As if, she thought.
She tried to watch where she stepped; since she was wearing sandals, she was doubly concerned. Evidently his definition of “You’re fine as you are” differed from hers. She would much rather be wearing pants and boots—and a Kevlar vest, if she had the choice—while she waded through trash and other things she didn’t stop to identify.
His right hand was on the butt of the pistol, not gripping it, just resting lightly in a way that said he was ready to use it. He turned down an alley even narrower than all the rest and came to a door that had once been painted blue, but only specks of paint remained, and some holes in it had been patched with pieces of cardboard that were duct-taped in place. He rapped on the rotted wood frame, and waited.
She heard scuffling noises from inside; then the door opened a tiny crack and one dark eye peered out. The owner of the eye made a muffled sound of alarm, as if she recognized him.
“Lola Guerrero,” he said, the tone of his voice making it a command.
“Si,” the woman said cautiously.
Diaz reached out and pushed the door open. The woman squeaked a protest and retreated a few steps, but when he didn’t come into her home, she hesitated, looking back at him. He didn’t say anything, just waited. The light was dim inside the little room, but still Milla could see the anxious look the woman darted at her. Perhaps she was reassured by the presence of another woman, though, because she muttered, “Pase,” and motioned them inside.
The smell inside was sour. A single naked lightbulb burned in a small lamp in a corner, and an old electric fan with metal blades and no guard whirred noisily as it stirred the air. Lola herself looked to be in her mid- to late sixties, with plump, shiny skin that said her room might be a dump but she was getting enough to eat.
More money appeared in Diaz’s hand, and he offered it to the woman. Warily she eyed his outstretched hand, then snatched the money as if afraid he would think better of offering it. “You have a brother,” he said in Spanish. “Lorenzo.”
He had an interesting interrogation technique, Milla thought. He didn’t ask questions; he made statements, as if he already knew the facts.
A bitter expression crossed the woman’s face. “He is dead.”
Milla was still holding Diaz’s belt, and her hand tightened convulsively on the leather. So this was another trail that led only to a blank wall. She bowed her head, fighting the urge to howl in pain and protest. As if sensing her distress, Diaz reached back and pulled her to his side, tucking her within the circle of his arm and absently patting her shoulder.
“Lorenzo worked with a man named Arturo Pavón.”
Lola nodded, and spat on the floor, which made Milla think even less of her housekeeping than before. Hatred darkened Lola’s face. A flood of Spanish poured out, too fast for Milla to completely follow, but she gathered that Pavón had either killed Lorenzo or been the cause of his death, and that Pavón was one of any number of unsavory animals who performed sexual acts with assorted other animals and also with his mother.
Lola Guerrero didn’t like Pavón.
When Lola’s invective finally ran down, Diaz said, “Ten years ago this woman’s baby was stolen by Pavón.”
Lola’s gaze darted to Milla, and Lola said softly, “I am sorry, señora.”
“Gracias.” Lola must have children of her own; her gaze had carried the instant, almost universal link between mothers that said, I understand this pain.
“She was injured in the attack, stabbed in the back by a man I believe was Lorenzo,” Diaz continued. “Your brother was known for his knife work; his specialty was going for a kidney.”
Oh, my God. Milla shuddered at the realization that the man who’d stabbed her had been trying to hit her kidney. She wanted to bury her face in Diaz’s shoulder, shut out the ugliness that surrounded her.
Diaz paused, his cold eyes raking over Lola. “You used to care for the babies who were stolen,” he said. Milla went rigid, her head snapping up. Lola had been part of the gang? The woman’s expression hadn’t been one of commiseration, but of guilt. Milla heard a low growl, and in shock realized it came from her own throat. Diaz’s arm tightened around her, clamping her to his side and preventing her from moving.
“My friend clawed out Pavón’s eye as she was fighting for her baby. Lorenzo would at least have told you about it, even if you did not see Pavón yourself. You would remember this, remember the baby.”
Lola’s gaze darted from Diaz to Milla and back, as if she was trying to decide who was the greatest threat. Like all rodents, she had a sound instinct for preservation, and decided on Diaz. She stared at him, frozen in alarm that he knew so much. She would have lied; Milla saw her consider it, saw the thoughts chasing across her expression as clearly as if she spoke aloud. But Diaz stood as still as a rock, waiting, and Lola had no way of knowing what he already knew and what he didn’t. Either way, she must have figured he would see through any lie. She swallowed, and muttered, “I remember.”
“What did you do with the baby?”
Milla’s nails dug into his chest as she waited, unable to breathe, for the answer.
“There were five of them,” Lola said. “They were flown across the border that day. The gringo baby was the last one brought in.” She spared a cautious look at Milla. “There was much trouble about him; the police were looking for him; we could not wait.”
Flown out. Milla squeezed her eyes shut. “Did the plane crash?” she asked in a hoarse tone.