Dead Heat Read online

  “Thank you for your time,” Ryan said through clenched teeth. He turned to leave.

  Lucy had one more question. “Ms. Diaz, who’s the CPS caseworker for your family?”

  She shrugged. “Hell if I know. They’re all assholes.”

  Lucy and Ryan walked out. Ryan was walking fast to the car. Lucy had to jog to keep up. Ryan had the car running by the time she slid into the passenger seat. As soon as she closed the door, he sped off.

  He didn’t talk driving back to FBI headquarters. Lucy let him stew. She sent Zach all the information they’d learned, and asked him to find out who Richard Diaz’s CPS caseworker was as well as the caseworkers for all the runaways who fit the profile.

  Why had Michael still associated with kids from his old neighborhood? Had he been seeing Richie Diaz all along, or was it recent, right before he ran away?

  She also asked Zach for the files related to Richard Diaz’s disappearance. It couldn’t be a coincidence that both Michael and Richie, from the same old neighborhood, both in foster care, both with incarcerated fathers, had been listed as runaways. But Michael had been gone more than a year, and Richie only six months.

  “It seems that Michael kept at least one of his friendships from his old neighborhood, a relationship that even the Popes didn’t know about,” Lucy said.

  “You saw that woman. Kids who grow up in places like that don’t turn out well.”

  “They can.”

  “Rarely.”

  “I know you’re angry—”

  “Angry? Yes. Furious. And depressed. It’s because of people like Teresa Diaz that I quit the force. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t stand back and let shit happen.” His hands were tight on the steering wheel. “At least here, in the FBI, I thought I was making a difference.”

  “You are.”

  “Not when I have to go through this shit again.”

  She suspected there was more than just Teresa Diaz and her five children bothering Ryan. But he wasn’t talking, and she didn’t want to pry even more. She would, though, when the time was right.

  “The question is,” she asked several minutes later, “why did Michael return to his old neighborhood fourteen months ago? What were he and Richie doing? Were they working together?”

  “And the missing kids keep piling up,” Ryan said. In the parking lot of FBI headquarters, he said, “Can I have a minute? I’m going to call my boys. They should be out of school by now.”

  “Of course.” And that was the crux of the problem. Ryan wanted to be with his kids and he couldn’t.

  * * *

  Being forced to work for Jaime Sanchez for so long, Michael had learned many survival skills. He could hot-wire a car, pickpocket tourists, and hide in plain sight, among other things.

  He was nervous about stealing a car because though he could drive, he looked thirteen. Instead, he walked all Sunday night, taking back roads and quiet neighborhoods, until he reached the Riverwalk. Monday morning it was crowded, which enabled him to grab several wallets from unsuspecting tourists. Purses left open while window shopping. Carts in the grocery store unattended. In less than thirty minutes, he had over three hundred dollars in cash. He dumped the wallets in a mailbox; he had no need for the credit cards. He already felt bad about stealing money from people who might need it, but he was desperate. He couldn’t walk to the border, and he didn’t want to steal a car. He worried about the buses, because Jaime could be staking out the bus station. But that was the best, fastest way to get out of town.

  Michael made his way to the main bus depot. He cleaned up in a public restroom. His clothes were stained, but he couldn’t do anything about that. He looked around, half hiding by leaning against the wall and pretending to listen to music. He’d found broken earbuds in a trash can, but putting them in his ears he fit right in with any other teenager and no one suspected the cord wasn’t connected to an iPod.

  People saw what they expected to see.

  He watched not the crowd, but individuals. Jaime’s people were mostly young guys, in their twenties, some teenagers. Michael knew most of them by sight, but there were always new thugs coming in.

  A crowd of kids walked through. Five girls, a little older than him, chatting at the same time about taking the bus down to the lake. They were playing hooky.

  He took a risk and followed them. They bought their tickets; he bought a ticket on the same bus. He could transfer later, but if he got out of the city, he could breathe a little easier. He still hoped to make it to the border before dark.

  He didn’t know what he would do then. He didn’t have a plan to rescue his friends. He had no weapons, no vehicle—though he could remedy both when he reached Hidalgo. He hoped. He prayed.

  God forgives.

  Father Flannigan didn’t know what he’d done; if he had he would never have told him that. Some things were unforgivable. Michael didn’t know why he’d even gone to St. Catherine’s … it was dumb. Maybe … he just wanted someone to listen. He didn’t know what to do, because he was so scared that if he did what he must, he’d get them all killed. And no one would be able to stop the general.

  You know what to do. You’re a killer. You can do this.

  Michael shuffled his feet behind the girls as they waited in line for the bus. He kept his head low, but moved closer to them, hoping if anyone was watching they would think that he was part of the group, not alone.

  Ten minutes later he was in his seat. And no one stopped him.

  It’s a sign, Michael. A sign that you’re on the right path. Follow it. Hidalgo. Steal a gun. Kill the general.

  It’s the only way to save them.

  CHAPTER 15

  The FBI desk was staffed by a security guard 24/7, and an FBI civilian secretary from eight to five. The on-call desk rotated through all special agents, who worked it in pairs roughly one night every two months.

  Zach’s official hours were from eight to five like the other analysts and support staff, but he often stayed late, so Lucy wasn’t surprised to see him at his desk at five thirty. Likewise, she wasn’t surprised to see half her squad gone, their desks cleared for the next day of work. The workaholics were her, Ryan, Nate, and Kenzie. Kenzie was in the National Guard and had been gone all weekend for her monthly training. Either she and Nate were following up on a lead, or she’d bailed early to catch up on sleep.

  The others in her squad weren’t slackers, but they viewed their job as forty hours a week, with the occasional overtime. Lucy had been raised in a family that worked hard and played hard; she didn’t know what she would do with free time. She’d been trained by an agent in DC who didn’t know the meaning of time off. And Sean? He loved to play, but like her he grew bored if he wasn’t continually challenged.

  Though she missed him, she was glad he had this job in Dallas. He’d sounded happy on the phone, and that made her more relaxed in their relationship. They’d been together for nearly fifteen months, but it still felt new to her because they’d spent so much time apart—Sean’s previous job kept him traveling half the time, and she’d spent nearly five months at Quantico where she’d been lucky to see him every other weekend. The last ten weeks had been the longest consecutive days they’d seen each other since they first met.

  Zach’s fingers were flying over his keyboard. He didn’t look up but said, “Hey, Lucy. You read the file I gave Ryan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I have something big for you. Sit, I’m almost done.”

  He took only another half a minute, then sent off an email and reached over to grab a file behind him. He handed it right to her.

  “Open.”

  She did. Inside was an autopsy report for a twelve-year-old John Doe. He’d been found one month ago, shot in the back of the head and left in a ditch off Interstate 69, near state route 141. Even though he had good dental work and evidence of a break that had healed properly, he was malnourished. He appeared to be Mexican American, but the top of his head was gone, making a
visual identification nearly impossible. The coroner thought he might have been from an affluent family in Mexico. His image had been sent to authorities in border towns, as had his dental impressions.

  “Poor kid,” Lucy said.

  “Look at the photos.”

  Lucy had worked for the medical examiner in DC for over a year and was hardly squeamish about autopsy photos, but she took a breath before turning the page. It was never easy to look at a dead child.

  And she hoped she would never find it easy.

  At first, she didn’t see it. Then it was clear as day.

  “The scar. It’s similar to what Bella drew.”

  Zach nodded. He handed Lucy another file. “I think I identified him.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “I made some assumptions that paid off.” He popped a couple Peanut M&M’s in his mouth and offered her the bag. She took one.

  “Don’t be overly humble.”

  “It was more you than me, I just took it a step farther.” He went on, “When you asked me to run all the kids who may have known Michael within the foster care system, you also asked me to look at runaway statistics. I put the two together.”

  “That’s why you highlighted the missing kids on the list,” she said. “And it helped.”

  “Good. I think this is one of those kids. I checked the missing kids database and plugged in very limited parameters. Wards of the state are given annual dental visits, so I compared dental records of Hispanic males between nine and thirteen, who were wards of the state and went missing within the last two years. I started with nearly a hundred thousand missing kids but was able to narrow it down to less than ten thousand. Only ten percent of them are active cases—runaways are lower priority than abductions, for example.”

  “What you’re trying to say is that there are a lot of cases.”

  “Yes, and I started broad, but then made a few more assumptions. If I was wrong, it would have been a lot of wasted time.”

  “But you weren’t wrong,” she guessed.

  “No. I called in a favor at the lab and had them visually compare the dental records of John Doe against the six missing boys who knew Michael in the foster care system. They won’t put it in writing until the forensic tests are complete, but they confirmed he’s Richard Diaz.”

  Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. “Richard Diaz? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’d rather have better news.”

  “This is no coincidence,” she said. “He and Michael knew each other, they were in the same foster care for three months, they had lived in the same apartment building for several years. And he was seen with Michael the week before Michael disappeared.” She glanced at her notes. “He didn’t go missing until six months ago. Long after Michael. I met his mother today. She was high, but coherent enough. She said Richie and Michael had been friends, and more or less confirmed they’d been there the week before Michael disappeared.”

  “I pulled his records,” Zach said. “Richard was taken from his mother after she was arrested for possession and drug use. She’s been in and out of rehab. Did jail time. Mostly petty stuff—stealing to feed her fix. She put ‘unknown’ under father on the birth certificate. But she hooked up with a guy named Gregor Molina, a low-level drug dealer, when Richard was three. Never married, but she’s on Molina’s visitor list at McConnell.”

  “The same prison Michael’s father is at.”

  “Might be a coincidence, because Molina was convicted two years ago and Rodriguez has been there four years. Molina will be getting out soon—it was a drug charge. Possession with intent, fourth conviction so he got more than a few days.”

  Zach handed her a computer printout. “After I ran the narrow parameters, I broadened the search again. You’d said something else yesterday about kids with parents in prison.”

  “I did?” She honestly didn’t remember.

  “That maybe it was the felons’ relationship with Sanchez that put their kids into the position of being forced to run drugs. Anyway, I identified seventeen boys who might be in a similar situation. Of those seventeen, nine of them have one or both parents in prison for drug-related offenses. Mostly violent—attempted murder, murder, assault. But I focused on cases that had a drug angle, narrowed to San Antonio, and further narrowed to kids in foster care. There could be more than seventeen, but this is a good start.”

  She spontaneously hugged him. “You’re amazing. It would have taken me days to figure this out.”

  “I doubt it, but this is my job.” He grinned and ate another handful of candy before putting the bag in his bottom drawer.

  “Don’t ever let me take you for granted, Zach. You’re indispensable.”

  She took the file to her desk and pulled out the names that Zach had flagged. She reviewed their records, their placement history, their parents, and created a time line of when they’d gone missing. It started eighteen months ago, and Michael was the fourth boy who’d allegedly run away. The most recent was Javier Marshal, a ten-year-old who’d been in three foster homes in nine months before he was presumed to have run away six months ago, almost the same time as Richie. He’d be eleven now.

  She was writing up a report for Juan with the information Zach had uncovered and the additional analysis she did when Ryan approached quietly and startled her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

  “I thought you left.”

  “Yeah, me too. But I wanted to get some paperwork done while it was quiet.”

  “I was just leaving,” Lucy said, though it was the first time she’d thought of it, “as soon as I send this report. Zach’s still here, I think, and I saw Nate come in and out a while ago.”

  “Zach’s been gone for hours. It’s after nine.”

  She looked at the clock on her computer. “Well, dammit.”

  “Sean going to be worried?”

  “He’s in Dallas.” She rubbed her head. No wonder she had a headache—she’d skipped dinner.

  “Give me fifteen minutes, then I’ll walk you out.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Ryan shot her a look. “My mom raised a gentleman. Of course, my two ex-wives wouldn’t agree, but that’s another story.”

  * * *

  Lucy had just hung up from saying good night to Sean when her cell phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number.

  “Kincaid,” she answered.

  “Agent Lucy Kincaid? This is Sergeant Jim Younger with the Bexar County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “The alert you put out Saturday on Michael Rodriguez came up with a hit.”

  She sat up, her fatigue disappearing. “You found him?”

  “No, ma’am, but he’s been captured on video at the Greyhound bus terminal in central San Antonio.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “No, it’s a recording from this morning. We know what bus he boarded and where he got off, and have sent a unit to Braunig Lake Park. They spoke to the kids he appeared to have travelled with, but none of them claimed to have known him. One witness remembers seeing a boy matching his description hitchhiking on Interstate Thirty-Seven at dusk, but couldn’t swear it was the same boy.”

  “North or south?”

  “He was on the southbound side of the turnpike. I have a patrol in the area but we haven’t spotted him. Either he was picked up or he got off the road.”

  “Can you send me the video?”

  “I already sent a copy to the FBI, SAPD, and the DEA, they’ll arrive first thing in the morning. Because he’s a minor, I wanted to call you with the update. I’m sorry we didn’t have it earlier, but there are a lot of feeds to sift through.”

  “No apologies necessary, I appreciate your help, Sergeant.”

  She hung up. Their first solid lead on where Michael had been and where he was going.

  She looked at a map and found the lake, then traced the interstate south. There w
ere several small towns off Interstate 37. It led all the way to Corpus Christi on the coast. Or he could turn off to State Route 281 and head to McAllen, then the Mexican border.

  Where was Michael going? Corpus Christi? The border? Did he plan to disappear in Mexico? Why?

  She squeezed her temples. She didn’t know what his plan was, or why he wasn’t trying to get help. She understood not trusting anyone—but there had to be someone he trusted for help. Is that what he was doing? Heading south to get help? And who?

  Lucy fell into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  The old couple who picked up Michael on the interstate were going home to Corpus Christi. It was out of Michael’s way, but it would be a good place to hide for a day or two. And if anyone was trying to find him, they would have no reason to look there.

  The couple, Mr. and Mrs. Valdez, reminded Michael of Hector and Olive, except they were much older. He sat quietly in the back while they listened to Mexican music. They didn’t speak much English, and he spoke less Spanish, but they were kind. Mrs. Valdez had a hamper in the back with homemade sandwiches, and she told him to eat one. He did. Years ago, he would never have eaten food from strangers. Now it was better than garbage.

  And the sandwiches were very good.

  He made up a story. It was close to the truth. His dad was a deadbeat in prison and his mom had to take odd jobs where she could. She’d found a permanent job in Corpus Christi at a restaurant, but didn’t have a car to get him there. He took a bus partway, but didn’t have enough money to go farther.

  He was in truth hoarding his money, because he might need it to get information. Or buy a gun. Or both. But he also knew that if he took a completely different bus from a completely different town where Jaime wouldn’t know to look, he might be able to sneak into Hidalgo without anyone knowing. He wouldn’t even take the bus there, because Jaime might have people watching the bus depot. He could get a bus to Harlingen, then walk the rest of the way. It was only twenty miles. Or he’d steal a car and dump it in McAllen, then walk to Hidalgo.