Broken Lullaby. Pamela Tracy

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      “The drive was fine. Now, why did you bring a cop with you?” Mary spoke the words to Eric but shot the get-off-my-property look at Mitch.

      “He’s not a cop, exactly,” Eric said easily. “Mitch Williams is with Internal Affairs, which means unless you’ve done something bad with a cop or because of a cop, you’re safe.”

      “My mom doesn’t go near cops,” Justin stated. “Me, neither.”

      It was the young boy who helped free Mitch’s tongue. He had the blue-black hair and attitude of the Santellis clan, but from Mitch’s recollection of his run-ins with Eddie, the boy had his father’s stockiness. “So who do you go to when you’re in trouble?” Mitch asked.

      “I go to my mom.”

      Mitch turned to Mary. “And who do you go to when you’re in trouble?”

      She met his gaze head-on. “I distance myself from the problem.”

      Mitch almost grinned. He was pretty sure she was thinking he was going to be a problem.

      “Hey, hey,” Eric butted in. “What’s going on here? You two, stop it. Sis, Mitch is your nearest neighbor. He lives right up there.”

      Mitch watched as Mary warily looked up Prospector’s Way to the only cabin in sight.

      Eric didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. “Mary, I came out early because I wanted to scout out the area. I didn’t know Mitch was even at his place. I’ve been filling him in on a case Ruth is investigating, and he’s willing to help.”

      “What kind of case?” Mary asked carefully. Her son edged a little closer, looking interested.

      Eric continued, “A two-month-old baby boy was kidnapped Sunday in Gila City. We know the family. The local police have done everything they know how to do, but each hour that passes gives whoever took the baby a greater chance of getting away.”

      Mary’s eyes softened and she reached out and put her hand on her son’s shoulder, as if checking to making sure he was really next to her, really safe. She was taking care of her own.

      There was no one who felt that way about Mitch.

      And it was his own fault.

      “They already rule out family members?” she asked.

      “Yes, pretty much.” Eric said. “The mother’s a sixteen-year-old girl, Angelina Santos. Her father, a police officer, died just a year ago. The father is a fifteen-year-old boy. His family’s taking a little bit more time to warm to the idea of being grandparents, but, hey, they had plans for their son.”

      “Sixteen, huh?” Mary said, slowly. “And Hispanic?”

      Eric nodded, and Mitch watched Mary’s face. Something was bothering her and it wasn’t just him. Finally, she continued, “And you’re sure neither family is suspect?”

      “Absolutely sure,” Eric insisted. “The girl’s family attends our church and when little José was—”

      Mary held up her hand for him to stop. “Is the mother way too thin?”

      “Too thin? No,” Eric said, “What makes you ask?”

      “Mom, don’t!” Justin suddenly jerked away from his mother’s hand and turned to face her. His whole face shouted, don’t trust the cop! Stop talking.

      They learned so young, this distrust of the system—a system supposed to help not hurt.

      “Mom, Angelina’s the wrong name. Our girl’s Alma. Don’t tell them anything!”

      Mary shot her son a look that almost made Mitch want to back down. In the silence of the moment and because years of habit told him just what to do, he pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and starting writing down names. “Tell me more about Alma, son,” he urged.

      “Should I show—” Eric started to say.

      “Not yet,” Mitch said. He wanted to see how the story went both before and after showing the drawing.

      Mary glanced at Eric, then began to talk. “We stopped at the car lot on the way here. We were running early and I wanted to see my inheritance. Justin was exploring outside and I started inside. What a mess.”

      “Some things did get taken when we were working on your husband’s case,” Mitch said. “We did a full investigation. We have the books and a few other personal items. I’ll see that they’re returned. Now, tell me more about this Alma.”

      “I heard a moan and went in Eddie’s office. Even though it was over a hundred degrees, I found a young girl in there rolled up in an old blanket. I thought she was dead, but she moved.” Mary looked at Eric. “Made sense to me. When you moved to Broken Bones you found dead bodies, the same could happen to me. But, she moved. She opened her eyes and looked at me and when I threatened to call the police—”

      “Mom would never call the police,” Justin interrupted.

      “—she sat up. She was a teenager, Hispanic. She spoke pretty good English. She was also undernourished.”

      “Is she still at the car lot?” Mitch asked, looking at Eric’s old truck and wishing he’d brought his own vehicle.

      “No, I brought her here. Back at the car lot, she got somewhat hysterical after Justin stomped in.”

      “I didn’t mean to scare her,” Justin defended himself.

      “You didn’t scare her, honey. She fell apart when I told her you were my son.” Mary looked at Eric. “She looked pretty young, maybe sixteen. She told us her name was Alma. Could she be Angelina?”

      “No,” Eric said. “There’s no reason for Angelina to be hiding at the car lot, and I saw her last night. She’s not malnourished.”

      “Did this Alma have an infant with her?” Mitch started for the car.

      Mary yelled after him. “She’s not in there. And, no, she didn’t have an infant with her. I had Justin divert you guys and she slipped away. I told her to hide until you left, but I’m pretty sure she’s not of a mind to come back.”

      Mitch bypassed the car and disappeared behind the cabin.

      “Alma?” Eric shook his head. “That name doesn’t ring a bell as one of our missing children or their mamas.” Then, he took off after Mitch. Justin followed behind.

      “Missing children?” Mary said, although no one, not even Justin, stuck around to listen. “You mean, there’s more than one?”

      THREE

      What a homecoming. Standing behind the cabin, Mary watched Mitch as he studied the ground, moving right, then left, careful where he placed his feet. His crisp brown Dockers blended in well with the scenery. He was definitely a sharp-dressed man. A good-looking one, too, even if he was a cop. He glanced back—not at them but at the location of the sun—pulled СКАЧАТЬ