The Swick and the Dead

by Maggie Foster

  Brochaber

  Jim yawned widely, forcing himself to pay attention. They were back in his grandfather’s kitchen, miscellaneous drinks on the table in front of them. DeSoto was on his right, Detective Tran on his left, his grandfather across the table from him. A stranger lounged in the corner, sipping coffee.

  “You will understand,” Detective Tran was saying. “Even Bob Cratchit got Christmas Day off.” She was referring to the crime lab staff, not herself. “The lab will be open again at six a.m. tomorrow. We can start then.”

  “Will this trace be the priority?” DeSoto asked.

  She made a sketchy shrug. “Among the priorities, I should think.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do with the FBI lab. We need to find this woman, alive, if possible.”

  “What o’ Hawkins?” the Laird asked.

  Detective Tran answered. “A forensics team has been at her house all day, taking it apart. Her computers are missing, but we have her purse and cellphones. The most interesting item so far is a tracking device like the one found on Miss Forbes’ car. With warrants, we should be able to reach the account, which may give us additional clues to her identity. All of this is delayed by the holiday, of course.”

  “Identity?” Jim asked.

  Detective Tran nodded. “When we ran her fingerprints, we found a discrepancy. They match a woman wanted in connection with the disappearance of another nurse sixteen years ago.”

  Jim blinked, trying to focus. “Disappearance?”

  “The missing woman failed to go to work one day, sending a letter of resignation to her employer. She is supposed to have packed up her belongings and moved, leaving no forwarding address.”

  “How does Hawkins figure into the story?”

  “The missing woman was named Marjorie Hawkins. The fingerprints on our corpse belong to a woman named Eloise Quinn. Ms. Quinn was a nurse who lived in the same neighborhood as Hawkins. She had her license revoked permanently due to a series of narcotics-related deaths.”

  “Wow!” Jim said. “Why didn’t this come to light sooner?”

  “All of the police departments in Texas are in the process of digitizing their paper files and that includes the paper-and-ink fingerprint cards, but it is a slow process. There are millions of archived files to go through. No one had run a search on Hawkins’ fingerprints since the latest update, until now.”

  Jim frowned. “I wish I’d known. If we hadn’t decided to keep our suspicions about Hawkins from Ginny, she wouldn’t have been on the roof with that woman.”

  “Weel, if naught can be done ’til th’ morrow,” the Laird rose to his feet, “I thank ye all fer comin’ and wish ye’ a happy Christmas.” He escorted them to the front door, all but Jim and the stranger. When the Laird returned to the kitchen, he gestured the stranger into one of the empty seats, then turned to Jim.

  “I’ve a mind tae offer ye a bed, lad. Ye’ve had nae sleep and yer yawning yer heid off.”

  “I want to know what else you’ve got up your sleeve.”

  “Aye, but ’twill wait. Go. Sleep. I’ll fetch ye fer dinner.”

  Jim rose reluctantly and headed for the stair. He had a pretty good idea why the stranger was here. He’d seen a holster when the man reached for the sugar and cream. He considered trying to eavesdrop through the kitchen door, but the house was too well built for that. He gave in, made his way to the bedroom he always used when camping out in his grandfather’s house, fell into bed, and closed his eyes. Whatever they were cooking up in that kitchen would still be there when he woke.

  * * *

  Sunday midafternoon, Christmas Day

  Refugee camp

  Grace made her way through the waning afternoon, out to the snow-covered campground. She had filled the car with Christmas gifts, mostly for the children, but also useful things for the adults, clothes and tools and canned food.

  She pulled in across a patch of muddy slush and parked, climbing out of the car with a big Christmas smile on her face. This was what she loved, what made it all worthwhile. The children thronged around, demanding gifts and sweets. She passed them out, enlisting the help of a pair of adults, to make sure the treats were evenly distributed.

  There were new faces among the refugees. She looked over the crowd of children, counting noses, and her heart sank. She didn’t have enough. She swallowed hard, forcing her smile back into place. She’d spent every penny of her Christmas bonus and half her paycheck on this project. She reached into the car and pulled out the last of her purchases, handing them to the adults.

  “No más. Lo siento, eso es todo.”

  The children crowded around her, vociferous in their disappointment.

  “Lo siento. Lo siento mucho.” She looked around at the crowd of people, all looking at her, all waiting for her to produce more: more food, more toys, more money.

  “I’m sorry.” She retreated to her car, pulling free of the many small hands that tried to prevent her going. She backed out, and drove away, the entreaties following her long after the camp was out of sight.

  * * *

  Sunday evening, Christmas Day

  Forbes residence

  Christmas supper was always a picnic at the Forbes house. It was frequently consumed in front of the media screen in the den, giving the family a chance to relax after a hard day of celebrating.

  Ginny settled down in one of the wing chairs with her plate on her lap, and pulled up the evening news. She was hoping to hear something of the shooting on the rooftop and she was not disappointed. The station had acquired a video of Santa’s arrival. There was dramatic footage of the helicopter approaching, and a man in a red suit with the snow swirling around him, then a violent disruption of the image.

  “Mother! Come look,” Ginny called. Sinia had made sure Luis had turkey and a glass of milk (actually at the table, to facilitate getting the food into him and not on the carpet) then prepared her own supper plate. She brought it into the den and sat down in the other wing chair.

  Ginny backed up the image and played it from the beginning.

  “He makes a lovely Santa Claus, doesn’t he?” Sinia commented.

  Ginny nodded. The reporter was explaining what they were seeing.

  “… one woman shot dead in what appears to be an assassination… another in critical condition… both employed at the hospital…”

  “There’s Lisa,” Ginny said, her voice somber. After a long enough pause for the reporter to tell all that was known about Lisa Braden, the image changed to Marjorie Hawkins.

  “Señora Jefa,” Luis said.

  Ginny jumped. She hadn’t heard Luis come in and had no idea he was watching. “What?”

  “Señora Jefa.” Luis had Seymour in one hand and a slice of turkey in the other. He held it out to the turtle, who retreated into his shell.

  Ginny scrambled for the remote control, found it, then backed up the transmission to the Hawkins image.

  “You know that woman, Luis?” she asked, pointing at the picture.

  He glanced up at it, and nodded, then went back to trying to feed turkey to the turtle.

  “Can you tell me about her?”

  “She’s a bad woman.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She made my Mama cry.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Why was she crying?”

  “I don’t know.” Luis put the turtle and the turkey down on the carpet and came over, crawling into Ginny’s lap. “I want my Mama!”

  Ginny cuddled him, kissing his hair. “I do, too, Luis. We’re going to find her. I promise.”

  When the boy went back to playing with the turtle, Ginny went to the phone. She left voice mail messages on Detective Tran’s and Agent DeSoto’s machines, describing Luis’ revelation, then dialed Jim.

  “When would Luis have seen Marge Hawkins?” he asked.

  “His mother had to get those fake drugs from someone, and the blue envelope didn’t go through the mail. That implies a face
to face handoff, a dead drop, or both.”

  “Too bad he didn’t see a picture of her before last night.”

  Ginny nodded into the phone. “If Luis is right and Marge Hawkins was connected to the Mexican Nurse Pipeline, that’s another connection between the Pipeline and the cartel.”

  “Something to do with those fentanyl patches, you think?”

  “It’s possible, but I still can’t figure out what they’re doing with fakes. The real thing is so much more lucrative.”

  “We need to talk to Maria Perez,” Jim said.

  “Yes.” Ginny sighed. “We do.”

  * * *

  Chapter 41

  Day 18 – Monday morning, Feast of Stephen

  Forbes residence

  Ginny drummed her fingers on the breakfast table, thinking hard. “What will lure a frightened woman out of hiding?”

  “Her child, of course.” Jim helped himself to another mound of scrambled eggs. “Where is Luis, anyway?”

  “Back in the shelter.” Ginny’s brow furrowed, returning to her puzzle. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but Maria dumped him at the hospital and disappeared, which implies she thought he’d be safer away from her.”

  “But she called yesterday.”

  Ginny sighed at the memory of Luis sobbing himself to sleep. Maria alive and in hiding was better than Maria dead, but not much, for the child involved. “What did she say to him?”

  Jim shook his head. “I don’t know. All I heard was Luis’ side of the conversation and my Spanish is only good enough to catch one word out of three. I think he was saying he wanted her to come home, or he wanted to go home.”

  Ginny nodded. “Well, at least she knows he’s alive.”

  Jim settled back in his chair, nursing his coffee. “I wonder if we can use that to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  “You told her we wanted to help. She might have heard you or she might not have.”

  “And she might not have believed me.”

  “Right. Here’s my point. What she did hear was a frantic Luis. If she thinks we’re not being nice to him, maybe she’ll come to the rescue.”

  Ginny nodded slowly. “I would, if it were my child.” She chewed on her lip. “So how do we contact her?”

  “If the feds can trace that call, they can try following her.”

  “If she has any sense, she’ll have ditched that phone. We need another way.” Ginny’s brow furrowed. “I think I have an idea, but I’m not sure it’s a good one.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “An Amber Alert.”

  Jim frowned. “Those public service announcements that tell the entire world a child is missing?”

  “Yes, those. If Maria is within reach of a highway or a computer or a cellphone, she’ll get the message.”

  “They’re designed to enlist the public as extra eyes and ears. We don’t want everyone looking for Maria, just us.”

  “I know. That’s not what I had in mind. Maybe we can send a message to her. ‘Call this number. Luis needs you.’ Something of that sort.”

  “Get a secured line and have her call in, to arrange a rendezvous?”

  “Yes.”

  Jim nodded slowly. “It might work, but she’s going to think it’s a trap.”

  “It is a trap. We want to catch her so we can put her in protective custody. It will have to be clear she must risk the trap to save Luis.”

  “We can’t threaten that child. He’s been through enough already.”

  “I know that, but Maria doesn’t, and she seems to have a pretty poor opinion of authority figures.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Jim rose and headed for the front door. He turned on the threshold. “Grandfather asked me to remind you to stay home today. He’ll catch up with you this afternoon. And, if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, you look like you could use some more sleep.”

  She nodded. She hadn’t been really injured in the assassination attempt, just spooked, but he was right that she needed sleep. That had been hard to come by. She watched Jim climb into his car and drive off, nodded to the policemen in the patrol car parked out front, then closed the door and headed upstairs.

  * * *

  Monday morning, Feast of Stephen

  Forbes residence

  Ginny set the phone down and leaned back in her chair. Detective Tran had been very cooperative. She could issue the Amber Alert, but she would need to know when and what to say. Whatever they arranged, it would need a point person, someone Maria would be willing to listen to. What people in her life might she trust?

  Phyllis, obviously, since Maria dropped Luis at Hillcrest based on Phyllis’ recommendation. Not the police, since she didn’t go to them, which implied she had something to hide—or something to fear.

  Did she run because of someone or something at her job? Luis had identified Marge Hawkins as a bad woman who made his mother cry. That meant Maria and Marge had been face to face at least once. But did Maria know Marge worked at Hillcrest? Would she have dropped her son off there if she had known?

  Luis had also said the fentanyl patches were for his mother. Which made it sound like someone was giving Maria counterfeit drugs. The only place a nurse would use narcotic patches was on the job. (Unless she was a drug addict and wanted them to feed her own habit, in which case the fakes were worthless.) Maybe Maria was supposed to swap the fakes for the genuine narcotics. There was a thought!

  If true and Luis had interrupted her supply, maybe Maria was in trouble. Would whoever was behind a scheme like that forgive Maria for misplacing an envelope full of fake drugs? Or would they make an example of her?

  Ginny sighed. If Maria’s job was tied to the fake drugs, and Maria believed losing an envelope full of them would get her or Luis killed, it was unlikely she would look to a coworker for help.

  Nor family and friends. That would be the first place an enemy would look. The inhabitants of that apartment complex would close ranks against an outsider, but they would talk to one another, and among the other children would be an obvious place to look for Luis.

  Who else would Maria have contact with? The school? Did Luis have play dates? What other mothers had Maria spoken to? Or Phyllis, for that matter. Ginny suddenly wondered if Detective Tran had asked any questions at Luis’ school. She picked up the phone again, but this time she dialed John Kyle.

  Ten minutes later she hung up the phone, having found out what school Joey Kyle attended, that the police had not asked John for that information, and that the school was still closed for the Christmas holiday, so it was unlikely that anyone had been interviewed by the authorities. Ginny moved to the computer.

  The school, Mater Dolorosa Montessori, was attached both physically and metaphorically to the Roman Catholic Church of Mater Dolorosa. It appeared to be a large, prosperous parish. There were lots of children in the posted images.

  Ginny’s eyes narrowed. If Maria attended services at this church, which made geographic sense (based on the location of her apartment) and would explain why her child was enrolled there, and if she and the clergy followed traditional Roman Catholic practices, then she would obey instructions from her padre. He would be someone she would trust.

  They would need the padre’s cooperation, of course. Ginny looked up his name, tried calling, found all the phones on voice mail (it was the day after Christmas after all), then decided to drive over and see if she could find anyone to talk to.

  She paused for a moment to consider her instructions to stay home. There was no one at the church who knew her, and it wouldn’t take long. All she wanted was someone who would tell her how to reach Father Ignacio Allende on his day off.

  It was probably a wild goose chase anyway. She would probably find the doors locked and the lights out. She might be wrong about where Maria attended divine service (if at all), and Father Ignacio might refuse to help.

  She wrestled with her conscience for a moment longer, then scribbled a note to her mother, grabbe
d her purse, slipped out the back, and headed for Mater Dolorosa.

  * * *

  Monday midmorning, Feast of Stephen

  Mater Dolorosa Roman Catholic Church

  Ginny worked her way around the edifice, trying every door. She found the kitchen unguarded. There was evidence of clean-up in progress, but no one in sight. She set off into the main body of the church, poking her nose into a series of empty chapels and meeting rooms.

  She turned a corner and found a charming little fountain, the water stilled because it was a holiday and no public should have been in that place, but the greenery was flourishing, and the sight that met her eyes delighted her soul. In the middle of the fountain, on a marble plinth, stood a carved statue of Saint Michael slaying the dragon. His face was beatific in repose, his consecrated strength undisputed. One hand held the sword, plunged into the throat of the beast. The other gestured toward heaven.

  In the space between the white marble fingers and thumb of the hand indicating the seat of divine power was wedged a coin. Someone, probably a daring child, had braved the waters and climbed the plinth and left an offering to God.

  Ginny dug a coin out of her purse and tossed it into the fountain, with a silent prayer for Maria and Luis. As if in answer, she heard the sound of a door opening. She turned and followed it.

  She tapped on the open doorframe. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Father Ignacio, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  The eyes that met hers were astonished and unfriendly.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Through the kitchen.” Ginny watched the two men exchange an uneasy glance.

  “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.” Their English was intelligible, though obviously not their native tongue.

  Ginny nodded. “I understand, but there is some urgency. I want to speak to Father Ignacio about a woman in trouble, and I was hoping you could tell me how to reach him at home.”

  “Confessions on Tuesday and Thursday. Make an appointment. Tomorrow.”

  Ginny shook her head. “I don’t mean that kind of trouble. This woman is in danger for her life. We’re hoping the padre can persuade her to trust us.”

  They both shook their heads. “We cannot help you.”