sadness that he’d let Talia down by not figuring out what had happened to her. And now, with the FBI involved, he might never get close enough to the investigation again to find out. She deserved better than that.

Michelle called him back a few minutes later.

“I’m in my car in the garage below,” she said. “It’s the only place I can find privacy.”

“Have you got a suspect?” asked Vega.

“Well, it’s not Dan Wilson,” said Michelle. “That much, we’re sure of. He’s been in the Adirondacks the whole time. Whoever set this up just used his name.”

“Tyler and Donovan?”

“They’re straight shooters,” Michelle insisted. “Same with Eddie Hidalgo in our office. Chuck Cassidy’s always griping about something. He has some gambling problems. My field director’s focusing on him.”

“What about Wayne Bowman himself?” asked Vega.

“He certainly has the access as field director,” said Michelle. “But he’s like Wilson. He’s got a religious zeal about this work that he wouldn’t compromise. Even Cassidy feels wrong for it. He’s too lazy and sloppy to pull it off.”

“Can you match agents’ work schedules to what we know about the timeline? That might eliminate people who were on-duty.”

“I’d love to,” said Michelle. “But Karen’s the only one who has access to all that and she left early. Doctor’s appointment.”

“You mean the candy dish lady?”

“Yep. Without her, we’re lost when it comes to the vagaries of our computer system.”

Vega felt a buzzing in his head that couldn’t be ascribed to the concussion. “Does the candy dish lady have access to individual petitioners’ files?”

“Karen has access to everything.”

Silence. The realization seemed to hit them both at the same moment. “You don’t think . . . ?” Michelle’s voice seemed to rise in pitch. “I mean, how would Karen Hurst even know a bruiser like Bale? She’s just this sweet old lady who bakes us cupcakes.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Vega. “I’m going to put you on speaker and switch screens.”

Vega trolled his phone’s icons until he came to Facebook. Karen Hurst struck him as the Facebook type—the sort who posts pictures of pets and babies. Several Karen Hursts popped up when he entered the name. He eliminated some through age and geography until he came to a profile picture of a heavyset, silver-haired woman who lived up near Vega in a town called Markham. Under the tab Works At, it read, administrative assistant, ICE. Vega hit the Friends tab and typed in Ryan Bale in the search bar.

Up came a close-up of a barbell with Bale’s name beside the photo.

“Karen Hurst is Facebook friends with Ryan Bale,” said Vega. “And I think I know why.”

Vega went back to Hurst’s Facebook page and typed in just Bale this time. Up came a whole bunch of Bales, one of them an older-looking woman named Ellen Hurst Bale. Vega clicked on the page. And there it was. A photo from Easter. Ellen Bale surrounded by her three grown children.

One of them was Ryan Bale.

“Karen Hurst is Ryan’s aunt,” said Vega. “It’s her. The candy dish lady. She’s the mole.”