Her One and Only Hero

by Sharon Hartley

  “Why not?”

  Francesca swallowed hard, unsure she could verbalize the horror Bella had been drawn into. But she must.

  “They believe the man is Joaquin Zarco, a known sex trafficker from South Africa. They believe he was in Rome on the hunt for prospects for his clients.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “A SEX TRAFFICKER?” Dale repeated, aware of the shock in his voice. Not very professional, but then he wasn’t on the job.

  Maybe this interview would go better if he behaved as if he were. He needed to keep his feelings out of the conversation. But how the hell was he supposed to do that?

  “Yes, a sex trafficker.” Fran nodded miserably, tears pooling in her eyes. “Joaquin Zarco is apparently well known to Interpol. They believe he has clients all over the world, including South America.”

  Dale jumped to his feet. Unbelievable.

  Fran had just delivered the news that their daughter—a daughter he hadn’t known existed until twelve hours ago—had trusted an international pimp to bring her to America. How clueless could a young girl be? This tale kept getting worse and worse.

  “Yesterday you said she left you a note.”

  “Yes,” Fran said. After a moment, she added, “Do you want to read it?”

  “Of course I want to read it.”

  Fran rose unsteadily, moved to a slim leather briefcase on the suite’s desk and withdrew an envelope.

  She presented it to him and said, “There is much I have not told you. She is a sensitive child. You will have questions after you know what she wrote.”

  He accepted the envelope, noting the weight of the fine linen paper, the faint citrus fragrance it emitted, the graceful lettering that spelled out “Mamma.” Withdrawing the note inside, he glanced down to the words.

  “It’s in Italian. Does she speak English?”

  “Fluently, yes, but Italian is her native language and the one she writes in. I can translate.”

  He thrust the note back to Fran. “Please.”

  Fran bit her bottom lip, took a deep breath and began to read.

  “‘Dearest Mamma, by now you—’” her voice broke. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Dale suggested, moving back toward the sofa.

  Once seated, Fran took another breath and began again, her voice stronger.

  “‘By now you know I have gone to America to find my father. I knew you would not allow me to go, so I did not tell you. Please forgive me, but this is something I must do. I have always known there was something different about the marriage between you and Paolo, that you were not like the parents of my friends. I believe that Paolo loves me, but he looks at me sometimes in a way that makes me wonder what he is thinking. I know you love me, Mamma, but perhaps you love your sculpture more, so I need to find my biological father. Maybe then I will understand. Please do not worry about me. You know I am responsible. I have plenty of money, and I promise I have packed enough inhalers to last three months. Now you will have more time to work on the new commission. If my father in Miami does not want me, I will return home. I love you, Isabella.’”

  Fran choked on the last words and lowered the note, eyes closed. “It is not true,” she whispered. “I swear it is not true.”

  “What isn’t true?” Dale asked. He had so many questions about the note he didn’t know where to begin. Not a good place for a newly sworn detective to be.

  She raised eyes swimming with tears. “I do not love my sculpture more than my daughter.”

  A twinge of sympathy for Fran’s obvious pain broke through his own frustration. Yeah, life had thrown him a huge curve, but no matter how much this woman had wronged him, she was a mother in desperate fear for her child.

  Correction. Make that their child.

  “Hey, that’s normal preteen angst,” Dale said. “I know the age well, having raised five sisters. Everything is drama for a twelve-year-old.”

  “Maybe. Yes, that is true.”

  “They think the world revolves around them.”

  Fran ran a finger over the note. “At least she knows I love her.”

  “Tell me about the inhalers,” Dale prodded, wanting to snap Francesca out of her misery and focus on the details he needed to grasp.

  “She has asthma,” Fran said. “It is well controlled with medication, and she rarely has an episode.”

  “But without the meds?”

  “She would have trouble breathing.” Fran closed her eyes and took a deep shuddering inhalation. “She could die. Oh, mio Dio.”

  “She medicates daily?” Dale prompted.

  “Twice a day, and she must always carry a different inhaler in case she has an attack.”

  “But she doesn’t have asthma attacks often?”

  Fran raised her dark eyes, eyes full of guilt and misery, to his. “Usually only when stressed.”

  “Stressed, right.” Once a young girl realized she’d been abducted, that her life was no longer her own, there would be considerable stress. Would it be enough to bring on an asthma attack? Hell, yes.

  “But the meds control the attacks?” Dale asked, hoping to reassure Francesca. The note revealed Isabella had taken plenty of inhalers.

  “So far, yes.”

  “Then we don’t need to worry about the asthma, right?”

  Fran nodded, obviously unconvinced, staring at the note with eyes he doubted saw a thing.

  “Do you know what she means about the way Paolo looks at her?”

  “No.”

  “So you never noticed anything strange between them?”

  Fran shook her head. “Paolo was always a good father to Bella.”

  Dale nodded, hoping that was true. He knew fathers who adored their adopted children. But a man compelled to marry a woman pregnant with another man’s child might resent the kid. And how the hell did a forced marriage happen in today’s world? Had Fran’s father been that powerful? Another question he needed to explore, but not his priority right now.

  Dale knew his next question would upset Fran, but as a cop and potentially a father, he had to ask. He’d be remiss if he didn’t.

  “Is there any chance your husband could have been sexually assaulting Bella?”

  Fran’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No, of course not. How can you believe I would allow—”

  “Think about it, Fran. Think hard. That could have been the reason she ran away.”

  “No,” she insisted. “How could you suggest such a horrible thing?”

  Dale held up a hand. “Okay, okay.”

  “What you are saying is—” Fran leaped to her feet and began to pace.

  “Calm down, Francesca. I had to ask.”

  “How can I calm down?” She whirled to face him. “I will never be calm again until I find Bella.”

  Dale watched Fran glide around the suite, running a hand over her head to smooth her hair, then tightening the robe around her body. A body whose curves had matured from when he’d had the pleasure of exploring them.

  “Tell me about your work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bella indicates you love your sculpture more than her. I believe you when you say that’s not true, but why would she say that?”

  Fran halted her movement. She met his gaze and then quickly looked away. She moved back to the chair and sat staring straight ahead.

  “When I am working on a new piece, I tend to become—” She shrugged, a quick graceful movement he remembered well, one that brought unwanted memories slamming back. “You might say I become obsessed.”

  “So your daughter feels ignored?”

  “I suppose.” Shoulders slumped, Fran stared down at the note again.

  Dale nodded. Typical preteen be
havior. He knew it well.

  “Is she usually responsible?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Fran replied. “So much so that I refused to believe that she had actually run away. But she is also independent. I always believed that was a good thing.”

  Dale nodded. The old Fran had been the most adventurous girl he’d ever known, more than eager to explore her blooming sexuality.

  He pushed away those particular memories.

  “Had you noticed any changes in her before her disappearance?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Fran admitted, her voice breaking again. “She had recently become withdrawn and more moody than usual. And, yes, I ignored it. I thought it was her age.” She met his gaze then. “Like you said.”

  “But now you think it might have been something else?”

  “She must have received the results of the genetics test, knew Paolo was not her father, but did not want to confront me.” Fran closed her eyes, obviously remembering. “I had just been awarded a lucrative new commission, one I was excited about with a lot of demanding deadlines. I was...quite involved with the planning stages, and she knew better than to bother me during that time.”

  Dale thought he understood the scenario now. Fran’s rebellious teenage daughter, likely fueled by powerful adolescent hormones, upset about learning the truth of her parentage, resentful of her mother’s work, probably furious at this Paolo character for his part in the deceit, decided to go on a solo journey to America to find her biological father.

  And that poor sucker just happens to be me. Lucky me.

  Even if she had his name and tried to find him through social media, most cops—smart cops—kept a low profile online, not wanting to make it easy for a bad guy with a grudge to find them. Which explained why Fran had to hire a PI.

  Damn. What would he have done if the girl had shown up on his doorstep with the genetics test? He wished that had happened. Instead, a white slave trader got his hooks into the gullible, totally clueless kid.

  “Why did I not ask her what was wrong?” Fran whispered. “What is wrong with me? I should have been more observant, more sympathetic.”

  “Teenagers are tough,” he said, understanding Fran needed sympathy now, not judgment. “My sisters had constant mood swings.”

  Fran nodded, looking uncertain.

  “Did the FBI have a theory on why Zarco transported Bella through Miami?” he asked. “Why not take her directly to his final destination?”

  “The Italian Department of State believed it’s because he was in a hurry to get her out of Rome and there were no direct flights to his final destination right away. And Miami is where she thought they were going.”

  “Do we know where he was taking her?”

  “The FBI believes South America, that they would make a connection in Miami.”

  “What was the FBI’s response?”

  “They issued an alert for Joaquin Zarco. He hasn’t boarded a flight and won’t be able to in Miami International or any airport in this country. Same with Bella. There is a hold on their passports.”

  “At least that’s something,” Dale said, thinking hard about his next move.

  “So don’t you see?” Fran leaned forward. “This means Bella has to still be in Miami. This is why I need your help. We must search for her.”

  “Hold on,” Dale said. “That only means they can’t get out on a commercial flight. There are always private flights.”

  “But they must still show a passport, right? To someone?”

  “Come on, Fran. Think about it. This Zarco asshole is a big-time criminal. He’ll find someone to get him out of Miami, either on a boat or a plane. Do you think drug smugglers flash their passports to a customs agent?”

  Fran blinked at him, mouth open.

  “And he likely has a bogus passport or two, a way to change his appearance.”

  She stared at him without speaking as giant tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. Her shoulders began to shake.

  Dale shifted in his seat, certain she was about to break down into sobs. Damn. The old Fran never would have gotten hysterical. He hated it when women cried, never knew what to do, especially when he hadn’t been the cause of the drama and couldn’t make amends.

  “Please don’t cry, Fran. That won’t help.”

  She nodded, sucked in a breath and reached for her coffee mug. She took a sip, grimaced and jumped to her feet, startling him with her quick movement.

  She screamed and flung the mug across the suite. Coffee arced into the air and the ceramic collided with the balcony doors as she began shouting in Italian and waving her arms in the air.

  Dale sat back to watch. Now here was the spirited Francesca Scarpetta that he remembered.

  * * *

  “FEEL BETTER?”

  Francesca whirled on Dale, her head pounding, her throat sore from screaming.

  “No, I don’t feel better you worthless son of a whore,” she shouted, her voice hoarse.

  “Speak English, Fran,” he said in a maddeningly calm voice. “I think you just called me a bad name, but it was wasted.”

  With an outraged cry, she balled her hands into fists and rushed toward him. She wanted to strike him, hit him as hard as she could. She had to hit someone.

  He jumped up and stopped her forward motion by wrapping both arms around her, pinning her hands to her side. She cursed at him in her best street Italian, calling him every name she could think of as she struggled to break free of his hold. But Dale was a mountain of muscle, so much stronger than she remembered. Dio, she was weak. She hadn’t been eating. And he was no longer a boy. He was a man now.

  A man as hard as her stone, all business, as if he did not care. He used to be so sweet, so loving. But that was a long time ago.

  She longed for that sweet, young boy that she had loved so much. She wanted to be the girl Dale called Fran, the innocent teenager she had once been.

  She gradually became aware that he was saying soothing things into her ear, shushing her, begging her to calm down.

  The storm over, breathing hard, she released her balled hands and collapsed her weight against him, allowing him to support her.

  “You’re okay,” he said over and over in a gentle voice. He pressed her cheek against his chest and ran his hand up and down her back.

  His touch felt like a benediction, a salve for her pain.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself this brief moment in his arms. If only things could have been different. If only, if only. How many times over the years had she whispered that phrase as she gazed upon their beautiful daughter? But what could she have done any differently?

  Nothing. She had been as powerless thirteen years ago as she was now. As frustrated. As miserable. As alone.

  An insistent ringing broke into her thoughts.

  Dale released her and stepped away. Frozen in place, she could not move. He cleared his throat and moved to the phone by the sofa. He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”

  She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, grateful she did not have to speak to anyone right now.

  After a pause, he said, “No, everything is fine. There was an accident. Ms. Scarpetta will pay for any damages. Of course. Thank you.”

  After hanging up, he tucked fingers into the loops on his huge gun belt and faced her again. Their gazes locked across the room. He appeared as uncomfortable as she felt.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. I guess you needed to throw something, although this fancy hotel isn’t too happy about all the noise.”

  Her legs felt like melted gelato, as if they had no substance. She collapsed onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands. What has happened to me? She hated women who indulged in useless hysterics, but she felt so helpless.

  She had counted on Dale’s help. She had counte
d on him believing her. Even if he didn’t, an innocent young girl was lost in a cruel world. But Dale did not know Bella, did not know how special she was. Perhaps he needed time to get used to the idea he had a daughter, but Bella did not have time.

  Oh, Dio. Where are you, Bella?

  Well, forget about Dale. She would find a way without him. She would never stop searching until she found Bella. Or at least what had happened to her.

  “When was the last time you ate something?” he asked.

  She lifted her head. “I don’t remember.”

  He glanced to the kitchenette and the plate of hors d’oeuvres neither of them had touched last night. “Did you order dinner after I left?”

  “What do you care?”

  “You need to get something in your stomach, Fran.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “You’ll feel better if you eat.”

  She shrugged. How could she eat? Her insides were coiled into thousands of tiny knots.

  “Listen, I need to get to work. I’m already late for roll call.”

  Unable to look at him, she stared at her robe and bunched the sash in the palm of her hand. “So you really will not help me find Bella?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She raised her gaze to his.

  “But if you want my help, you have to get control of yourself.”

  She blinked at him. “You think I am out of control.”

  “You’re not eating, drinking too much and throwing objects across a thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suite. Any trained law enforcement officer would worry about that behavior.”

  She cursed in Italian.

  When he raised his eyebrows, in English she said, “I am upset, you bastard.”

  “I know, but destructive behavior will not help you find your daughter.”

  “Our daughter,” she insisted. God, but it felt good to say that. For so many years she had wanted to share that knowledge with him.

  “Our daughter.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

  “So you will come back after your work?”

  “I’m going to talk to my lieutenant, see if I can get some time off.”