for a fugitive and my partner and I are looking for Michael.”
“Let me help. He trusts me.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen months ago I assumed like everyone else he ran away. Except—the Popes wouldn’t let it go. So I might have let their faith affect me. I want to find him. For them. They never believed he ran away, and this proves it. But obviously something else is going on with him, if as you say he was held as a prisoner.”
A boy like Michael, in the system with no hope of being reunited with blood relatives—why would he leave a home that seemed to be working for him?
“I think he left because he felt he had to. Maybe he was threatened or the Popes were threatened.” Lucy was thinking out loud, but it felt right to her, looking again at the note.
“How can you get that from his few words?”
“He said he had to leave. He’s been gone for fourteen months.” She flipped back a few pages and read the brief notes on Michael’s father, Vince Rodriguez. “His father—he’s in prison for murder?”
DeSantos nodded. “He killed a liquor store clerk and paralyzed a customer while robbing the place. Hard man. Abused Michael. His wife—Michael’s mother—died under suspicious circumstances when Michael was eight, but there were no charges filed.”
“This address—is this where Michael grew up?”
“More or less.”
The address where Michael grew up was only blocks from the hardware store on 39th, where Sanchez and his gang had set up shop. Coincidence? What were the chances that they knew each other? The older Rodriguez and Jaime Sanchez? Or someone affiliated with Sanchez?
“Agent Kincaid?” DeSantos asked. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said. She wasn’t going to share with DeSantos unless Donnelly cleared it. “I’ll follow up on this, call you as soon as I can confirm one way or the other that we’re talking about the same kid. If we are—”
“You’ll let me help find him.”
“It’s up to Donnelly, but I’m sure you can be a help.”
“Of course I will be,” he snapped.
Hot and cold. She didn’t know what to make of DeSantos, but she wrote her cell phone number on the back of her FBI business card. “Let me know if Michael reaches out again to the Popes, or to you. I’ll do the same once I confirm his identity.” She was about to walk him out when she said, “Michael wasn’t the first boy kept in captivity. There was evidence that others had been in the basement. Do you know of any other missing boys like Michael?”
He shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know specifically, but there are a lot of runaways in the system. You can’t always blame them—some foster parents are good, some are not. They have problems—parents in prison, abuse, violence, even drug use—and they’re not always willing or able to accept help. Could some of those runaways have been kidnapped? It’s possible.”
Lucy was going to ask him for a list, but realized that was bringing him into the investigation, and right now she wanted to confirm that he even had a stake in it before she gave him more. Besides, she could get the information through the FBI and their channels.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope that’s not the brush-off.”
“It’s not.” She held on to the file. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure, it’s a copy.” He touched her arm. “But I’m going to hold you to your word that you’ll let me know the minute you have his ID confirmed.”
“I promise.”
* * *
Father Mateo Flannigan sat in the confessional at St. Catherine’s waiting for the next penitent to enter. It had been a long day, made longer because it was Lent, and many Catholics took the season as a time to go back to church. Many came for a few weeks and then left again, but some stayed, their faith renewed.
Mateo was tired. He was a faithful man, young, healthy. He’d been called to the priesthood as a child, knew this was
“Let me help. He trusts me.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen months ago I assumed like everyone else he ran away. Except—the Popes wouldn’t let it go. So I might have let their faith affect me. I want to find him. For them. They never believed he ran away, and this proves it. But obviously something else is going on with him, if as you say he was held as a prisoner.”
A boy like Michael, in the system with no hope of being reunited with blood relatives—why would he leave a home that seemed to be working for him?
“I think he left because he felt he had to. Maybe he was threatened or the Popes were threatened.” Lucy was thinking out loud, but it felt right to her, looking again at the note.
“How can you get that from his few words?”
“He said he had to leave. He’s been gone for fourteen months.” She flipped back a few pages and read the brief notes on Michael’s father, Vince Rodriguez. “His father—he’s in prison for murder?”
DeSantos nodded. “He killed a liquor store clerk and paralyzed a customer while robbing the place. Hard man. Abused Michael. His wife—Michael’s mother—died under suspicious circumstances when Michael was eight, but there were no charges filed.”
“This address—is this where Michael grew up?”
“More or less.”
The address where Michael grew up was only blocks from the hardware store on 39th, where Sanchez and his gang had set up shop. Coincidence? What were the chances that they knew each other? The older Rodriguez and Jaime Sanchez? Or someone affiliated with Sanchez?
“Agent Kincaid?” DeSantos asked. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said. She wasn’t going to share with DeSantos unless Donnelly cleared it. “I’ll follow up on this, call you as soon as I can confirm one way or the other that we’re talking about the same kid. If we are—”
“You’ll let me help find him.”
“It’s up to Donnelly, but I’m sure you can be a help.”
“Of course I will be,” he snapped.
Hot and cold. She didn’t know what to make of DeSantos, but she wrote her cell phone number on the back of her FBI business card. “Let me know if Michael reaches out again to the Popes, or to you. I’ll do the same once I confirm his identity.” She was about to walk him out when she said, “Michael wasn’t the first boy kept in captivity. There was evidence that others had been in the basement. Do you know of any other missing boys like Michael?”
He shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know specifically, but there are a lot of runaways in the system. You can’t always blame them—some foster parents are good, some are not. They have problems—parents in prison, abuse, violence, even drug use—and they’re not always willing or able to accept help. Could some of those runaways have been kidnapped? It’s possible.”
Lucy was going to ask him for a list, but realized that was bringing him into the investigation, and right now she wanted to confirm that he even had a stake in it before she gave him more. Besides, she could get the information through the FBI and their channels.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope that’s not the brush-off.”
“It’s not.” She held on to the file. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure, it’s a copy.” He touched her arm. “But I’m going to hold you to your word that you’ll let me know the minute you have his ID confirmed.”
“I promise.”
* * *
Father Mateo Flannigan sat in the confessional at St. Catherine’s waiting for the next penitent to enter. It had been a long day, made longer because it was Lent, and many Catholics took the season as a time to go back to church. Many came for a few weeks and then left again, but some stayed, their faith renewed.
Mateo was tired. He was a faithful man, young, healthy. He’d been called to the priesthood as a child, knew this was
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