Broken Lullaby

by Tracy, Pamela

  Alma choked up. “Then, my stepfather said, ‘Pagado en su totalidad.’”

  Behind Mary, Rico whispered the English translation.

  “Paid in full.”

  NINE

  They’d gotten just a bit more from Alma before the doctor and Rico kicked them out, sending Mitch back to his cabin. Alma had told them how as soon as the truck stopped for gas, she left her mother and brother and made her way back toward Yuma, hoping to find her son. Rico developed a bad case of “personal interest” near the end of the interview and now seemed to regard Alma as his property. It was probably the vision of Alma standing beside a hot arid highway, clutching the baby blanket they’d found at the used car lot and crying for her baby.

  Mitch had gotten too close to subjects once or twice, back when he was working missing persons. Sometimes it helped the case; sometimes it made the situation uncomfortable. Funny, he almost envied Rico the ability to still care so much.

  Ruth was working on getting descriptions of Tomás out. José’s picture and story would piggyback on this new abduction and renew interest, especially now that they had a scenario and names. Good. There’d probably be a hundred calls tomorrow.

  Mitch had never been involved in a case that had this many missing persons.

  Yet, as he spread the file across the kitchen table and booted up his laptop, he couldn’t help but question the way this case reopened in his lap. At a time when his hands were tied.

  Tied!

  He planned on making a phone call tonight, but before talking to Darryl Farr, he wanted to rehash every detail of the case. His laptop hummed to life and Mitch typed in his password and waited while the file on John Doe #104 opened. On February 23, just six months ago, border patrol officer Darryl Farr assisted an accomplice in an illegal border crossing. It was a small party of men. Surprisingly small, really, since numbers meant money. All in all, only six men were among the illegals, unless you counted the coyotes. By Internal Affairs estimate, there were three. Two were apprehended. To Mitch’s knowledge, they were still in an American jail awaiting deportation.

  Mitch wrote down their names and studied their photos.

  Two of the illegal immigrants escaped.

  The authorities never got any names from the illegal who was apprehended, questioned and escorted back to Mexico. Mitch truly believed that for the most part names had not been exchanged.

  The last two illegal immigrants, one a young man identified as Valentin Muerto, the other a young man who Mitch now suspected was Leandro Fuentes, were shot and killed by the coyote who got away.

  A drawing appeared on Mitch’s laptop’s screen, and he typed in Roberto Herrara under KEYWORD and waited for the hits that were sure to come.

  By far the most important information Alma had shared had been the name and description of her stepfather. Mitch wanted to ask more, but Alma had had enough. Once they realized how Alma lost her son, Ruth, Rico and Mary had formed a protective shield around Alma. Mitch felt somewhat outnumbered, not a feeling he was used to during an investigation, even if he wasn’t really a part of this one.

  They’d all left before Mitch’d had the opportunity to show Alma the pictures found in the young man’s pockets or show her the photo taken of the young man. He wasn’t sure that bringing the photo out was the right thing to do anyhow. Showing a picture of a deceased spouse to a hospitalized, distraught woman who’d also lost her baby maybe wasn’t the smartest move.

  He’d learn compassion if it killed him—if working without a badge didn’t kill him first.

  At one time, early in his career, Mitch believed the end justified the means. That belief worked in his favor. He found plenty of missing people and moved up the ranks in record time. For a while, that was enough.

  It was Eric, who during a time of confusion and chaos had found God, who started to show Mitch what faith in something other than himself looked like. And how the means did matter—a lot.

  Maybe too much emphasis on the end result was why Mitch not only lived alone but felt alone while everyone else seemed to be growing in faith and family.

  Mitch shook off his melancholy thoughts. Truth was, he probably should have shown the pictures to Alma. Too much was on the line for sympathy.

  In the midst of his pondering came a knock at Mitch’s front door.

  Startled, he did it again—automatically went for his gun first, fat lot of good it did, and peeked through the window second. Mary Graham stood on the porch clutching a grocery bag. Surely she hadn’t brought him groceries. More likely she was on a fishing expedition. She wanted to know more about Alma.

  He hurried back to the table, closed the files and closed the laptop. Roberto Herrara had plenty of hits and a quick glance told Mitch the man also had plenty of aliases. He strode to the door, opened it and was hit by the aroma of tomato and garlic. He frowned.

  “Don’t frown at me,” Mary said, smiling. “I made a whole pot of spaghetti plus homemade sauce, and my son went and fell asleep on me. I made enough noodles to feed an army, or at least one growing boy. So I figured I’d feed you instead and—”

  “—and nonchalantly ask me questions.”

  “Well,” Mary said, “yes.” The smile slipped a bit, then returned even stronger.

  He stepped aside and she stepped in.

  She wasn’t shy, and didn’t stay in the living room long. She headed for the kitchen, as confident as if she were in her own cabin.

  Mitch tried to decide what to do—kick her out, follow her to the kitchen, sit down or maybe the best choice would be to run to his car and escape as fast as he could.

  “You only own one plate?” she called.

  “No, the last owner left one plate and I just haven’t moved much of my stuff here yet. Plus, until you showed up, I hadn’t needed more than one plate.”

  That information didn’t slow Mary down one bit. She muttered something about being thankful there were two forks and five minutes later, she’d pushed the files and his laptop aside and set the table.

  His opinion of her didn’t change. She’d bothered him when they’d first met and she bothered him now.

  He didn’t want to be bothered.

  But he’d wait a few minutes before he sent her packing. He could handle that. Besides, what kind of man would pass up the opportunity to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman? One who not only chased away the loneliness but who also smelled good—or maybe that was the spaghetti sauce. She set the heavily laden plate of pasta on the table between them and picked up her fork. “Bon appetit,” she said and took a bite. It took just two bites for Mitch to realize that whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was probably right. As long as she couldn’t get into his head, too. “Great sauce,” he said.

  “My own recipe.”

  There was something intimate about sharing the only plate. It left Mitch disconcerted and fumbling for something to say. “You make the garlic bread, too?”

  “Absolutely.” She looked at him and he almost got lost in the look, could get lost in that look forever. But that was ridiculous. He didn’t believe in forever and he’d couldn’t be falling for a Santellis. She stood for everything he was against. Still, anyone who could cook this well couldn’t be all bad. Finally, he pushed the plate away and firmly said, “You realize I’m not assigned to Alma’s case.”

  “I do, but we both know you’re as involved as I am and that the files on the table and the laptop are all about the missing children and Alma.”

  “I can’t help you. Your brother is probably privy to more than I am on this case. Plus, he’s not on leave.”

  “He’s also not a cop. He wasn’t in the hospital room when Alma told her story. He wouldn’t react like you did.”

  “React?” Mitch startled. “Of course I reacted. It was riveting testimony.”

  “I’m not talking about when she told what happened. I’m talking about when she described her stepfather.”

  He wanted to deny it, wanted to
tell her she was wrong, but that she even noticed a reaction when he was trained not to show any, well, it frankly impressed him.

  “I can only tell you what is public record,” he finally said. Nothing wrong with that. She had a right to know. She’d been a trooper there in the hospital room with him. She’d gotten through to Alma in a way Mitch couldn’t.

  “First,” Mary said, “I want to know what’s going to happen to Alma. Is she going to be arrested?”

  “If she were to be arrested, it would be for illegally crossing the border. That is probably her only crime. Then, they’d escort her back across the border. It’s in her favor that she’s been so forthright with information. She’s given the police their first real break into the missing children.” Mitch tugged a piece of paper free from the top file. “I’m thinking Ruth’s going to push for a temporary visa. Of course, Ruth will also have to find Alma a place to stay and a job should too much time pass. Still, that’s the easy part. The powers that be want—need—her nearby. There are a few details Ruth didn’t share when it comes to the number of missing children. She did mention the three taken from her jurisdiction; she didn’t mention Arizona as a whole. If we count Yuma, Tucson and Bisbee the number of babies abducted goes up by at least seven if I counted right.”

  “Ten altogether?” Mary whispered.

  “Ten we know of.” He leaned closer, trying not to notice the sauce on her chin or the butter on her fingers. Suddenly, he realized he’d never felt so inclined to give a kiss to someone he intended to interrogate. The ruckus of coyotes sounded again, and in the distance came the sound of a motor revving to life. “Don’t worry,” he told Mary. “It’s just an all-terrain vehicle. The guys at the gold camp use them.”

  He shook his head and quickly took a bite of spaghetti, then turned the laptop so it faced her before jiggling the screen so it lit up. “Approximately three thousand illegals cross the border each month. Many are assisted by coyotes. The cost varies. Think, Mary, think of a family’s desperation to find a better life. What would they be willing to pay? I’m thinking that some babies are taken and some babies are given.”

  “Oh, no.” Mary didn’t seem capable of speaking above a whisper. She turned to look at him, her brown eyes liquid. “That baby blanket, it is Alma’s. Right now it’s all she has left of Tomás.”

  “And it’s tagged and bagged as evidence, but I’ll make sure she gets it back. Your Alma is one brave young lady. She has more courage than both of us. That stepfather of hers…”

  “Roberto,” Mary remembered. “The description that bothered you.”

  “Roberto,” Mitch agreed. “Roberto Herrara is just one of his names and I don’t think he needed to give Tomás over as payment for crossing. The crossing would have been free because Herrara himself is a coyote among other things.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because before Alma even gave a name, she gave a great description: tall but walks with a stoop, full head of hair with a ponytail, the deep voice.”

  “You said other things?” Mary reminded.

  Mitch nodded. “I think he’s involved in a baby broker scheme.”

  As he said the words to Mary and looked again at the man’s many aliases, his crimes, he realized just how sure he was that Roberto Herrara was not just a coyote, he was a monster.

  “When Alma got pregnant, he must have started planning,” Mitch said, “I’m thinking the first step in his plan was eliminating Leandro.”

  TEN

  Shock caused Mary’s mouth to open and stay open. It took a real effort to close it. Finally she choked out, “You think he married Alma’s mother to further this baby broker scheme?”

  “No. Alma said they’d been married three years and he’d wooed her mother for at least a year before that. I think he married Alma’s mother for her money. When that ran out, he found another scheme.”

  “What did he do before he married Alma’s mother?”

  “We arrested him five times between 2000 and 2003. He’s a known coyote under the name Pascal Remariz. He’s gone down for armed robbery, trespassing, trafficking stolen goods and even poaching. He also had a bad habit of stealing cars and using them to help transport illegal immigrants.”

  “He couldn’t have hidden all that from Alma’s mother.”

  To Mary’s surprise, Mitch stuck up for the woman. “Don’t be too judgmental. Remember, Alma’s mother must have just lost her husband. They say that people who are happily married are likely to remarry quickly hoping to recreate what they lost.”

  “She certainly blew it.” Mary heard the words come from her own mouth and heard them taper off.

  She hadn’t married Eddie trying to recreate what she’d previously known. She’d married him to get away from that world. She’d blown it, too. Mary shook her head. “You’re right. It makes perfect sense.”

  “I didn’t say it made sense,” Mitch said kindly. “I just said not to be judgmental.”

  Mary, suddenly and for no good reason, felt defensive.

  “You’re judgmental,” she accused.

  “You’re right. I am. And that trait does not make me a happy person to be around, usually.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s nearly ten. And as much as I’ve enjoyed this little encounter, I have an early morning appointment.”

  Encounter? Interesting word. Still, she nodded, almost glad he was kicking her out. She’d come wanting information about Alma and had also learned more about Mitch.

  Namely that for all his gruff exterior, inside he was a deeply caring person.

  Maybe more so than she.

  She gathered her pots and started putting them back into the grocery bag.

  “You want to wash them before you go?”

  “No. I can do it at home.”

  “Why don’t you leave them here? I’ll wash them and return them tomorrow.”

  Tempting. Not only would that mean she didn’t have to carry them as she walked back to the cabin, but it also meant she’d have an excuse to see Mitch again. That she wanted to see Mitch again thrilled and scared her.

  “Sounds good.”

  He took the grocery bag from her arms and set it back on the table. Then he opened the door and peered out. Coyotes—the animal kind—howled in the distance.

  “They must be onto something,” Mary noted.

  “They’re not too close. I wouldn’t worry.” He followed her to the porch and down the steps.

  “I can make it home. It’s just a five-minute walk. The moon’s bright.”

  In the glow of his porch light, Mitch squinted at the moon. Mary noticed how he needed a shave and how good he looked with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  His words were simple; the tone was not. Once they walked clear of the porch light and all that guided their way were the winking stars and stoic moon, Mitch took her hand. He did it without warning and without asking permission. He caught her eye, and it seemed to surprise them both.

  But it felt good.

  With him, there was no danger of stumbling, losing her way or feeling alone.

  When they got to her porch, Mitch Williams, tough-guy cop, touched her cheek gently and walked off into the night.

  She let him go without saying a word, thinking it was too bad he was a tough-guy cop and not a barber.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  Mary opened one eye and tried to figure out why it was daylight and why she was in bed. “What time is it?” she finally muttered.

  Justin, ignoring the privacy-is-essential rule, stood in the bedroom door. “Are you sick? Should I call somebody?”

  That’s when Mary finally glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock. Ten o’clock! No wonder Justin was coming unglued. Seven o’clock was sleeping in for her, and if Justin wasn’t out of bed at eight, she vacuumed the floor or found some other way to purposely wake him.

  “Mom?” Justin stood in the doorway, looking lost. Just yesterday she’d thought him so gro
wn up, now he was back to being her little boy. “Mom, today we’re supposed to enroll me in school. Remember?”

  “Yes. Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll be out.” Her jeans from last night were on the floor. Her shirt was tossed on a chair. Her shoes had a fine coating of dust.

  What time had she tumbled into bed last night? No, an even better question was when had she finally managed to drift off to sleep? After getting into bed, she’d tossed and turned, too aware of the man next door.

  “Mom!”

  It was enough to get her out of bed and grabbing her robe. She’d shower, get something to eat, then keep her promise to Justin. They’d enroll him in school and then head to Wickenburg to buy him his hiking supplies.

  Hmm, should she hold off? Find out more about this gold panner? Or, would it be better to buy double the supplies. Panning for gold just might be fun.

  No wonder Justin was champing at the bit. There were only two more weeks until school started. He didn’t want to waste a single minute of exploration time. Yep, she’d buy some of her own supplies. She could use the exercise. Surely it wasn’t just holding Mitch Williams’s hand last night that had her breathless.

  Thirty minutes later, she finished her bowl of cereal, Justin polished off his third and they—mostly Mary—cleaned up the morning dishes.

  “Mom, were you wandering the house last night?” Justin asked.

  “Wandering the house?” Mary hoped her face didn’t betray her. She really didn’t want to tell her son about the visit to Mitch’s. “No. Why?”

  “Something woke me up about ten. It sounded like someone was walking around.”

  “Probably an animal,” Mary guessed. More like hoped. She’d been at Mitch’s at ten, just about to come home.

  “You sure the sounds came from in the house?”

  “Pretty sure. I thought maybe you’d gotten up to get something to drink.”

  Mary looked around the kitchen as she put the cereal back into the cupboard. In the morning sunlight, everything looked in place. She headed for the living room, the bathroom—a waste of time since she’d already showered there—and finally upstairs.