Dead Heat (6 page)

“I’ve never been through a tornado.”

“Just wait, you’ll experience it soon.”

Her stomach lurched. Lucy had gone through many earthquakes, but tornadoes freaked her out. It was like God put His finger down on each individual house that was destroyed, whereas earthquakes were just big shakes of temper and everything crumbled.

“Donnelly will bring in a team to catalog and impound everything,” Nicole said as they finished the second sweep of the room to verify there were no more trapdoors or hiding places.

Lucy went back into the smaller room where it was obvious that drugs had been packaged and money counted. The computer was new; the electronics team would seize it and analyze the data. She was good with computers and itched to turn it on, but refrained. Instead she looked under all the shelves, for anything that might be helpful to the investigation.

“How long have you worked with Donnelly?” Lucy asked Nicole conversationally.

“Awhile,” she said.

“Why doesn’t he like rookies?”

She hesitated. “What makes you think that?”

“He said so.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

“I sensed there was something more to it.”

Nicole stood in the doorway at such an angle that she could see the main room, her back to Lucy. She was shorter than Lucy, but more muscular, as if she worked out daily with weights. She was also older, late thirties or forties. The fine lines around her eyes were getting deeper, though she wore a thick layer of makeup to hide them. “Few years ago, before I transferred here from Atlanta, he lost a rookie in an operation. I don’t know much about it, but he blamed himself, blamed the kid, blamed the cartel that set them up. He never works with rookies anymore. He wants five years’ experience before he’ll let you on his team.” She glanced at her. “So I’m surprised you’re here.”

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 far 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.