“I might be getting pulled off more than just the case.” A gnawing sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was. Getting it all taken away would kill him. “Did you find anything at the house yesterday?”
“No. But I’m casing the place today. Gonna try to talk to some neighbors, canvas the neighborhood. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Let’s hope so. My flight takes off in a couple of hours and I’m heading straight to Paula Williams’ house.” He turned into the parking garage and slid into an empty spot.
“Do you want me to meet you at the airport and go with you?”
“Nah, stay where you are. Try to find Pete. I’ll touch base after I speak to Paula.” He said goodbye and then disconnected before making his way to his apartment.
He had one week to find a sex-trafficker, three kidnapped girls, and save his career. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He would need a lot more than luck on his side to pull this off.
17
Oh God. What the hell was she doing? She should turn around. She should get in the cab waiting for her and never look back.
Mickey glanced over her shoulder as she walked up the concrete sidewalk to the two-story white stucco house. The cab she’d taken from Playa Del Carmen sat idling on the curb. She’d paid him a ridiculous amount of money to bring her to the address that had circled in her mind since she’d first seen it, and then wait for her to finish whatever the hell she was doing to take her back to her hotel. Turning back toward the house, she drew in a long breath and slowly made her way to the large wooden door.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore roared from behind the house and the large palms on the trees beside her swayed in the breeze. Beads of sweat formed at her hairline. Mexico in August was brutal. Unless she was parked in front of a pool or lounging on the beach, she preferred to escape the miserable Chicago winters for the warm Mexican sun. At this time of year, it was just trading one warm, humid day for aneven hotter warm, humid day. Even this late in the afternoon, standing outside sucked the air from her lungs.
Her thoughts bounced around in her head. Nerves danced around in her stomach to the tune of the mariachi music she couldn’t get out of her head. She didn’t know what she would say to Paula if she answered the door. Hell, she hadn’t decided to come here until after her second margarita.
Who was she kidding? She could lie to Vanessa and Allison all day about why she wanted to stay in Playa Del Carmen instead of Cancun. They didn’t even question her when she’d said she wanted to stay away from the craziness of the Cancun streets, and stay somewhere a little quieter. Not like Playa Del Carmen was much quieter these days. But she couldn’t lie to herself, not any longer. Casa Del Mar 500 had played on repeat in her mind, and she needed to see Paula Williams for herself.
Her hand trembled as she made a fist and knocked on the door. Three loud, decisive knocks. She studied the front of the house as she waited for someone to answer. Two cars sat under the large balcony that jutted out from the second story, a sort of makeshift portico. Bamboo stairs wound around the side of the house, connecting the small patio to the second story. Thatched roofs adorned the doors that led out to the balcony above her, and white Romanesque columns stood tall between the two stories and gave the impression of a grand manor.
The door creaked open and Mickey snapped her attention back to the reason she was here. A sliver of light inked out into the twilight and a petite woman with wide blue eyes and a small oval face peeked out at her, half hidden by the door. Confusion creased the fine lines at the corner of her mouth.
“Can I help you?”
Mickey’s jaw dropped. This is what Becca would look like as an adult… “Hi, my name is Mickey O’Shay.” She extended ahand to Paula, who opened the door wider and offered a firm handshake.
Paula had pulled her ash blond hair off her face in a high ponytail, showing off her smooth, tan skin. Her denim shorts and floral tank top hung loosely on her small frame. Her hand lingered on the door handle, as if unsure whether she wanted to shut the door in Mickey’s face or not. She tilted her head to the side. “Do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think you do. But we both know Pete, and I’d like to know if I’m the only woman he’s lied to and ripped her world to shreds.”
All the color drained from Paula’s face, leaving behind a scared woman with a haunted look in her eyes. A woman who looked like nothing more than a girl. “I have nothing to say about Pete,” she said as she tried to close the door.
Mickey placed her palm on the solid wood, refusing to be dismissed so easily. “Please. I don’t want to upset you, but he took my goddaughter. I need answers.”
The pressure of the door on Mickey’s hand stopped and she grabbed her phone and pulled up a picture of Becca. She turned the screen toward Paula. “This is Becca. She’s only eight years old and Pete took her Sunday morning. She’s been with him for almost three days.” Mickey’s voice broke and her throat clogged with tears.
Paula sighed, turned from the door, and walked into the expansive house. “Come in,” she said over her shoulder.
More columns stood proudly in the foyer, holding up the catwalk that ran along the width of the room. Wooden stairs wound their way up the stone wall, almost as if suspended in air, to the second floor. Mickey’s footsteps rang loud against the travertine tiled floor, echoing off the high ceilings as she walked into the great room. A fan spun lazily in the middle of the ceiling, circulating the cool air that blew from the air conditioner.
Mickey stayed quiet as she followed Paula into the great room, her mind searching for the right words. Being blunt, and a little rude, had gotten her in the door, but might not keep her here. She didn’t know how much Paula knew about Pete’s recent activities, or if she could even trust whatever Paula told her. But she had to take a chance, and she needed to figure out the best approach to get Paula to open up to a complete stranger.
A tall manwith olive skin and slicked-back black hair stood from a white suede couch. He held a tumbler of something golden in his hand, and he swayed the glass back and forth as he watched her with interest.
“Were we expecting company?” His brown eyes never left Mickey.
Paula walked up beside him and leaned into him, and his arm automatically wrapped around her small shoulders.
“She said Pete took her goddaughter. She has some questions.” The friendliness from earlier had left, and her voice held a sharp hint of something. Fear? “This is my husband, Jose.”
“Hola. And your name is?” The velvet of his eyes melted away, replaced with a hard edge that made the brown almost black.
She swallowed hard. “Mickey O’Shay.”
