Her One and Only Hero

by Sharon Hartley

  “You’re welcome. What did I do?”

  “This is the first drawing I’ve been able to make since Bella disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have been paralyzed, likely by my fear. Every time I tried to work, my hand refused to obey my brain.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “You’re afraid of not finding Bella.”

  “That must be it. But just now when I came out of the bathroom and saw you sitting there so absorbed in what you were doing, something changed.”

  “What changed?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, meeting his eyes—oh, mio Dio—Bella’s eyes. “Perhaps I wanted to capture you badly enough.”

  She could hardly breathe as a silence charged with something, some unspoken emotion she could not identify lingered for several long moments. What was he thinking?

  “I thought it would help to be able to work again,” she said, breaking the quiet. “But the awfulness of Bella’s disappearance has not gone away. Until I know what happened to her, it will always be with me. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I understand.”

  “I am sorry.” She wiped away a tear and indicated the computer. “Did you find anything new online?”

  Dale released a breath and nodded, as if he’d come to a decision. He set his jaw and opened the computer, causing that strange undulating light to move across his face again. Was a video playing?

  “Yes.”

  His grim tone caused her gaze to dart to the screen. What was it? The angle of the laptop didn’t allow her to see the image. Mio Dio. Did she even want to see?

  “What did you find?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “A video of Bella.”

  * * *

  “AT LEAST I think it’s Bella,” Dale said.

  He looked away from the site he’d discovered and studied Fran. She hadn’t moved. With her sketch pad still in her lap, she stared at the computer, although no way could she see the screen. From her wary expression, she didn’t want to look at what he’d found.

  He’d considered not telling her about his discovery, but had decided he owed her complete honesty no matter how much it hurt. There’d been too many secrets between them already.

  “I need you to confirm my identification.”

  “A video?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So she is alive?”

  “If this recording is of Bella, she was alive when it was shot. That’s all anyone can say. No way to know when it was made.”

  Fran placed a hand on her throat.

  “Do you want to see it?” Dale asked.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It’s connected to a website aimed at pedophiles.”

  She frowned. “Why were you looking at a site for pedophiles?”

  “Because I’ve been searching for a business in this area that uses sex slaves. Before we left Miami, I reached out to a human trafficking expert the department uses. She gave me a list.”

  She inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself. “Show me.”

  Dale swiveled the laptop so Fran could also see the screen and clicked on the play button with the mouse.

  A lovely, dark-haired girl, possibly the same age as Bella—she sure looked like the photograph Fran had shown him—gazed at the camera with vague, unfocused green eyes. The girl did not smile. She blinked, and turned away as if the light bothered her. Some sicko could interpret her action as coyness.

  “Do you like what you see? Do you want to see more?” A throaty, mature female voice gave instructions on how to use an 800 number and a credit card to view more of the young girl. A lot more. The video ended without showing anything but her face and neck.

  Fran jumped to her feet, fisted her hands and began to pace. “Mio Dio.”

  “Is that Bella?” Dale asked.

  “Yes,” she shouted.

  He nodded. “I thought so. You’re certain?”

  “Yes.” Fran placed a finger on the side of her neck. “She has a mole right here.”

  “Okay.” Dale had noticed that distinctive mark in a photo Fran had shown him earlier. He nodded and sent the emails he’d prepared pending Fran’s positive identification.

  “But something is wrong with her,” Fran said.

  “It appears as if she’s been drugged.”

  “I cannot believe this.” Fran stomped toward the door as if she wanted to leave. She whirled and said, “How can we find out where she is?”

  “I just emailed the information to the FBI and my department’s digital forensics lab, but—”

  “When will we know?”

  “There’s no way to know when—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I do not want to wait.”

  “Neither do I. Please don’t get your hopes up, Fran. We don’t know how long this website has been active. The research will take time.”

  She blinked. “Bella does not have time.”

  He’d said the same thing to Javi. “I know that.”

  Spreading her arms wide, she said, “Is there nothing we can do tonight?”

  “Do you know how to hack into a website?”

  “I am an artist.” She blew out a breath and lowered her arms. “I know nothing about computers.”

  Dale ran a hand through his hair. He understood Fran’s exasperation. Hell, frustration ate at him, too, but he didn’t have a clue how to hack his way into a computer to get information.

  “There is no way for us to know where that website is streaming from,” he said. “For all we know, it could be in California.”

  “No. Bella is in Florida.”

  “She was, yes. We don’t know where she is now.” He hated to dash her hopes, but it had to be done. Fran thought this was good news, proof that Bella was alive, but he knew better.

  Speaking in rapid Italian, she paced the room. Dale let her vent, catching a few choice Italian curses. Finally, out of energy, she collapsed onto the bed close to him and stared at the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Fran,” he said.

  She nodded, her shoulders slumped. “It is not your fault.”

  He wished he could do more, but didn’t have the expertise. For him, computers were a tool to gain information, nothing more. He’d never had any interest in the technology side of law enforcement, although that was an important, growing segment.

  Dale unclipped his phone from his belt. “I’m going to call the 800 number.”

  Startled, she met his gaze, eyes wide. “You are?”

  “I want to see what happens.”

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. “You could ask where they are located,” she said, her voice eager.

  “I intend to.” Dale stared at the spot where they were connected, liking it more than he should when Fran willingly touched him. It didn’t happen often.

  When she dropped her arm, he entered the number, put the phone on speaker and placed it on the table next to the laptop. “They won’t tell me, but why not ask.”

  She sat back as the sound of a ringing phone filled the room. They both stared at the small device on the table waiting for someone to answer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I’M SORRY. THE number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check your number and try again.”

  “Yeah, try again,” Dale muttered and disconnected, shutting down the machine-generated voice.

  “No,” Fran whispered. “No.”

  Dale ran a hand through his hair.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dale said.

  “Who made this awful video? Atwood?”

  “Maybe. We found a room set up like a photography studio in the warehou
se, so he or Morales might have a side business for internet pedophile customers. Once they got on the FBI’s radar, they’d shut down.”

  Fran stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

  “Or if Atwood notified whoever he sold Bella to that the FBI is on her trail, they might be feeling the heat.”

  And that wasn’t good news for Bella. Whoever now had her might decide she was too hot to handle and get rid of her. This time permanently. She was a vulnerable, beautiful young girl, prime property for the bad guys who had control of her, but she had the FBI’s attention—attention that had descended on them because of her parents. Did that now make Bella more trouble than she was worth?

  Fran pointed to the laptop. “But the website is still active.”

  “The raid occurred only yesterday. Maybe the bad guys haven’t gotten around to everything yet. I’ve taken a screenshot and sent it to the Bureau’s forensics team.”

  “There’s nothing we can do tonight?”

  He shook his head. God, he hated to disappoint Fran. He wanted to be her hero, put a smile back on her face, solve all her problems, but how could that happen tonight? They were in an urban area populated with well over a million good citizens and he had no clue where to look for one lost little girl.

  Except the location in Ybor City.

  Dale glanced at the notepad where he had jotted the address given to him by Javi. It was a huge long shot that Bella or anyone would be there. For sure he wasn’t dumb enough to breach the location on his own, so the trip would likely gain them nothing. Even if it had once been an active crime scene, Atwood’s associates would have cleared out by now. And he wasn’t crazy about Fran going with him to check it out, but she would never agree to remain behind.

  They needed to do something. He’d go stir-crazy if they remained in this motel room all night.

  And what if Atwood hadn’t told the scum who now had Bella about the FBI heat?

  His research had revealed Ybor City was old—an historic district actually, and had partially gentrified. Sections remained dicey, but some now featured trendy shops and bars. Plus, a famous Cuban restaurant advertised they’d been serving black bean soup in Ybor City for a hundred and twelve years.

  Hell, they needed to eat somewhere, even if Fran would claim to have no appetite.

  “Do you want to take a drive to Ybor City?” he asked.

  * * *

  FRAN GRABBED HER sketch pad and stuffed it in her purse on the way out of the motel room. She might see something interesting to draw, and she wanted to test herself, see if she could draw anything besides Dale.

  As soon as Dale got behind the wheel, he entered an address in the GPS.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Ever hear of the Havanabia Restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s famous.” He shot her an amused look. “Not as famous as you, but it’s been around for over a century serving Cuban food.”

  “In Tampa? I thought Miami was where the Cubans went into exile.”

  “Tampa’s Cuban culture dates back much longer than Miami’s. Long before the revolution, Cubans came here from Key West with their tobacco and made cigars. There are still active factories where they hand roll cigars.”

  “Is it far?” she asked.

  “East of here, about ten miles.”

  He backed the vehicle out of the parking space. “And you might be interested to know that Ybor City is where cigar box art became so popular.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “The Chamber of Commerce is proud of that fact.”

  The GPS operator began giving instructions. Dale drove along surface streets for about ten minutes, following the directions into a commercial area full of two-story red brick buildings with balconies enclosed by black wrought iron. She saw illuminated signage for the campus of a local community college, bars, gift shops, restaurants. Not too many people swarmed the streets, but it was still early.

  “This is nice,” she told Dale, who had been silent. “Not what I expected.”

  He nodded and per the GPS operator’s directions left the commercial section, driving slowly into a well-kept residential area. Most of the homes were small and in the Craftsman style, architecture Fran appreciated for its symmetry. She spotted colorful plastic toys and big wheeled trikes inside fenced front yards.

  But the more turns he made, the worse the neighborhood got. Now debris littered the yards. No signs of children or families. Most buildings looked as if they would collapse in a strong wind.

  She checked to make sure the doors on the vehicle were locked. It was full-on dark and she had seen many news stories about the violence in America’s inner cities. She felt safe with Dale, but would never knowingly venture into this section of town on her own.

  “Are you sure you have the right address?” she asked.

  “I double-checked it,” Dale said.

  “Something is not right,” Fran murmured.

  “Turn right on East Third Street,” the female GPS voice instructed.

  Driving slowly, Dale complied.

  Fran read a sign that said Dead End.

  Dale stopped in front of a two-story white frame house, the last house on the left. The structure had been built at least thirty feet back from the road. No driveway. No vehicles parked in the yard. No lights illuminated the structure inside or outside. All of the windows on the second floor had been boarded over. On the first floor, loose screening fluttered around what had once been a porch. Mature oak trees stood on either side of the house, their branches swaying in the stiff breeze.

  The house looked like a macabre scene from a Halloween story or a scary movie. All it needed was a full moon, but there was no moon tonight to provide any light.

  “What is this place?” Fran asked, staring at the structure. “This isn’t a restaurant.”

  “No, we made a little detour,” Dale agreed. “I got this address from Javi. Atwood texted it to a burner phone three times in the last week.”

  She sucked in a breath and shot Dale a look. He stared at the structure as if he could see through the walls. “You think Bella might be here?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “We didn’t have anything better to do, and I wanted to check out the location.”

  She looked at the house again, her heartbeat accelerating with the thought that her daughter might be close by. Could Bella really be here?

  “The house looks abandoned to me,” she said. “Is there even electricity?”

  “Good point,” Dale said. “The Bureau can check with the power company tomorrow.”

  “There is no way to know if someone is inside,” Fran said. “The windows are all covered.”

  “Stay here,” Dale ordered. He removed the keys from the ignition, opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered.

  He tossed her the keys. “To do a little reconnaissance.”

  Suddenly afraid, she didn’t want him to leave her alone in the car. Her fingers closed around the sharp edges of the keys.

  “I won’t be long,” he said. “Stay right here.”

  “No. Dale, wait.”

  “Lock the vehicle behind me.”

  Before she could tell him to be careful, he shut the door quietly. Fran immediately clicked the locks and kept her gaze glued to his back as he moved toward the house. He placed a foot on the step to the porch and leaned forward as if testing to see if the wood could support his weight. Satisfied, he used an arm to move the flapping screening aside and climbed onto the porch, hurried to the front door and knocked.

  She held her breath. Mio Dio. What are you doing?

  But no one answered. She exhaled when he turned away.

  He stepped off the porch and moved to the right side of the structure. Her heart
hammered inside her chest when he crouched over and worked at his ankle. When he rose, he held a gun in his right hand.

  And then he disappeared from her sight behind the house.

  Oh, Dale, where are you going?

  Terrified that he would be hurt, she wanted to go after him, but didn’t leave the vehicle. He’d told her to remain here, but what if he needed her help?

  What would she do if something happened to Dale? No, nothing would happen to Dale. He was indestructible. He’d survived a war in Iraq.

  A war he had gone to fight to get over losing her. She had made so many mistakes in her life. Was she making another one now sitting here doing nothing?

  She inhaled deeply, forced herself to think more logically. Now was not the time for panic. She was safe. Dale might need her. Bella definitely needed her. What if she were locked inside that house? Although that seemed unlikely.

  She glanced at the vehicle’s clock. How long had he been gone?

  Relief made her collapse against the seat when Dale reappeared on the opposite side of the house. He’d been gone less than five minutes. When he got near the SUV he bent over and replaced the gun in his ankle holster.

  She unlocked the doors, and he climbed inside.

  When he didn’t say anything, she demanded, “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. The back yard is a dump, full of debris. It appears as if the house has been cleared out.”

  “No signs of anyone inside?”

  “No, but we’ll come back tomorrow with the FBI and a warrant. We might find a lead to follow up on.”

  She closed her eyes. Another false alarm. She was so sick of false alarms and dead ends, leads that led nowhere. Where was Bella?

  “You okay?” he asked. She could feel his eyes on her.

  “Yes.”

  He pounded a fist on the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have brought you. I’m sorry.”

  “I am fine, Dale.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  She shrugged. “I am used to it by now, and you were right to check it out.”

  When he didn’t reply, she said, “If she is sick, tomorrow might be too late.”