Mary checked her watch. A half hour to go.
“Mary,” Mitch called, “do you have a laptop?”
She let go of the dust rag she’d been clutching much too tightly and walked to the stairs. “Justin, bring down your laptop!”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Ruth scribbled frantically in her notebooks. “I really think you’re onto something. I’ll contact Maricopa PD, where Darryl Farr is from and see what they know about his family.”
“No children, but two ex-wives,” Mitch supplied without missing a beat.
Maybe they hadn’t noticed how clean the cabin was, how nervous Mary was and how once the caseworker arrived, the world could cave in.
Justin appeared in the doorway. “Why do you want my laptop?”
“I don’t. Mitch does.”
They all gathered around the kitchen table and Mitch turned on the machine and punched in some codes. A nice-looking man, as average-looking as the guy next door, appeared on the screen. “You ever see him before?” he asked Alma.
“No, who is he?”
“Darryl Farr. I’m thinking he knew your stepfather.”
Alma leaned closer for a better look. “Roberto did not bring gringos to our ranch while I lived there. Then, when we lost the ranch, he did not bring friends to the little house we rented. No gringos crossed the border with us.”
“Farr was in jail while you were crossing the border,” Mitch said.
It was impressive how the law worked. Until she’d started looking for Alma, she’d never really had any respect for the law. Now, working on the same side, she marveled at the intricate details an honest cop had at his disposal.
Mitch took Alma through all the likenesses of the men involved in her husband’s shooting. Alma shook her head as each likeness appeared on the screen. Mary watched Mitch. He didn’t blink. She wasn’t surprised when he ended the lineup and shut down the computer.
Ruth opened her folder. “Alma and I made a calendar. It goes back a year. She and I figured out that Roberto was in the States when the little girl went missing in Williams, Arizona.”
Somehow Mary had missed hearing about the little girl.
“We’re heading to Williams tomorrow to start showing Herrara’s picture,” Ruth said. “You want me to show any of yours?”
“Who’s going with you?” Mitch asked.
“Rico and Alma.”
Mary watched Mitch’s face. He wasn’t comfortable with Alma’s inclusion. Then, he surprised Mary by saying, “Good idea. Someone in the Hispanic community who speaks the language and has the accent might open up to a civilian, especially a civilian who’s also lost a baby.”
“I agree,” Ruth said.
“You got a printer?” Mitch asked Justin.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go make some copies.”
Justin led the way up the stairs to the only room in Mary’s cabin that might make the caseworker blink twice. He still lived out of the boxes marked Justin’s Room.
“What time is the caseworker due?” Ruth asked.
“Ten minutes. Does the house look all right?”
“The house looks fine,” Ruth said firmly. “Stop worrying. I’ve never seen Eric so sure of himself.”
Mary opened her mouth. Words of worry were ready to pour out, like, “If Eric is so sure of himself, why isn’t he here?” Before she could say a word, Ruth offered, “Do you want to pray?”
Just then, Justin stomped down the stairs. Mitch followed, holding two photos which he passed to Ruth. She looked at them and then asked, “Who are they?”
“One is Darryl Farr’s best buddy, also a border patrol officer. The other has been picked up with Herrara more than once. I call him an acquaintance more than an accomplice.”
“Is there something you still haven’t told us?” Ruth asked.
Mitch looked at Justin. “This might not be a story you want him to hear.”
“Mom! I’m not a baby.”
“No, you’re not, but you’re not grown up, either. Now get.”
He stomped up the stairs.
“Cleanest crime scene I’ve ever seen,” Mitch commented. “Farr didn’t die immediately. When the guard found him, blood was still pumping from his chest. The guard didn’t even check for a pulse. He radioed for help. They got Farr out to the yard and started basic life support. They got him to the infirmary. It took them about two minutes but they brought him back. Then, he died again and they couldn’t resuscitate.”
“They have any idea who did it?” Ruth asked.
Mitch nodded. “What the cameras show are two inmates walking. How they managed to snag the card to Farr’s cell we don’t know, but it certainly helped to cement my involvement. The hit maybe took a minute. One inmate blocked the cell door, the other stabbed Farr. Then they nonchalantly walked away.”
“So you have the murder on tape,” Mary said.
“No, what we have is an inmate blocking the cell while his friend goes inside. Then, we have a body. What we have to prove is that Farr was alive when Patrick Wagner entered his cell.”
“Patrick Wagner?” Mary whispered.
Ruth looked surprised. “You know him?”
“Not personally,” Mary said slowly.
“Well?” Ruth urged. “Did he work for your father?”
“Not that I know of,” Mary finally managed, but then she didn’t know all the men who’d worked for her father.
“Your brothers, or maybe Eddie?” Ruth asked.
Could be that Patrick Wagner had worked for her oldest brother Tony, dead now almost two years. But Mary doubted Wagner had ever worked for Eddie. She looked at Mitch and his look sent a chill down her spine. He had waited to share this information because he wanted to see her reaction, wanted to know if the name triggered more than a memory about Eddie’s last day in prison. “You’re absolutely sure it was the same Patrick Wagner. It’s not that unusual a name.”
“Same Patrick Wagner,” Mitch assured.
“Patrick Wagner never worked for Eddie,” Mary said, looking at Ruth and saying the words slowly. “Patrick Wagner is the man accused of killing him.”
THIRTEEN
Mary had started to trust him, trust the cop who lived next door. Yet, time and time again, just when she thought he was human…he turned back into the cop. Like now. The man who’d held her hand wouldn’t, shouldn’t, use information to trip her up. He shouldn’t care about her reaction. He should care about her!
She was saved from acting foolishly and saying just what she thought, by the sound of a car pulling into the drive. The caseworker had arrived.
Her son came out of his room and shouted, “Mom!”
Lately Justin’s voice only had two volume levels: loud and louder.
“Mom!”
“What?”
“Is it the caseworker?”
It was only a two-step jaunt from the kitchen to the living room. Mary could see both the top of the stairs where her son suddenly looked a lot younger than eleven and more scared than she expected, and to the window, where Tiffany the caseworker, was unloading a briefcase from her car before heading up the walkway.
Justin pounded down the stairs. “Mom!”
“What?”
“Don’t worry.” Just like that, he changed his tune. “She looks nice.”
“It will be all right,” Mitch said, stepping up beside her.
“I got up early,” Mary murmured, more to herself than to Mitch. “I wanted to talk to Justin about this morning, prep him on just what might happen.”
Mary wished there was someone to prep her. What could she say to the caseworker who’d arrived to find a cop and an Internal Affairs agent, plus a kitchen table covered with wanted posters instead of milk and cookies?
The caseworker looked closer to Alma’s age than Mary’s.
Great, just great. Mary liked stereotypes. If the cops wore white hats, she knew to run. If the bad buys wore black hats, she
knew to run. If the caseworkers had a limp, brown hair up in a bun, carried a clipboard and frowned a lot, Mary could relax.
No one in Mary’s life had been fitting the right stereotype. Not Mitch, who was becoming too involved, too fast. Not Alma, who acted way too put together for a teenager who was also a widow and missing a baby, and lately not Justin, who was listening to his music less and less and talking to her more and more.
“Great,” Mary muttered, as she stepped toward the door and opened it. “Someone who was in diapers at the same time as Britney Spears is going to be in charge of my fate.”
Mitch stepped up next to her, taking up valuable space in the doorway—her space. “It’s not that bad.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mary argued. She didn’t move away. The touch of his shoulder against hers provided camaraderie and support.
She shook her head, nudged Mitch out of the way and stepped outside to meet the caseworker.
Mary stood, trying to get her bearings, trying to place one foot in front of the other and greet her destiny.
It was Alma, then, who came up beside her.
“Would you like to pray?” she said softly. Mary looked again at the caseworker. She’d almost agreed to pray earlier. “Maybe,” she answered.
Ruth joined them. “There you go, Alma. You have a maybe from Mary and a yes from me. Let’s pray.”
“You say it,” Alma urged.
Ruth took Mary’s left hand, and Alma took her right. “Dear God, we ask that you bring peace to Mary’s heart right now and that you help this caseworker see the truth and keep Justin and Mary together. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.” The prayer took all of a minute and Mary neither closed her eyes nor bowed her head, but somehow the prayer comforted her.
In the corner of the room, Mitch watched her. She felt his eyes and, as Ruth said, “Amen,” Mary added an unspoken request.
A moment later, she looked at the caseworker who—of all things—was smiling. Mary felt a tiny prickle of peace.
Maybe it was the prayer.
Maybe it was that she didn’t feel alone.
Maybe it was the partial answer to the prayer who’d joined them on the porch, the good-looking cop who was already showing his badge, who was beginning to steal her heart and who was now telling the caseworker to come on in.
Two weeks earlier, if someone had asked Mitch Williams if Mary Graham was a fit parent, he’d have stated an emphatic, no.
Her maiden name was Santellis and she had known what her husband, Eddie Graham, did when he wasn’t selling used cars. Safe to say, Eddie’s career had nothing to do with blue books or mileage.
Today, he wanted to tell the caseworker he’d never met a more fit parent. It was a reaction so totally opposite of what he thought he stood for, what he thought he believed in, that he wondered if maybe he should be giving that mental health specialist a call right now.
What he thought he believed in were cold, hard facts.
Cold, hard facts certainly took precedence over the sight of three women, two with bowed heads and one with wide-open frightened eyes, who prayed over a meeting with a caseworker.
Yet, when Mary finally looked up and faced the caseworker, he knew there was no way he’d let her go it alone.
“I’m Tiffany Mayhew,” the caseworker said, holding out a hand.
“Sorry about the chaos,” Mary said. “It’s been an unusual morning.”
Ruth showed her badge and identification and explained about Alma. “I’m one of the agents overseeing Alma Fuentes’ stay with the Grahams. Since your agency is also overseeing Mrs. Graham’s case, I’d appreciate working closely with you.”
Mitch leaned forward. “And I live right next door. I’m pretty involved, too.”
“Let’s go inside,” Tiffany suggested.
Mary led the way in. Tiffany sat down at the kitchen table and opened her briefcase, taking out a notepad and pen. Justin took the middle of the couch and, as Mitch sat to his left, he nudged the boy and stared pointedly at the iPod.
“Oh, yeah,” Justin said, turning the MP3 player off.
Mitch stared again and Justin removed the plugs from his ears.
Mary took a deep breath. She could do this.
“What can I get everyone to drink?”
Mitch started to say, “Noth—” but then he must have seen the look on Mary’s face and realized she needed to do something with her hands. “Tea and some of those cookies you baked this morning.”
“Mom makes great cookies,” Justin agreed.
Mary headed for the kitchen, shook her head at Ruth’s offer of help, and poured three glasses of tea and one glass of milk. She could hear Justin and the caseworker talking.
Why wasn’t Mitch saying something?
She carried the drinks and cookies into the living room, handed them out and took the vacant place on the couch.
Tiffany didn’t waste any time. “Justin tells me that you’ve made a practice of letting him know everything that is going on,” she said. “Is that true, Mrs. Graham?”
Mary winced. Mitch wondered if it was at the question or the title.
“It’s true,” Mary nodded. “When we had to leave so suddenly, I knew that our safety depended on both of us working together. Justin was a little scared after his stay in the hospital.”
“They pumped my stomach,” Justin put in. “No fun.”
“I can certainly understand that,” Tiffany said. “How did you feel about leaving your home? Your friends? Your father?”
Justin glanced at his mother. Mitch wanted to nudge him again.
“Well, it had been just me and Mom at the house for so long that I didn’t mind leaving too much. I didn’t have that many friends. I did miss my Uncle Kenny and my dad, though. Dad liked to come get me once in a while and take me to the park. He bought me my first skateboard. Mom just about had a cow. Said third grade was too young. But Dad taught me how to ride it. I’m pretty good.”
Tiffany looked at the front door. “Not many places to skateboard here. Does that bother you?”
“Naw, I’m riding horses with my friend Carl. Plus, there’s a gold camp nearby. A friend is teaching me about panning. Mom’s bought me supplies.” He leaned forward. “She made me get a first aid kit, too.”
Tiffany smiled, and Justin added, “I can skateboard when we go to town.”
Then, Tiffany Mayhew did what caseworkers did best. After establishing a sense of comfort, she went for the truth. “Justin, do you remember a time when there were drugs in the house?”
“No, my Uncle Kenny smoked cigarettes, though.”
Mary glanced at her hands. For a moment, Mitch thought she was being reticent, but then she gently rubbed her hand, the one with the three crooked fingers. “Eddie never brought drugs into the house while we were living together.”
“Did Eddie use drugs?”
“No.”
“How about Uncle Kenny? Was he around often? Did he bring drugs into the home?”
“Uncle Kenny lived with us,” Justin said.
“Off and on,” Mary corrected. “And he didn’t bring drugs into the home, either.”
“Okay,” Tiffany said slowly, waiting to see if Mary would say anything else. Then, she tried another tactic. “If you knew your husband was dealing drugs, why did you let your son go off with him?”
Mary rubbed her fingers again. “Eddie knew what would happen if he put Justin in any kind of danger.”
“How could you be sure?”
Mary’s mouth opened and closed, then opened again. She finally said calmly, “Look, Eddie died a few months ago. He’s no longer a threat. Plus, if you read the case file, you’ll realize that even when things went so terribly wrong, it wasn’t because Eddie meant to expose Justin to drugs.”
“Seems to me that there might be other family members who endanger your son now. Justin, how often do you see your mother’s family, your Uncle Kenny?”
“I’ve seen a lot of my Uncle Eric lately.”
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br /> “My family is not a threat,” Mary insisted. “My brother Eric is married to a Gila City cop. He’s about to take the bar and become a lawyer. My…” She choked, rubbing her fingers again. “My family is not a threat. They never were, not to Justin.”
“Then tell me,” Tiffany urged, “why you let your son go off with a man you knew was a drug smuggler?”
“Mary,” Mitch said softly. “The truth. Go ahead.”
Mary looked at Justin and Mitch suddenly, horribly, understood. This woman he was growing to admire would do anything to keep her son. But at the same time, she wanted to keep his father’s memory honored.
“Justin,” Mitch suggested. “Why don’t you go up to your room, listen to your music, and give your mother a little time down here?”
“No, I want to stay here.”
“I would like to see the root cellar everyone is talking about,” Alma said gently, looking at Justin. “Would you take me to see it?”
“Justin,” Mary said gently. “Go ahead. I promise I’ll tell you everything later when we’re alone.”
“But—”
“Without an audience.”
Justin nodded. Before he left the room, he shook hands with the caseworker.
Yes, Mitch thought, Mary and Justin were a team. Her practice of telling him everything had indeed worked.
Mitch almost choked on his next thought. There was hope for the grandson of a crime lord.
After Justin left the cabin, Mary stood up, went to the door, and watched her son and Alma head for the shed before continuing, “I didn’t worry about Eddie being a threat. Frankly, he wasn’t around enough.” She turned around and faced the caseworker. “Justin and I lived in this cabin until he was two. Eddie worked in Gila City and most nights didn’t come home. Late one evening, when Justin and I were out playing on the porch, a rattlesnake coiled on the front step. Justin was at the age where everything was ‘No’ and ‘Mine.’ He didn’t always follow directions. He started for the steps. I grabbed him.
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