Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Leanne struggled to focus on her job while her mind kept replaying her encounter with Sean Moriarty. Everything about it put her on edge, and she’d come to agree with her mom—his following her home was an intimidation tactic. He wanted her to know that he was there watching and that he was close.
Her phone buzzed from the cup holder of the SUV she’d borrowed from the motor pool. She glanced at the screen. Josh.
“Where are you today?” he asked.
“Getting my nails done.”
“What?”
“I’m on my way in. What’s going on?”
“Some lady’s here looking for you. She’s been here since I got back from lunch.”
Lunch. Another thing she didn’t have time for today.
Leanne scanned the streets around the station house, but if there were any reporters in the area, they were keeping a low profile.
“What does she want?” Leanne asked him.
“I don’t know. I think she’s from Marfa. It’s something about her daughter. I tried to talk to her, but she wants to see you.”
“I’m on my way in. I’ll be there in five.”
Leanne pulled into the parking lot and whipped into a space near the back door.
She clicked the locks with a chirp and strode up the sidewalk to the back door, still on the lookout for Max Scott or any other pushy reporters.
Marty Krause with the Sentinel had left her a message this morning, and she was dodging calls from three separate news outlets now.
The bullpen was crowded, even for a Friday.
She spied Josh at his desk, and he made eye contact as she wove through the cubicles.
As she neared the glass partition, Leanne saw Alma Cruz in the waiting room.
She sat on a plastic chair, her hands folded in her lap and a black purse at her feet.
She wore a long skirt and heels, like she might be headed to church.
Leanne stepped through the door, and Nadine spotted her and nodded toward the waiting area. Alma Cruz was already on her feet.
Leanne forced a smile. “Mrs. Cruz. How are you?”
The woman cast a wary glance at Nadine, who’d no doubt been playing gatekeeper, probably trying to get her to share whatever she needed with a uniform instead of holding out for a detective. Nadine knew how understaffed they were and made it part of her mission to protect their time.
Alma stepped forward. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a moment?”
“I do.” She glanced at Nadine. “Is the conference room open?”
She shook her head. “Try Interview Two.”
Leanne ushered Alma into the bullpen and led her past a row of cubicles to the first open door.
“Have a seat.” Leanne gestured to a gray plastic chair identical to the one she’d just been sitting in. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Leanne closed the door, hoping to head off questions from nosy coworkers. She took a seat opposite Alma and looked at her across the faux-wood table. Alma’s hair was in the same loose bun as last time, and she wore a necklace with a gold Madonna pendant that resembled the mural outside her house.
“What brings you in?” Leanne asked, although she had a hunch that she knew.
“It’s about Marisol.”
Leanne nodded.
“I saw on the news…about the body that was found?” Alma bit her lip, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope.
“Your daughter’s description doesn’t match the remains we recovered,” Leanne said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I investigated the possibility.”
It was one of the first things Leanne had done after returning from Marfa. The timing seemed unlikely, but there was always the chance that Alma’s missing daughter had been alive until recently.
“You are sure?” Alma asked again.
Leanne nodded. “In this case, the victim is five foot one. According to the report on file with Presidio County, your daughter is five-five.” Leanne paused. “Is that correct?”
Alma nodded and closed her eyes.
Leanne’s stomach tensed as she watched the woman stare down at her lap. Her pain filled the little room, crowding the space like an extra presence.
“Mrs. Cruz, I’m glad you came in today. I had planned to call you.”
She looked up.
“Marisol is your biological daughter, correct? She isn’t adopted?”
“She’s mine.”
“Has anyone asked you or your family to provide a DNA sample? I didn’t see anything about that in the file.”
She shook her head.
Frustration welled in Leanne’s chest. This should have been done six years ago.
“Would that help?” Alma asked.
“It would, yes. That would allow us to create a record for Marisol in a nationwide database of people whose families are searching for them. It’s a very useful tool.”
She took a deep breath. “All right.”
Leanne pulled a spiral notepad from the pocket of her jacket. Then she took out her phone and looked up the contact info for the detective assigned to Marisol’s case.
“Have you met Detective Orozco? He’s with the sheriff’s office?”
She shook her head, and Leanne felt a fresh wave of frustration.
“The person who originally worked on your daughter’s case—Detective Hastings?
—he left the department last year. There’s someone new now.
” Leanne tore off the slip of paper. “You can make arrangements with him to give a DNA sample.” She slid the paper across the table.
“I’ll reach out to him today and let him know to expect you. ”
Alma folded the paper and tucked it into her purse. By her solemn expression, Leanne could tell she knew exactly what a DNA match would mean.
She slid her chair back. “Thank you.”
“One more thing.”
Her dark brows arched.
“As you’ve searched for Marisol, have you met anyone else, maybe in your community or a neighboring community, who is looking for a missing daughter?” Leanne paused. “Sometimes people don’t feel comfortable filing a report.”
Alma nodded. She understood what Leanne was getting at.
Some people took pains to avoid police even when they needed them most. The undercurrent of distrust went back decades, and the influx of wealthy urbanites into Marfa and Madrone had only made things worse. The privilege gap kept getting wider.
“No one like Marisol, no,” Alma said. “I don’t know anyone whose daughter just”—she waved at the air—“disappeared without a word. I know a few other mothers whose hijas are older, and they left with a boyfriend.” She shook her head. “Marisol wouldn’t do that.”
Leanne watched her, looking for signs of ambivalence. Parents were not always the most reliable authority on what their teenage children would or wouldn’t do.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Alma stood up. “But I know my daughter.”