by Linda Howard
Except for the brief time he’d glanced at Joann’s grip on her hand, he hadn’t once looked away from Milla’s face, and that was the most unnerving thing of all.
“I’m told you find people,” she said softly.
Behind her, Joann made an abrupt movement. “Milla—” she began sharply, and Milla knew she was going to say this wasn’t a good idea, maybe she should reconsider, and all the other sensible things that could be said. Diaz’s gaze didn’t waver, and Milla lifted her hand to forestall her friend’s objections.
“Sometimes,” Diaz said.
“The one-eyed man, at that meeting Friday night. I want to find him.”
“He’s nothing. He isn’t important.” There was a slight inflection to his speech, not in his tone but in the way he shaped his words, as if perhaps English wasn’t his first language. He spoke English perfectly and with a west Texas accent, but there was still something, beyond his name, that spoke of Mexico. If he’d been born in the United States, she’d find a hat and eat it.
“He’s important to me,” she said, and drew a breath. Success was once again singing its Lorelei song, beckoning to her. This man gave her a real shot at finding out what had happened to her son, and if she was dealing with the devil, then so be it. “Ten years ago, my six-week-old son was stolen from me. My ex-husband is a doctor; he and some of his colleagues had set up a free clinic in one of the poorer areas of Chihuahua and we lived there for a year. My baby was born there. I was at the market and two men jerked him away from me, but I fought back, and clawed out the left eye of the man who had my son. The other man stabbed me in the back, and they both escaped. I haven’t seen my baby since.”
Something was glimmering in his gaze, some minute change that signaled a sharpening of his attention. “So you’re the one.”
“The one?” she parroted.
“Who blinded that pig Pavón.”
Pavón. Oh, my God, that was his name. After ten years, she knew his name. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists. Her heartbeat had been settling down a bit, but now it was thundering even harder in her chest, deafening her with the roar of blood through her veins. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to jump up and find him right now; she wanted to slam his head against a wall until he gave her the answers she wanted. But two of those things she couldn’t do, and one she refused to do, so instead she pressed her violently trembling fists against her eyes and fought for control.
“Do you know his first name?” she asked in a constricted voice.
“Arturo.”
Arturo Pavón. The letters branded themselves in her mind. Just as she had never forgotten his face, she would never forget his name, or this moment. For so long she had struggled and persisted with practically nothing to go on; now all of a sudden things were changing so fast she felt as if her world had tilted on its axis. Logically, she had known she would likely never find Justin. Emotionally, she had been unable to stop looking. Now, at last, the real possibility existed that she might at least be able to find out if he had lived. And if she could actually find him, find her little boy . . .
“Can you find him?” she asked, leaning forward as if by sheer force of will she could bend events to her wishes. “I want to talk to him. I want to find out what he did with my son—”
“Your baby was sold,” he said flatly. “Pavón wouldn’t know to who. He’s a pendejo, a gañan.”
Milla blinked. Gañan she understood: “thug.” But unless she was mistaken, Diaz had also called Pavón a pubic hair. Obviously she missed some of the nuances of idiomatic Mexican Spanish. “He’s a what?”
“He’s nothing. He’s a little man who follows orders.” Diaz shrugged. “He’s also a mean, worthless son of a bitch, but the bottom line is he doesn’t have any authority.”
“He’s still my only link, and I have to follow the chain to find my son.”
“You can follow the chain, but the odds are it won’t lead anywhere except back on itself. Smugglers don’t keep records. He’ll remember you, of course, and probably your baby, but all he’ll know is that the baby was taken across the border and sold. That’s it.”
She couldn’t accept that the trail led nowhere. Pavón wouldn’t have been in any shape to take Justin to the border himself; the most likely person to have done that was the second man, the one who stabbed her. Pavón would know that man’s name. And when she found that man, he would know another name. If she just kept digging, eventually she would find Justin.
“I still want to find him,” she said stubbornly. “You were watching him that night, you kept me from—”
“—getting yourself killed.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Probably. Not that protecting me was your intention, you just didn’t want them to know anyone was watching. But since you’re trailing him anyway, why can’t you—”
“I’m not tracking him in particular,” Diaz interrupted. “I’m following the snake back to its head.”
“But you know where he is.”
“No. I don’t.”
She felt like screaming in frustration. She wouldn’t accept a dead end now; she simply wouldn’t. “You can find him.”
“I can find anyone. Eventually.”
“Because you don’t give up. I can’t give up, either. If it’s a matter of money, of course I’ll pay you.” She couldn’t in good conscience let Finders foot the bill, but she would give him every penny she had in savings, and beg more from David if she had to. Not that there would be any begging to it; David would do anything to help her find Justin.
Diaz regarded her with a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes, as if she were an alien species and he couldn’t figure out what made her tick. He was a man who evidently felt very little; she was a woman who felt, perhaps, too much. Since she couldn’t appeal to his emotions, she tried instead to appeal to his logic. “Finders has a huge network of people, contacts you can’t imagine. If you help me, I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need help.” His gaze was cold and remote again. “And I work alone.”
There had to be something she could offer him. “A green card?” She could pull in some favors, get some corners cut.
For the first time there was a real expression on his face: amusement. “I’m an American citizen.”
“What, then?” she asked in frustration. “Why won’t you take the job? I’m not asking you to kill anyone; just help me find him.” Or maybe that was it; maybe he got off on the thrill of the hunt, the struggle to the death.
“What makes you think I would kill anyone for you?” His voice had gone soft again, his face hard and blank.
Normally she was discreet about her informants, but her nerves were like jagged shards of glass slicing at her. Somehow, any way she could, she had to convince Diaz to help her. “True Gallagher pulled together some information for me, on anyone named Diaz who could have been connected to my son’s kidnapping.”
“True Gallagher . . .” he repeated, as if trying out the name on his tongue.
“He’s one of our sponsors.”
“And this information said . . . ?” he prompted.
“That you’re an assassin.” She didn’t hide the truth, or try to be coy about it. Perhaps he wasn’t an assassin, but she still had no doubt he could kill and had killed. And if he was, knowing that she had both eyes wide open concerning him and was still willing to hire him might make a difference in his decision.
Joann made a small sound of shock, but he didn’t look at her.
“Your informant is wrong. There are reasons for which I would kill. I may get paid, but the money isn’t why I kill.”
Which in no way said that he hadn’t killed, or that he wouldn’t kill again. But oddly enough, she believed him, and felt reassured. At least he had some sort of moral compass, a standard to which he held himself.
He steepled his hands, watching her over his fingertips as he seemed to be contemplating something. Finally he said,
“Tell me about this tip you got about me on Friday night.”
“I don’t have a lot to tell. The caller was a Hispanic man. All he said was that you would be at a meeting behind the church in Guadalupe, at ten-thirty. The call was made from that service station, and the owner doesn’t know anything about it.”
She couldn’t read what was going on behind those cold, dark eyes, but she could imagine he was sorting through acquaintances and possibilities.
“At the time, I thought Pavón’s name could be Diaz,” she explained. “All I had were vague rumors that a man named Diaz was involved in some disappearances. I thought you could be the one-eyed man, because your name kept coming up in connection with him.”
“I have no connection with him.”
“I heard that he works for you.”
His eyes went even colder.
“The point is, I’ve had feelers out for information about you for two years. Anyone could have called.” She paused, another point occurring to her. “Though, since I’ve been offering rewards from the beginning, it’s strange that I’d get an anonymous tip and there wasn’t any effort to collect on the offer.”
“Not just anyone would have information about my whereabouts.”
And he didn’t like it.
“Who knew where you would be?” she asked. “Anyone you told, obviously. And the person who gave you the tip about the meeting.”
“I didn’t tell anyone, so that narrows the list of possibilities. The question is, why?”
“Brian and I thought you were being set up, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Pavón and the others had no idea you were there.”
“Brian,” he said. “That would be the man hiding on the other side of the cemetery?”
So he’d seen Brian, too. She nodded. “He works for Finders, too. We’d been out on a case and were on our way home when I got the call.”
Something was going on. It was almost as if she had been deliberately thrown in Diaz’s path. She didn’t have to read his expression to know what was going through his mind, because she was having the same thoughts.
“I’ll help you,” he said abruptly, and flowed to his feet. “I’ll be in touch.”
He left the office and a few seconds later they heard the sound of the outer door closing. Milla and Joann stared at each other, then turned as one and raced to the window to see where he went.
The stairs to the office were empty. So was the parking lot. There was no sign of him, and though Milla opened the door and listened for the sound of a car engine being cranked, she heard nothing. It was as if he’d disappeared.
“I know how he got out,” she said, bemused. “But how did he get in?”
“I don’t know,” Joann moaned, collapsing into the nearest chair. “My God, I’ve never been so scared in my life! He was probably already in here when I arrived. If he’d wanted, he could have done anything.”
Milla went from window to window, checking to see if any of them showed signs of being forced. She wasn’t a detective; nevertheless, she didn’t see any new scratch marks on the latches, nor were any of the windows broken. Whatever method he’d used for gaining entrance, he hadn’t left any obvious evidence of it.
Joann was visibly trembling. “I can’t believe you sat down and talked to him, as cool as pie. That’s the scariest man I’ve ever seen.”
“Did I look cool?” Milla swallowed and found herself a chair, too. “I couldn’t have. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand, so I had to sit down.”
“I didn’t notice. I thought he was going to kill us. His eyes—it was like looking at my own death.”
“But he didn’t kill us, and he gave us information I’ve been trying for ten years to get.” Milla closed her eyes. “Arturo Pavón. I have a name. Finally, I have a name! Do you know what this means?” Tears scorched her eyes and seeped from beneath her closed lids. “I have a real chance now of finding my baby; for the first time I have a chance!”
8
The fund-raiser in Dallas was more successful than she’d hoped; not only did the event produce money, but Finders also picked up a corporate sponsor, a software company that had promised to upgrade their computer system. Visions of new computers danced in Milla’s head, but that wasn’t what kept her awake in her hotel bed that night.
Excitement zinged through her every time she thought of what had happened that morning. She felt as if she had plunged headlong into a fire and emerged unscathed; she was almost giddy with hope. She wanted to call David, wanted to tell him that at last she was making real progress, that she had the kidnapper’s name and an expert—what else could she call Diaz?—was helping her locate him. She wanted to share her elation with someone, and who better than Justin’s father?
But that was a call she refused to let herself make. David wasn’t her husband now. He had another family, and Milla was very wary about intruding on it. She didn’t know, and wouldn’t ask, if David’s wife had a problem with the money he gave her every year. As much as possible Milla had tried to make the break a clean one, to not give the new Mrs. Boone any reason for anger.
The new Mrs. Boone? Milla had to laugh at herself. David’s wife’s name was Jenna, she was a very nice woman, and she had been married to David twice as long as Milla had been.
When she had something concrete about Justin, then she’d call David. She didn’t keep him abreast of every rumor and development. He called her about twice a year, and that was when she brought him up to date on any progress, which for ten years had been precious little. To keep things as smooth as possible in his private live, she never called him. Period. A surgeon’s wife had enough everyday hassle, with her husband’s long hours and emergencies that seemed timed for whenever he sat down to dinner or they were about to leave for vacation. There was no need to add calls from an ex-wife to the turmoil.
She couldn’t contain the excitement, the sense of expectation, so she gave up trying to will herself to sleep and instead went over and over everything that had happened and been said that morning, from the time of True’s call to the moment Diaz had vanished.
The biggest mystery for her—though perhaps not for Diaz—was who had called her about the meeting in Guadalupe, and why. The reason couldn’t be the reward, since the call was anonymous. But someone had put her in Diaz’s way, and she didn’t know if the intent had been to help or to harm. Diaz could just as easily have killed her, rather than knocking her out. And after meeting him, she didn’t think killing her would have cost him any sleep.
She wracked her brain but couldn’t come up with any logical reason for the call, and finally she decided to simply count her blessings. Perhaps Diaz was a mixed blessing, but still, in the space of a few minutes he had given her priceless information and offered her the best chance she’d had yet of finding Justin.
She couldn’t believe she’d actually talked him into helping them. She couldn’t believe she had sat down so close to him that only a couple of inches had been separating their knees, and pretended she wasn’t terrified of him. His were the coldest, emptiest eyes she’d ever seen, as if no emotion touched him. She would almost call him a sociopath, except he did seem to have some internal braking mechanism on his inherent violence. He knew right from wrong, she thought, but he didn’t feel it. If he chose to do what he perceived as right, it was a mental decision rather than an emotional one.
But because of that, she thought she could deal with him. They—the Finders—weren’t in danger from him. He could have killed her and Brian that night in Guadalupe, simply for being in his way, but he hadn’t because they weren’t a threat to him—to his purpose, maybe, but not to him. So long as she was fairly certain of his boundaries, she thought she could trust him and work with him.
She hoped.
Considering True’s reaction to Diaz’s name, she decided to keep it quiet that the man himself had turned up in her office. True had a protective streak that she found charming even though she knew she had to keep her distance from him
. He might call the police, which was the last thing she wanted.
She thought about asking True to find out what he could on Arturo Pavón, but decided against it. For one thing, he would want to know how she came up with the name, and she didn’t like the idea of outright lying to him, when he had been so helpful. For another, Diaz wouldn’t like it. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she was certain of it. Diaz liked to work alone, with very few people, if any, knowing his whereabouts or what he was doing. If both he and True were searching for Pavón, they might very well cross trails. No, he wouldn’t like that at all. He might even stop helping her, and no way would she risk that.
So, the fewer people who knew about Diaz, the better. She made a mental note to call Joann first thing in the morning, before she went to the office, and tell her not to mention Diaz to anyone.
She caught the first flight out of Dallas for El Paso, swung by the condo to leave her luggage, then continued on to the office. As early as it was, the heat was already becoming oppressive, reminding her of how much she looked forward to winter.
When she entered the office, she saw at once that Brian was in a playful mood, which always took the form of teasing Olivia and trying to drive her mad. Today he was giving her fashion advice, and it wasn’t going over well at all, much to the amusement of everyone else within hearing distance, which was most of the staff.
“You should try a new hairstyle,” he was saying as he lounged on the corner of her desk. “Something flirty. And bigger. You know, with waves and swoops and things.”
Every feminist principle she possessed insulted, Olivia gave him a long, cold stare. “Who do I look like, Farrah fucking Fawcett?”
“No, but you could try,” he said seriously.
Brian was young and big and fast, but for a moment Milla thought that might not be enough to save his life. Olivia slowly stood up until they were almost nose to nose, which, at five-two, she was able to do only because he was sitting on her desk. “Little boy,” she said deliberately, “I’ve destroyed better men than you: used them up, wrung them dry, and thrown them away. Don’t try playing out of your league.”
