“I’ll talk to her, show her the picture.”
“I need to see her.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Then who can make it possible?” he demanded.
Lucy wasn’t going to let him bully her. “Mr. DeSantos,” she said firmly, “I doubt it’s the same boy. My Michael was locked in a basement for four weeks. Your Michael has been gone for fourteen months. But since the ages and basic descriptions match, I’ll talk to my witness. I’ll share with you what I learn. That’s going to have to be good enough.”
He wanted to argue with her, she could see it in his eyes; then he capitulated. “I understand,” he said. “But turn the page.”
She did. Behind Michael’s official records was a page torn from a paperback book. At the bottom was scrawled in faint pencil:
I’m sorry I had to leave. I want to come home more than anything, but I have to do something important and I might not be able to come back. Thank you for wanting me in the first place.
—M
Lucy’s heart twisted.
“Olive Pope found this through the mail slot in her front door and called me. I’ve known Donnelly for a while, so when I found out it was his case, I came here. Then Brad hands me off to you. I’m sorry I’m a little frustrated.”
“Brad referred you to me because he’s hunting for a fugitive and my partner and I are looking for Michael.”
“Let me help. He trusts me.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen months ago I assumed like everyone else he ran away. Except—the Popes wouldn’t let it go. So I might have let their faith affect me. I want to find him. For them. They never believed he ran away, and this proves it. But obviously something else is going on with him, if as you say he was held as a prisoner.”
A boy like Michael, in the system with no hope of being reunited with blood relatives—why would he leave a home that seemed to be working for him?
“I think he left because he felt he had to. Maybe he was threatened or the Popes were threatened.” Lucy was thinking out loud, but it felt right to her, looking again at the note.
“How can you get that from his few words?”
“He said he had to leave. He’s been gone for fourteen months.” She flipped back a few pages and read the brief notes on Michael’s father, Vince Rodriguez. “His father—he’s in prison for murder?”
DeSantos nodded. “He killed a liquor store clerk and paralyzed a customer while robbing the place. Hard man. Abused Michael. His wife—Michael’s mother—died under suspicious circumstances when Michael was eight, but there were no charges filed.”
“This address—is this where Michael grew up?”
“More or less.”
The address where Michael grew up was only blocks from the hardware store on 39th, where Sanchez and his gang had set up shop. Coincidence? What were the chances that they knew each other? The older Rodriguez and Jaime Sanchez? Or someone affiliated with Sanchez?
“Agent Kincaid?” DeSantos asked. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said. She wasn’t going to share with DeSantos unless Donnelly cleared it. “I’ll follow up on this, call you as soon as I can confirm one way or the other that we’re talking about the same kid. If we are—”
“You’ll let me help find him.”
“It’s up to Donnelly, but I’m sure you can be a help.”
“Of course I will be,” he snapped.
Hot and cold. She didn’t know what to make of DeSantos, but she wrote her cell phone number on the back of her FBI business card. “Let me know if Michael reaches out again to the Popes, or to you. I’ll do the same once I confirm his identity.” She was about to walk him out when she said, “Michael wasn’t the first boy kept in captivity. There was evidence that others had been in the basement. Do you know of any other missing boys like Michael?”
He shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know specifically, but there are a lot of runaways in the system. You can’t always blame them—some foster parents are good, some are not. They have problems—parents in prison, abuse, violence, even drug use—and they’re not always willing or able to accept help. Could some of those runaways have been kidnapped? It’s possible.”
Lucy was going to ask him for a list, but realized that was bringing him into the investigation, and right now she wanted to confirm that he even had a stake in it before she gave him more. Besides, she could get the information through the FBI and their channels.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope that’s not the brush-off.”
“It’s not.” She held on to the file. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure, it’s a copy.” He touched her arm. “But I’m going to hold you to your word that you’ll let me know the minute you have his ID confirmed.”
“I promise.”
* * *
Father Mateo Flannigan sat in the confessional at St. Catherine’s waiting for the next penitent to enter. It had been a long day, made longer because it was Lent, and many Catholics took the season as a time to go back to church. Many came for a few weeks and then left again, but some stayed, their faith renewed.
Mateo was tired. He was a faithful man, young, healthy. He’d been called to the priesthood as a child, knew this was what he was meant to do. He never doubted the call.
What he too often doubted was humanity. He used to enjoy the Sacrament of Confession; now it had become a chore, a punishment. He had nightmares about his parishioners. He’d been thinking of asking for a sabbatical because he didn’t know if being a parish priest was his calling. There were other ways to serve. Ways that didn’t leave him with sleepless nights.
He didn’t like the secrets he was forced to keep. He understood that it was Jesus who forgave, that he was only the vehicle, but he couldn’t unhear sins. He prayed and begged God to take the images that were in his head. Sometimes it worked.
Mostly, it didn’t.
The light went on as the next parishioner stepped in. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen months since my last confession.”
The voice was young, male, and familiar. One of the students at the school.
Mateo said a brief prayer and asked the boy what he wanted Jesus to forgive.
“My friend was murdered and I didn’t stop it.”
Mateo’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard a child confess to witnessing a violent crime.
“What happened, son?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You’re not telling me. You’re telling God.”
“I stole something that didn’t belong to me. I gave it back, but my friend was killed because of what I did.”
Killed? A child was killed?
“Have you gone to the police? Told a parent?”
“I can’t. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to die and I don’t want to go to Hell.”
“Son, you did not kill your friend.”
“I’ve killed others. Other people. People I didn’t know. I was weak. I should have said no but I was so scared. I would have died if I said no. I’m not scared anymore.”
Michael. It was Michael, Mateo knew it was the boy who had run away. What had happened to him?
“Son,” Mateo said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Are you confessing to taking a human life?”
“Yes. Six. I didn’t want to. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Because you want to repent.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. We all deserve forgiveness. God forgives.”
“I have to go.”
“Please—Michael—”
“Don’t, Father. I don’t want anyone else hurt. You can’t tell anyone I was here. You can’t!”
“Your mother, Olive, she’s worried.”
“You can’t say anything!” He was crying, and Mateo wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in this dam
n booth. He almost cursed God for what he had to endure, what he had promised to uphold. He understood the principle, he respected the reasons, but this was a boy who was suffering, and Mateo couldn’t do anything but talk.
“Okay, Michael, I won’t say a word. God knows what’s in your heart, He knows that you’re repenting. Pray for guidance, pray for strength. You only need to ask for my help and I will give it.”
Michael didn’t say anything, but the light was on, so Mateo knew he was still there.
“I left Olive a note,” Michael finally said. “Father, I am sorry for everything I’ve done. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I’m not scared anymore.”
He sounded terrified.
“I have to go back. There’s only one thing I can do to fix this.”
“You’ve done it. You’ve asked for forgiveness.”
“You don’t understand.”
But Mateo did. He understood more than Michael could know.
“Please give me absolution, Father.”
Mateo gave the boy absolution. Then he said, “Absolution is for past sins. Not future sins. Michael, think about what you plan to do. There is always someone who can help.”
The light went out. Michael was gone.
CHAPTER 5
Ryan followed Lucy to Olmos Park, an older, exclusive neighborhood only ten minutes from FBI headquarters. She pulled into the garage, then walked around the front to greet Ryan on the tiled front path. Ryan whistled softly. “Nate was right.”
“About what?” she asked as she typed a code into the keypad next to the door.
“Nice digs.”
“Sean picked it out,” she said. “He surprised me.” The door unlocked and Lucy stepped in.
“Neither of my ex-wives would have trusted me to buy a house without them.” Ryan eyed the keypad. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of those on a house before.”
“Sean is security-conscious.”
Ryan whistled again at the sweeping terra-cotta tile staircase that curved up to the second story. Alternating cobalt-blue and hand-painted Mexican tiles accented the foyer and stairs. In the summer—and on warm spring days like today—the tile kept the house cool.
“We were lucky we could move in quickly,” Lucy said. “I didn’t even know I was being assigned to San Antonio until three weeks before I had to report in. Sean contacted a realtor, then a couple days after Christmas he flew out to look at a few places. He sent me pictures of three, but I loved them all so told him to pick.”
The smell of Texas barbecue filled the house. Her phone vibrated and she looked down. He’d sent her a text message.
I’m in my office on the phone. Offer Ryan a beer.
She laughed. “Sean told me to offer you a beer.”
“Sounds great. I need it after today.” He glanced around. “How did he know you’re here?”
She pointed to the camera in the corner of the foyer. Ryan squinted. “I would never have seen it.”
“We have reasons to be cautious.”
They walked down the wide, tiled hall, past the open dining room she and Sean had yet to eat in, to the kitchen. The kitchen had been remodeled by the previous owners to fit the Mission-style architecture. That’s what Lucy loved most about the place—it looked old, but everything was new. All the details fit the period, from the tiles to the tall, arched windows to the wood beams in the ceiling. The house was too big for them, but as Sean pointed out, she had six brothers and sisters, he had four, and they had friends who now had a place to stay.
“Plus,” he’d added, “we have two nieces or nephews on the way and someday we’ll adopt a few of our own.”
Lucy couldn’t have children. That Sean was not only willing but excited to adopt in the future gave her a contentment she didn’t know she needed until he’d said it.
She said to Ryan, “We have Samuel Adams, Dos Equis, and Harp.”
“American, Mexican, and Irish?” He laughed. “Sam Adams, thanks.”
Lucy didn’t care much for beer, but she picked up a Harp for herself, which she’d grown to enjoy. She gave Ryan a tour of the downstairs, which included the media room where Sean had created a theater and game center. “Now I know why Nate loves this place. You guys have every video game known to man. And movies.”
Lucy smiled. “Sean spoils himself.”
“What does your boyfriend do?” Ryan asked.
“He was a principal in a security company for the last few years. His brothers founded it, and two of my brothers joined later. My brother Patrick was Sean’s partner. Now Sean’s renewing his PI license in Texas.”
“Personal security?”
“Not so much. Computer security, mostly. Companies hire him to break into their networks or buildings and find weak spots, then Sean plugs the holes.”
“Smart guy.”
They sat in the sunroom. The sun had gone down—it was nearly seven—and the temperature had fallen enough to make it comfortable. Sean came in through the side door. He smiled when he saw Lucy and leaned over to kiss her. Twice. Then he reached over and took Ryan’s hand. “Good to finally meet you, Ryan,” he said. “I told Lucy to plan a party, but she’s not much of a party planner. I’m starving, and I didn’t just take down a major drug operation.”
Lucy looked at him. “Where’d you hear? I didn’t give you details.”
“No, but Nate did. As much as he knew, anyway.”
Lucy had to remember that Sean and Nate had hit it off and apparently talked a lot more than she’d thought. She shouldn’t be surprised: They were close in age, had many of the same interests, and Nate—like Sean’s brother Kane—had been a Marine. Nate, like Lucy, was still an FBI rookie. It took two years to lose the rookie label. Nate had one year in.
“I invited Nate to come by, but he has a date.” Sean grinned.
“Michelle or Kendall?” Ryan asked.
“Trista.”
“Trista? Who’s that?”
“Don’t know. I offered to run a full background on her, for free, but Nate hung up on me.”
“If you don’t mind,” Lucy said, “I’m going to run upstairs and take a fast shower.”
Ryan said, “I used the gym at SAPD. You know they have a women’s shower, too.”
“I didn’t have time,” Lucy said, though that was only partly true. She didn’t like showering in public areas, even if they were semi-private showers. She hated the feeling of being watched, even when she wasn’t. She leaned over and kissed Sean. He understood. That’s another reason why she loved him so much.
Sean watched Lucy leave. He’d seen the exhaustion in her eyes, but she wouldn’t slow down. It wasn’t in her DNA. At the same time, this move had been good for her. For both of them. Lucy loved her job, and Sean loved when Lucy was happy.
He gave Ryan a discreet once-over. He’d met Lucy’s boss, as well as Nate Dunning who’d been in the office the day Sean had taken Lucy for lunch on her birthday last month. Since then, Nate had been over several times. Not only common interests, but Nate was comfortable to be around, as if Sean had known him for years instead of six weeks. The only other person Sean felt that way about was Lucy’s brother, Patrick.
Lucy had talked a lot about Ryan, mostly because they’d been working together on Operation Heatwave. She liked him, and Lucy was a good judge of character. But Sean still wanted to know who was watching her back when he wasn’t.
“I’m going to grab a beer,” Sean said. “Ready for another?”
“I will be.” Ryan followed Sean back to the kitchen. He gestured toward children’s drawings on a bulletin board in the breakfast nook. “Lucy said you didn’t have kids. Nieces? Nephews?”
“No,” Sean said. “We have two on the way—my brother’s wife is expecting any day, and Lucy’s sister is expecting in June. Those are from a kid we helped out of a jam last fall.”
“Lucy’s good with kids. We had two minors, girls, during the sweep today. Mother made it difficult, we had to arrest her.”
&nb
sp; “Micah and Tommy’s mom got involved with the wrong guy. She ended up dead. They’re living with their grandparents in Florida now.” Micah wrote to Lucy every two or three weeks and included drawings from his six-year-old brother, Tommy. The boys seemed to be adjusting well. “Lucy said the sweep was a success, but that your team got reassigned? I got some details from Nate, but he didn’t know much.”
“Missing kid. He was locked in the basement for a couple of weeks and one of the minors let him out. The DEA was leading our team, so all our warrants were related to drugs. Lucy and Donnelly, the team leader, flipped one brother against the other. We’ve already gotten some good intel on the drug pipeline and shut down a storage facility. Guns, drugs. It’s going to be big.”
“What kind of drug pipeline?”
Ryan hesitated. Suspicious, maybe, or just cautious.
Sean said, “The kids, Micah and Tommy? Their mother’s boyfriend was cooking meth in the middle of the woods. National forest. His brother was a ranger, in on it. Good-sized lab in a trailer, DEA figured it was a multimillion-dollar operation that supported the entire DC area.”
Lucy stepped into the kitchen. She looked a million times better, her face bright, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail. Sean loved it when she was fresh out of the shower, no makeup, just her beautiful self. He kissed her. “Telling stories, Sean?” she said with a grin.
“Just trying to get Ryan to spill the beans on your operation today.” He opened the oven and pulled out a tray of BBQ.
“There’s something more going on here than simple drug dealing,” Lucy said. “I didn’t tell you about the conversation with DeSantos from CPS.”
“No,” Sean and Ryan said simultaneously.
“DeSantos thinks that Michael, the boy Bella helped escape from the basement, is Michael Rodriguez, a thirteen-year-old from foster care who ran away last year. Allegedly ran away.”
“Allegedly?” Sean brought plates to the kitchen island, which had stools all around. “Okay to eat here?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Ryan said.
“Help yourself.” Sean loaded up his plate.
While they ate, Lucy continued.
“Michael’s father is in prison and might have a connection to people connected to Sanchez. I’m going to dig around.” She frowned, licked spicy BBQ sauce from her fingers. “Here’s the thing that’s been bugging me since I talked to CPS. Michael Rodriguez has been gone for fourteen months—no word from him until he left a cryptic note for his foster parents only hours after Bella let him out.”
Dead Heat Page 6
