Cry Mercy

TWENTY-ONE

Mallory sat in her office, nervously tapping a pen on a file that sat open on the desk. She'd been bothered since the day Emme had blasted out of the drive, then later came slinking back, slipping into her office as if she didn't want anyone to know she was there.

Something was just not right with that woman.

Something had been nagging her since their conversation on Sunday afternoon. A quick look at the documents she'd received from Silver Hill and it hadn't been hard to spot.

Why was Emme lying about her background? Why had she gone on about having been abandoned at birth-in a church, no less, where she'd be found by nuns!-when her file clearly indicated that she'd come from a long line of law enforcement personnel? One of the recommendations that had been submitted to the Silver Hill department when she applied for the job was from a member of the California legislature who wrote about her family's “fine tradition of public service, from her great-grandfather all the way to her younger brother, who was a decorated member of the California Highway Patrol.”

What the hell? Mallory thought.

She lifted the phone and dialed the number for the Silver Hills PD, then asked to speak with Chief Jenkins when the call was answered.

“I'm sorry, Chief Jenkins is out of the office,” she was told. “This is Sergeant Whitaker. Would you like to leave a message?”

“My name is Mallory Russo. I'm with the Mercy Street Foundation in Conroy, Pennsylvania. I spoke with Chief Jenkins a few weeks ago about Emme Caldwell. I have a few more questions.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Anything I can help you with? I was Emme's partner on the street for a few years, when we first started. I knew her real well. Still miss her.”

“I'm sure she'd be happy to know that, Sergeant.” She knew better than to get into a discussion about Emme with anyone other than the chief. “Please let Chief Jenkins know that I need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing.”

Mallory gave her cell and office numbers, then said good-bye.

Still miss her. It struck Mallory as an odd thing to say. She returned the phone to the base. Emme only left Silver Hill a few weeks ago, hadn't she?

•

Carl Whittaker finished writing the note for the chief and left it on her phone where she'd be sure to see it when she returned from vacation. He went back to his desk and closed the right-hand drawer, the one where he kept his crossword-puzzle books. It was another relatively slow morning in Silver Hill, and the chief wasn't expected back until Monday. He was working on a particularly vexing puzzle when the phone had rung. He'd been planning on going right back to it, but now there was something more pressing on his mind. He went to his favorite search engine and typed in Mercy Street Foundation.

In seconds the site's home page filled his screen. He'd seen the press conference that had run over and over again on the TV news stations for almost a week after Robert Magellan had made his announcement. He'd even heard about an officer from L.A. and another from San Diego who'd applied, and several more who were thinking about it.

Why would someone from the Mercy Street Foundation be asking about a dead cop from Silver Hill?

He clicked on the sidebar and waited while the Staff page loaded. There was a picture of Mallory Russo… she's the one who called. Pretty girl. He smiled to himself. Course, you couldn't use “girl” anymore. It's un-PC. But pretty woman didn't have the same ring. Besides, that was that movie about a-

Hello.

Under Mallory Russo's picture was an empty square captioned “Check back later for a photo of our newest hire, our first full-time investigator, Emme Caldwell, who comes to us with seven years of law-enforcement experience.”

He stared at the screen, his eyes narrowing. Maybe there was another Emme Caldwell who'd been a cop somewhere else for seven years. Could be a really weird coincidence. It's a big world.

But Russo said she'd already spoken to Chief Jenkins about Emme. Wouldn't Steffie have told her that their Emme was deceased?

A very odd picture began to form in his mind, but he was having a real hard time getting it to focus.

Steffie. Ann.

Emme Caldwell.

The thought came like lightning. His mouth went dry and his fingers began to shake. He didn't like what he was thinking. He got up and walked outside, past the cars parked behind the building and across the street to the deli. He went in and ordered a large fountain soda in a take-out cup.

“Hey, Sarge,” the woman behind the counter greeted him. “What's the count down to now?”

“Sixty-two days, Elsie.” He met her at the cash register and paid for his drink. “Sixty-two more days.”

“You'll have to let me know how retirement feels.” She counted out his change from a five. “God knows I'll never get to experience it. I swear, if it isn't one thing, it's another.”

“Those kids of yours still giving you grief, Els?”

She rested one elbow on the counter. “My daughter Regina blows in last week with both her kids in tow. Says she got evicted from her place and had no where else to go. Tell it to their father, I tell her.” She shook her head. “But no. So here I am, at my age, the son moved back home last year, now the daughter with her kids…” She blew out a breath laden with exasperation. “So I figure the only way I'll be able to experience retirement is vicariously, through my friends.”

“I were you, I'd be moving to a smaller place. No room for anyone to move in, take advantage of you.”

“Don't think I haven't thought of it, Sarge, but hey, your kids are your kids, right? What are you gonna do? Pray for a windfall, is all.”

The bell over the door rang as another customer came in, and she slapped her hand on the counter. “Good seeing you, Sarge.”

“You too, Elsie.” He took his drink and walked to the small park at the corner, found a bench and took a seat and thought about his retirement. His pension wasn't going to go as far as he'd hoped it would. He couldn't say he wasn't worried about that. Thirty-three years as a cop and he'd be leaving without a whole lot to show for it.

Windfall.

That's what was really on his mind.

He'd heard the rumors on the street, he'd even been slipped a phone number in the bar the other night, just in case he heard something. He suspected that most of the members of the force had been given the same number. Would anyone hesitate to use it? Anyone other than Steffie, that is?

The whole thing had been odd, Ann disappearing like that, just taking off. Steffie's explanation that she'd quit and left without notice because she was sick. Well, that just wasn't credible. Steffie and Ann had been best friends. Steffie was the godmother to Ann's daughter. He could buy the part about Ann quitting and not giving notice once the story about Navarro started circulating, but not that Steffie didn't know where she'd gone. And Steffie didn't even seem that upset. All she ever said was that Ann did what Ann thought was best for her. If she wanted anyone to know where she was, she'd let them know.

Then out of the blue, there's this call about Emme Caldwell.

No, not out of the blue. Mallory Russo said she spoke with Steffie a few weeks ago. What had that been about?

He thought he might know.

He went back to his office and closed the door behind him, then went through his top drawer until he found the crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and before he could change his mind, he dialed the number. It rang four times before a man answered.

“This is Carl Whittaker. Tell Mr. Navarro I might know where he can find his daughter…”