by DiAnn Mills
“I understand your desire to make a terrible crime right. If that is ever possible. It doesn’t bring the child back. Neither will writing a book in which her killer is brought to justice.”
“But it might make a reader aware of a potentially dangerous situation and act instead of react.”
“Optimistic thought. I’ve tried working on this case many times, and the outcome is always the same. Dead end.” His features shadowed. He cared about this case too. “I’ll repeat what I know Linc has already told you. We have nothing to go on.”
“Except hope.”
“Hope is worthless without a lead.”
She refused to reconsider her plans. She simply had to learn to think like Tigo, like a pragmatist.
CHAPTER 6
Kariss dipped a chip into salsa while forming her words to Tigo. The two had been civil to each other since leaving the office for lunch. Linc had served her well by assigning her to Tigo, although the agent could use a few lessons in manners. Her growing list included the way he dipped chips into salsa like he was panning for gold.
Some women would find his crusty edges appealing. But not Kariss Walker, suspense writer. She’d use most of his traits for her hero, but she’d polish his attitude.
Obviously the case involving gangs and gun smuggling had his attention and priority. Maybe she’d do better sliding into his good side with that approach. “How much time can you allot me while working the weapons case?”
He poked his chip into the hotter bowl of salsa. “How long will it take you to conduct your research?”
“I could review the files this afternoon. See about a new angle—”
“There aren’t any.”
She braced herself. “I want to talk to the HPD detective who also worked the case, Ricardo Montoya.”
He nodded. “I can put you in contact with him. Good guy. I talked to him this morning. He’s never been able to let the case rest either. Tough situation. A man or woman is murdered and it’s regretful. The authorities want the killer found so others can be safe. But a child is a different matter.” The lines across his forehead softened. “An adult can fight back. Possibly escape. Not so with a helpless child.”
He still had passion for the case.
“I never understood why the FBI was called into a police matter.”
He leaned back and peered at her. Was he evaluating her intelligence? “Our assistance to local police agencies falls under ‘police cooperation’ in our guidelines. Congress gives us authority to assist and provide resources to local police agencies in situations like this, even if the case isn’t our jurisdiction.”
She started to pose her next question, but he held up his hand. “Pulling out resources for another investigation is a waste of the bureau’s manpower and time. It doesn’t make sense. Show me new evidence, and I’ll be the first one on it.”
Which was exactly why she intended to visit the crime scene this afternoon.
“But sometimes cold cases are solved by reviewing evidence already presented.”
A wisp of anger crossed his features. “I know my job. The Cherished Doe case is not about rules or stipulations or feelings. The case is cold because that’s what it is. Write some violence into it, add some sizzle, and let your story spin.”
She wanted to say things a lady shouldn’t utter. “I’m writing the story as it happened.”
“Good luck.”
The server walked up to their table and voiced caution about their hot plates. The few moments’ reprieve gave her time to step back from her emotions. She clearly understood Tigo’s position, and debating the FBI’s findings only alienated her from those who had much to teach her. She had to put aside his insults and play on his macho image.
“I apologize for my comment a few minutes ago. You’re the pro. I’m the spectator.”
“All right.”
“You’re a problem solver, right?” she said.
“I thrive on solutions. But I’ve done the research, searched through the flimsy evidence, and examined the press conferences — including your TV report — and nothing has persuaded me to reopen the case. I even contacted the various clinics in the area the body was found to see if they had record of a little girl requiring a breathing tube. Nothing.”
“Although our differences keep us at odds and will continue to do so, I want you to know I respect your work and your commitment to the FBI.”
His gaze met hers, and she saw a hint of respect. “Maybe your perception of character comes from your study of human nature, which must be essential in writing fiction.” He studied her for a moment, and she hoped he was finally seeing her as an intelligent person. If he’d read her novel, he’d see a plotline that showed characters involved with real-life problems.
“I’m sorry we didn’t meet when I worked at Channel 5.”
“That might have helped … the awkwardness.”
“We both want Cherished Doe’s killing solved. My method is a story. Yours requires cold, hard facts.”
He tapped his finger against his glass of iced tea. “I’m not a calloused agent who can box up violent crime into cold-case status without a sense of failure. On the other hand, the weapons smuggling currently has my priority.”
“Can’t you do both?”
He pointed to her plate. “Your food’s getting cold.”
She held her breath, anger tingling her fingertips. The last time someone had told her to eat, she was ten.
From the way Kariss sliced into her spinach enchilada, Tigo had accomplished his purpose of successfully diffusing her thoughts of rehashing the case.
Pouring hot sauce over his refried beans, he pondered the situation of earlier this morning. Candy was at the morgue. Tigo regretted her death for several reasons — one honorable and one selfish. Her kids were seven and eight, a little old for the system to adopt out. He’d met them once, a boy and a girl. Sweet kids.
But the relatives were probably of the same caliber as Candy. Tough break.
The second reason was her ability to provide information about the Arroyos.
The more time that passed, the more guns made it across the border into the hands of cartels. He and Ryan could talk this afternoon. Figure out the next series of moves. Jo-Jack had served them well before Candy entered the picture. His leads had brought about arrests and drug raids. But could he find out what the gun smugglers were doing?
Linc had given permission for Kariss to be privy to the conversation, taking notes and asking questions. Tigo questioned the logic of her presence. Not that he thought she might sell them out, but the Arroyos had methods of forcing people to talk …
No. He’d gone into left field with those concerns. Kariss was safe. With his disguises, no one in his undercover work suspected him of being an agent — except Candy. She could have been forced to reveal his name, which meant this morning’s firefight might be the beginning of more.
He studied the writer, who’d left a lipstick stain on her water glass. Why did women put the stuff on only to leave it somewhere else? Like a trademark … or a tattoo. For a moment the Arroyos’ crossbones tattoo popped into his head.
Tigo shrugged and dug into his food, finishing long before Kariss took more than a few bites. Pushing his plate aside, he opened the Cherished Doe file, although he didn’t need a refresher. But it made him look like he was on her side.
The rumble of angry voices to his left grabbed his attention. A lovers’ spat. She accused him of cheating. He claimed the woman was his wife. Tigo glanced at Kariss, who was drinking in the scene like an investigative reporter. Hmm. Her old role blending with a new one.
He pulled out his Blackberry and googled her name. Time he found out a little more information about his new appendage.
“I can take this in a to-go box,” she said.
“No problem. I’m checking on something.” He added a smile to reassure her.
His first stop was her website. Whoa. New York Times bestseller, just like Linc said. En
dorsements from high-profile writers. Huge awards. And two of her novels were being made into movies. Clicking on her bio, he read about her success and awards. She held a prestigious position in the publishing world and supported new writers. The blurb said Kariss had been a homecoming queen, and her parents still lived in Texas City.
“You must be reading something serious.” She took a sip of water.
“I am. I’d share it with you, but it’s not appropriate.”
Later he’d conduct a background check, find out where she went to school, her majors, and everything else from there. Never hurt to know all about your opponent. “So you were writing during your stint at Channel 5.”
She tilted her head, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “You were googling me, weren’t you?”
Laughter rumbled in his throat, and it had everything to do with being caught. “I was.”
“I hope you’re pleased with what you’ve found. I work hard to get my point across.”
“I am. Quite an impressive site. Promotion and marketing must be a fun part of your job.”
“At times. That part of my writing is difficult, so I let my publicist direct it.”
“What part do you like?”
“The actual writing after I brainstorm about the women in my novels.”
“What caused an attractive woman like yourself to write fictionalized stories about real issues women face?”
She lifted her chin, “I don’t exploit women’s feelings, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I entertain, encourage, and inspire them to make a courageous stand in their lives.”
“Touché. Okay, let’s talk about the contents of this file. That is, if you’re finished eating.”
She pulled out a notepad and pushed away her half-eaten lunch. “Fire away.”
“In short, I don’t think there’s anything here that you haven’t seen before.” He handed her the file and watched her leaf through it. Emotion swept over her face, and she blinked. He well remembered his own reaction to Cherished Doe. But the contents in her hand were all she’d get from him.
“You’re right. I have all this information. Guess I’ll need to write the story as I originally intended. Make up the ending.”
Relief swept through him. Now to ensure she received a crash course in “How to Be an FBI Special Agent in One Week.”
CHAPTER 7
Kariss drove south on I-45 toward the side of Houston where Cherished Doe’s body had been found. Authorities assumed the little girl had lived and died there. Years had passed since Kariss had driven into Pine Grove Apartments, but the dilapidated community — broken windows, ragged children with empty eyes, and gang-like clusters of mostly male youth — brought back the intense longing to find answers.
The clump of pines still stood with their secret. She parked her car and stared into the trees, wondering what those who were trained in investigations had missed. This setting, the poverty and crime, was where she’d place her characters.
Who allowed you to starve to death, little one? I can’t rest until your sweet body has a name and a reason for your suffering.
The need to experience the area moved her to exit her car. She was alone. There was no one to harass her. Smells of sewage met her nostrils along with a suffocating odor of desperation, and she rubbed the lower part of her back. She heard a child laugh and wondered how long before that was stifled.
“¿Mamacita, que haces aquí?”
She turned to see who’d called her a sexy lady and asked her what she was doing there. Five Hispanic teens gathered around her car. The one talking looked to be about sixteen years old, shirtless, his jeans hanging below his boxers.
“A little girl was found dead here over five years ago,” she said in Spanish. “The killer was never found. Do you remember, because—”
“You don’t belong here.”
Right, but she did crave answers.
The chuckles of those who’d stepped closer alarmed her. They circled her Jag. What good did keyless entry do when she couldn’t reach the door? And her cell phone lay inside the console.
“Nice car.”
“Gracias.” She moved toward her vehicle with the understanding that showing any fear fed into their intimidation.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“I need to get back to work.”
“I could put you to work.” He glanced back at the others and laughed.
“No thanks. I have a boss who gets angry when I’m late.”
“He won’t mind.”
She maneuvered her fingers over her keys and the button that would allow her to climb inside her car.
Suck it up, Kariss. You should have known better.
Her brothers had always instructed her to use her head and not show fear. But there were five of these guys. She eyed the leader and drew in a breath meant to calm her scattered nerves. Somehow she managed to walk to her car and face him. At least he didn’t have gang markings. She pressed the keypad and the car chirped.
“I think she wants to leave,” he said. “Makes me wonder if she doesn’t like our company.”
He opened her door, and for a split second she feared he planned to take her car. Instead he gestured her to slip inside. She brushed past him, the smell of marijuana wrenching at her stomach. He grabbed her jaw as she passed, forcing a sickening kiss on her mouth.
“You’re lucky this time. All we want are your money and credit cards. Next time I’ll want more than a kiss.”
She reined in the panic firing into her bloodstream. “But I want something too. Inside my purse are my business cards. If you hear of anything about a case called Cherished Doe, the little girl who was found dead, call me. I’ll pay for good information.”
She steadied her gaze into his. “Good information, not trash.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do you read English?”
“I’m not stupid,” he said in perfect English.
“Good. When you charge something on my credit cards, I’d hate for you to get caught.”
He reached for her purse and smirked.
Kariss drove out of the apartment complex with the reality of danger alerting her from the top of her head to her toes. In her rearview mirror, she could see the teens laughing. She’d been lucky.
The police officer who came to her aid after she phoned 9-1-1 from a convenience store lectured her for fifteen minutes about being in the challenging district of Houston driving a Jag. In his words, “Be glad he stole your purse and not your life.”
It took an hour for her to make the necessary calls about identity theft. Fortunately, the address on her ID displayed a post office box and not a physical address.
Kariss drove home less enthusiastic about her writing project than that morning. The obstacles in the way of success left her feeling defeated before she even began. Not enough to call it quits, though. Absolutely not.
She took a deep breath. The problems today were simply roadblocks, and writing suspense meant she’d have those and more to deal with — including overcoming stubborn, driven individuals like Special Agent Santiago Harris and her literary agent, who opposed her dream of writing a suspense novel.
Although Linc was an old friend, he might have assigned her to Tigo to deter her writing project. But it hadn’t worked. The Cherished Doe case, the one so dear to her heart, was no more solved than five years ago. She needed to find an angle that would persuade the FBI and HPD to reopen it. The authorities who’d tweaked every aspect of this case were brilliant, trained to bring criminals to justice. She could dialogue with the best of them, but finding something to warrant their further attention had her baffled.
She adjusted the air-conditioning in her car. Too cold. But not her attitude.
The rest of this week she’d work on building a positive image with Tigo and Ryan. All the while she’d look for a flaw … something that begged to be investigated. Contacting HPD detective Ricardo Montoya and picking his brain made perfe
ct sense. She remembered him from her Channel 5 days. They’d talked extensively then about Cherished Doe, and she was sure he’d remember her.
How could she climb higher in Tigo’s approval ratings? He resented her questions, and he had his own agenda with his current gun-smuggling case. She’d show him. When this book hit the New York Times bestsellers list, he’d eat his words. And appreciate her expertise.
Tonight she’d do her homework and develop a new strategy to win Tigo to her side. Or at least cause him to rethink Cherished Doe.
She’d research gun smuggling and the Arroyo gang. At least she could listen to Tigo and Ryan with some knowledge about the situation and chip in a worthy comment when appropriate. This afternoon’s conversation between the two agents had divulged little except their current informant had been found dead, and a man by the name of Jo-Jack was a candidate to provide information. Their talk about Jo-Jack bothered her — buying people for information seemed calloused. Especially when an informant could be killed. She sighed with the reality of law enforcement work. Informants understood the danger when they put themselves into commodity mode. She’d seek one out to get his viewpoint on Cherished Doe.
She definitely wouldn’t be making any more trips to Pine Grove Apartments alone.
“How is she?” Tigo stepped into his mother’s bedroom, his heart and mind fixed on her pale, sleeping form.
“Not a good day, sir.” Natalie, the young nurse, tilted her head. “I gave her something to help her sleep.”
He nodded. Lately his mother had more bad days than good. The cancerous tumor on her kidney combined with the weakened condition of her stroke-ridden body meant she had only weeks or possibly days left.
Every day she was hooked up to a dialysis machine.
Every day he expected the dreaded call that she no longer breathed.
Kissing her forehead, he gestured at the door for Natalie. “Can we talk for a moment?”
In the hallway, with the door to his mother’s bedroom closed, Tigo faced the inevitable. “Natalie, I want her remaining days to be pain free.”
