Dead Heat

by Allison Brennan

  So was Lucy. She simply said, “My experience is a bit different from most.”

  She squatted and looked under the desk. The floor had been scraped, like the desk had been moved back and forth numerous times. She holstered her gun and pushed the desk to the right.

  “Hey,” Nicole said, “don’t touch anything.”

  In the ground was a metal box. It was level with the floor, small enough to be completely concealed by the desk.

  “It’s a hidden box.”

  “It could be booby-trapped.”

  As Nicole spoke, there was commotion on the com. Then Lucy heard, “Both suspects are secured. We’re coming back through to the store, be ready.”

  Several minutes later Donnelly and Johnson walked through the tunnel opening with two cuffed suspects. “Sit,” Donnelly ordered in Spanish.

  They complied. They were dirty, and one had blood on his nose.

  “Well, that was fun.” Donnelly grinned. “You good, Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to show you something,” Lucy said.

  Donnelly motioned for Johnson and Nicole to watch the suspects, then followed Lucy into the smaller room.

  “I saw the scraping on the floor, pushed the desk, and found that. I didn’t touch it.”

  Donnelly squatted. He checked for triggers and wires, anything that might injure them if they disturbed the box. “It’s clear,” he said. He picked it up and put it on the desk. There was a combination lock on the front. “Shit,” he said, “I’ll have to wait for our techs to open it.”

  “May I try?” she said.

  He tilted his head, skeptical. “If you can.”

  She put her ear to the lock and closed her eyes. Sean had taught her to pick locks in more ways than one. She wasn’t as good—or fast—as her boyfriend, but a simple mechanism like this was a breeze. In a minute she had it unlocked, but she didn’t open it.

  “Done.”

  “Open it,” he said. “Carefully.”

  She did. Inside there was a black leather ledger. “Holy shit,” Donnelly said. He pulled it out and turned the pages. “Beautiful. It’s in code, but I know what this is—records. Buyers, transfers, locations. The works. Our code breakers will figure it out.” He grinned widely and slid the ledger into a plastic evidence bag, then walked through to the main room.

  “Good work,” he said. “No shots fired, no one got hurt, guns seized, the ledger and computer seized, five suspects in custody. I’d say this operation was a success. Now let’s get these two assholes locked up and find Jaime Sanchez.”

  * * *

  Michael watched Mrs. Pope water her flowers on the large porch attached to the small house. He remembered sitting cross-legged on the old planks transplanting dozens of small plants from a tray of seedlings Mrs. Pope had bought at a big discount at the hardware store. They all looked dead to him, but she said nonsense, they just needed love and food and a gentle hand.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away tears. He would not cry. He didn’t have the time to feel sorry for himself.

  What are you going to do now?

  He didn’t know why he’d come here. He’d planned to head south, back to the border to rescue the others. But he’d barely gotten out of the Sanchezes’ neighborhood. Jaime was looking for him, and Michael thought he saw him everywhere. So he laid low, hiding in an alley behind a Dumpster, fear eating at him more than his hunger.

  Bella had packed him tortillas and water, and he ate one and drank an entire water bottle, even though he knew he should save it. But he kept the empty container; he’d refill it when he could.

  It was while he sat there, trying to ignore the stench, trying to make himself invisible, that he thought about Hector and Olive. Just as Michael knew that Jaime would kill him, he knew that Hector and Olive would help him. He wanted to sit in their kitchen, the smells of snickerdoodle cookies and homemade carnitas and spices that he equated with love and a full stomach.

  He couldn’t remember a time in the last fourteen months when he hadn’t been hungry.

  At dawn he found himself walking across the city, keeping to the shadows, using alleys when he could. Staying off the main roads, staying out of the neighborhoods where one of Jaime’s people might recognize him. It took him hours, but he found himself in this neighborhood—across the street from the house that had saved him. Across the street from the woman he loved as much as a mother.

  Olive had lost weight. She’d always been a plump woman, with warm folds that smelled like the vanilla lotion she liked so much. She was still plump, but no longer like a Mexican Mrs. Claus. Her hair was short and streaked gray. Were there more gray hairs than before?

  He’d never wanted to hurt Olive. He respected Hector, but he loved Olive. Hector was a man who worked long hours, a man who never raised his fist or his voice. He remembered one night Hector had come home with daisies. They were yellow and fresh, a little wilted from the heat; he’d bought them from a street vendor. He gave them to Olive with a smile and a kiss on her cheek. She had tears in her eyes, happy tears she told him.

  Michael had said, “It’s not your birthday.”

  She shook her head. “It’s an anniversary.”

  “Your wedding anniversary?”

  “No. The day he saw me, working behind the counter of the Dairy Queen. He said it was the day that changed his life.”

  Michael didn’t understand what that meant, but he knew that Hector and Olive loved each other, that she couldn’t have children for some medical reason she didn’t explain to him, and that Olive had more love to give than anyone Michael had known.

  Olive stood at the top of the stairs and looked out onto the street. Did she see him? No way, he was too well hidden. And she didn’t have on her glasses. She could barely see without them. She wiped her hands absently on her apron. Then she slowly turned and went inside.

  Michael couldn’t risk going to the Popes for help. They would love him and hug him and call CPS because he was a runaway. CPS would take him away from them, no doubt. Michael didn’t trust anyone with CPS or the government or the police. Someone there had to have told Jaime where Michael lived. How else would he have been able to track him down? This wasn’t a neighborhood anywhere near the ghetto where Michael had grown up. The Popes had sent him to Catholic school, something they could scarcely afford, but they knew the priest and Michael suspected Olive volunteered many hours just so Michael didn’t have to go to the public school where people from his past might hurt him.

  Not your past. Your father. You didn’t do anything. It was him.

  Didn’t matter. He was still running from his father’s crimes, his father who refused to sign away parental rights even though the first chance he might get out of prison Michael would be over thirty. He did it out of anger, spite, the belief that Michael was his property. He didn’t want Michael to have anything, not even parents who loved him.

  Michael couldn’t risk Hector and Olive. He couldn’t return to the only house he’d ever thought of as a home.

  Not until he saved the others.

  He dug around Bella’s backpack and tore a page from the back of a book. He wrote with a broken pencil, folded the paper, and waited until Olive had been in the house for ten minutes before he risked exposure.

  He left his hiding spot and ran across the street. He didn’t hesitate, but ran up the porch steps. He heard water running in the kitchen. He wanted to go inside. To see Olive. Instead he slipped the paper through the mail slot and, as quietly as possible, left.

  CHAPTER 4

  By the time the investigative unit arrived at the hardware store to take over for Donnelly’s team, it was after three in the afternoon and no one had eaten since five a.m. Brad Donnelly brought pizza back to DEA headquarters for everyone, excited that they had a lead on Jaime—as thin as it was. He was working with the AUSA to write up the paperwork on George Sanchez’s deal and set up interrogations of the five men they’d arrested. The only hiccup so fa
r was that the prisoners weren’t talking—they’d all lawyered up. But Brad didn’t seem too frustrated. He had the computer, the ledger, and George Sanchez.

  All in all, a damn good day, he’d said more than once.

  The good day ended for Lucy when she and Ryan sat down with a mountain of paperwork. They had to write up not only reports for the sweep and the raid, but then separate reports for their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Juan Casilla.

  “This is going to take half the night,” Ryan grumbled. “At least we didn’t have to discharge our weapons—that would be another mountain of paperwork, plus a debriefing, plus a psych eval.”

  “Sounds fun,” Lucy said. She dreaded the potential of a psychological evaluation. She’d been through so many of them she thought they might make her crazy.

  They worked in silence for a few minutes; then Sean returned her call from earlier. “Hi,” she answered.

  “You rang?”

  “When I was on my break.”

  “Whoops. I was talking to Patrick.”

  “How’s my brother?”

  “Working a case for Duke at my old alma mater.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one where I actually got my degree.”

  “He’s at MIT?”

  “He needed my technical expertise.”

  “You love it when he asks for help.”

  “I do,” Sean admitted, the grin in his voice. “And I’m going to savor the call from Duke when he gets my bill.”

  “You’re billing him?”

  “I warned everyone at RCK; I’m no longer working for free.”

  “He probably won’t even notice. Isn’t Nora’s baby due any day?”

  “The littlest Rogan is technically due in two weeks, but Nora’s on full bed rest. It’s driving both her and Duke insane, I’m sure. She’s almost as much of a workaholic as you.”

  “Speaking of being a workaholic, I’m stuck at DEA headquarters doing paperwork.”

  “How late?”

  “Six, seven? Tex-Mex is fine.” Sean had sampled many of the local restaurants and already had his favorites.

  “Rib House it is, then.”

  She laughed. “Can I bring Ryan? He’s here working with me, and Nate’s been blabbing about how he’s been over to the house several times. Ryan’s jealous.”

  Ryan shot her a dirty look, but then nodded, eyes wide. She laughed.

  “The more the merrier. I’ll get plenty.”

  “You always get too much.”

  “Leftovers taste even better. Work fast. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” She smiled as she hung up.

  “Tex-Mex?”

  She shook her head. “Sean discovered this place called The Rib House. He’s addicted.”

  Ryan practically licked his lips. “Best BBQ in Texas.”

  “Do you have the boys this weekend? You can bring them.”

  “No.” His face clouded, and he focused on their paperwork. Ryan was going through a nasty divorce and had two young sons. His wife had moved ninety minutes north to Austin, making it difficult for him to visit the boys during the week. He had custody every other weekend.

  “Well, they’re always welcome. We have a swimming pool and Sean has a game room. He’s a big kid himself, at least when it comes to his toys.”

  They chatted as they worked. Some reports had to be handwritten, most input in the computer. Donnelly walked in just after five. “Almost done?”

  “Getting there,” Ryan mumbled. “Maybe thirty more minutes. Hour, tops.”

  “Can I borrow Kincaid for a minute?”

  Ryan grew suspicious. Even though Lucy had explained to Ryan about Donnelly’s strategy at the Sanchez house, Ryan thought it had gone too far and accused Donnelly—at least to Lucy—of being a hot dog who took unnecessary risks.

  But he shrugged. “Up to her.”

  “You both did great work,” Donnelly said. “I’m putting it in my report to your SSA.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said when Ryan didn’t answer. She followed Donnelly from the room, giving Ryan a look. He simply shook his head and waved her off.

  “What’s his beef?” Donnelly asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Donnelly assessed her. “It was about this morning. At the house.”

  “It’s fine. I should have briefed him better.”

  “I’ve worked with Ryan in the past, and he’s a good cop, but he’s a straight arrow. Doesn’t like games.”

  “It wasn’t a game,” she said.

  “And that’s why we work well together. You get it.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

  “I need you to talk to a guy from CPS. He came around about the kid, Michael—he thinks he knows who this Michael is. I don’t have time to deal with it, and your boss already said the FBI is lead on the missing kid.”

  That was news to Lucy, but she and Ryan had been processing paperwork for so long she hadn’t even thought to call in or check her email.

  Donnelly walked her down a long row of interview rooms. He opened one and said, “Hey, Charlie, good to see you again.” He extended his hand. “Charlie DeSantos, this is FBI Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. She’s been working with me on the Sanchez case, and is point on the missing boy.”

  Charlie extended his hand to Lucy. He was tall and lean with permanent scaring from long-ago acne, but a warm and friendly smile. “Agent Kincaid.” He glanced from her to Brad. “I didn’t realize the FBI had already been called in.”

  “Kincaid’s part of Operation Heatwave.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Kincaid and her partner are staying on for a few more days, until we figure out what exactly is going on with the kid. I’d sit in on the meeting, but I need to debrief my boss. If you and Lucy can figure out if our cases intersect, that would help me.”

  “Of course,” Charlie said. “Good to see you again, Brad.”

  “Call if you need anything.” Then Brad was gone, leaving Lucy alone with Charlie DeSantos.

  Lucy motioned for him to sit and took out a small notepad.

  “Are you new?” he asked her. “I’ve worked with several agents in the FBI, but don’t remember meeting you.”

  “Yes, I graduated from the academy in December. Been here for nearly three months now.”

  “And already on a major task force.”

  “Trial by fire,” she said with a half smile. “Brad said you might know who Michael is?”

  “I’m afraid I might,” he said. He sighed and rubbed his face, looking both angry and defeated. “I got a call this morning from one of my foster families. The woman thought she’d seen a boy who’d run away from their home last year. At first I thought it was wishful thinking on her part—she and her husband wanted to adopt this boy. His name is Michael Rodriguez. CPS was alerted about the DEA sweep—often, as you know, children get swept up, too, and need a temporary bed, so we work behind the scenes to make sure there are enough places to take them. When I heard that the DEA was looking for a boy named Michael who may have been held captive by a drug dealer, I wondered if it was more than a coincidence that Mrs. Pope thought she saw him. It took me some time to figure out who was in charge, but when I found out that Agent Donnelly had been the team leader, I called him.”

  “Why do you think that your Michael Rodriguez is the Michael in my case?”

  “I have no reason other than the call I had this morning, and the common name. But I needed to follow up. It may be a coincidence—it may not be.”

  He was obviously worried about the boy, and maybe his information could help Lucy track Michael.

  “I don’t have information about him,” she said, “other than what a witness told me.”

  Charlie was surprised. “A witness? The report didn’t say there was a witness.”

  “A minor in the house saw the boy, attests to the fact that he was kept against his will. Confirmed his name was Michael, that he’d been locked up for ab
out a month.”

  “What about anyone else? Donnelly said there were arrests.”

  “I really can’t share any information about the case without clearing it with Donnelly.”

  DeSantos sighed heavily. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to him, not a junior agent.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Agent Kincaid. I’m sorry. It’s just I understand how information is disseminated, and I’m sure you dislike bureaucracy as much as the rest of us.”

  She leaned forward. “Perhaps if you give me a reason to believe that your Michael and our Michael are the same boy, I can ask him to clear you.”

  He slid a file over to her.

  She opened it. On the left was a photo of Michael Rodriguez at age eleven. He’d turned thirteen last month. When he disappeared fourteen months ago, on the last day of January, he’d been five feet one inch tall and weighed in at one hundred pounds. He’d been in the foster care system for three years when he ran away, but had been placed in the same family for the last fifteen months before he bolted.

  “He ran away?”

  “That’s what we all thought, but I don’t know now. And at the time, the Popes were certain he hadn’t run away.”

  “Runaways aren’t uncommon in foster care.”

  “I know, unfortunately. His foster parents were going through the process of adopting him.”

  Lucy turned the page. His mother was dead, his father was incarcerated, twenty-five-to-life for murder.

  She looked up at DeSantos. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes scanned hers in the hope of answers.

  “This was your case?”

  He nodded. “Michael had been in and out of bad homes for nearly two years. It was just dumb luck that he landed with the Popes and they clicked. I need to talk to your witness, show her Michael’s picture, confirm what I already suspect. She might know more.”

  Lucy thought that as well.