The Chase (8 page)

K
ariss had just drifted off into a deep sleep when her phone rang at six a.m. When the ringtone of Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” alerted her the third time, she grabbed her cell off the nightstand, her hand trembling from being wakened. Calls this early were never good news.

“Kariss, this is Tigo. Looks like we’ve identified Cherished Doe.”

Fully awake, she sat up in bed. “Wonderful! How did it happen? Who called the office?” Her heart sped alongside the internal fuel racing through her veins. “You have a name and how she died?”

“We think so. Her father is in Mexico, and we’re working on having him brought here to make the official identification of the little girl and for questioning.”

“Do you think the father killed her?”

“He couldn’t have. The little girl’s death occurred while he was in Mexico.”

“What about the mother?”

“The information about her is vague.” He yawned. “I’ve been here all night, working on pure adrenaline. Too keyed up to head home. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

“I really appreciate this. I know you’re tired, but I have so many questions—”

“I understand. We got a call at 1:07 from a man who claimed to be Cherished Doe’s uncle …” Tigo told her about the call and Gilberto Olvera’s arrival at the FBI office twenty minutes later.

“So what’s next?”

He yawned again. “Want to have breakfast? I could tell you what happened during the questioning.”

She tossed back the coverlet. “Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s an IHOP fifteen minutes from the office. Say forty-five minutes?”

“I know right where that is.” Tigo hung up before she had time to ask any more questions. She headed to the closet and reached for her jeans.

A tingle in her stomach reminded her of the news. Cherished Doe had a name! Slipping her feet into sandals, she grabbed her cosmetic bag. Oh, yes, her laptop needed to go with her. Did the media know about the call made to the FBI? Was anyone in custody?

Although Kariss arrived at the restaurant ten minutes earlier than the scheduled time, Tigo was already at a booth drinking coffee. He waved her over. For a man who’d been up all night, he looked good. But when she scooted into the booth across from him, she could see how bloodshot his eyes were.

A server approached and filled her cup with steaming-hot coffee. They both ordered omelets — his filled with everything imaginable and smothered in cheese, and hers filled with mushrooms and tomatoes.

“Tigo, tell me what happened when Gilberto Olvera arrived at the office.”

“Linc and I showed him the autopsy photos, and he identified Cherished Doe as his niece, Benita Olvera. Her father is his brother, who was deported to Mexico a little over five-and-a-half years ago.”

“Shortly before the child was found.”

“Yes. Gilberto confirmed that the little girl was born with a physical condition that required a feeding tube, and she was alive when her father, Xavier, left the U.S. He even gave us the name of the doctor who was treating her.”

“Another lead.”

“We learned later that the doctor is now practicing in Denver.

He can’t give us much more information than Gilberto, except for the date of the last time he treated Benita.”

“But the little girl starved to death. Are you thinking the mother is to blame?”

“Not sure at this point. We have more questions than answers.”

A cold, snakelike sensation curled up Kariss’s spine. “Where’s the mother now?”

“Good question. Gilberto hasn’t seen her in a few years, but he heard she entertained men. Last address was the Pine Grove Apartments.”

“Let me guess. Agents went to question her early this morning, and she doesn’t live there anymore.”

“You got it. Another family occupies the apartment she used to live in, and the resident manager has never heard of her. Right now, we’re arranging to get the father here.” He paused and she caught a glimmer of compassion. “Gilberto called him from our office. I talked to him for a few minutes, and he was … upset. He’s been sending his wife money for the care of their child for five years. Naturally, he sent it to a post office box.”

Kariss cringed. “She took the money even after the little girl was dead? How could she be so cruel?” She remembered Chief of Police Blackburn’s statement about the child being discarded like an unwanted animal. The words mirrored her thoughts. “She starved her own child instead of taking her someplace where qualified people could care for her?”

“It looks that way, but we don’t know the whole story. We’re looking for her.” Tigo leaned across the table. “Take a deep breath and relax until we learn the truth. Maybe the mother isn’t involved. Who knows? Maybe she met the same end as her daughter.”

Kariss took a drink of orange juice. “You’re right. I’m jumping to conclusions. My fiction mind is working overtime. When will the father arrive?”

“As soon as the paperwork is completed and arrangements made.”

She flexed her fingers to ease the tension in her body. The answers were so slow in coming, but she wasn’t the only one needing to understand what happened five years ago.

Benita … what a pretty name for a sweet angel.

Tigo opened the blinds to his mother’s bedroom and let the morning sunshine stream across her bed. Her eyes were closed in a drug-induced sleep that allowed her to escape the pain. She wouldn’t want it this way. How many times had she told him that in the event she was terminally ill, she didn’t want to be drugged? No sleeping while death stalked her door. It would keep her from experiencing life to the fullest. But Tigo couldn’t bring himself to endure the torment in her eyes and the cries from her lips.

Forgive me, Mom. I love you too much to watch you suffer. For my conscience’s sake, I’m insisting on strong pain medication.

His dear mother, Francisca Harris, an Argentinean immigrant who’d earned her U.S. citizenship and raised him alone after an ugly divorce. She’d become a high school Spanish teacher while struggling through the woes of having a deadbeat ex-husband who never paid child support. Money was always tight, but she made sure Tigo wore the best clothes and had the advantages of every American child. She was the strongest woman he’d ever known, and now she was reduced to sleeping her remaining days.

He kissed her forehead and took her limp hand, noting the peacefulness in her face. How long had it been since he’d seen her dark-brown eyes with their mischievous twinkle or her wide smile?

Ryan’s request for Tigo to go undercover went against his vow to spend as much time as possible with his mother. When her body gave in to the cancer, he’d dive deeper into his investigation. His heart told him she’d encourage him to continue his work and stop the gun smugglers.

Tigo yawned, his eyes feeling like they held bags of sand. Although he longed to crawl into his own bed, the satisfaction of identifying Cherished Doe settled in his bones. Easing into a chair, he ran his finger over his mother’s veined hands and parchment-thin skin.

“We may have some answers for a case that has haunted me for a long time,” he said. “Our Cherished Doe may be Benita Olvera. We’ll know soon.” He proceeded to tell his mother all that had happened during the night.

Once he finished, he tucked the sheet around her neck, the way she liked it, the same way she used to do for him. She’d told or read him stories during his younger years, and when he learned to read, he read to her. Just as he often did now.

Tigo studied her beloved face and shook his head. The once strong and resourceful woman had taught him how to play baseball, escorted him to church, and helped him see where his teenage rebellion was headed. She deserved so much more. None of which he could give her.

“I’m heading to bed, Mom. The days of staying out all night are fading into memory. It’s making an old man out of me.” He stood and glanced around, looking for a way to make her more comfortable.

The fresh red roses that she loved were replaced every five days. Their scent filled the room, reminding him too much of a funeral home. Would anyone ever understand his devotion to the woman who had molded him into the man he was today? He pulled a wilted petal from one of the roses and examined the others. Only the best for his mother.

Tigo left the room and nodded at the day nurse, an older woman with kind blue eyes and a warm smile. “She’s resting peacefully. I need some sleep, so when you need a break, knock on my door.”

“Tigo, I’m fine. Get your rest.”

“But you are the one who cares for my mother. I’ll expect the knock.”

He could blow away a gang member with little remorse or walk into the midst of gun-bearing criminals wearing a disguise. Who would ever think the gruff and tough Special Agent Santiago Harris doted on his dying mother?

Or that the memory of a little girl who’d starved to death never left him alone.

K
ariss wondered if today she’d learn what happened that day years ago that ended in a child’s death. Gilberto and Xavier Olvera arrived at Houston’s FBI office on Wednesday morning for questioning with Tigo and Ryan. She hoped she could meet the Olvera brothers and offer her condolences. But she understood Tigo and Ryan had protocol to follow, and she’d not interfere. Sometimes her assertiveness annoyed them. Yet in her eagerness to honor the child who’d occupied her thoughts for so long, she didn’t want to impose upon the agents and the Olvera brothers.

Kariss restrained her compulsion and waited for Tigo to return to his cubicle. What a strange man, so opposite any man she’d ever met. His attention to detail drove her nuts, but she knew he stayed alive because of his desire to constantly fine-tune his methods. That much she’d learned in observing him — all for research, of course. Her respect for him increased, and she longed to call him “friend” if only he’d let her.

Over two hours later, Tigo and Ryan walked to her work area with two Hispanic men. The younger man must be Xavier Olvera. His reddened eyes and splotchy face indicated the emotional turmoil of the morning. Kariss stood and met Tigo’s gaze. No glaring, back-away signs met hers.

He smiled and turned to the two men. “I’d like for you to meet Kariss Walker, the woman who originally reported the TV news about Benita. Like many of us here at the FBI, she never forgot the crime,” Tigo said in Spanish.

The younger man reached out his hand, and she grasped it.

“
Muchas gracias.
My name is Xavier Olvera. Thank you for making sure no one forgot my Benita.”

When her heart felt like it was ready to explode, what could she say other than she was sorry for his loss?
“Lo siento por su pérdida.”

The other man extended his hand. “I’m Gilberto Olvera, Benita’s uncle. It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is a sad day for me and my brother.”

She inhaled to maintain her composure and looked to Tigo for direction. She certainly wouldn’t mention that she was writing a book about Benita. At that moment, her story seemed to taint the child’s memory.

“Would you like to join us for a cup of coffee?” Tigo said. “When I told Xavier about your role, he wanted to tell you his story.”

“I’d be honored.” She couldn’t imagine the man’s emotions nor fathom how she’d feel in his situation, but she’d offer her support.

Tigo led the way to a small lounge area where the four gathered around a table. While he poured coffee, Kariss spoke to Xavier about his journey to the United States, including Gilberto in the conversation. The brothers’ rigid bodies indicated their distrust and grief. But her ability to speak their language appeared to ease the men’s demeanor.

Tigo encouraged Xavier to tell his story, and Kariss sensed the request was two-fold: a courtesy for her benefit and a chance for the two agents to listen for any discrepancy.

“I was in Houston illegally,” Xavier said. “My wife and I came here to have a better life. Gilberto talked about the many opportunities, and I thought I could find a way to be a citizen. Running from those who’d send us back wasn’t right.” Xavier placed his hands around the coffee cup, as if Styrofoam were his anchor.

“Delores is my wife’s name. She was … very beautiful. Benita had her eyes.” He paused, and Gilberto touched his shoulder.

“At first we lived with my brother, then we found an apartment at Pine Grove. I worked painting houses, making more money than in Mexico. Benita was born here. Delores gave birth two months early, and Benita was a sick baby. She needed a feeding tube.” He pointed to his neck and abdomen where the autopsy pictures had indicated scars. “She started to gain weight and grow stronger. I felt
Dios
was going to make her well. I always said the rosary and lit candles for her … and Delores.” He took a sip of coffee, then his hands grasped the cup again. A tear fell over his cheek.

Gilberto tightened his grip on Xavier’s shoulder. So much love and comfort between brothers reminded Kariss of her own siblings. She glanced away and blinked.

“You don’t have to tell me this,” she said.

“It’s important to me. I’m okay.” He offered a grim smile. “The authorities learned I was not a citizen and sent me back to Mexico. So I had to leave my wife and five-year-old daughter here. I didn’t want to go, but I’d broken this country’s laws. At first my wife called me once a week and told me how Benita was doing. She also learned she was having another baby. Every week I sent money to take care of my family.”

Gilberto clenched his fist. “Delores had it sent to a post office box.”

Xavier took another sip of coffee. “I sent money these past five years. Delores called me less and less until she stopped. But I thought she was busy working. And although I had no way of contacting her, I never thought she’d let my baby girl die.” He breathed in deeply. “She starved my Benita to death. Good parents don’t treat their babies this way.” The bitterness in his words cut through Kariss’s heart.

“Are you sure your wife is responsible?” Tigo said.

He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about all she said. She complained often about taking care of our daughter. My brother and his wife would have welcomed Benita into their home. They have no children. I know … my wife let her die so she wouldn’t have to take her to the doctor or buy medicine. Then she could use the money for herself.”

Tigo turned to Gilberto. “You mentioned that you’d seen Delores three years ago. I didn’t question you earlier, but this information could possibly help us find her.”

Gilberto reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Tigo. “I wrote down all I could remember since my brother was deported. And I signed my name. From what I remember, Delores moved from their apartment two months after Xavier left. I tried to find her, but none of her neighbors or friends knew where she’d gone. Then three years ago, I saw her at a Fiesta grocery store. She was with another man — not a good man from what I could see. I asked her about Benita. She said the little girl was in a hospital. I asked to see her, but I was told no one could visit Benita but Delores. She told me the doctors said other people could bring germs, make her sicker. I told her my niece needed to know other members of her family loved her. I offered to wear scrubs like the doctors and nurses wore in surgery. She ignored me and left with the man.”

Xavier stiffened. “Did she have the new baby with her?”

“She was alone.”

Xavier buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Kariss wanted to cry with him. Instead she drank the bitter coffee. He raised his head. “I apologize. My life and my joy was Benita and the child I’ve never seen. I pray for them every day.”

Gilberto sucked in a breath. “My brother often went without food to send money.” He looked into Tigo’s face as if the agent had an answer for his brother’s plight.

“I understand. But we can’t blame Delores until we hear her story. She could be innocent in all of this. She might not be alive either.”

Gilberto lunged forward. “I’ve seen the pictures of Benita. She lied to my brother and stole his money. I saw her with another man. When you find Delores, you’d better keep her away from me.”

Tigo thanked the Olvera brothers for their cooperation and promised to keep them informed about the case. The next few days for them would be spent in a flurry of media interviews. Stressful for the two grieving men.

He hoped the FBI found Delores Olvera before Gilberto or Xavier did, or he was positive he’d have another murder on his hands. Both men would kill her without thinking twice.

The Olvera brothers’ testimony indicated Delores Olvera had allowed her daughter to die — a selfish woman who loved money more than her child. Tigo should stuff his own opinion, but he was convinced of the woman’s guilt.

He grimaced and rubbed his jaw. His tooth was bothering him again. Great. He’d pop a few Tylenol and hope it went away.

His thoughts turned to Kariss and he walked to her work area. She sat at her desk and stared blankly at the wall. For once she wasn’t writing. The pained expression on her face revealed more about her inner workings than any verbalizations would have.

He lingered in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

She nodded but didn’t acknowledge him with eye contact. “Writing women’s fiction was never easy emotionally. Sometimes the situations in my characters’s lives were heartbreaking, but I never expected to feel this amount of agony when confronted with the facts about Cherished Doe.”

He pulled a chair next to her. “But you dealt with this reality when you worked for Channel 5.”

“Right. I had sit-down meetings with victims and got involved with their problems. Followed my instincts when I felt there was more behind a story than what was on a piece of paper. Studied the facts and deliberated the aftermath. I investigated events and allowed my emotions to create a passion for reporting the stories, but Cherished Doe ripped at my heart.” She ran her fingers through her curly hair. “I seem to have this protective nature for children.”

He knew the truth about what drove her, but he’d wait for her to tell him. “Is that why you encourage others to learn the facts about child abuse and neglect? I saw the links on your website, and I read the online article about how you mentor kids at women’s shelters.”

She nodded.

“Tigo, I’m not as strong as you are. The truth about Benita makes me physically ill.”

“It should upset all of us. You did well today.”

“I was crumbling.”

He tilted his head. A strong woman sat before him, and he knew she wouldn’t mention the fire. At least not today. “Why did you quit TV work?”

She gave him a pressed-lip smile. “I couldn’t keep up with the pressure.”

“Station politics?”

She rubbed her palms. “Sort of. Competition is incredible in that field. The need to look youthful, fashionable, sophisticated—”

“Looks to me like you filled those qualifications just fine.”

A faint blush crept up her cheeks, and he liked it. Very much. “Thanks. I tried, but I got tired of what I felt was a show. How long before my age stood in the way of my career? Anyway, I longed to write.”

“You’ve had success there too.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Are you being a therapist today? Because you were wonderful with Xavier and Gilberto. Now me.”

“Don’t think so.” He should tell her that his probing was more his means of processing life, the need to have all the facts about any given situation laid out before him. But her psyche looked delicate at the moment. Not that he could blame her. “Are you giving up on this project?”

“Absolutely not. I’m simply going to take all of this emotion and pour it into my story. The pros say that a writer’s best work comes from personal pain. I always believed that concept and have even taught it to fledging writers. Experience earned through personal stress and grief will always make a better book, no matter how difficult the process.” She straightened and reached for a tissue to dab her nose. “No, Tigo. You’re not rid of me yet. I have miles to go.”

He wasn’t surprised. She stood in the way of his work, yet he admired her tenacity. “You know, I had a feeling you were ready to stick this out. Nothing about you says ‘quitter.’ “

“But I quit Channel 5.”

Or did the inability to solve Cherished Doe move her to resign? “I’d call your decision a career choice … weighing the options and making an intelligent move. Writing definitely looks more lucrative.”

She stretched her neck. “Writing a book is a bit of a gamble. There isn’t a formula for a bestseller. It’s a mix of skill, luck, the publisher, publicist, and a fabulous platform. I thought I’d take a real cut in pay when I started writing. The stats were not good and book advances are determined by how many books the sales staff projects the book will sell. My first book did poorly, and I failed to earn out my advance. Then the second shocked me when sales skyrocketed. Still not sure why. The publisher went back to my first book and piggybacked on the success of the second one. The sales rose and pulled me out of the hole. But …”

“What?”

“I wrote what the publishing house dictated, not what I wanted to write. Things have changed. I’m willing to take a risk to write the book of my heart.”

“You’ve got guts.”

“Do I, Tigo? I’m not sure. The future’s unpredictable.”

“The question is how far are you willing to go to reach your goals?”

“I want to say I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Be careful and keep your head up.”