It was a call to battle stations. Within seconds, they were all on the phone, raising their army of volunteers in the San Clemente and surrounding sectors, getting people on the freeways and highways, searching for the vehicle in question, a blue Honda Accord. According to witnesses, a man had grabbed a twelve-year-old girl in a fast-food parking lot and shoved her into his car. One woman had managed to get a partial on the license plate as the car fishtailed out of the parking lot.
With that information, the Finders would set up observation points, people with binoculars who searched for blue Honda Accords with a man driving. When one was spotted, information was relayed to the Finders in vehicles who would zero in on the car and check the license plate. Finders didn’t try to apprehend; if they located the vehicle, they would in turn notify the area law enforcement and let them take over.
Milla checked the time: eight forty-three in California. Traffic would be very heavy, which might or might not help. If a commuter was listening to his radio, he would hear the Amber Alert, but if he was playing a CD or listening to an MP5, he wouldn’t; he would just be in the way.
She shoved last night’s events away, and concentrated on recovering the little girl in California while she was still alive.
She hadn’t been able to do this for her own child, but she could do it for someone else’s.
5
The fund-raiser that night was held in a local high school gymnasium. Finders generally didn’t rate a black-tie event, which suited Milla, though occasionally she found herself at more ritzy affairs. She had invested in one suitable evening gown, which meant it cost the earth, but she didn’t want to spend the money to buy more than that one. She did have several good cocktail dresses, and tonight she wore her favorite, needing that pick-me-up to keep her going when she was so tired. The ice blue did wonders for her warm complexion, and the shoes that went with the dress were comfortable enough that she wasn’t in agony by evening’s end.
She had left the office a couple of hours early and spent the time pampering herself: facial, manicure, pedicure. She even fit in a short nap, which would keep her going for several more hours. She fussed with her curly hair and, though she never quite managed to tame it, did at least achieve a style that said it was intentional. The facial had brightened her complexion and made her look less tired, and she used a gentle makeup job to soften her face even more. Perfume, hosiery, jewelry—she loved the ritual of it all, the way it made her feel. She so seldom had the opportunity to indulge in being overtly feminine that she reveled in the fund-raiser occasions. They were crucial to Finders’ financial health, but in a more subtle way they were just as crucial to her mental health.
She drove her six-year-old white Toyota SUV to the high school, where the parking lot was already filling with an assortment of cars, trucks, and SUVs, with the latter two far outnumbering the cars. Well-dressed people were walking purposefully toward the gym, because only an idiot stood out in the heat in El Paso in August. Even though the sun had gone down and twilight was gathering, in the short walk to the gym Milla felt perspiration gathering between her breasts.
She always came alone to these fund-raisers, though she could easily have asked Brian or any of the other men who worked at Finders to accompany her. For one thing, fund-raisers were deadly dull and she didn’t want to inflict them on anyone else. For another, she was always painfully aware of how she appeared to the people whom she was asking to give money to her cause.
The facts of her particular case were well known, that her baby had been stolen and a year later her marriage had broken under the strain, that she had devoted her life since to searching not only for her child but for other lost ones, too. For some reason, the fact that she was solitary seemed to loosen purse strings. If she started attending fund-raisers with a different man every time, people might begin to think she was spending more time dating than attending to business. When you stayed in business by begging money from these same people, what they thought was important.
She opened one of the heavy double doors to the gym and stepped into blessed cool air. Round tables that seated eight to ten each had been set up on the gymnasium floor, which had been covered with green felt to prevent it from being scuffed and dented. The tables had been covered with white tablecloths, the place settings and napkins precisely arranged, and fresh flowers stood in the middle of each table. At the head of the room was a long table on a makeshift dais, and a podium. She would be sitting up there with the organizers of the event, the mayor, and the social lights of El Paso who made an effort to help.
She always spoke at these events, and after so many years she no longer needed prepared notes. Her speech was always essentially the same, though details might change; she always told about searches Finders had made, with both good and bad endings. The good ending was to illustrate that Finders provided a beneficial service; the bad ending was to illustrate that, with proper funding, they could do even better. Tonight, Tiera Alverson was very much on her mind. A fourteen-year-old girl shouldn’t end her life in a dingy, roach-infested dump, her veins fried with drugs.
Smiling, speaking to people she knew, she began making her way toward the dais. She was about halfway there when a hard, warm hand closed over her elbow to bring her to a halt, then immediately released her. She turned and smiled when she met True Gallagher’s narrow, dark gaze. “Hello, True, how are you?”
“You look tired,” he said bluntly, ignoring the social niceties.
“Thanks,” she replied, her tone wry. “Now I know I wasted a lot of effort.”
“I didn’t say you look bad. I said you look tired.”
“Yeah, but the effort was to make me look less tired.”
“Maybe it worked.” He surveyed her with his shrewd gaze. “Just how tired are you?”
“Exhausted,” she said, and smiled.
“Then it worked.”
True was a self-made businessman, a man who had clawed his way out of poverty, and the struggle had made him into a powerful man. That power was still more in the force of his personality than it was in his financial base, but she had no doubt True Gallagher would die a multimillionaire. He was determined and ruthless, and he didn’t allow anything to get in his way. Yet from the time he first began enjoying some success, he had been interested in Finders and was one of their steadiest donors.
She didn’t know how old True was; he could have been anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five. His face was darkly tanned and weathered by long hours in the west Texas sun, his build was still lean and strong. He was tall, about six-three or -four, and possessed of an animal magnetism that women automatically noticed. Sometimes he brought a date to these events, but just as often he attended alone. Since he didn’t have Miss August clinging to his arm, Milla assumed this was one of his stag appearances.
“Long night?” he asked, a hand on her back urging her to continue to the front of the room and falling into step beside her.
“Last night was. I hope tonight is quieter.”
“What happened?”
She wasn’t about to do a recital of the entire evening. Instead she said, “It was a bad day. We found the runaway we were looking for, but she was dead.”
“Yeah, that’s tough. How old was she?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s a hard age. Everything feels like the end of the world, and you can’t reason with someone who can’t see tomorrow.”
She couldn’t imagine True Gallagher ever suffering from teenage angst, or drug addiction, or any other weakness. She was surprised he even knew about them. He was like ironwood, impervious to his surroundings.
His strength drew her. She enjoyed the not-quite-flirting banter with him, though she was always careful to keep from crossing the line. He was an influential sponsor, and ever letting their relationship become personal would be immensely stupid of her. Business didn’t mix very well with pleasure under the best of circumstances; when she depended in part on his largesse to keep Find
ers operating, having a brief fling with him would have been a recipe for disaster.
Besides, right now she didn’t have time for a fling, brief or otherwise. Not only was she incapable of giving her full attention to a romance, her job dictated that she travel a lot. She had tried dating, off and on, since her divorce; if the man was remotely interested in her, he didn’t like the amount of time she spent out of town. Unfortunately, that wasn’t something she would compromise on, period. She had tried having a couple of affairs, only to have them wither from neglect. She had eventually come to the conclusion that it wasn’t fair to either the man or herself to waste his time and hers until the day came when she could devote herself to something other than searching for Justin.
And in her heart, she knew she hadn’t yet met a man who could measure up to David in her affections. She was no longer in love with him—time and life had taken care of that—but a part of her would always love him for the man he was. She didn’t pine for him; she didn’t lie awake at night yearning for him. There was a stark line of demarcation in her life, and David belonged on the other side of the line. But she knew what it was to love, and no one since had kindled that kind of emotion in her.
True Gallagher was thinking of trying. She sensed it, the way women always know those things. The truth was in the way he touched her—always in a public, proper way—but still touching her. He hadn’t yet made the effort to take their relationship further, but the thought lay there, in the back of his mind. She had no doubt he would eventually get around to trying.
And she would have to find some graceful way of refusing him that wouldn’t harm Finders.
The gym was rapidly filling, and Marcia Gonzalez, the chief organizer of the event, was motioning to her and True to take their seats. Milla slid into the seat True held out for her, next to the podium, and somehow she wasn’t surprised when he took the seat next to hers. She automatically tucked her legs to the side so there couldn’t be any accidental brushes of his leg against hers.
The catering service began delivering the plates of rubber chicken and green beans that were de rigueur for fund-raisers. The chicken was roasted, the green beans had slivers of almonds in them, the rolls were dry. She would have preferred a taco, a hamburger, anything other than more chicken and green beans. At least it was a relatively healthy diet, and she was never tempted to overeat.
True stabbed his chicken as if he were imagining killing it. “Why aren’t we ever served roast?” he grumbled. “Or steak?”
“Because a lot of people don’t eat red meat.”
“This is El Paso. Everyone here eats red meat.”
He was probably right, but if anyone in the city didn’t eat red meat, they would be in the crowd who attended charity events. The organizers had wisely played it safe. Unfortunately, safe meant chicken and green beans.
True pulled a small shaker from his suit pocket and began sprinkling something red over his food.
“What’s that?” Milla asked.
“Southwestern spices. Want some?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, please.”
She wasn’t as liberal with the shaker as True had been, but her taste buds wept with gratitude.
“I’ve been carrying that shaker around for a couple of years now,” he admitted. “It’s saved my life.”
The woman on the other side of him leaned around. “May I borrow it?” she asked, and soon the shaker was making its way down the table, people were smiling, and the level of enthusiasm visibly lifted.
Milla eyed his strong face as they ate. There was something about the cast of his features that made her wonder if he was part Hispanic. She did know that he had strong contacts with the Hispanic community, on both sides of the border.
True had grown up in the mean streets. His contacts weren’t with just the movers and shakers, but with the seamier elements as well. She wondered if he would be able to find out anything about Diaz that she couldn’t.
“Have you ever heard anything about a man named Diaz?” she asked.
Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he froze for a split second. “Diaz?” he said. “It’s a common name. I know probably fifty, sixty people named that.”
“This one works the other side of the border. He’s somehow involved with smuggling people across.”
“A coyote.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he actually does it himself.” She hesitated, thinking of Brian’s certainty that the four men last night had been handling a body. “He’s probably a killer, too.”
True took a sip of his water. “Why are you asking about someone like that?”
Because she thought he was the son of a bitch who had stolen her baby. She bit back the words and resorted to her own water glass. “I’ll track anyone who might lead me to Justin,” she finally said.
“So you think this Diaz was involved?”
“I know the man who took Justin has only one eye, because I clawed out the other one.” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “And I think his name is Diaz. It may not be, but the name keeps surfacing. If you could find out anything about a one-eyed man named Diaz, I’d appreciate it.”
“Just having one eye narrows it down. I’ll see what I can learn.”
“Thank you.” She was aware he might use her request as a bridge to other things, but that was a situation she’d have to handle if and when it occurred. He’d heard the name, she thought. Yes, he probably knew a lot of people with the last name of Diaz, but still, it had meant something to him in the context she meant. For some reason he was being cautious, hiding his cards. Maybe he’d had dealings with Diaz in his more disreputable past, and he didn’t want it known.
Dessert was being served, yellow cake with chocolate icing. She waved hers away but accepted coffee. The time was approaching when she would have to speak, and she wanted to gather her thoughts. These people had paid forty dollars a plate for some truly unremarkable food, and some of them would write a separate check to Finders afterward; she could at least give them a coherent speech.
By ten-thirty, speech made, thank-yous offered, and hands shaken, Milla wearily climbed into her vehicle. As she was about to close the door, True called her name and strode over to her.
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked, with no lead-up or preparational flirting, which she greatly appreciated, because she was so tired now she didn’t think she could handle even a mild verbal dance.
“Thank you, but I have another fund-raiser in Dallas tomorrow night.” And she looked forward to it almost as much as she would have looked forward to having a tooth pulled.
“And the day after tomorrow?”
She smiled wryly. “The day after tomorrow, I have no idea where I’ll be. I can’t guarantee anything.”
He let a few moments of silence tick by. “That’s a hard life, Milla. There’s no time for anything personal.”
“Believe me, I know.” She sighed. “I couldn’t go to dinner with you anyway, because of the situation.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“You’re a sponsor of Finders. I can’t risk damaging the organization with my social life.”
Another moment of silence. “You’re honest,” he finally said. “And up front. I admire it, even though I think I’m going to change your mind.”
“I think you’ll try,” she corrected gently.
He laughed, the sound deep and masculine and delicious. “Is that a challenge?”
“No, it’s the truth. Nothing on this earth means as much to me as finding my son, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize that. Period.”
“It’s been ten years.”
“I don’t care if it’s been twenty.” Because she was so tired, her voice was sharper than she’d intended. What he’d stated was too much along the lines of what her brother, Ross, had said to her, that it was time to put it behind her and get on with her life, as if Justin’s life was over and done with, as if love had a time limit on it. “I don’t c
are if it takes the rest of my life.”
“It’s a hard road you’ve set for yourself to travel.”
“It’s the only road I can see.”
He lightly slapped her door and stepped back. “For now. I’ll find out what I can about this Diaz you’re hunting, and get back to you. Until then, be careful.”
That was an odd thing to say. She stared at him, the words penetrating her bone-deep weariness. “You know something, don’t you? About Diaz.”
He didn’t answer directly, instead saying, “I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked toward his own car, and Milla stared after him.
Yes, he definitely knew something. And what he knew must not be good, for him to be warning her to be careful.
A chill ran down her spine despite the heat that lingered even this late at night. She was on the right track. She knew it. And following it might well get her killed.
6
Sometime during the night, Milla woke with a thought crystal clear in her mind: she hadn’t looked at the cell phone display of the number for the call telling her about the meeting in Guadalupe. The number might not be important, but then again . . . it might. Still groggy from fatigue and sleep, she stumbled out of bed and turned on the overhead light, blinking in the painful brightness. She retrieved the phone from her purse, turned it on, then went through the menu to the most recent calls. There it was, and it was an El Paso exchange.
She had already hit redial when she glanced at the clock and saw it was twenty after two. Hastily she pressed the end button. Whoever it was would wait until the morning, and probably be more cooperative for it.
She wrote the number down, turned out the light, and went back to bed. This time she dreamed disjointed fragments that made no sense and were immediately forgotten each time she roused enough to realize she was dreaming. Despite her restless sleep she woke at her usual time, five-thirty, feeling almost normal. Today was Sunday, she realized, the one day of the week she didn’t go to the office—unless something came up. At least half the time, though, something came up. Children didn’t care what day of the week it was when they wandered away from home, nor did kidnappers fret about it.