Dead Heat (7 page)

“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 about 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.

“I’ll talk to her, show her the picture.”

“I need to see her.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Then who can make it possible?” he demanded.

Lucy wasn’t going to let him bully her. “Mr. DeSantos,” she said firmly, “I doubt it’s the same boy. My Michael was locked in a basement for four weeks. Your Michael has been gone for fourteen months. But since the ages and basic descriptions match, I’ll talk to my witness. I’ll share with you what I learn. That’s going to have to be good enough.”

He wanted to argue with her, she could see it in his eyes; then he capitulated. “I understand,” he said. “But turn the page.”

She did. Behind Michael’s official records was a page torn from a paperback book. At the bottom was scrawled in faint pencil:

I’m sorry I had to leave. I want to come home more than anything, but I have to do something important and I might not be able to come back. Thank you for wanting me in the first place.

—M

Lucy’s heart twisted.

“Olive Pope found this through the mail slot in her front door and called me. I’ve known Donnelly for a while, so when I found out it was his case, I came here. Then Brad hands me off to you. I’m sorry I’m a little frustrated.”

“Brad referred you to me because he’s hunting for a fugitive and my partner and I are looking for Michael.”

“Let me help. He trusts me.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen months ago I assumed like everyone else he ran away. Except—the Popes wouldn’t let it go. So I might have let their faith affect me. I want to find him. For them. They never believed he ran away, and this proves it. But obviously something else is going on with him, if as you say he was held as a prisoner.”

A boy like Michael, in the system with no hope of being reunited with blood relatives—why would he leave a home that seemed to be working for him?

“I think he left because he felt he had to. Maybe he was threatened or the Popes were threatened.” Lucy was thinking out loud, but it felt right to her, looking again at the note.

“How can you get that from his few words?”

“He said he had to leave. He’s been gone for fourteen months.” She flipped back a few pages and read the brief notes on Michael’s father, Vince Rodriguez. “His father—he’s in prison for murder?”

DeSantos nodded. “He killed a liquor store clerk and paralyzed a customer while robbing the place. Hard man. Abused Michael. His wife—Michael’s mother—died under suspicious circumstances when Michael was eight, but there were no charges filed.”

“This address—is this where Michael grew up?”

“More or less.”

The address where Michael grew up was only blocks from the hardware store on 39th, where Sanchez and his gang had set up shop. Coincidence? What were the chances that they knew each other? The older Rodriguez and Jaime Sanchez? Or someone affiliated with Sanchez?

“Agent Kincaid?” DeSantos asked. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she said. She wasn’t going to share with DeSantos unless Donnelly cleared it. “I’ll follow up on this, call you as soon as I can confirm one way or the other that we’re talking about the same kid. If we are—”

“You’ll let me help find him.”

“It’s up to Donnelly, but I’m sure you can be a help.”

“Of course I will be,” he snapped.

Hot and cold. She didn’t know what to make of DeSantos, but she wrote her cell phone number on the back of her FBI business card. “Let me know if Michael reaches out again to the Popes, or to you. I’ll do the same once I confirm his identity.” She was about to walk him out when she said, “Michael wasn’t the first boy kept in captivity. There was evidence that others had been in the basement. Do you know of any other missing boys like Michael?”

He shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know specifically, but there are a lot of runaways in the system. You can’t always blame them—some foster parents are good, some are not. They have problems—parents in prison, abuse, violence, even drug use—and they’re not always willing or able to accept help. Could some of those runaways have been kidnapped? It’s possible.”

Lucy was going to ask him for a list, but realized that was bringing him into the investigation, and right now she wanted to confirm that he even had a stake in it before she gave him more. Besides, she could get the information through the FBI and their channels.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope that’s not the brush-off.”

“It’s not.” She held on to the file. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure, it’s a copy.” He touched her arm. “But I’m going to hold you to your word that you’ll let me know the minute you have his ID confirmed.”

“I promise.”

*   *   *

Father Mateo Flannigan sat in the confessional at St. Catherine’s waiting for the next penitent to enter. It had been a long day, made longer because it was Lent, and many Catholics took the season as a time to go back to church. Many came for a few weeks and then left again, but some stayed, their faith renewed.

Mateo was tired. He was a faithful man, young, healthy. He’d been called to the priesthood as a child, knew this was what he was meant to do. He never doubted the call.

What he too often doubted was humanity. He used to enjoy the Sacrament of Confession; now it had become a chore, a punishment. He had nightmares about his parishioners. He’d been thinking of asking for a sabbatical because he didn’t know if being a parish priest was his calling. There were other ways to serve. Ways that didn’t leave him with sleepless nights.

He didn’t like the secrets he was forced to keep. He understood that it was Jesus who forgave, that he was only the vehicle, but he couldn’t unhear sins. He prayed and begged God to take the images that were in his head. Sometimes it worked.

Mostly, it didn’t.

The light went on as the next parishioner stepped in. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen months since my last confession.”

The voice was young, male, and familiar. One of the students at the school.

Mateo said a brief prayer and asked the boy what he wanted Jesus to forgive.

“My friend was murdered and I didn’t stop it.”

Mateo’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard a child confess to witnessing a violent crime.

“What happened, son?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You’re not telling me. You’re telling God.”

“I stole something that didn’t belong to me. I gave it back, but my friend was killed because of what I did.”

Killed? A child was killed?

“Have you gone to the police? Told a parent?”

“I can’t. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to die and I don’t want to go to Hell.”

“Son, you did not kill your friend.”

“I’ve killed others. Other people. People I didn’t know. I was weak. I should have said no but I was so scared. I would have died if I said no. I’m not scared anymore.”

Michael.
It was Michael, Mateo knew it was the boy who had run away. What had happened to him?

“Son,” Mateo said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Are you confessing to taking a human life?”

“Yes. Six. I didn’t want to. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Because you want to repent.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. We all deserve forgiveness. God forgives.”

“I have to go.”

“Please—Michael—”

“Don’t, Father. I don’t want anyone else hurt. You can’t tell anyone I was here. You can’t!”

“Your mother, Olive, she’s worried.”

“You can’t say anything!” He was crying, and Mateo wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in this damn booth. He almost cursed God for what he had to endure, what he had promised to uphold. He understood the principle, he respected the reasons, but this was a boy who was suffering, and Mateo couldn’t do anything but talk.

“Okay, Michael, I won’t say a word. God knows what’s in your heart, He knows that you’re repenting. Pray for guidance, pray for strength. You only need to ask for my help and I will give it.”

Michael didn’t say anything, but the light was on, so Mateo knew he was still there.

“I left Olive a note,” Michael finally said. “Father, I am sorry for everything I’ve done. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I’m not scared anymore.”

He sounded terrified.

“I have to go back. There’s only one thing I can do to fix this.”

“You’ve done it. You’ve asked for forgiveness.”

“You don’t understand.”

But Mateo did. He understood more than Michael could know.

“Please give me absolution, Father.”

Mateo gave the boy absolution. Then he said, “Absolution is for past sins. Not future sins. Michael, think about what you plan to do. There is always someone who can help.”

The light went out. Michael was gone.

CHAPTER 5

Ryan followed Lucy to Olmos Park, an older, exclusive neighborhood only ten minutes from FBI headquarters. She pulled into the garage, then walked around the front to greet Ryan on the tiled front path. Ryan whistled softly. “Nate was right.”