Authors: Mariah Stewart
“I don’t know, Trula.” Mallory sighed. “All those years I was a cop, I saw things … things that most people can’t even imagine. And every time, I’d wonder that same thing:
what kind of person can do this and live with themselves?”
“I don’t suppose there’s ever been an answer.”
Mallory shook her head no. “Sometimes you meet people who are so good, inside and out, that you feel lucky to have had them cross your path.” Like you, Trula, she could have added, but Trula being Trula and prickly at times, Mallory decided against it. “Then there are others who are so filled with hate and anger and evil, that you wonder how they could
even be human.” She leaned on the counter. “There aren’t always answers. There isn’t always a reason.”
Trula sighed and turned around to face Mallory. “What are the chances?” she asked. “Is it even possible to hope that Robert will be able to find him?”
Mallory chose her words carefully, though not quite as carefully as she had when Robert had asked the same questions.
“It is possible. It’s a matter of finding the right lead.”
“Of which there have been none.”
“So far. But we’ll see how it plays out. Sometimes it’s a matter of simply asking the right questions of the right people.”
“Robert will never stop looking until he finds Ian.”
“He shouldn’t stop looking. I wouldn’t, if Ian were mine.” She glanced at the clock. “In the meantime, we have a business to run here. I’m going to call Robert and the others and we’ll see what the consensus is.”
“Robert’s going to tell you to do what you think is best. Kevin will tell you to follow your instincts, and Susanna is going to ask you what Robert said. Emme will be happy to have another investigator to share the workload.” Trula smiled. “Sam seemed like a nice enough fellow. I say go for it. So when Robert asks you if I had anything to say, you can tell him.”
“I’ll call Robert first.”
“Good move.” Trula went back to preparing the filling for her pie.
“By the way, what are you going to do with that pie?” Mallory asked. “Who knows when Robert and Susanna will be back. And if I remember correctly,
you don’t like peach pie.” She leaned on the counter. “So who’s the pie for, hmmmm?”
“It might go home with you for a certain detective who’s had to work around the clock for the past two weeks.” Trula watched from the corner of her eye as Mallory stealthily pocketed another peach. “Then again, maybe it’s for Father Kevin.”
Grinning and assured of one great dessert to share with Charlie when he got home that night—if he got home that night—Mallory went back to her office, the second peach and another paper towel in her pocket.
Trula had been spot-on in her predictions: Robert had, in fact, told Mallory to do what she thought was best.
“Hire him if you think he’s the right guy,” he’d said, obviously distracted by the ongoing search for his son, which at the moment consisted of a sort of dragnet through the area of woods where the car had been found. “You’re in charge of staffing. I trust your judgment one hundred percent. Besides, I’m not thinking a whole lot about the business right now, so if you like him, bring him on. We still have that six-week probationary period, right? If he doesn’t work out, he’s gone when the time’s up.”
Her next call was to Emme, who’d been delighted at the possibility of another investigator coming on board.
Susanna was also distracted by the ongoing search for Ian, and as expected, had deferred to Robert. Kevin had been characteristically diplomatic: “Listen to your gut,” he’d said.
* * *
Mallory made the call to Sam DelVecchio, and was surprised at his immediate—and positive—response.
“When do I start?” he asked.
She realized that she’d been so uncertain he’d even take the job that she hadn’t given a starting date much thought.
“When would you like to start?”
“I’ll need to tie up a few loose ends,” he said. “Is two weeks too long?”
“Not for me, but it might be for Lynne Walker.”
“Good point.” He paused, then said, “I’m going to have to go back to Virginia, take care of a few things, and then I’m going to have to find a place to live there.”
“I think I mentioned at the interview that you’ll be on probation for six weeks or until your first case is resolved, whichever comes first.”
“So what you’re saying is, don’t be in a hurry to put an ad in the paper to sublet my apartment.”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“I’ll still need to find some temporary lodgings there.”
“Emme Caldwell—she was our first hire—stayed at a nice enough motel when she first started. I’d be happy to make a reservation for you at the same place. It’s not too far from the house and it has a restaurant and pool.”
“That would be great, thanks.” He paused. “I’m assuming I’ll be meeting Mr. Magellan sometime during the six-week period?”
“Possibly. He’s a little busy right now. But don’t address him as Mr. Magellan. He much prefers to be called Robert.”
They discussed the Walker case and Sam said he could be up and running by Monday morning, which suited everyone just fine.
Mallory hung up and immediately placed a call to Lynne Walker.
“This is Mallory Russo from the Mercy Street Foundation,” she began when the call was picked up. “I’d like to speak with Lynne Walker.”
“This is Lynne.” There was a pause. “Who did you say …?”
“Mallory Russo, from the Mercy Street Foundation. We’ve reviewed the application you sent in regarding your late husband. We’d like to take on the case, if you’re still interested in us doing so.”
“Is this a joke?” Lynne Walker’s voice was trembling. “Because if this is supposed to be funny …”
“It’s not a joke, Mrs. Walker. We’d like to look into your husband’s murder.”
“Oh, my God. You’re serious. I never thought you’d really choose us.” She began to cry. “I can’t believe you’re really going to do this.”
“We have an investigator ready to start work on this, next week. He’ll be contacting you on Monday or Tuesday to set up a meeting.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said again. “I can’t believe there’s a chance we might finally find out what happened to Ross.”
“There are no guarantees, Mrs. Walker. Please understand that. We will do our best, but we can’t promise that we’ll find anything the police haven’t already found.”
“Which is basically nothing,” she said bitterly. “They aren’t any closer now than they were the day
Ross died. I call down there to the police department and every month it’s the same. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Walker, but there have been no new developments.’”
“I understand your frustration, but I’m sure the police have done the best they can with the personnel they have.”
“I read about those other cases you people solved. Those kids there in Pennsylvania, and that college girl down in Maryland. You people get results.”
“It’s much easier when all your efforts and resources are concentrated on one case. The police generally don’t have that luxury.”
“I don’t think they cared one way or another.”
“It might seem that way sometimes, but having been a police officer myself, I can tell you that every case is important, and nothing rankles like the case you could not solve.”
“You said someone would be calling me next week.”
“Most likely late afternoon Monday or sometime on Tuesday.” Mallory hesitated. She probably shouldn’t box Sam in but it was too late now. “The investigator will be Sam DelVecchio.”
“Tell Mr. DelVecchio I’ll be waiting to hear from him. I’ll wait here until he calls. I don’t want to miss him.”
“I’m sure he’ll leave a message if you’re not there, so if there are things you—”
“You don’t understand,” Lynne Walker said, cutting her off. “I have waited months to make some sense of what happened to Ross. I want to move past the horror of what happened, I want to move away from this town and this house and this life. I want my children to stop being afraid that the person who
killed their father is going to come back to kill me, or to kill them. We need answers, Miss Russo. Until we have them, we’re just stuck right here, right where we were on the day Ross was murdered.” “We’ll do our best. I can’t promise more than that.” “That’s all I can ask,” the woman replied. “Thank you—and thank Mr. Magellan for what he’s doing. I saw on the news where they found his wife but not his baby boy. I’m praying for him.”
“I’ll let him know that,” Mallory assured her as she hung up from the call. “We’re all praying for him, too.”
S
am slowly turned the coffee mug Trula had handed him so that he could read whatever was written on it, but didn’t want to appear obvious.
IN EVERY REAL MAN IS A CHILD WHO WANTS TO PLAY. NIETZSCHE
Well, yeah. Who doesn’t know that?
“We have orange-pecan muffins this morning,” Trula was saying. “Help yourself. I’m assuming you already had a decent breakfast?”
“Oh, sure.” He nodded, then met her questioning eyes from across the room, and felt compelled to tell the truth. “Well, actually, I had a donut I picked up when I got my coffee at that convenience place across the street from the motel.”
She appeared to look him over, as if to assess him somehow. “Sit down and I’ll make you some eggs.”
“Oh, no. Don’t bother. You don’t have to …” He protested, but there was that stare again. Trula pointed to the kitchen table, a farmhouse-style affair of planked oak with a banquette that wrapped around two sides to form an
L
.
Sam sat. He was still sitting when Mallory came through the back door.
“We’re having eggs this morning,” Trula told her without turning around.
“What kind?” Mallory placed her handbag on the table and smiled at Sam.
“Brown organic ones.” Trula’s sarcasm was unveiled.
“I know that.” Mallory rolled her eyes and turned to Sam. She stage-whispered, “That’s all Trula buys. There should be a sign over the front door: Abandon hope of ever eating junk food again, all ye who enter here.”
“Very funny,” Trula muttered.
“Junk food is not food.” A small dark-skinned girl of perhaps four or five appeared in the kitchen doorway. “It will make you fat and give you headaches and make your teeth soft.”
“You tell them, Chloe.” Trula smiled broadly as the girl skipped into the kitchen. “Child is smarter than most of the adults I know.”
“Chloe, this is Sam,” Mallory said. “He’s going to work with us starting today.”
“Hello, Sam.” The child approached the table solemnly, as if she, too, were sizing him up.
“Hello, Chloe,” he returned the greeting, and wondered who she belonged to.
“Do you eat junk food?” She climbed onto a chair opposite him and studied him with large brown eyes.
“Sometimes.” He nodded and tried to look contrite.
“Trula won’t let you have bad food here. She only makes good things to eat and makes everyone eat it,
even if it’s something you don’t like,” Chloe confided and Mallory choked back a laugh.
“What did I make you eat that you didn’t like?” Trula turned to ask.
“Chard,” Chloe answered without hesitation, “and Brussels sprouts.”
“Chloe is Emme Caldwell’s daughter,” Mallory explained. “When Emme has to go out of town, Trula keeps her company.”
“Chloe keeps
me
company,” Trula corrected. “She’s my sous chef and number one baking apprentice.”
Chloe nodded and thanked Trula for the glass of milk the woman placed before her. She took a sip, then told Sam, “Me and my mommy are going to live in the house out back ’cause we can’t find one we like. Trula’s having people clean it while Mommy’s away. She went with Robert and Susanna to help look for Robert’s missing baby. Someone stoled him.”
Trula looked over Chloe’s head to Sam to explain. “There’s a carriage house on the grounds that has been unoccupied for who knows how long—at least since Robert’s owned the property—but it’s still in pretty good shape. We decided to spruce it up a bit so that Emme and Chloe could live closer to Emme’s work, and so that when Emme isn’t here, Chloe can stay with me. I’m hoping that it will be in move-in condition by the time they get back from this trip. That motel stay was too long for a child.”
“And I couldn’t have my kitty there,” Chloe added.
“Where is Foxy this morning?” Mallory asked.
“I let her out earlier,” Trula replied. “Chloe, do you want to go see if you can find Foxy while I finish making breakfast?”
“Uh-huh.” Chloe jumped off the chair and sprinted out the back door.
Trula closed the door behind her, then turned to Sam and said, “You’ll hear this soon enough, I suppose, so I might as well tell you right up front. Emme adopted Chloe as a newborn from a woman who was in prison for selling narcotics and who was killed there shortly after Chloe was born. Chloe’s father is—there’s no nice way to put this—a Mexican drug lord. A few months ago, he decided he wanted her—she’s his only child—so he put out a reward for whoever brought her to him in Mexico.”
“That’s pretty scary. Who’s the father?” Sam asked.
“His name is Anthony Navarro,” Mallory told him.
“Navarro is her father?” Sam frowned. As a former FBI agent, he knew the name well. “He’s real bad news.”
“So we hear. Emme was hoping Chloe would be safe here, but a few weeks ago, someone gave Navarro a tip that they were here in Conroy. He sent someone to look for her. Only the quick thinking of a member of Father Kevin’s parish saved Chloe from possibly being whisked away to sunny Mexico. We think the threat has been deterred for now, but who knows?” Mallory shrugged.
“We’re hoping that he’s looking elsewhere,” Trula added. “But none of us are willing to take any chances.”
“Navarro is definitely not one to mess with,” Sam told them.
Trula’s chin set solidly with reserve and she began to crack eggs into a bowl with a bit more vehemence
than Sam suspected might be necessary. “No one is taking that child from her mother.”
“What Trula means is that no one is taking that child from
Trula.”
Mallory added. “She and Chloe are like best buds now. I pity the fool who tries to abduct that girl now. Hence the move onto the grounds here.”