“Your mother refused to provide any information. She insisted on speaking to the Ministry official in person first.” Before anyone could ask the next most obvious question, he continued. “Dr. Adams did not make the meeting in our offices with the Ministry’s representative. That’s why we shipped the key as we had been instructed.”
Bill shook his head in frustration. Based on when Deanna’s father had phoned the embassy and the missed meeting, it confirmed Dr. Adams had been in the hands of PM for at least a week. If she was still alive. Since PM and their associates were attempting to gain additional information through other avenues, that might mean Dr. Adams had outlived her usefulness.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Dr. Adams? State of mind? Names of associates?” Bill asked, hoping for additional clues. The attorney delayed and Bill understood. Besides attorney-client confidentiality questions, he likely didn’t want to speak ill of a client.
“To be honest, I was concerned at first with taking on Dr. Adams as a client. This is a reputable firm and so we are careful about whom we represent. Dr. Adams had, let’s say, a colorful past which was known to us.”
“And yet you still accepted her business,” Deanna challenged.
“Miranda was quite convincing and speaking with her was…exciting, Doctora Vasquez. Her presence and conviction were contagious and against my better judgment, I decided to assist her,” Señor Juarez informed, the glow of his infatuation obvious even across the distance of the phone line.
Bill looked over at Deanna and noted her surprised confusion. He wondered how many more times she would be getting a picture of her mother that didn’t fit in with the persona that she had created over the many years of Miranda’s absence. Deciding there was little else to be gained from the discussion, he said, “Muchisimas gracias, Licenciado. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll send you contact information via email.”
“Gracias, Special Agent. Doctora Vasquez. I wish you all the best and please give Miranda my regards when you see her,” the attorney replied and disconnected the call.
Bill leaned back into the comfy cushions of the chair, but the action pulled at his side, making him wince.
Deanna noticed, but as she met his gaze, she must have realized he’d rather she keep silent. Instead she also leaned back and folded her arms across her body in a clearly defensive posture. “I don’t know what to make of his comments. He seemed almost…smitten.”
“A beautiful and intelligent woman can be quite enticing,” he said offhandedly.
“How do you know Miranda’s beautiful?” she said with a moue of annoyance.
Before his brain could function, he blurted out, “Because the fruit couldn’t be that different from the tree.”
Fuck, he thought, wishing he could pull the words back. Although a flush worked across the line of her high cheekbones, she restrained herself and opted not to comment on his gaffe.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked instead, for which he was grateful.
“We’re going to keep your dad here for a bit. As for the two of us, I’m waiting for the location of the PO box that the key will open.”
“Will that take long?” Deanna questioned, finding that she was already feeling antsy about being cooped up for any length of time. She had been looking forward to the end of the school year and an adventure. Now that was botched thanks to Miranda.
“I should have the info in the next couple of hours. If we’re lucky, we can pick up whatever your mother sent you before the end of the day,” Bill said.
“Do you mind then if I go back to helping my dad?” she asked, needing to do something and wanting to be away from him. He challenged her with his physical presence and she suspected that if she allowed him even a small opportunity, he could do the same emotionally. She’d worked too long and too hard to protect herself to allow that.
“Feel free. I’ve got some calls to make.” Seemingly sensing her thoughts, he rose awkwardly from the chair and strode down the hall toward the third bedroom.
She walked to her father and he peered at her from the corner of his eye. “He seems nice.”
Nice was not a word she would use to describe Special Agent Guillermo Santana. Capable. Protective. Intelligent. But nice? She suspected that was only a thin veneer over his dangerous core.
“Have you found anything?” she asked and sat beside her father, leaning toward him to read from the text he had been reviewing.
“Nothing new, mi’ja. Just the same old conjecture about what really happened at the end of Montezuma’s reign.”
“According to the Spaniards, he died from being stoned by his own people. Aztec accounts, on the other hand, say the Spanish strangled Montezuma and tossed his body out of the palace,” Deanna said, recounting the conflicting legends.
“Regardless of the mode of death, virtually all accounts indicate his body was taken by his people to Copulco and burned on a funeral pyre. There seems to be no argument that Montezuma’s body was cremated,” her father finished.
“Or maybe that’s what the Aztecs wanted the Spaniards to believe,” Deanna offered.
“You’re saying that Montezuma was not dead when he was carried off?”
Rising from the chair, Deanna paced as she laid out her hypothesis. “The Spaniards claim that Montezuma was struck by three stones thrown by the Aztecs when he pleaded with his people to surrender.”
“One on the leg, one on the arm—”
“And one on the head,” she said and motioned to her temple. “According to Castillo’s account of the incident, Montezuma lay dying for two days while the Aztecs fought Cortez and his men.”
“If we believe the Spanish account, Montezuma refused food or treatment and died shortly after Cortez returned to the palace,” her father replied, confirming the history they both knew well.
“It’s easier to believe that a pissed off Cortez killed him after losing so many men in battle,” Deanna said with a harsh laugh and then continued. “But what if Montezuma only appeared to be dead? What if he was actually in a deep coma from the head wound?”
“Which was discovered by the Aztecs when they took their emperor away?” her father asked.
“If they followed traditional burial routines, they would have taken Montezuma to be prepared for cremation. They would dress him appropriately, prepare a dog to accompany him—”
“And he may have awakened from his coma during the preparations,” her father finished.
“Or even before. If he was alive, they might have tried to safeguard him in the hopes that he would finally lead them in battle. Or he may have eventually succumbed in their care from the head wound. Regardless, he may have lasted long enough for his remains to be entombed with some of his prized possessions.”
She leaned on the edge of the table close to her father, wagging her head back and forth. “Do you think Miranda believed that?”
Her father gave a casual hunch of his shoulders and looked up at her. “I don’t know. We discussed her research, but not in any real detail.”
Frustration finally erupted at her father’s words. “You’ve been in touch with her for the last fourteen years and in all that time you didn’t get any particular information on what she was doing?”
Another nonchalant shrug answered her, but before her temper really got the best of her, Bill walked into the room, cell phone in hand.
“I’ve got an address for the PO box,” he said, holding up the phone and tipping it from side to side.
She wanted distance from her father to not only consider her hypothesis, but also her upset over her father’s apparently ongoing relationship with Miranda.
“We can go if you’d like,” she said.
“I’d like,” he confirmed with a grin and motioned to the door, providing her a needed escape.
Chapter Eight
The box turned out to be a drawer-sized compartment at the Grand Central Station post office. The compart
ment held a foot-square box wrapped in brown kraft paper that showed the tears and stains of travel. Rough twine secured the wrap and Deanna’s name was handwritten in black permanent marker above the post office box address. An assortment of canceled U.S. postage stamps and express mail markings denoted that the package had been shipped from the very same location nearly two months before.
Miranda had been in New York City, just blocks away, and had not made contact with her or her father. Had she solely come to drop off the box? Deanna wondered.
As she lifted the parcel from the drawer, the lack of physical bulk belied the emotional weight of what might be beneath the simple wrapping. Deanna ran her hand over the surface, wondering what it contained and why her mother had directed it to her rather than to her father. Or why she had mailed it instead of personally delivering it.
“She probably thought you would understand it best,” Bill said from beside her.
She jerked her head up to look at him. “What?”
He shrugged and pointed to the parcel. “You asked ‘Why me?’”
She hadn’t realized and was almost chagrined. She normally had better control over her emotions, but since the day Bill Santana had come to stand outside her classroom, that command had failed her more than once. “My father is the expert on all things Mexican, not me.”
“You’re no slouch in that department. Maybe it’s because this has nothing to do with history or research,” he said. They walked through the lobby of the post office, Bill matching his strides to hers. His jacket was buttoned closed to hide the hole, which only made the bulge beneath his one arm all the more obvious. When they had first entered, the post office security guard had eyeballed them until Bill had discreetly flashed his badge.
Deanna remained silent, worried that he was right about the rationale for the box being addressed to her. After they exited onto busy Lexington Avenue, they turned north toward 45th Street where they had parked. The package was clutched tight to her chest while her mind tapped out dozens of disjointed thoughts about the parcel and her mother’s—no, Miranda’s—intentions.
The ride back to the safe house was quiet, with the parcel sitting on her lap and Bill vigilant to make sure no one was following them. They were near their destination when Bill’s BlackBerry chirped with an incoming call. She listened as he grunted in response to the communication and once he was done, he shot her a quick glance and provided a report.
“We may have caught a break. Prints lifted at your apartment were for the two dead perps. We’ve also checked with the Mexican authorities investigating Los Leones. Our two perps were fairly new to the cartel and low-level members.”
She nodded and patted the box in her lap. “I hope that means that it’s unlikely the cartel would trust them with an important mission.”
Pulling into the parking lot for the safe house, he waited until they were parked to face her. “I agree. It’s more likely that the two were PM members who joined the cartel so they could use the cartel’s resources for various reasons. To get weapons, money to run PM and to more easily cross the border whenever they needed.”
“Good news, I guess,” she said, but then sneaked a glance down at the parcel, feeling like it was a ticking time bomb in her lap.
“I don’t know about you, but it’s late and I’m hungry. I can order in some food if you’re up for it before we tackle that,” he said and gestured to the box.
A reprieve, she thought, and offered him a weak smile in appreciation for his consideration. “Thanks. That sounds great. I’m a little hungry as well,” she said even though in reality, there was a knot of worry in her stomach that would dim her appetite.
He dipped his head in agreement and they walked to the safe house building, passing by the two agents who were still on duty guarding the perimeter. Inside the apartment her father reclined in the wing chair, an annotated copy of the Codex Mendoza resting on his barrel chest. A soft snore rumbled out with each exhalation. She carefully took the book off his chest and laid it on the coffee table along with the parcel from her mother. There was a chenille throw on the arm of the sofa and because of the slight chill in the air-conditioned apartment, she gently covered her father with it.
She turned and Bill was near one cabinet in the kitchen, pulling some papers from a basket. He turned to say something to her, but she placed her index finger on her lips to urge him to be quiet and he took note of her father. With a nod, he walked down the hall and into his room and she followed.
He laid out the papers—menus for various take-out places in the area—on his bed. “Pick anything you and your dad like.”
With her father’s penchant for Italian food, there was only one choice. “Eggplant parm and chicken parm. Linguini on the side,” she said and handed him the menu for the Italian pizzeria.
“My favorite.” He dialed the restaurant, placed her order and then added several more dishes, salads and garlic bread.
“Hungry?” she teased and he grinned, displaying that devilish dimple.
“I’m a big boy.”
Yes, he was, she thought and strangled her reply. Settled on what she hoped would be a safe comment. “I’ll go set the table.”
“Please add two spots. By the time the food comes, the next watch should be here and the guys going off shift may want to grab a bite before they head home.”
She confirmed she would and walked out, leaving him alone in his room. Gathering up the menus, he sat down on the bed, beginning to seriously feel the events of the day. The pain in his side had been nagging him for hours. Battling to ignore it had drained him and for a moment he wished he could do much like Deanna’s father had done. Put up his feet, lay back and rest for just a few moments.
Unfortunately there was still too much left to do today, including tackling whatever was in the box that Miranda Adams had sent to her daughter. He had no doubt there was something personal inside. Something that would have special meaning between the two women and no one else. He only hoped Deanna would be able to handle the message.
Dinner turned out to be a surprising treat, Bill thought.
Although his men had opted to head home to his family, Deanna’s father possessed an unexpected humorous streak. The seemingly doddering professor had regaled them with stories throughout the meal, which had turned out to be exceptionally good Italian food. Everyone had seemed to enjoy themselves, even Deanna, although her smiles and laughter never quite seemed to drive away the shadows in her eyes.
He understood all too well what she was holding back. He had hidden his emotions while moving from one foster home to the other. It was only when he was in his teens that he was lucky enough to land a spot in the home of a Marine who ran a tight, but caring, ship. He had learned to be a man there and how to keep his emotions safe from others.
Which was why he knew that Deanna would guard her heart from all of them, including her father. He had no doubt that learning that her father had been corresponding with her mother for so many years had created a rift between the two and damaged the trust they had once shared. Only time might allow her to come to understand his motives and forgive him, although it was clear that her love for her father had not been diminished by his actions.
How nice it must be to have such unqualified love.
When the meal was finished Deanna rose, picked up a plate, but Bill reached over and stayed her hand. “I’ll get them. Why don’t you and your dad—”
“Actually, I’ll do the dishes. It’s better if you and Deanna work together,” her father said and reinforced his suggestion by immediately grabbing the plates nearest him and heading to the sink.
Bill removed his hand from hers and met her gaze. “Does that work for you?”
Deanna didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t. Although the dinner had been relaxed and easygoing, she had spent most of it wondering about the parcel. Bill must have known that because he had gone out of his way to be solicitous, keeping the discussion free of pressure and involvi
ng her in the conversation around the table. The distraction had helped to some extent, but now the sword was hanging back over her head.
“I just need a moment,” she said and rose from the table, went to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. She stood before the sink, staring at herself. Wondering how it was that the life she had built for herself had suddenly been turned on its head.
Miranda, she thought. Her mother.
Much as Miranda had taken away Deanna’s belief in family fourteen years earlier, she was now eroding the foundations of the only family she had left—her father. She had thought she could trust him with anything although he had not trusted her with the truth about his relationship with her mother. It would take time to repair the damage caused by keeping that secret.
Turning on the cold-water tap, she splashed some water on her face to drive away the nauseous feeling that came with imagining what was in the parcel. Deanna had no doubt that the contents would do even more to disrupt her life, but she knew she couldn’t be selfish and think of only herself at that moment.
Much as she might not like it, the parcel probably held the clue to not only saving Miranda’s life, but the lives of countless others if Bill and his people were right about her mother’s abduction and the group responsible for it.
Bill, she thought with a sigh as she picked up a towel and dried her face.
Bill was turning out to be nothing like what she had expected. She almost preferred that he had stayed the stern-faced and demanding man who had first stepped into her office. That was easier to handle than the understanding man with the boyish grin that caused her insides to somersault.
Wringing the towel between her hands, she warned herself against putting too much trust in him either. As a CIA agent, Bill was a man whose entire life was likewise built around secrets. She’d already had enough surprises with her father’s revelations.
A knock came at the door. “Are you okay?”
Bill. “Just a second,” she called out and with a final pass of the towel across her face, opened the door.
The Fifth Kingdom Page 6
