She motioned to the chairs that were positioned between pots of flowers. “Can we sit a minute?”
Mrs. Pope hesitated, then nodded. She put down the watering can and clasped her hands together in her lap as she sat in the chair closest to the door. Lucy took the other cushioned seat and smiled. Mrs. Pope didn’t return the smile; she still looked worried.
“The police never come here. We never have trouble, Agent Kincaid.”
“No one is in trouble,” Lucy said. She wanted to put Mrs. Pope at ease. “Call me Lucy, por favor?” She didn’t get a response, so she continued. “I want to help Michael, and I think you can help me find him. I think he’s in trouble, that some bad people might be trying to hurt him.”
Mrs. Pope looked skeptical and worried at the same time. “Why would anyone hurt him? He’s a good boy. A sad boy, but a good boy.”
“I read his files, all his paperwork. I know about his father.”
“Evil man.” Her eyes widened. “He’s not out of jail, is he? Mr. DeSantos would have told us.”
“He’s still in prison,” Lucy assured her. “I’d like to know about Michael in the days before he ran away. Did he seem different? Aloof? Maybe quieter than normal? Secretive?”
“He didn’t run away,” she said defiantly. “I know he didn’t. He loves us, he told me that. Not one week before he disappeared, he told me while we were cooking. ‘Olive,’ he said to me. I told him not to call me Mrs. Pope. I had hoped some day he would call me Mama, but I wasn’t going to push him. ‘Olive, do you think my dad can stop this?’ He was talking about the adoption. I said to him, ‘No, Michael, he can’t. The family rights lawyer said we have the best case she’s seen and all he’s doing is delaying the inevitable.’ And he asked me, ‘Olive, do you really want me to be here forever?’ I said, ‘Yes, I couldn’t love you more than if you came from my womb.’ And he said, ‘I couldn’t love you more if you were my real mom.’” She teared up. “And then I cried, like I’m doing now, and he hugged me. And…” She stopped.
“And what?”
“Just—well, I didn’t think about it until now. He said one more thing. I guess I didn’t think it was odd, because I was emotional, but he said, ‘I’ll take care of you.’”
She sniffed. “He probably meant if anything happened to Hector. My husband works hard. Long hours. Six days a week. He’s a good man, a good husband, and good father to the boys we’ve had here through the years.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“But he works too hard sometimes. The Christmas before Michael disappeared, Hector had a scare. A heart problem. But he’s fine now.”
“My father had a heart attack last Christmas. That must have been awful for you.”
“Michael was a rock. He told me, ‘Olive, Hector is the strongest man I know. He’s going to get better.’ Michael never left my side, except to get me tea or food. He’s a good boy.”
“Olive, help me help Michael.”
“I still don’t understand why the FBI is asking questions.”
Lucy weighed how much to tell her. She wasn’t going to lie, but she also didn’t want to worry the woman.
“On Saturday morning, the FBI and several other law enforcement agencies arrested wanted fugitives. Criminals who didn’t show up at court when they were supposed to, or were wanted on a warrant of some sort.”
She nodded once. “I heard about it on the news.”
“One of the fugitives is a man by the name of Jaime Sanchez. He wasn’t at his house, but a witness identified Michael.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The witness said Michael had been kept there against his will for the last month.”
Olive didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then she shook her head. “Michael’s been gone more than a year.”
“You called Michael’s CPS counselor Saturday and showed him a note Michael had left you. Mr. DeSantos shared it with me. He’s helping me find Michael,” she added, hoping that would help put Olive’s mind at ease.
She didn’t say anything but looked at her tightly clasped hands.
“I think Michael left last year because someone from his father’s former life found him.”
Olive closed her eyes. “To protect us.”
Did she know something?
“What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. Just that Michael is always protective. Always worried about something. His mother was abused,” she added. “He told me he felt so helpless. What could he have done at six to save his mother’s life? Nothing. I told him that, many times, but it doesn’t always help.”
No, it doesn’t.
Olive brushed away tears. “If Michael is in trouble, why wouldn’t he talk to me? He knows I’ll protect him. We could go to the police, to the church. We have people who will help.”
“Because he’s a thirteen-year-old boy who’s scared and doesn’t know who to trust.”
“He trusts me. He trusts Hector.”
“Yes, but he wants to protect you. Is there anything else about those weeks?”
She shook her head, her face fallen. “I’ve told you everything.”
“What about friends?”
“Michael was slow to make friends. I asked Father Flannigan at the church, since Michael seemed to like him especially. He was also Michael’s math teacher. Michael was very good in math. Advanced, they told me. Father was distraught about Michael going missing, as upset as we were.”
Lucy’s instincts twitched. “Did the police talk to him?”
Olive shook her head. “You don’t understand. The police thought Michael was a runaway. They didn’t do anything. They treated Michael like he was a nobody. Even Mr. DeSantos, God bless him, thought Michael ran away.”
“Olive,” Lucy said, leaning forward and catching her eye. “I promise you, I will not stop until I find Michael.” As she said it she feared that she was making a promise she couldn’t keep. Then she added, “Michael is somebody. I don’t care who his father is, or what happened to him, or even why he left. He’s a scared, brave thirteen-year-old boy who needs you. I will bring him back.”
Olive stared at her for a long minute. “Thank you.”
“I need one more thing from you. I’d like to look at his room.”
Olive nodded. “I haven’t changed it. Only clean it once a week. He needs a room when he comes home.” She stood up, straightened her spine. “He will come home.”
* * *
Lucy didn’t find anything in Michael’s room that told her why he might have left, but she did find a clue that sent her to St. Catherine’s, the Catholic church and school where Father Flannigan was an associate pastor.
Michael had hidden a prayer card with MATEO FLANNIGAN written in small block letters, along with a phone number.
San Antonio was overwhelmingly Hispanic, and church attendance was high. When Lucy was growing up in San Diego, they had associate pastors come and go; church attendance had been down and while Rosa Kincaid insisted they go to Mass every Sunday, most families weren’t as consistent. In San Antonio, families attended regularly, and St. Catherine’s had a full schedule of Masses, more Spanish Masses than English, and two permanently assigned pastors.
St. Catherine’s was an old parish but the grounds were well maintained and the school was undergoing expansion. Lucy almost felt guilty for thinking the influx of cash had a nefarious source.
She avoided the school and headed to the main church office. The old cathedral called out to her and she realized she hadn’t been to church since she moved to San Antonio. She wasn’t as devout as her mother, but she’d gone regularly when she lived in Washington. Church kept her grounded, reminded her that for all the evil in the world, there was still hope.
Maybe it was time to go back.
She showed her identification to the secretary and said, “I need to speak with Father Flannigan.”
If the secretary was surprised or suspicious, she kept it to herself. “Please sit, I�
��ll call the father for you.”
Lucy continued to stand, walking around the small lobby looking at the art, icons, and photographs. There were church picnics, school events, baptisms, and more. St. Catherine’s was a young, active parish, and the bulletin board highlighted the events.
She was reading the bulletin when a priest approached her. “Agent Kincaid?”
She looked up and was surprised to note that Father Flannigan looked familiar, but she’d never met him before. Mateo Flannigan. He was half Hispanic, half Irish, just like her. Her Hispanic half came by way of Cuba, but Mateo Flannigan would have fit at her family table without question. Because of that, she felt immediately comfortable, and feared her ease would jeopardize her impartiality.
“Father Flannigan?” she asked formally.
“Yes. What can I do for the FBI?”
“I’m here about Michael Rodriguez.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then:
“Let’s take a walk.”
* * *
Father Flannigan was young, no more than thirty-five, and shorter than Lucy, but he had a presence that spread beyond his stature and age. He wore small, wire-rimmed glasses that Lucy suspected ingratiated him with the kids because they resembled Harry Potter’s spectacles, and his hands were rough and worn, as if he were building the new school himself.
They walked to a small but well-cultivated rose garden hidden in the back of the parish, behind the rectory. Father Flannigan was silent. He stopped in front of a statue of St. Jude and murmured a prayer.
St. Jude. The patron saint of desperate causes.
Then he sat on a stone bench, under a willow tree, and motioned for her to do the same.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Father.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Of course. I’m conducting an investigation. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”
He smiled, reminding her of a shorter, slimmer version of her brothers. He had the hybrid good looks of a Hispanic male with distinctly Irish features, including green eyes.
She must be missing her family. Everything and everyone was reminding her of them.
“Most FBI agents wouldn’t admit that.”
“Have you been interviewed often by the FBI?”
“Often enough.”
That made her curious, but it was nearly ten, and she was already late for her meeting with Ryan and Donnelly.
“I just spoke with Olive Pope. She may not have told you, but Michael left her a note Saturday morning. I was working another case, and now I’m tracking Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s in trouble. Possibly in grave danger.”
“Why didn’t you care last year when I tried to get people to help?”
“I wasn’t here last year.”
“I went to SAPD.”
“I’m sure they tried, but there are many runaways. It’s not fair, but it’s true.”
He stared across the rose garden, not looking at anything in particular.
“Why now?”
“Why not now?” She was getting frustrated with Father Flannigan. She showed him the prayer card she’d taken from Michael’s room. “Olive told me Michael and you were friendly; then I found this hidden in his room. Michael made some cryptic remarks to Olive the week before he disappeared. Do you know what was going on in his life when he left fourteen months ago?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Why?” she demanded.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Do you understand the sanctity of the confessional?”
“Yes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then you know my hands are tied.”
She wanted to scream with frustration, but then realized that if he did know where Michael had gone, he would have gone after him—he might not be able to tell anyone what Michael had told him during confession, but that didn’t preclude him from trying to help.
She shifted tactics. “When you found out Michael had run away, who did you talk to?”
“I was with the Popes when the police arrived. I suggested they go back to Michael’s old neighborhood, specifically the apartment building where his father lived before he was sent to prison. See if they could find him there.”
“Olive didn’t tell me that.”
“She and Hector weren’t in the room when I said it. I don’t want to hurt them.”
“I understand your dilemma, but time is critical. Jaime Sanchez, a wanted fugitive, is connected to Michael’s father from their old neighborhood. I haven’t found a direct connection, except that I have a witness who told me that Jaime kept Michael locked in his basement for the past month.”
Father Flannigan was distinctly surprised.
She pulled out the drawing of the double-crossed T. “Do you recognize this?”
He stared for a long time, then shook his head. “Not specifically, but you’re going to tell me that Michael has this mark.”
“So you have seen it.”
“Not that one. But others. Children, marked because of birth. Relegated to a life they did not ask for. Michael was a child of two worlds, his father’s and the Popes’. He wanted a clean break. He didn’t get it. And that’s all I can say.”
“No!” Lucy exclaimed. She sighed. “Forgive me, Father, but I need your help.”
“I can’t tell you what Michael told me, but I can tell you who I saw him with the day before he disappeared. I told the police as well, but they interviewed the kid and nothing came of it.”
“Who?”
“A boy by the name of Richard Diaz.”
“Do you have an address?”
“No. He was a friend of Michael’s from his old life, came here with Michael a few times. A year or two younger. I haven’t seen him since Michael disappeared. Richard may have been upset that I told the police about him, I don’t know.”
“Father, I respect the confessional. But Michael is alive and he is in danger. Help me.”
He wrestled with his conscience; she could see the debate. He wrestled with his vows. The vows won.
“I can tell you only what Michael and I discussed outside the confessional. I shouldn’t even do that, but it was in my role as a teacher, not a priest. Michael wrestled with anger over what his father did, and a deep shame over his father’s life, as well as a belief that he was somehow to blame for what happened to his mother.”
“They were both abused, mother and son.”
Father Flannigan nodded. “And do you think that reason always wins over emotion?”
He was right, of course. “Michael was six when his mother died. There was no proof Vince Rodriguez killed her, but it was a suspicion.”
“Michael doesn’t trust the police.” He looked at her. “He trusts me.”
“Have you seen him since he disappeared?”
He didn’t say anything for a long minute. “No, but I heard him.”
And it became clear to her he was talking about the boy coming in for confession.
“When was the last time you heard him?” she asked quietly.
“Late Saturday afternoon.” He hesitated and looked out into the garden. “You were right in that Michael wasn’t himself before he disappeared. You said it yourself when we first sat down. A name. An old family associate. Michael saw him before he left fourteen months ago and it changed him. Then he was gone.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police? Give them something, even if you couldn’t give them everything?”
“Agent Kincaid,” he said as if he were reprimanding a child. “The police didn’t care when he disappeared fourteen months ago. Why would they care now, when I can’t even tell them where he is or what he is planning to do?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time, just looked beyond Lucy into the rose garden. Then he reached around his neck and removed a chain with the medal of St. Jude. He handed it to her.
“If you find him, give him this. He’ll
know it’s from me. It may help you earn his trust.”
She slipped it over her neck. “Thank you.”
“I’m scared for him, Agent Kincaid. What I told the police then was that they should look in his old neighborhood. Two days before he disappeared, he went to his old apartment building.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is there anyone else who Michael might have confided in? A friend?”
The priest shook his head. “Only that boy, Richard Diaz. But I don’t know where he lives, and I haven’t seen him since Michael disappeared.”
He stood up, signaling the conversation was over. “I’ll call you if I hear anything else, Agent Kincaid.”
“Thank you. And, please, call me Lucy.” She stood and gave him her card. “If he comes back, if he calls, let me know. I will do everything in my power to protect him.”
“I believe that, Lucy. But you may not be able to protect him from himself.”
* * *
Lucy was practically jumping with anticipation as she left St. Catherine’s. She called Zach as she drove and asked for more information about where Michael and his father lived prior to Vince Rodriguez’s arrest. That was the key. Vince Rodriguez was connected to Jaime Sanchez, and now she had proof. Not proof for court, but proof enough for her to follow the lead.
While waiting for Zach, she drove toward the closest Starbucks, needing a jolt of caffeine. And a muffin. She’d become spoiled with Sean making her breakfast in the morning, and had skipped it because he’d left so early.
A tingling on the back of her neck made the hair on her arms rise.
She didn’t believe in psychics or anything that couldn’t be explained scientifically, but she did believe that the human senses were more advanced and sensitive than most people understood. It was well known and scientifically proven that those who lost one sense—like eyesight—had better-developed remaining senses.
When she’d been held captive eight years ago, she’d developed an intense fear of being watched. Now it was like a sixth sense to her; when eyes were on her back, she just knew. At first, when she was still prone to panic attacks, it could be anyone. But over time—with a lot of training and self-discipline—she’d been able to distinguish between people simply glancing at her and people actually watching her.
Dead Heat Page 13
