“I’m—” I was about to make a joke, something lame about sipping a mojito poolside in the Hamptons, but the edge to her voice ripped the notion to shreds. “You okay?”
“No. Where are you?”
I felt the back of my neck stiffen. Her voice was as distinctively accented as ever, a vestige of her Dominican and Puerto Rican descent with an overlay from growing up in New Jersey, but it had none of the laid-back, playful sultriness I remembered.
“I’m out,” I told her. “Just running some errands. What’s going on?”
“You’re in New York?”
“Yes. Meesh, what’s up? Where are you?”
I heard a sigh—more of an angry grumble, really, as I knew full well that Michelle Martinez was not one to sigh—then she came back.
“I’m in San Diego and I’m—I’m in trouble. Something terrible has happened, Sean. Some guys came to the house and they shot my boyfriend,” she said, the words bursting out and stumbling out of her. “I barely got away and—Christ, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I just didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry.”
My pulse bolted. “No, no, you did the right thing, it’s good you called. You okay? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m all right.” She took another deep breath, like she was calming herself. I’d never heard her like this. She’d always been clear-headed, steel-nerved, unshakeable. This was new territory. Then she said, “Hang on,” and I heard some fumbling, like she was moving the phone away from her mouth and holding it against her clothing. I heard her say, “Sit tight, okay, baby? I’ll be right outside,” heard the car door click open and slam shut, then her voice came back, less frantic than before, but still intense.
“Some guys showed up. I was home—we were all home. There were four, five of them, I’m not sure. White van, coveralls, like painters or something. So they wouldn’t raise eyebrows with the neighbors, I guess. They were pros, Sean. No question. Face masks, Glocks, suppressors. Zero hesitation.”
My pulse hit a higher gear. “Jesus, Meesh.”
Her voice broke, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. “Tom—my boyfriend—if he hadn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment, then came back with a pained resolve. “Doorbell goes, he gets it. They cut him down the second he opened the door. I’m sure of it. I heard two silenced snaps and a big thump when he hit the ground, then they charged into the house and I just freaked. I got one of them in the neck and I just ran. I grabbed Alex and—the garage has a door that leads out into the backyard, and—I got the hell out of there.” She let out a ragged sigh. “I just left him there, Sean. Maybe he was hurt, maybe I could’ve helped him, but I just ran. I just left him there and ran.”
She was really hurting over that, and I had to move her away from that remorse. “Sounds to me like you didn’t have a choice, Meesh. You did the right thing.” My mind was struggling to process everything she’d said while stumbling over the canyon-size gaps in the overall picture. “Did you call the cops?”
“I called nine-one-one. Gave them the address, said there was a shooting, and hung up.”
Then I remembered something she’d just said. “You said you grabbed Alex. Who’s Alex?”
“My son. My four-year-old boy.”
I heard her hesitate for a moment, I could picture her weighing her next words, then her voice came back and hit me with a three-thousand-mile knockout punch.
“Our boy, Sean. He’s our son.”
3
O
Two small words were all it took to turn the holes I was sidestepping into a huge, gaping chasm that just sucked me in.
I felt my mouth dry up, felt a torrent of blood surge into my skull, felt my chest coil up.
“Our son?”
“Yes.”
Everything around me disappeared. The cars and strollers gliding past in the sweltering heat, the mundane bustle and din of a suburban shopping strip on a sunny Saturday morning—it all just died out, like some big cone of silence had dropped out of the sky and cut me off from the rest of the world.
“What are you talking about?”
“You, me. Down in Mexico. Things happened. What, you forgot already?”
“No, of course not, but . . . You’re sure?”
Now I was the one in shock and fumbling around for words, my mouth buying time, waiting for my brain to catch up. It was a dumb thing to say, and I knew it. I didn’t need to ask. I knew Michelle. Knew her well enough to know that if she was anything, she was solid. Reliable. She could joke and be a real goof when she wanted to, but when it came to the serious stuff, the stuff that mattered, she didn’t mess around. If she was saying I was the father, it had to be true.
Scary how easily that just came out.
Something else I knew about her: She didn’t take kindly to anyone doubting her word, least of all someone she’d been as close to as yours truly, and even less on something this important.
“I wasn’t seeing anyone else on the side. You were it. I thought that was kind of obvious.”
It had been.
“That’s not what I meant,” I backpedaled.
“It was. But that’s okay. You’re pissed off. And you have every right to be.”
A maelstrom of conflicting emotions was coursing through me. Selfish, I know, given what she’d just been through, but it’s not every day you get a call informing you you’ve got a four-year-old son.
“Well, yeah, I am,” I replied. “I mean, Jesus, Meesh. How could you not tell me about this?”
“I—I’m sorry, Sean.” Her voice went softer with contrition. “I really am. I wanted to. And this isn’t how I ever imagined telling you about it, obviously, but . . . it wasn’t easy. Keeping it from you. All this time. The amount of times I picked up the phone to call you and tell you . . . but every time, I just—something kept me back.” She paused, then said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you, not now, not like this. I’m just not—I’m not thinking straight.”
My mind was still tripping over itself, struggling to get to grips with the notion—but I had to vault that for now and change tack. The reasons and blame games could wait. Michelle had just gone through hell, and she needed my help. My more immediate concern had to be making sure they—making sure she and her son,
“All right, don’t worry, we can talk about it later.” I took in a breath, fast-reviewing the sketchy information I had, then asked, “Where are you now?”
“I’m parked outside a mall. Plenty of people around. I’m safe for the time being. I think.”
“Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so.”
I tried to form a mental picture of it all, but there were still too many unknowns. “You think this could have anything to do with your work? You back on the job?” I’d heard that she’d left the DEA, not long after I’d left Mexico City, but that information was ancient.
“I’m out, Sean. Those days are long gone. I teach at a high school now. Nothing dark or dangerous there. I’m a basketball coach, for God’s sake.”
“So you don’t know who or why?”
“Not a clue. All I know is, they weren’t there to kill me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“One of the shooters, in the house. He had a clear shot. But he didn’t take it. If they’d wanted me dead, I’d be dead, for sure.”
“So they were there to grab you?”
“I guess. And it’s got me real scared, Sean. I mean, dammit, what about Alex? What would have happened to
