Broken Lullaby. Pamela Tracy

Mary muttered.

      He nodded as the car bumped down Prospector’s Way. Finally, the gravel turned to pavement and they left Broken Bones behind and entered a two-lane highway. Mary elegantly crossed her legs at the ankles, looked out the window and didn’t say another word for miles. He so often dealt with uncomfortable silences. This silence actually felt good. It wasn’t the silence of a criminal with a cop but of a woman who’d made a bad decision and now intended to fix it. Not uncomfortable, just unfortunate. Finally, as if she’d reached some sort of impasse, she turned so she faced him instead of the window and asked, “New car?”

      “I’ve had it five years.”

      “Just drive it to church on Sundays?”

      He laughed. He’d often been teased by the guys in the field about how sterile he kept his Taurus. Somehow the gibes never struck him as funny before. “No, I just tend to keep it clean.”

      “Don’t cart kids around much,” Mary guessed.

      “No, I don’t really know many kids.”

      “You managed to bond with mine.”

      “Justin and I had a mutual interest: finding Alma.”

      Mary again looked out the window and finally muttered, “That girl kept up a running dialogue with God the whole time she was in my car.”

      “Sounds like someone else I know,” Mitch said.

      “Who?”

      “Your brother.”

      “My brother’s lost it.” Her tone belied the words.

      Mitch understood the feeling. God was a little too abstract for his concrete way of thinking, yet his two best friends—Eric and Sam, both intelligent, savvy men—put all their faith in God. And it didn’t seem fake or hypocritical or simplistic. Their faith was part of their everyday lives in a way that made Mitch partly uncomfortable, partly envious. But logic told him it was crazy to believe in something he couldn’t see.

      He needed tangible evidence: a fingerprint, a DNA sample, a bullet casing, an eyewitness, something.

      “How long have you known my brother?” Mary’s words saved him from further self debate.

      “I testified on his behalf almost a year and a half ago when he was cleared of murder charges. Then, I met him again last August when he found the bodies in the shed.”

      “They called you to investigate?”

      “Yes and no. Ruth’s partner, Sam Packard, and I have been friends for a long time. When it looked like his wife might be a suspect, he called in a marker.”

      “Funny,” Mary said. “You cops have the same honor system the criminals have. Eddie was always paying off markers. Unfortunately, he seldom garnered any.”

      “In my line of work, it’s easy to see how the two worlds, good versus evil, are merely inches apart.” If Mitch’s implication that Eddie was evil had any effect on Eddie’s widow, he couldn’t see it.

      Mary turned to face him, this time all interest and poise. “If you’re Internal Affairs, how do you explain all your involvement in cases that don’t involve cops?”

      “You don’t know about your brother’s case?”

      “Sure, I know about Eric and the dirty cop that got him in trouble. It was in all the papers. But how can you justify your involvement with the bodies he found in his shed?”

      Mitch smiled. “You didn’t study much about Broken Bones before you moved here, did you?”

      “Didn’t need to. I lived here ten years ago. Not much has changed.”

      “Who was the sheriff then?”

      “Rich Mallory. Eddie didn’t think much of him, but then again the sheriff left Eddie alone. I always thought the sheriff worried about Eddie’s connection with my family.”

      “More like the sheriff was worried about the fact that his brother Benjamin worked for Eddie who worked directly for and with the Santellises.” He glanced over to find her studying the scenery. Scenery that hadn’t changed in the past hundred years. Once he realized she didn’t intend to respond or react, he continued, “It was easy to justify my involvement since the sheriff’s brother was involved and the sheriff knew it and had contaminated a crime scene involving a dead cop. Benny’s in jail now. The sheriff resigned and moved. As for this case,” Mitch continued, “I’m not involved. When your brother showed up this morning, I knew nothing about the missing babies, still don’t. But I might know something about Alma.”

      Without dropping speed, minutely swerving or even taking his eyes off the road, he reached for his back pocket, pulled out a wallet and, with one hand, extracted a white piece of paper.

      Mary took it and unfolded it.

      “Eric and I agree that’s your girl.”

      The white piece of paper this time was not a police sketch. This time, Mary peered at a real photo of Alma. A picture of a definitely pregnant Alma.

      Impossible. No way did Mary miss seeing a baby. There hadn’t been one at the used car lot; Alma didn’t hide one during the ride to Broken Bones.

      “Where’d you get this picture?”

      “Case I worked six months ago. We had a crooked border patrol officer. He was arresting his quota of illegals, but he was also working with a coyote, someone who takes money from illegal aliens to help them get across the border undetected. We finally nailed him. During the skirmish, the coyote got off a few shots. Two illegals were killed. One had this photo in his back pocket.”

      “That must be what happened to Leandro then,” Mary said softly. “Alma said she thought her husband was dead.”

      Mitch glared at her. “Leandro? You have a name? How about a last name?”

      “No last name. But, yes, Alma mentioned a missing husband. She said Leandro crossed six months ago and that if he were still alive he’d have come for her. You mean nobody knew his name?”

      “The guy who shot him probably knew,” Mitch said bitterly. “He got away.”

      “What about your border patrol guy? Did he—”

      “He’s in prison and no matter what we throw at him, he’s keeping his mouth shut.”

      Mitch took out his phone, paused, and hit a button. After a moment, heard him repeat the information about Leandro. Then, she heard Mitch’s vehement promise not to get involved. She doubted he was a man who squirmed often, but after a few moments of listening to whoever was reprimanding him, Mitch started squirming. Finally, he growled a goodbye and hung up.

      Mary didn’t ask any questions. She knew how to keep her mouth shut. She’d grown up with a mother who practiced a the-less-you-know, the-longer-you’ll-live theory. Mary was a bright child. She had learned that lesson well and, as a result, might live to see the ripe old age of forty.

      Her mother hadn’t.

      Her older brothers hadn’t.

      And what about Kenny, the youngest Santellis? He’d be just thirty this year. She wondered if he had celebrated alone. Despite the fact that she knew Kenny was just as involved in a life of crime as her older brothers had been she still had a soft spot for the little boy she used to take care of, whose diapers she’d changed, who’d followed her around and took her stuff while shouting, “Mine!”

      He hadn’t matured into a kind man, thanks to the influence of Tony and Sardi, but he’d always been good to her and Justin. He had even lived with them in Phoenix after she separated from Eddie. Then she had decided to disappear. Evidently Kenny had, too.

      It would be a double-edged sword, finding Kenny. On one hand, she’d know he was safe. On the other hand, Justin was now old enough to understand