Are You My Mommy?

CHAPTER ONE

DESPITE the suffocating heat still rising off the pavement, Abbie Franklin walked briskly toward her parked car, staring straight ahead and looking neither right nor left. Downtown Houston, at least the part where her office was located, was not a good place to be at night, but if you were a solitary woman wearing a nice suit and carrying a leather briefcase, it was downright stupid to be there. She might as well hang a sign on her chest that said Rob Me. I’m An Idiot.

Actually, the killers, thieves and rapists who preyed on people in Houston didn’t need an invitation, polite or otherwise. They would do what they were going to do, regardless of consequences. Hating her cynicism but accepting it, Abbie understood the situation better than most people. Five years of working for the Harris County District Attorney’s office did that to a person.

She crossed Caroline and continued quickly up Fannin Street, her heels echoing against the sidewalk with an uneasy rhythm as she vowed—once again—not to work this late anymore. The Harris County Jail was directly to her left, the unattractive older building as threatening in appearance as some of the citizens stepping out of its doorway. On her right, just behind her office, was a small park that was taken over every evening by the homeless. Abbie hated coming out after everyone else had left, but what was she supposed to do? Tell people not to commit crimes after 8:00 p.m.? Inform the judges she couldn’t meet after hours? The silly questions rattled in her head as she pointed her key ring at the car, the telltale beep of the burglar alarm sounding eerie in the empty canyon of the downtown street. Shifting her briefcase to her right hand, she began to dig in her purse for her glasses.

Pushing through the junk, she located the frames just when, straight behind her, a small voice spoke. Her heart jumped at the unexpected words, and Abbie whirled around, her eyeglasses tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers to hit the sidewalk. One of the lenses shattered instantly, the jagged pieces scattering across the concrete. Inside her chest, her heart skipped two beats then stopped completely.

A child stood on the sidewalk in front of her.

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. His dishwater-blond hair was tangled and oily and there was a smudge of dirt beneath his left eye, as if he’d put a fist to his face and had rubbed it. He had on a faded T-shirt and frayed jeans, and his tennis shoes were scuffed and definitely well-worn. He didn’t look like a street Kid—his hair had been cut recently and the absolute stony expression they usually wore was only just beginning to appear on his face—but it was equally apparent he wasn’t from the suburbs.

Huge, round and expressive, his big brown eyes stared at her. She’d seen eyes like that on only one other person. The face of her ex-husband, Ray Menendez, stabbed at her through the darkness then disappeared as fast as it had come.

The child spoke again, his voice high and plaintive. Are you my mommy?

The totally unexpected question sliced through her with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Abbie’s heart fell cleanly into two separate pieces as she stared mutely at the little boy.

He repeated himself, almost patiently, it seemed. Are you my mommy?

N-no. I—I’m not anyone’s m-mother. Abbie stumbled stupidly over the words, especially the last, painful one. Are you lost? she asked dumbly.

He glanced around, his neck craning as he took in the jail and the immediate area in front of them. Turning, he looked back the way he’d come. He stared down the empty street for a very long second, then when he finally faced Abbie again, the beautiful brown eyes were shimmering with tears and more than just a hint of fright. He said nothing.

Abbie bent to his level, a sweep of emotions hitting her. What’s your name?

He shook his head, the tears brimming over before he could blink them back.

You can tell me, she said. It’s okay.

He stared mutely.

She tried a different track. Do you live around here? There were numerous shelters in the downtown area. They housed more children than adults, unfortunately.

I don’t know. His voice was shrinking, growing even smaller than when he’d first approached her. He tried to put on a brave expression, but he looked over his shoulder nervously at the very same time.

She rocked back on her heels. She hadn’t talked to anyone under ten in years and she barely remembered how. She avoided children, turning her head in restaurants when she saw them, only going to shows at midnight, writing off completely the zoo or the parks. She forced herself to lighten up and make her manner more friendly.

Let’s start over and try this again. My name is Abbie. She smiled encouragingly. What’s yours?

I don’t know.

Well, where’s your mom?

I don’t know.

How old are you?

I don’t know.

They stared at each other for a second.

Abbie finally broke the silence. You really don’t know your own name?

He shook his head.

Are you hurt? Did you hit your head on something?

I—I don’t think so.

Abbie examined him closer. He didn’t seem to have any bumps or bruises and there were no signs of bleeding.

Well... This is kinda tricky, isn’t it?

He nodded.

Maybe we should walk back down the street a bit. Maybe your mom is just one block over and she’s looking for you right now.

He looked doubtful, but when she stood and took two steps the way he’d come, he turned reluctantly and followed her. A second after that, she felt a small, sticky hand worm its way through the strap of her purse and position itself underneath her palm.

It took away her breath.

By the time she started breathing again, they were at the end of the block. It was not completely dark but the light was dim and the street was empty, as quiet as it was deserted. There wasn’t a single person in sight. No one rushing about, calling out frantically, screaming for a child. No one.

Let’s go another block, she suggested.

He nodded.

The streets stayed empty, and Abbie’s concern grew. Finally she stopped and looked down at him. He was clutching her hand as if his life depended on it. I think it might be best if we go back to my car. We could drive around a bit and see if there’s anyone looking for you that way. What do you think?

Okay.

Abbie felt weird strapping the little boy into her car. At any moment she expected to see a wild-eyed woman running down Fannin and screaming Pervert! but the streets remained empty. And empty they stayed as she and the child drove around for the next twenty minutes. Every so often she’d ask him another question, but the answer was always the same. I don’t know. He appeared alert and bright, but the longer they searched, the more concerned she became.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She glanced over at the child as they went around the block again. She knew what to do, of course. Go directly to Travis Street, where the new central police station stood, and drop him off, plain and simple.

Abbie’s stomach turned over as she thought about the place. It was a madhouse, people screaming, women crying, children running wild. She hated going there, which she did almost every day. How could she abandon a bewildered kid to that kind of craziness? She imagined him sitting in the waiting room with all the confusion and noise adding to his fright. Hours would pass before anything got done.

At the end of the third sweep, they found themselves outside Casa de los Chicos, one of the larger shelters in the area. Abbie put the car in park and glanced across the front seat. Does this look familiar?

He shook his head.

Well, let’s just run inside and see if anyone here might be looking for you. It couldn’t hurt, right?

He nodded wearily and followed her out of the car.

The harried attendant glanced at the child, then started speaking before Abbie could open her mouth.

We’re full tonight. I’m sorry, but you might try the church...

Her words slowed then stopped as she finally looked at Abbie. She’d worn her best black suit to work that day because she’d had a hearing. She’d gotten the outfit on sale at Neiman’s two years ago. Prosecutors couldn’t wear the flashy, fashionable clothes defense attorneys could, but they still had to look nice, to give the impression of being respectable and conservative, at least. When you were a lawyer, sometimes impressions were all you had.

We don’t need a bed, Abbie said, answering the woman’s questioning stare. But we do need some help. She glanced down at the child beside her, then spoke again. Do you... Do you know this child? He’s lost.

The woman’s eyes softened instantly. From behind the counter she studied the little boy for a minute, then shook her head. I’m sorry. He’s not familiar.

Abbie felt a tug on her hand. There was a soft drink machine in the corner, and the child had turned to stare at it. Reaching inside her purse, she pulled out some change and gave it to him. He looked unbelievingly at the coins then up at her.

Why don’t you get us something to drink? Abbie said, tilting her head toward the machine. I’ll wait here.

He stood stock-still for just a second, then he shot toward the corner as if he were afraid she’d change her mind and grab the quarters back.

Abbie turned to the woman behind the counter. Dropping her voice, she spoke. He doesn’t know his name or anything. I’m sure his mother must be frantic. I’d be going nuts.

The woman nodded sympathetically. Me, too, but who knows? She could be frantic or she could be passed out somewhere. My advice is to call C.P.S. Let them handle it.

C.P.S., of course! Abbie felt like an idiot the moment the woman spoke. Child Protective Services... God, why hadn’t she thought of them before? She’d just met the assistant director last month at a conference. What was her name? Hadn’t she given Abbie a card?

She opened her purse and began to dig, telling herself she would have remembered the woman before if she hadn’t been so rattled. The card still had to be there—she cleaned out her purse even less frequently than she tidied up her house. A few seconds later, wedged in one corner, she found the crumpled piece of white paper and pulled it out triumphantly. She looked up at the woman behind the counter. Got a phone?

The woman pointed at the back wall. There’s a pay one over there. Help yourself.

RAY MENENDEZ stared through his binoculars and cursed softly. He was exhausted, it was hotter than hell, and if one more mosquito bit him, he was going to pull out his .38 and start shooting, to hell with his stakeout. Seeing nothing, he lowered the heavy field glasses and wiped his arm across his forehead. At his side, his radio crackled softly to life. He picked it up and brought it to his ear.

A car-jacking on Smith. A prowler on Kirby. A drug dealer on Holcombe. What else was new?

He laid the radio on the seat and stared dejectedly through the windshield of the van. Five days of sitting here and absolutely nothing to show for it. If he didn’t get something soon, the lieutenant would pull him, and Ray didn’t like giving up. That’s why he was here on his night off.

The lead had been solid, too. After twenty years on the force, Ray knew a good tip when he heard one, especially with three years of drug detail behind him. A reliable source had seen men in cop uniforms shaking down a local dealer. The snitch had pointed out the little frame house to Ray and said he’d seen ’em go inside one day. The possibility made Ray’s blood pressure spike. He could hear the roar of it in his ears. There was only one thing he hated more than drug dealers, and that was crooked cops.

Ray picked up a cup of lukewarm coffee from the dash, then slumped down into the seat, hopelessness suddenly falling him. Maybe it was time to move on. He’d had his eye on a cabin in the Hill Country. A few years back he’d holed up there for three months. It was a quiet little place where you could sit on the porch and hear the turtledoves calling to each other in the morning light. The air had a different feel to it, clean and soft, and at night the stars were so bright you’d swear you could reach up and pull one down if you wanted to. For a while he’d thought the porch of that cabin would be a good place to die.

The door of the house he’d been watching opened suddenly. Pitching the empty foam container to the floorboud where it joined others like it, Ray grabbed the binoculars and studied the men who’d come out to stand on the front steps of the tiny home.

He didn’t recognize two of them—but the others he knew immediately. One was a convicted drug dealer Ray had put away a few years back. He’d heard the guy was out and in business again so he wasn’t surprised to see him, but the man standing beside him...oh, boy. Ben Mueller. He had a well-known face, too. All of Houston had gotten to know it during the last city council election, and the publicity had paid off. Mueller had won a seat.

Son of a bitch, Ray breathed. Who woulda thought?

He threw down the binoculars and reached for the camera sitting on the seat beside him, but he wasn’t fast enough. By the time he had it in his hands, the councilman was already down the steps and disappearing into the dark. A moment later, he pulled away in an older model Caddy. Ray snapped off a couple of quick shots, but they probably wouldn’t show much. He turned the camera back to the porch and pushed the shutter once again. As if they could hear the camera, the other two men left quickly. The man by the door disappeared back inside.

Ray started the van and pulled away from the curb just as the blue pickup carrying the two men drove past. There was a dog in the bed of the truck and as they turned the corner, the animal scrambled to keep his balance. Ray reached for the radio to call in, but before he could speak, the dispatcher’s voice sounded.

Got a possible 10-65 at 3454 River Place Drive. Code 4. See the woman, second call. Unit 93, are you available?

It took a second for the words to soak in. Ray grabbed the radio and spoke, a cold chill sweeping over him. This is Unit 1313, Dispatch. Confirm the address on that last transmit.

The woman repeated the numbers and street, her bored voice as mechanical as a computer-generated announcement. Are you taking the call, 1313?

Ray’s finger hovered over the button of the radio, then he depressed it and spoke. No, Dispatch. I’m out of service.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he stared at the blue pickup quickly disappearing into the darkness. He had the photos. If they really were cops, he’d find out soon enough. He took one last look, then muttered, To hell with it—

Turning the van around in the middle of the street, the tires screaming, horns sounding off behind him, he headed in the opposite direction to an address he knew only too well: 3454 River Place Drive. Abbie Franklin’s house. Where a child in distress call had just been made.

A house where no child had lived for seven long years.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE’D MADE the second call a good thirty minutes before, so when the bell rang, Abbie opened the door immediately, assuming—finally—to see a policeman.

A cop stood on the front porch, all right—but not one she’d expected. A sudden weakness came over her as she stared at him, a frisson of the old fever that she recognized only too well.

Ray Menendez looked as good as ever. A snug black T-shirt stretched across his chest and hugged his biceps. The jeans, as always, were just as tight. A few more lines around his eyes, maybe, but they only added character, as did the dusting of silver in his black hair along the temples. He’d put on a little weight, and the extra pounds gave him more of a presence than he’d had before...and he’d had plenty then. Their eyes met and locked.

I heard the call, he said. What’s wrong?

The minute he spoke, she realized he was the same old Ray. No preliminaries, no niceties, just straight to the chase.

She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. Well, it’s real nice to see you, too, Ray. Things are just fine, thanks for asking...

A look of chagrin crossed his face, but fled swiftly, replaced by a mixture of defensiveness and irritation. I was at a stakeout and your address came over the radio. Something about a lost kid. What’s going on, Abbie?

A car passed down the street, the stereo blasting into the early morning quiet. Abbie held open the door, almost reluctantly. Why don’t you come on in and I’ll explain. It’s complicated.

He brushed past her and went inside, stopping abruptly as he entered the living room. Her eyes automatically followed his gaze, and all at once, she saw the room as he must have. Slightly tattered, definitely cluttered, books and papers and magazines stacked in every available space. Not a single thing was different than when they’d been married, a disaster area like always. His mother had been appalled by Abbie’s lack of housekeeping ability.

I—I’ve been busy, she said apologetically. With work and everything. Sorry the house is such a mess.

He grinned then, and she got a flash of the old Ray. The Ray who’d swept her off her feet at twenty. The Ray who’d been the sexiest man she’d ever slept with. The Ray she’d loved more than life itself.

A mess? Looks to me like you just cleaned up.

She glanced into his teasing eyes, and a little of the awkwardness eased. Shrugging her shoulders, she smiled back. How about a cup of coffee?

Sure, why not.

He followed her into the kitchen, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he saw through the clutter as she did. Did he see the empty corners where the toys had once been stacked? Did he notice the silent television that used to play Sesame Street all day? Did he sense the emotional land mines that lurked in the darkness and exploded when she least expected it?

She pushed the thoughts away and opened the refrigerator, taking out a can of coffee. Behind her she heard him pull out one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She knew by the sound it was the one where he’d always sat. She swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat.

So what’s going on? he asked. What was the call about?

Filling up the coffeepot, she started talking, her back still to Ray. A kid came up to me this evening when I was leaving work. He...he was lost. She fussed with the coffee paraphernalia, taking down the sugar and creamer set she never used when she was alone—which was always—and grabbing two mugs that actually matched. I drove him around a bit, but nothing looked familiar to him. She turned around. I called the cops from here because after I brought him home—

Ray’s fingers stilled. He’d been playing with a spoon on the table, twirling it over and over as she spoke. You brought him here? His tone was incredulous.

Well, yeah, I did. Headquarters was such a madhouse and we both got tired of waiting—

Good God Almighty! Without letting her finish, Ray’s deep voice exploded across the kitchen. What were you thinking? You just found a kid and you brought him home? Like some kind of puppy or something? You’re an attorney, for Christ’s sake. You should know better! Why didn’t you call C.P.S.? Why didn’t you—

Abbie’s back stiffened against the counter. He was definitely the same old Ray—making assumptions and jumping in without knowing all the facts.

She interrupted his tirade with a chilly voice. "If you’d let me finish, I could explain."

He fell silent.

"I did call C.P.S. and I did take him to the police station. After both of those stops we went to the hospital, too. Everywhere we went. things were crazy! I knew nothing was going to get done, and the poor kid was sick with