“Yes. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up. Did you tell anyone about me?” He was checking the side-view mirror, she realized, keeping watch on the vehicles around them. He wasn’t overt about it, but he hadn’t relaxed his guard one iota since getting into the SUV with her.
“No, and I told Joann not to mention you, either.”
“Can you trust her?”
“More than most.” Until the moment those words left her mouth, Milla would have said she trusted Joann absolutely. But Diaz wouldn’t believe in absolutes; to him people would be more trustworthy or less trustworthy, but not completely trustworthy. And he was right, she thought. As much as she trusted Joann, there was always the possibility something would slip during conversation.
He continued to watch the traffic, and she watched him as much as she could while she was driving. He was a neat man; his clothes weren’t stained, his fingernails were short and clean. Today he was wearing dark brown jeans and a T-shirt that looked as if it had once been beige but had been washed so often it had faded to a soft cream. He wore a wristwatch, one of those highly technical things that looked as if it could plot a course to the stars, but no other jewelry. His hands, resting quietly on his thighs, were strong and lean, with prominent veins that laced upward on his arms.
His profile was tough, contained, a little grim. His jaw was still covered with stubble, his lips compressed as if he found nothing in his life to be joyous. Maybe there wasn’t anything joyous, she thought. Joy came from people, from the web of relationships that bound people together, and Diaz was profoundly solitary. He might be sitting right beside her, but she felt as if part of him wasn’t there at all.
“Did you find out who called me Friday night?” she asked after the silence had stretched several minutes beyond comfortable.
“No. I hit a dead end.”
Did he mean that literally? Was his contact now dead?
“I’ll find him eventually,” he continued, and she blew out a tiny breath of relief.
Her cell phone rang. He looked around, located her bag, and hauled it up from the back floorboard. “Thanks,” Milla said, fishing the phone out of its pocket. The office number was showing in the window. “Hello.”
“We’ve got a missing four-year-old boy,” Debra Schmale said without preamble. “He lives close to the state park. He’s been missing from home for at least two hours.” She gave his address. “The police department are the first responders. The family and neighbors looked for the boy for two hours before they called. The PD called and asked for our assistance. We’re getting people in the street as fast as possible. Most of the office staff are on their way.”
“I’ll meet them at the boy’s house,” Milla said, and ended the call. She glanced at the traffic and changed lanes, accelerating to catch the next traffic signal on green. She hung a right, then another right, and headed in the opposite direction. “Where should I let you out?” she asked Diaz.
“What’s wrong?”
“Lost four-year-old, close to Franklin Mountains.” The string of hundred-plus temperatures had continued today; unless the little boy found shelter from the sun, he could die of heatstroke. And if he had found shelter, that could just make it more difficult to find him.
Diaz shrugged. “I’ll go with you. I know the area.”
Somehow she’d never expected that. Not only was he putting himself out, but a lot of people would see him. She had thought he would shun crowds.
“What’s your name?” she asked. “If you want to keep your identity quiet, I shouldn’t call you Diaz.”
He had a way of not answering questions immediately. He always paused a second or two, as if considering both the question and his possible answers. That little pause was unnerving.
“James,” he finally said.
She punched the Toyota into passing gear and powered ahead of a sports car. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes.”
Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But as long as he answered to the name, if it was his real one or not didn’t matter.
She was glad the police department had called them. In cases like this, Finders always worked under the direction of either police departments or county sheriffs, depending on who had jurisdiction and were the first responders. Searches did better when they were organized, rather than having a bunch of panicked people taking off in all directions without anyone knowing where they were going. Both the city and the county had search-and-rescue teams, but when manpower was short and time was critical, sometimes they would call Finders. Her people knew how to search, how to follow orders and stick to the grid.
The street where the little boy lived was clogged with cars, both official and private, and people walked up and down both sides of the street calling his name. A cluster of people was in front of his home, and Milla saw a distraught young woman sobbing into an older woman’s shoulder.
Her stomach clenched. She had once been that young woman. No matter how many times she saw a sobbing mother, no matter how many times a child was found safe and returned home, for one horrible moment she always flashed back to that little open market and the last time she’d heard her baby’s cry.
She found a place to park, jumped out, and retrieved her emergency kit from the back. The Finders all carried a change of clothing with them, because they never knew where they would be or how they would be dressed when a call came in. She climbed into the backseat and hurriedly stripped off her skirt, then pulled on a pair of cargo pants and put on her socks and sneakers. While she was changing, Diaz planted himself at the door with his back turned to her, blocking anyone from seeing in and surprising her with his consideration.