Cry Mercy (2 page)

“A-hem.” Someone coughed nearby.

“Oh. Right. And Father Kevin Burch,” Robert grinned. “He doesn't have any law enforcement experience, but he'll be trying to channel some divine guidance.”

On the sidelines, Kevin laughed.

“You're saying you'll work on one case each month. Is that how long you're giving yourselves to solve a case? One month?” one of the local TV anchors asked.

“We will work each case until it's solved or until we or the applicant feels the investigation has run its course and is no longer productive.” Robert stacked the index cards containing his few notes on the podium. “Look, I of all people know that there are some cases that will never be solved. Some missing persons will never be found, some killers will never be brought to justice. But we'll do our best on every case. For some victims, there will be justice. For some families, there will be closure.”

“How much staff do you anticipate?”

“We'll grow as we need to. Right now, we have only one investigator, but she's going to have her hands full evaluating the submissions. We're going to have to hire at least one more immediately just to take on the first case.” He looked directly into the camera and added, “We're looking for law enforcement personnel with experience in all avenues. Crime-scene investigators, crime-scene analysts and reconstruction experts, criminologists, profilers—we'll need them
all, sooner or later. I'm also hoping to set up our own lab within the next year so that we can analyze evidence on our own without being a burden to the state and county labs. So if you're tops in your field and you're looking for a real challenge, go to our website and fill out an application.”

“That's pretty ambitious,” someone in the crowd noted.

“Yes.” Robert smiled. “We know.”

“When will you start hiring?”

“We'll begin the interview process with our first strong applicant. We intend to be well on our way to being fully staffed within six to nine months.”

The conference lasted another half hour, with Robert fielding questions and repeating the website address several times for prospective applicants for the foundation's services as well as for potential employees. The young man from the PR firm passed out copies of the press release, and when the last question had been asked and answered, Robert waved to the crowd from the front porch before retreating into his house with his small inner circle.

“How soon do you think before we'll start hearing from people?” Mallory asked as she closed the door behind them.

“Before Trula gets the coffee made,” Robert replied. “You're going to be a very busy woman over the next few weeks.”

“Good.” She smiled and followed the others into the large kitchen at the back of the house. “I like busy. I
need
busy. I can hardly wait.”

“You won't have to,” Trula said. “I just heard a
‘ping’ on the computer over there on the desk. That's one of the computers Robert had set up to receive email only through the website.”

She pulled out a chair and gestured for Mallory to take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable, honey. I think you're going to be working late tonight…”

•

In Southern California, a woman leaned closer to her television and listened with great interest to the midday press conference she'd found by accident while channel surfing, wasting time until she had to pick up her daughter at preschool. Intrigued, she went to the Mercy Street Foundation website and read about Robert Magellan's latest brainstorm. Using Magellan Express, the Internet search engine he'd developed and later sold for a king's ransom, she typed in
Conroy, PA, and
found it to be a small, working-class city surrounded by farms and gently rolling hills. She studied the photographs and liked what she saw. Returning to the website for the foundation, she filled out the online application for employment, but hesitated when it came to submitting it.

A conversation she'd had in the wee hours of that morning came back to her in full force, a conversation that had set her on edge and had made the prospect of a change—one involving a quick relocation—more appealing than it might otherwise have been.

Fifteen minutes later, she was still deliberating whether to submit the application, when the sound of a slamming car door drew her attention to the street outside. In this mostly blue-collar neighborhood, there was little traffic during the afternoon hours. She
rose and peered through the front window, and her blood froze in her veins. A late model car was parked directly across the street, and two men were standing next to it on the sidewalk, their gaze fixed on her house.

She knew what they were there for, even if she did not know their names. It had been less than eight hours since she'd been warned, and once warned, she'd been a fool to think there'd be time.

Turning back to the laptop, she made one quick change on the application before hitting send.

Almost without thinking, she ran up the steps. Practically diving into her closet, she dragged out the large duffel bag she'd kept packed for just such a day. She ran across the hall into her daughter's room where she grabbed a few things she knew they could not leave behind—Chucky the dog and Buggy the glowworm—then slipped back downstairs. The men were still there, debating, perhaps, the likelihood of finding her home in the middle of the day. She picked up her laptop from the sofa and hurried into the kitchen. Grabbing her handbag from the counter, she shoved in her Glock and grabbed a plastic bag from the pantry. She stuffed in her daughter's things then quietly passed through the back door into the yard.

Her heart pounding, she ran the length of the backyard to the alley behind her house where she'd parked her car. Driving carefully to make certain she was not being followed, she took a roundabout way to her daughter's preschool. She parked on a side street, out of view of the front of the building, took a deep calming breath, and entered through a side door, just in case.

Once inside, she waved to the head teacher, indicating that she'd arrived to pick up her daughter.

“Hey, you're early today,” the teacher said.

“Just a little.” She searched the group for her child.

“Chloe Nolan, your mommy's here,” the teacher called into the next room.

A tiny girl with dark curls and darker skin, yellow paint on her clothes and her cheek, skipped through the doorway.

“Can I go home with Natalie today?” The little girl flung herself onto her mother's legs and held on. “Please?”

“Not today, sweetie,” her mother replied softly. “Go get your things and tell Natalie maybe another day.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We'll see.”

“We'll see
means no.” Chloe pouted.

“It means, we'll see what tomorrow brings. And we will. So go get your things now and—”

“I have my things. There, by the door.” The girl pointed to the pile of backpacks.

“Say good-bye to your teacher, then, and let's go.”

“Bye, Miss Maria. Bye, Natalie. Bye, Kelly.” The little girl's voice trailed off as she picked up her belongings. Reaching up to hold her mother's hand, she babbled brightly all the way to the car.

“Are we going home?” Chloe asked as she strapped herself into her seat.

“We're going to Aunt Steffie's for a while.”

“Are we eating dinner there?”

“We might even stay all night.”

“Yay! I get to play with Mr. Mustache.” Chloe's small feet kicked the seat gleefully. “He's my favorite cat in the whole entire world.”

“He's a pretty special cat, all right,” her mother agreed.

“Mommy, are you having a bad day?”

“Why? Do I look like I'm having a bad day?”

“You're not smiling.”

She forced the biggest smile she could muster.

“Better?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” Chloe agreed.

She took the long way to her friend Stephanie's house, and parked two blocks away. She gathered up the things she'd brought with her, and locked the door. She'd have to remember to ask Steffie to have the car towed to the police impound lot for safekeeping.

“Why do we have to walk so far?” Chloe grumbled as she trudged along, lugging her backpack.

“Because it's a good day for a walk, and we want to see what we can see.”

“It's cold,” Chloe complained.

“Then we'll cross and walk on the sunny side of the street.” She remembered there used to be a song about that, but she couldn't remember the words. Someone used to sing it to her, long ago, but she didn't remember who. “But we're almost there already. See? Just three more houses and we're there.”

They crossed the street and walked up the driveway to the backyard.

“Her car's not here. She isn't home.” Chloe looked as if she were about to cry.

“She'll be here soon.”

“What if she isn't? We'll have to walk all the way back to the car…” Chloe's eyes widened dramatically at the thought.

“She said she'd be home by … oh, there she is, see? I told you.”

The blue and white Crown Victoria pulled slowly into the driveway and parked. A tall woman in her early forties got out. If she was surprised to see she had visitors, Chief Stephanie Jenkins of the Silver Hills, California, police department didn't show it.

“Hey, cuteness,” she called to Chloe. “What's happening?”

“I'm happening,” Chloe grinned.

“You bet your buttons you are.” She kissed the top of the child's head. “Come on inside. Let's see what old Mr. Mustache is up to. I'll bet he's sleeping like a big old slug.”

“Mommy said we might eat dinner here and maybe sleep here, too.” Chloe dropped her backpack inside the door and took off in search of the cat.

“Mi casa es su casa,”
Steffie told her.

“What?” Chloe turned to ask.

“It means, my house is your house. That means you are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“Yay.” Chloe grinned happily. “Does that mean that your cat is my cat, too?”

“Sure enough, sugar.”

No words had yet been exchanged between the two women. It wasn't until after Chloe was sleeping snugly in the guest bedroom, the old gray tom curled up contentedly beside her, that Steffie handed her old friend a glass of wine and said, “Okay, spill.”

“I brought in a hooker late last night for solicitation.”

“And that would be news because …?”

“She offered to trade some information with me in exchange for not booking her.”

“By the look on your face, I'd say she had something big to trade.” Steffie tucked her legs under her on the sofa.

“She told me that Anthony Navarro knows that the child I adopted four years ago is his daughter, and he's coming after her.” Her friend nodded slowly. “I'd say that was big.”

“You think she knows what she's talking about?”

“You think there's any chance she could have made that up and, just coincidentally, got the facts right?”

“Okay, so we pick him up—”

“First, you have to find him. Stef, you've been after him for years, and you haven't come close.”

“So we look a little harder while we wait for him to show.”

“He won't be coming himself. He won't have to. He's offered twenty-five thousand dollars to the person who brings him his daughter.”

Steffie whistled. “Jesus. He's serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

“So we pick up whoever he sends—”

“They'll just keep on coming, Steffie. He wants his daughter.”

“Why?”

“The word on the street is, eight months ago, he had measles. It left him sterile. No more baby Navarros.”

“So he wants the one he had with … wait a minute, how did he find out who adopted her? Tameka died while she was in prison. The court terminated his rights because he never showed up at any of the hearings. How all of a sudden does he know who has his kid?”

“He bribed someone at children's services. This hooker this morning, she knew the whole story, Stef. She even knew the name of Chloe's birth mother.”

“Well, shit.” Steffie stood and began to pace. After a moment, she said, “Okay, we do this. We stake out your house—”

“You'll have to get in line. It's already being staked out.”

“You know this for certain?”

“I saw them. Two of them, parked right across the street from my house.”

“When was this?”

“They were there when I left to pick up Chloe from school. Which is why I left when I did, and why I came here instead of going home.”

“You think Navarro sent them?”

“I'd bet my life on it. I won't bet Chloe's.”

Steffie reached for the radio she had strapped onto her waistband, but her friend stopped her.

“Uh-uh. It won't do any good, Stef. It won't stop until he gets her. He'll get her at her school or he'll have someone come into the house in the middle of the night, but he will get her.” She shook her head, her face white with fear. “As long as we're here, and he knows we're here, it won't stop. There aren't enough police in this part of the state to take on his
whole family, and he won't care how many of us or how many of them die.”

“So we call in the FBI.”

“Steffie, the FBI has been after him for longer than you have.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Let me tell you what I saw on TV this afternoon…” She related what she'd heard and what she'd learned from the Mercy Street Foundation website.

“You're thinking about applying?”

“I already did, online.”

“You're just going to pack up and move East?”

“No time to pack.” She shook her head. “I don't dare go back to the house, Stef. I have to protect my daughter. No way can I let that animal or any of his relatives get within a country mile of her. I've always had a bag packed with clothes and cash and some things I couldn't leave behind. Chloe's baby pictures … some of her baby things.”

“What made you think you'd need to do that?”

“I spent my entire childhood on the move. I've never felt that anyplace, anything in my life was permanent. Which is why I rented, instead of buying that house.”

“Give me a few days to see what we can do.”

“There's nothing you can do. No one's gotten close to him, ever. No one knows where he is. He has a huge network, his brothers, his sisters, his cousins, his uncles. We're talking about one of the biggest drug families operating between Mexico and Southern California.”