Her One and Only Hero

by Sharon Hartley

  As they stood in line for X-ray clearance, he finally figured out what was wrong. The truth slammed into him so hard that he could barely catch his breath.

  He hadn’t found their daughter. She had flown halfway across the world to seek his help, a journey that had been wrenching for her in ways that he couldn’t fathom, and he had failed her. She’d put her faith in him, but he’d let her down. She was going home without Bella.

  Was Fran angry? No. Disappointed, which was far worse. He was supposed to be the big hero and save the day, yet he’d fallen flat on his fricking face.

  Yet he’d done his best. What more could he have done? And he hadn’t given up. No way. Not yet. He intended to keep searching for his daughter. He’d pick up her trail again. Fran would be gone when he did. If he found Bella alive, would Fran fly back to bring her home?

  He grabbed Fran’s carry-on from the X-ray conveyor and they threaded their way through the crowded terminal, dodging other passengers. Maybe Fran was right about fate. They couldn’t catch a break, so maybe they were like the star-crossed lovers they’d studied in high school.

  All he knew was he didn’t want Fran to leave him again. How could he convince her to stay?

  When they arrived at her gate, they were so early that every seat was occupied by travelers on a flight that left in thirty minutes.

  “We have a couple of hours,” Dale said. “Are you hungry? We haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  “I could use a glass of wine,” Fran said. “Let’s wait in one of the bars we passed on the concourse.”

  They retraced their steps and entered the Islander Bar and Grill, passing beneath colorful surfboard-themed signage. Dale escorted Fran to a table in the far corner and seated them so that he had a clear view of the concourse behind her and anyone who entered the restaurant.

  Fran studied the plastic menu as if she’d never heard of any of the offerings. Likely so she didn’t have to look at him, as if she didn’t want to be with the man who sat across from her.

  “I’m not giving up,” he told her. “I promise you that I’ll keep searching.”

  She lowered her menu and finally met his gaze.

  Before she could speak, he said, “I did my best, Fran. I’m sorry.”

  She looked confused. “What are you sorry for?”

  “For not finding our daughter.”

  “Mio Dio.” She managed a faint smile. “It is not your fault.”

  “I thought you blamed me,” he said. “And that’s why you were leaving.”

  “But how could I possibly blame you?”

  “Then don’t go.” Dale picked up her hand and threaded their fingers. “I want you to stay.”

  She shook her head. “I must return to my studio at least for a short time. I have responsibilities that I have ignored.”

  “Is that why you are leaving?”

  She looked away and then back to him. “I have missed several deadlines on my Searching Man commission.”

  “So you’re leaving because of work?”

  “Maybe.”

  There was that word again. “Why else?”

  She released a deep sigh and again removed her hand from his. “Admit to me that you believe Bella is gone.”

  “There is always a chance that she is still alive,” Dale insisted.

  “And I pray that she is.”

  “So do I.”

  “Yet perhaps I am doing Bella more harm than good by staying here.”

  A server arrived at their table, and Dale sat back. Fran ordered a glass of white wine, and he requested a beer.

  When the server left, Dale said, “I don’t understand how your presence is harming Bella.”

  “If she is still alive—” Fran choked on the last word and swallowed. “Zarco wants to get her out of the country and cannot because of all the attention I created, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You said he might cut his losses and get rid of her, but if I go home—” She shrugged.

  “If you go home, you think the heat on Zarco will ease.”

  She nodded. “And he will keep Bella alive.”

  “And Zarco will take her out of the country, sell her to his client.”

  “But don’t you see? She would still be alive.”

  “Damn, Fran. What kind of a life would she have?”

  “Any kind of life is better than none. We can find her later.”

  “Once she’s out of the country, we will never get her back.”

  “But she would still be alive,” Fran repeated.

  Dale stared at her. “Do you understand she’d be a sex slave?”

  “She would be alive,” Fran repeated. “Breathing.”

  Dale leaned toward her. “Are you saying you want me to quit looking for our daughter?”

  Fran’s face crumpled. She choked back a sob and nodded her head. “Yes. For now.”

  Dale opened his mouth to argue, but spotted a familiar figure in the concourse. Wearing a small backpack, Joaquin Zarco strode past the restaurant toward the far gates. He’d cut and bleached his hair, likely an attempt to fool the agents looking for him. Moving quickly, he stared straight ahead through large eyeglasses he hadn’t been wearing in the Havanabia. Zarco didn’t glance right or left, his determined expression convincing Dale the trafficker had not seen Fran.

  What the hell was Zarco doing in Miami International Airport? Had he followed them here? Did he know that Fran had booked a flight back to Italy? Had he booked himself on the same flight?

  Or was he trying to get out of the country himself?

  Dale removed his phone and placed a call to Javi.

  “What’s wrong?” Fran asked. “You look like you’ve seen a dead friend.”

  “Don’t panic, but Zarco just walked by the bar.”

  Her eyes widened. “He followed us here?”

  “Don’t move. Keep your face hidden. I’m going to see where he’s going.”

  Fran nodded.

  “Do not move,” Dale repeated as he left the bar, his phone glued to his ear. He spotted Zarco’s white head moving briskly toward a gate beyond the one for Fran’s flight. The trafficker remained on the watch list, but he could have obtained fake ID.

  Javi picked up. “Rivas.”

  “You need to scramble a team,” Dale barked into the phone. “Zarco is in Concourse D of MIA. He’s making a break for it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “No question. I’m following him now.”

  Zarco melted into the throng of travelers at Gate 34, which was in the process of boarding a flight to Nassau, Bahamas. Dale averted his face and kept moving past the queue. Damn, he didn’t have much time. Of course Zarco would show up for his flight at the last minute. The man was smart, so he needed to be smarter.

  Dale wished he had his weapon.

  “Can you issue a delay on Florida Air Flight 983 to Nassau?” Dale asked.

  “I’ll try. Don’t disconnect,” Javi said.

  Dale took an empty chair at the adjacent gate and kept his focus on Zarco, who now stood in line for boarding. The trafficker stared straight ahead, boarding pass in hand. He didn’t appear nervous.

  “I’ve put in the hold,” Javi said. “TSA is on priority alert. I’m on the way with a team.”

  Zarco worked his way to the front of the line. What if he got on that plane and the delay didn’t go through in time? There were hundreds of islands in the Bahamas. If he landed there, they’d never find him.

  “How long?” Dale asked.

  “Thirty minutes. TSA is coming to assist.”

  “They’d better hurry.” Dale disconnected.

  His gaze glued to Zarco, Dale placed a call to Fran to let her know what was going on when the gate agent picked up a microphone.

  “I’m sorr
y,” she announced. “I’ve just been informed we are experiencing a mechanical delay on Florida Air Flight 983. Everyone please take your seats. We will resume boarding when that issue has been resolved.”

  Amidst a buzz of unhappy grumbling, Zarco’s shoulders went stiff. He swiveled his head around the immediate area, obviously looking for surveillance. Dale leaned over pretending to tie a shoe so he wouldn’t get made.

  When he glanced up, Zarco had left the gate area. He was hurrying toward the main terminal.

  Dale went after him. No way was this sucker escaping.

  * * *

  HER HEART POUNDING, Fran remained in the airport bar waiting for Dale to return. When the server delivered their drinks, she moved around the table and took Dale’s seat so she could watch the concourse.

  She covered her eyes with sunglasses and shrank back in the corner. Zarco was out there somewhere. She didn’t want the monster to see her, but if he came for her, she wanted to be prepared.

  Scores of passengers rushed by the bar intent on getting somewhere fast, but Fran didn’t recognize anybody. The noise in the bar and the terminal made her feel small, inconsequential.

  She took a sip of her wine, placed her phone on the table and started the timer.

  What was Dale doing? Would he arrest Zarco?

  What did this mean? Would Zarco tell them what had happened to Bella? She took a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts.

  Mio Dio, please. Give us this one last chance.

  No, she must not allow hope to creep in again. More likely this was fate being extra cruel, twisting the knife for more punishment.

  When her timer read twelve minutes, she heard grumbling out in the concourse. Passengers began yelling, “Hey!” Or “Watch it, buddy.” Curses far more graphic.

  Fran turned to look at the commotion.

  A man with bleached-white hair, wearing glasses and a backpack, forced his way through the passengers streaming through the terminal. He jogged directly into her line of vision. Zarco. Before disappearing from sight, he looked behind him and increased his speed.

  “Stop. Police.” That commanding voice was Dale’s.

  He rushed past in pursuit of Zarco.

  Fran hurried to the front of the restaurant and pushed her way through the onlookers to peer down the concourse in time to see Dale tackle Zarco. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and grunts.

  Desperate to help, Fran moved toward them. Dale had gotten on top of Zarco and ground his face into the floor, giving him orders she could not hear for all the noise in the airport.

  Fran heaved a sigh of relief when three uniformed TSA agents broke through the circle of bystanders.

  One agent placed a knee on Zarco’s back and commanded, “Stay down.”

  Another agent handcuffed Zarco and jerked him to his feet. A cut on the side of his cheek trailed blood. Fran stared at the wound and hoped it gave him pain. This beast had stolen her daughter.

  She moved closer to the fiend. He towered over her.

  “Where is my daughter?” She called him the worst word she knew in Italian.

  Zarco looked down at her with arrogant disdain.

  She shoved him with both hands. “Tell me where my Bella is.”

  “Hey,” one of the TSA men shouted, moving to block her.

  “Fran.” Dale pulled her away from Zarco. “Stop it.”

  Using her best street Italian, she shouted obscenities at the kidnapper. Zarco smirked at her. Realizing he understood her, she raised her fists and shouted in Italian, “I will kill you. I swear I will kill you.”

  Zarco laughed at her.

  “Calm down, baby,” Dale said in her ear. He was out of breath, but he hugged her, pinning her arms to her side so she could not strike the beast.

  “We’ve got him,” Dale soothed. “We’ve got him.”

  She turned, grabbed Dale’s shirt, bunched the cloth into a fist and sobbed against his chest. The fiend must tell them what he had done with Bella.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Dale said, as if he read her thoughts. After a moment, he asked, “Are you okay now?”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  Holding her upper arms, Dale stepped back and looked at her. “Do you still want to go home?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s get your carry-on from the bar,” he said. “We’re going to FBI headquarters.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FRAN COULD NOT sit still. With her hands on her hips, she paced the same observation room where she had waited earlier today. She halted her quick movements. Had that been today? So much had happened it seemed like a week ago that she and Dale had returned from Tampa.

  She resumed her pacing. She’d been stuck in here over an hour ago and the computer monitors that showed the interrogation room revealed nothing but a table with empty chairs. How much longer was this going to take?

  If Bella was still alive, she had run out of time.

  The door opened. She whirled. Dale entered with two cups of coffee.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “Zarco required medical attention,” Dale said. He placed the coffees on the table beside the computer monitor.

  “Medical care for what? That scratch on his face? Please. He looked fine to me.”

  “And he was.” Dale took one of the seats. “Paramedics checked him out and gave him the all clear.”

  He reached into his pockets and dropped several packages of cheese crackers from a vending machine beside the coffee. Fran stared at him. How could he look so calm? How could he think about food?

  “What about our daughter’s medical care? She might be unable to breathe right now. Who is taking care of her?”

  “We should know something soon,” Dale said.

  “How soon?”

  He sat in one of the chairs. “You’re making yourself crazy, Fran.”

  “I know. I can’t help it. I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin.”

  “Sit down and drink your coffee.” He pried the lid off one of the cups and slid it in her direction. “Eat a cracker. You have to be hungry.”

  “I am not.” She plopped into a chair and watched steam curl into the air out of the cardboard cup. With a sigh, she reached for the cup and took a sip. Bah. Awful.

  “You need to be prepared for the possibility that we won’t learn anything about Bella,” Dale said.

  “Zarco could refuse to talk?”

  “He has the right to refuse to answer questions without a lawyer. Getting a public defender down here could take some time. This is Friday night.”

  Hating the delay, Fran muttered in Italian.

  “And even with an attorney, Zarco might not reveal anything.”

  She shot Dale a look. “How can he not?”

  “He knows the drill. Like with Atwood, the Bureau will have to dangle something big in exchange for information about Bella, make it worth his while.”

  Her breath caught. “And of course they will.”

  “In order to offer him a deal, the US Attorney’s Office will have to get involved.”

  “And they will offer a deal to Zarco, right?”

  “I don’t know, Fran.” Dale shook his head. “Zarco is a big-time international fugitive. He’s wanted for scores of crimes, including murder in Europe. Catching him is a coup for this country, for this district of the US Justice Department. I’m worried they won’t offer him too much.”

  “Even to save the life of a little girl?”

  “Zarco is a very big fish, and he needs to do serious time.”

  “What could possibly be more important than a child’s life?”

  “I’m convinced Javi is on our side, but at this point his bosses are involved and they aren’t convinced Bella is even in play.”

/>   Fran went still. “In play?”

  Dale shifted in his seat. “Sorry. That was a word one of Javi’s superiors used.”

  Meaning Bella might not be alive. Or worth their notice.

  “This is beginning to sound like politics.” Fran jumped to her feet and began pacing again. “God, I hate politics.”

  “Politics is what got you this far, Fran. If the Italian state department hadn’t intervened on your behalf, you wouldn’t even be in this building right now.”

  “Bah,” she muttered.

  An hour later, Agent Rivas stepped into the room. Fran stared at his grim face and sucked in a breath. Something was wrong. She placed her sketch pad on the floor, fisted and unfisted her fingers, her heart galloping inside her chest.

  Next to her, Dale leaned forward, as anxious as she was. He’d spent much of the last hour with the FBI while she sketched.

  She reached over and clutched Dale’s hand, grateful beyond words that he was with her for whatever was about to happen, whatever they were about to learn.

  “There’s been a delay,” the agent said.

  “He wants a lawyer?” Dale asked.

  “He’s refused counsel. But the SAC wants to observe the interview. He’s on his way in, along with an assistant US attorney.”

  “What’s an SAC?” Fran asked.

  “Special Agent in Charge. My boss,” Agent Rivas said.

  “How long?” Dale asked.

  Agent Rivas shrugged. “Maybe an hour.”

  “Does your boss know about Bella?” Fran demanded.

  The agent met her gaze. He looked sad. Why did he look sad?

  “He knows. And I’m sorry, Ms. Scarpetta, but he has issued an order that you cannot observe the interrogation. I’ll take you somewhere you can wait. We’ve set up a cot for you.”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, accompanied by two men, Joaquin Zarco shuffled into the interrogation room with shackles on his hands and feet. The guards forced him to sit at the table. One of them fastened Zarco’s restraints to a device in the floor and both moved into opposite corners of the room.