Cry No More (16 page)

She was doing what women always did, she realized: obsessing. She should put him out of her mind, concentrate on controlling herself and doing what had to be done every day. The day-to-day business at Finders was way more important than her libido.

While driving to work, she put in a call to Susanna’s office, only to be told, after holding for five minutes while she threaded her way through heavy morning traffic, that Susanna wanted her to come in for a checkup, since it had been two years since the last one.

Damn. Sighing, Milla made an appointment, scribbled the date on her note reminding her to call Susanna in the first place, and hoped she’d be in town to keep the appointment.

The first thing she saw when she entered the office was Brian hanging over Olivia’s desk. But his voice was only a murmur, and his eyes had that intent, sleepy look men got when they—

Her eyes widened, and she shot a disbelieving look at Olivia, who was leaning forward with her arms folded on top of her desk, which pushed her breasts together and upward. She was smiling up at Brian.

So it wasn’t just her, Milla thought. Lust was busting out all over.

Joann stuck her head out of her office. “Amber Alert in Lubbock!”

Within a minute they all had descriptions of the child, a three-year-old girl snatched from her front yard; the vehicle, a dark green, late model Ford pickup; and the driver, white male, early thirties, long blond hair. The Lubbock police would handle the actual apprehension, but Finders called all their associates in the Lubbock area and got them on the streets and highways, armed with cell phones and a description of the truck and driver. People going about their daily business might be listening to tapes or CDs and not hear the alert over the radio, or just be remarkably inattentive to what was going on around them.

Forty-five tense minutes later, the truck was spotted and police notified. The driver, when a cruiser flashed his lights at him, pulled over without fuss. It turned out to be a dispute between a divorced couple, the little girl was his daughter, and not only was she happy to be with her daddy, she began crying when the officers took her away from him.

“People,” Milla said in disgust, lightly banging her head against her desk. “Why do they do that to their kids?”

“Because,” was Joann’s informative answer. Then she caught her breath in an audible gasp. “Guess who just walked in,” she said in a high, squeaky tone.

Milla raised her head, her heart already thumping as she watched Diaz walk toward her office with that catlike tread of his. Heads were turning, watching him, and conversation stuttered to a halt in his wake. Brian stood up, his attention on high alert as he automatically reacted to the presence of a predator in his group. He recognized Diaz, surely, from the search for little Max the week before, but that didn’t seem to make any difference.

Diaz stopped in her office doorway, turning slightly to the side so he couldn’t be approached unawares from the rear. “Let’s take a trip over the border,” he said. His face was set in its usual emotionless mask.

“Right now?”

He shrugged. “If you’re interested.”

She started to ask, “In what?” but he wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t something that concerned Justin.

“I’ll change clothes,” she said, getting to her feet. She was wearing a sundress and sandals.

“You’re fine as you are. We’ll be in Juarez.”

She got her purse, checked to make certain everything she needed was in it, just in case, and said, “Let’s go.”

As they reached the bottom of the outside stairs, he said, “We’ll use my truck,” pointing her toward the dusty blue pickup.

“Are we driving across, or walking?”

“Walking. It’s faster.”

“Should I call and arrange for another car?” she asked as she gathered her skirt and clambered up into the high cab.

“No need. I’ve got another one on the other side.”

“What are we doing? Who are we seeing?”

“Maybe the sister of the man who stabbed you.”

15

They walked across one of the bridges and presented their drivers’ licenses, which was all that was required for tourists staying inside the border free-zone. He hooked his cell phone off his belt and made a brief call; within ten minutes, a grinning teenager drove up in a slightly rusted brown Chevrolet pickup. Diaz passed him a folded twenty-peso banknote, and the teenager tossed him the keys, then turned and took off into the crowd.

This truck sat higher than the other one did, and when she opened the door, she looked for a handle to help her pull herself up. Before she could manage the feat in a skirt, Diaz stepped behind her, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her onto the seat.

She settled herself in the seat and buckled up while he went around and vaulted behind the wheel. She was shaking inside, her nerves knotted. “
Maybe
the man’s sister?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain. We’ll find out.” He leaned over and opened the glove box, took out a big, holstered automatic and laid it on the seat beside him.

“How did you find her?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” he said briefly, and she understood. His informants were his own, as were his methods. She didn’t want to look too closely at either.

He deftly navigated through Juarez’s noisy, crowded streets, going deeper and deeper into a neighborhood so rough she didn’t know whether to weep with pity or duck down in the seat and hide. She was glad Diaz was armed, and she wished she were, too. The streets were narrow and crowded, with ramshackle buildings and shanties pressing in on each side, and trash littering the ground. Sullen-faced men and teenage boys stared at her with unconcealed resentment and vicious intent, but when they noticed the man driving the truck, they quickly looked away.

She said, “I think your reputation precedes you.”

“I’ve been here before.”

And done considerable damage, judging from the way these people were reacting to the sight of him.

Battered and rusty vehicles lined the street Diaz drove on now, but he found a gap big enough to wedge the truck in. He got out, strapped the holster around his thigh, and checked how the automatic was seated. Satisfied, he came around the truck and opened her door. After he lifted Milla down from the seat and locked the doors, he made eye contact with a man sullenly watching them from ten yards away, and made a brief motion with his head.

Warily the man approached. “If my truck is unharmed when we return,” Diaz said in rapid Spanish, “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars, American. If it is harmed, I will find you.”

The man nodded rapidly, and took up his sentry position guarding the truck.

Milla didn’t ask if the precaution was necessary; she knew it was. The pistol, however—“Should you wear the pistol out in the open? What if the Preventivos see you?” They were the Mexican equivalent of regular beat cops.

He snorted. “Look around. Do you think they come here very often? Besides, I want it where everyone can see it, and where I can get to it in a hurry.”

The thigh holster made him look like some modern-day outlaw; even the way he walked—loose-limbed, perfectly balanced—seemed like a throwback to some rougher, more violent time. She could easily imagine him with bandoliers crisscrossed on his chest and a bandanna pulled up to cover the lower half of his face.

He set an easy pace as he wound through a warren of increasingly small and nasty alleys. She clutched her bag tightly in front of her and stayed close to him, but he must not have thought she was staying close enough, because he reached out with his left hand and caught her right wrist, pulling her to him. He tucked her hand inside his belt. “Hold on, and don’t stray.”

As if, she thought.

She tried to watch where she stepped; since she was wearing sandals, she was doubly concerned. Evidently his definition of “You’re fine as you are” differed from hers. She would much rather be wearing pants and boots—and a Kevlar vest, if she had the choice—while she waded through trash and other things she didn’t stop to identify.

His right hand was on the butt of the pistol, not gripping it, just resting lightly in a way that said he was ready to use it. He turned down an alley even narrower than all the rest and came to a door that had once been painted blue, but only specks of paint remained, and some holes in it had been patched with pieces of cardboard that were duct-taped in place. He rapped on the rotted wood frame, and waited.

She heard scuffling noises from inside; then the door opened a tiny crack and one dark eye peered out. The owner of the eye made a muffled sound of alarm, as if she recognized him.

“Lola Guerrero,” he said, the tone of his voice making it a command.

“Si,”
the woman said cautiously.

Diaz reached out and pushed the door open. The woman squeaked a protest and retreated a few steps, but when he didn’t come into her home, she hesitated, looking back at him. He didn’t say anything, just waited. The light was dim inside the little room, but still Milla could see the anxious look the woman darted at her. Perhaps she was reassured by the presence of another woman, though, because she muttered,
“Pase,”
and motioned them inside.

The smell inside was sour. A single naked lightbulb burned in a small lamp in a corner, and an old electric fan with metal blades and no guard whirred noisily as it stirred the air. Lola herself looked to be in her mid- to late sixties, with plump, shiny skin that said her room might be a dump but she was getting enough to eat.

More money appeared in Diaz’s hand, and he offered it to the woman. Warily she eyed his outstretched hand, then snatched the money as if afraid he would think better of offering it. “You have a brother,” he said in Spanish. “Lorenzo.”

He had an interesting interrogation technique, Milla thought. He didn’t ask questions; he made statements, as if he already knew the facts.

A bitter expression crossed the woman’s face. “He is dead.”

Milla was still holding Diaz’s belt, and her hand tightened convulsively on the leather. So this was another trail that led only to a blank wall. She bowed her head, fighting the urge to howl in pain and protest. As if sensing her distress, Diaz reached back and pulled her to his side, tucking her within the circle of his arm and absently patting her shoulder.

“Lorenzo worked with a man named Arturo Pavón.”

Lola nodded, and spat on the floor, which made Milla think even less of her housekeeping than before. Hatred darkened Lola’s face. A flood of Spanish poured out, too fast for Milla to completely follow, but she gathered that Pavón had either killed Lorenzo or been the cause of his death, and that Pavón was one of any number of unsavory animals who performed sexual acts with assorted other animals and also with his mother.

Lola Guerrero didn’t like Pavón.

When Lola’s invective finally ran down, Diaz said, “Ten years ago this woman’s baby was stolen by Pavón.”

Lola’s gaze darted to Milla, and Lola said softly, “I am sorry, señora.”

“Gracias.”
Lola must have children of her own; her gaze had carried the instant, almost universal link between mothers that said,
I understand this pain
.

“She was injured in the attack, stabbed in the back by a man I believe was Lorenzo,” Diaz continued. “Your brother was known for his knife work; his specialty was going for a kidney.”

Oh, my God. Milla shuddered at the realization that the man who’d stabbed her had been
trying
to hit her kidney. She wanted to bury her face in Diaz’s shoulder, shut out the ugliness that surrounded her.

Diaz paused, his cold eyes raking over Lola. “You used to care for the babies who were stolen,” he said. Milla went rigid, her head snapping up. Lola had been
part
of the gang? The woman’s expression hadn’t been one of commiseration, but of guilt. Milla heard a low growl, and in shock realized it came from her own throat. Diaz’s arm tightened around her, clamping her to his side and preventing her from moving.

“My friend clawed out Pavón’s eye as she was fighting for her baby. Lorenzo would at least have told you about it, even if you did not see Pavón yourself. You would remember this, remember the baby.”

Lola’s gaze darted from Diaz to Milla and back, as if she was trying to decide who was the greatest threat. Like all rodents, she had a sound instinct for preservation, and decided on Diaz. She stared at him, frozen in alarm that he knew so much. She would have lied; Milla saw her consider it, saw the thoughts chasing across her expression as clearly as if she spoke aloud. But Diaz stood as still as a rock, waiting, and Lola had no way of knowing what he already knew and what he didn’t. Either way, she must have figured he would see through any lie. She swallowed, and muttered, “I remember.”

“What did you do with the baby?”

Milla’s nails dug into his chest as she waited, unable to breathe, for the answer.

“There were five of them,” Lola said. “They were flown across the border that day. The gringo baby was the last one brought in.” She spared a cautious look at Milla. “There was much trouble about him; the police were looking for him; we could not wait.”

Flown
out. Milla squeezed her eyes shut. “Did the plane crash?” she asked in a hoarse tone.

Lola brightened at being able to impart some good news. “No, no, that was later. Different babies.”

Not Justin
. He was alive. Alive! After all these years, she finally knew for certain. A sob caught in her throat and now she did bury her head against Diaz, almost breaking down at the release of an unspoken, unceasing tension that had held her for ten years. He made a low, wordless sound of comfort, then returned his attention to Lola.

“Who was in charge of stealing the babies? Who owned the plane? Who paid you?”

She blinked at the barrage of questions. “Lorenzo paid me. I was paid from his portion.”

“Who was the boss?”

She shook her head. “That I do not know. He was a rich gringo; he owned the plane. But I never saw him, or heard his name. Lorenzo was very careful; he said his throat would be cut if he told. This gringo, he told Pavón how many babies he needed, and Pavón found them.”

“
Stole
them,” Milla corrected violently, her voice muffled against Diaz’s shirt.

“What happened to Lorenzo?” Diaz asked.

“His throat was cut,
señor
. By Pavón. Just as he said it would be. He did not talk to me, but he must have said something to someone else. Lorenzo, he was always stupid. His throat was cut as a warning to others not to talk.”

“Who else knew anything about the rich gringo?”

Lola shook her head. “I knew only Lorenzo, and Pavón. They said it was best. I do know there was another woman helping them, a
gringa
, but they never said her name. She did something with the paperwork that said where the babies were born.”

“Do you know where she was? What state?”

Lola waved a vague hand. “Across the border. Not Texas.”

“New Mexico?”

“Perhaps. I don’t remember. Sometimes I tried not to listen,
señor
.”

“Do you know where the rich gringo lived?”

Alarm flashed across her face. “No, no. I know nothing about him.”

“You heard something.”

“Truly, no. Lorenzo thought he lived in Texas, perhaps even El Paso, but he did not know for certain. Pavón knows, but Lorenzo never did.”

“Have you heard where Pavón might be?”

Lola spat again. “I have no interest in that pig.”

“Take an interest,” Diaz advised her. “I will perhaps feel more friendly if you have information about Pavón when I return.”

Lola looked horrified at the idea of Diaz returning. She looked wildly around her cluttered, nasty, dark little room, as if wondering how fast she could pack up her things and disappear.

Diaz gave a slight shrug. “You can run,” he said. “But why bother? If I want to find you, Lola Guerrero, I will. Eventually. And I never forget who helps me, and who does not.”

Lola nodded her head very fast. “I understand,
señor
. I will be here. And I will listen for news.”

“Do that.” Diaz loosened his arm that was around Milla, turning her toward the door.

Milla dug in her heels, glancing back at the woman who had helped steal her baby. “How could you do it?” she asked, pain lacing every word. “How could you help them steal children from their mothers?”

Lola shrugged. “I am a mother, too,
señora
. I am poor. I needed the money to feed my own babies.”

She was lying. As old as Lola was now, even ten years ago her youngest child would have been, if not grown, at least an adolescent. Milla stared at her, frozen in place by fury that roared through her with the force of an avalanche. She could have at least understood if there
had
been babies to feed, but obviously Lola had done it purely for the money. This was no victim, no poor and desperate mother doing whatever she could to feed her children. This woman was as bad as her brother Lorenzo, as Pavón. She had been part and parcel of the scheme, a willing participant in robbing grieving mothers all over Mexico of their babies.

“You lying
bitch
,” Milla said through clenched teeth, and hurled herself toward the woman.

She must have telegraphed her intentions, because Lola sidestepped and quick as a flash had Milla’s arm twisted up behind her and a knife at her neck. “Stupid,” she hissed in Milla’s ear, and the knife pressed harder. Milla felt the cold sting on her neck.

Then there was a faint
snick
, the sound of a safety being thumbed off, and Lola froze in place.

“It seems your family has a propensity for the knife,” Diaz said very softly, his voice scarcely more than a rustle. “Mine, however, has a propensity for bullets.”

Off balance in more ways than one, Milla cut her eyes to the left and saw Diaz holding that big pistol flush against Lola’s temple. There was no quiver in his hand, no uncertainty in his eyes; instead they were narrowed in cold rage. “You have to the count of one to drop the knife. On—”

He didn’t wait even that long for her to drop it. His left hand snaked out, caught Lola’s hand, and twisted it down and away from Milla. There was an odd sound like a brittle branch snapping and Lola went rigid, a long, strangled moan reverberating in her throat. The knife clattered to the filthy floor and that lightning-fast hand transferred to Milla, snatching her to his side, holding her there with an iron grip on her arm. All the while the pistol in his right hand remained pointed at Lola’s head.