iaz entered the smoky cantina and found himself a place against the wall, partly shadowed, where he could watch the patrons come and go. The music was loud, the metal tables were crowded with empty bottles, and the urinal consisted of a barrel in a back corner. Two prostitutes were doing a lively business; the Mexican farmers and fishermen were relaxed and having a good time, singing along with a folk song, giving one another numerous and enthusiastic toasts, which called for more bottles, which called for more toasts. The cantinero, the bartender, looked like a man who kept a loaded shotgun close to hand, but in the convivial little cantina Diaz doubted he needed it very often.

Running Enrique Guerrero to earth had taken a lot of time and patience. Diaz thought he’d probably chased him over half of Mexico. But he’d finally caught up with the little fucker, in the port city of Veracruz, in this crowded, aromatic cantina where he felt safe, surrounded by all his compadres.

Lola must have warned him, Diaz thought, or his friends in Matamoros had. Enrique had run. Now why would he do such a thing, unless he had something to hide? Watching him, Diaz figured he had a lot to hide. Enrique was one of those furtive weasels who watched the people around him and, when they were too drunk to notice, relieved them of some of their cash. He was slick, but the cantina was dark and smoky, and there was some serious drinking going on; a five-year-old would have had some success doing the same thing. Enrique was drinking, but not much, which gave him a huge advantage. Still, not a few of the campesinos carried machetes; it was their weapon of choice, and hacking at one another was almost a national sport. Enrique was risking more than a black eye if he got caught.

Diaz wasn’t drinking at all. He stood very still, and most people never even noticed him. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. He just watched Enrique, and waited for his chance.

Because he wasn’t drinking very much, Enrique didn’t have to make any visits to the barrel in the corner. If he had, Diaz could have moved up behind him and gently escorted him out the nearby door that led into the callejón, the alley. In this crowd, no one would have noticed or given a damn even if they had. So Diaz waited, moving deeper into the shadows, his attention never wavering.

Dawn was only minutes away when Enrique stood and slapped his pals’ backs, trading loud and hilarious insults if the drunken laughter was anything to go by. Probably he’d lifted all he could reasonably expect to get; it was a good gig, because when everyone sobered up, they would simply think they’d had a very good time and spent all their money.

When Enrique opened the door, the fresh air outside didn’t even make a dent in the almost palpable wall of smoke that filled the room. Diaz moved without haste from his post, timing his arrival so he stepped through the door right behind Enrique. No one seeing him would have thought there was any purpose at all to his leaving right then, because his gait had been leisurely.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he had his hand over Enrique’s mouth and his knife point sticking just under his ear as he dragged the weasel into the darkness of a narrow alley.

“Talk, and you will live,” he said in Spanish. “Fight, and you will die.” He removed his hand from Enrique’s mouth. Just to make certain Enrique got the point, Diaz gave him the point, about an eighth of an inch. It stung like hell and blood began pouring, but Diaz had taken care not to cut anything major.

Enrique was already slobbering with fear, promising anything, everything, whatever the señor wanted. Here, he had money—

“Don’t move your hands, cabrón.” Diaz dug the knife point in a little deeper. With his other hand he did a swift search and relieved Enrique of the blade he’d been trying to pull out of his pocket. “I don’t want your friends’ money, just answers to a few questions.”

“Yes, anything.”

“Your mother sent me. My name is Diaz.”

Enrique’s knees wobbled. He let loose with a number of colorful curses at Lola, who, even if she’d heard them, likely wouldn’t have cared. Diaz figured there wasn’t any love lost between mother and son, or she would never have told Diaz how to find Enrique. Essentially, Lola cared about no one but herself, a trait she had passed on to her son.

“Ten years ago you were living with Lola when she was caring for the stolen babies.”

“I know nothing about the babies—”

“Shut up. I’m not asking about the babies. Who did Arturo Pavón and your uncle Lorenzo work for? Did you ever hear a name?”

“A yanqui,” Enrique babbled.

“Not his nationality, cabrón; his name.”

“No... no name. All I heard was that he lived in El Paso.”

“Is that all?”

“I swear!”

“I’m disappointed. I already knew that much.”

Enrique began to shake. “I never saw him. Pavón was very careful to never mention his name.”

“But was Lorenzo as careful? Or did Lorenzo like to brag?”

“He bragged, señor, but it was empty noise. He knew nothing!”

“Tell me some of the things he said. I’ll decide if it is nothing.”

“That was a long time ago; I don’t remember—”

Diaz made a tsking sound. He didn’t move the knife at all; he didn’t have to. Terrified beyond reason by that regretful tsk, Enrique shuddered and began to sob. The strong odor of urine wafted up.

“Do you remember when Pavón lost his eye, stealing a gringo baby? The mother clawed out his eye, tore it from his head. Surely you remember that.”

“I remember,” Enrique said, weeping.

“Ah, I knew you didn’t have amnesia. What is it you have recalled?”

“Not about the man in El Paso, I know nothing about him! But that baby, the gringo baby... Lorenzo said the woman doctor helped them.”

The woman doctor.

Milla’s friend Dr. Kosper had delivered her baby, and had kept in touch all these years. She even lived in El Paso.

A big piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

The eviscerated victims hadn’t been butchered; their organs had been neatly removed, indicating some surgical skill was used. A damaged organ had no value. An undertaker could be doing the organ removal, but a doctor was the more likely choice.

Who was the one doctor who had lived nearby at both the little village where Milla’s baby was stolen and the border where the bodies were being found?

None other than Susanna Kosper.

He had to warn Milla.

By the middle of October, Diaz still hadn’t returned and Milla was so worried she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. Had anything happened to him? Mexico was, by and large, an extremely friendly and hospitable country, but like every other country in the world, it also had a very rough element. She would have bet on Diaz against almost anyone, but even the most efficient predator could be outnumbered and overwhelmed. He wasn’t proof against a high-caliber rifle, either.

When she wasn’t sick with worry, she was furious. Didn’t he have any idea how it would make her feel to have someone else she cared about just disappear? There was no comparison between Diaz and Justin, of course, except for their ties to her heart. Her son and her lover: surely she couldn’t lose them both in such a cruel way, with no closure, just pain and emptiness and uncertainty. When Diaz did show up again, she’d give him a piece of her mind he wouldn’t soon forget, and if he didn’t like it, that was just tough. He could sever their relationship if he wanted, but as long as there was a relationship she refused to be treated like nothing more than a sexual convenience whenever he got around to visiting.

She had tried his cell phone number several times without luck. He was either unavailable, according to the canned message, or not in a service area. If he had a voice mail option with his service, he hadn’t activated it.

She kept busy. Unfortunately, Finders kept busy. There was a rash of runaways and kids being snatched, as well as the inevitable hikers getting lost in the mountains. The reason didn’t matter; if feet on the ground were what mattered, Finders provided them. In just one week, Milla flew from Seattle to Jacksonville, Florida, to Kansas City, then San Diego, and finally back to El Paso. She was exhausted when she got back, but the first thing she did when she got home was check her answering machine for messages. There were plenty of them, but none from Diaz. She didn’t think he’d called on her cell phone, either, but the caller log feature had totally stopped working and she had no way of telling if she’d missed a call or not.

Come to think of it, she’d had no calls on it at all for a couple of days. She hadn’t thought anything of it because she’d been on so many different flights, and she had always called the office as soon as she could. She’d had no trouble making calls, but what if she couldn’t receive them?

She picked up her home phone and called her cell number. She listened to the ringing in the earpiece, but the cell phone in her hand did absolutely nothing.

In disgust she hung up and tossed the cell phone back into her purse. First thing in the morning she would drop it off for repairs and pick up a loaner, or even buy a new one if necessary. She couldn’t bear thinking that Diaz might have tried to get in touch and that stupid phone wasn’t working. Did he have her home phone number? She couldn’t remember ever giving it to him. Surely, though, if he’d needed to get in touch with her and couldn’t get her on the cell, he’d have called Finders and left a message, or called Information and got her home phone number and left a message here.

Where in hell was he?

Her home phone rang and she snatched up the receiver. Maybe—

“Señora Boone.”

“Yes, this is she.” Milla didn’t recognize the voice. This reminded her of the call back in August, telling her where she could find Diaz. But the voice wasn’t the same; she was certain of it. The first voice had been lighter, smoother; this voice was coarse, and the accent was different.

“You are interested in Arturo Pavón?”

My God. Milla swallowed hard to contain the sharp rise of excitement. Please, please let this be some real information and not another false lead, she prayed. “Yes, I am.”

“He will be in Ciudad Juarez tonight. At the Blue Pig Cantina.”

“What time?” she asked, but the caller had already hung up. She checked Caller ID; it said, “Unavailable.”

Desperately she called Diaz’s cell phone again. After three rings the canned voice said the customer was not in a service area.

She checked the time: four-thirty. Because this past week had been so busy, the office staff was scattered over the country. Brian was in Tennessee. Joann was in Arizona. Debra Schmale and Olivia were both sick with a vicious stomach virus.

She knew better than to go alone. She didn’t know what kind of place the Blue Pig was, if it was a regular cantina, in which case she wouldn’t be welcome in there, or if it was a club where women were allowed without it automatically being assumed they were prostitutes. She couldn’t see Pavón going into any of the more exclusive clubs; no, if he was there, then this was a regular cantina. For her to step foot inside one of them was to invite big trouble.

She racked her brain, trying to think of someone who was both available and capable.

Only one name surfaced.

Diaz had told her to stay away from True Gallagher, and she assumed he had a good reason other than just being territorial. He’d said that before they became lovers, as more of a warning than anything else. She should have asked specifically why he mistrusted True. But other than Diaz and Brian, he was the only man she could think of who would be capable in a situation like this.

She realized that it didn’t matter. Diaz wouldn’t have said what he had without reason, so she had to trust him. Just as soon as she saw him she’d find out exactly what he had against True, but until then she had to rely on her own sense of trust, and that lay with Diaz.

There had to be someone else. The problem with concentrating on work and on her quest to find Justin was that her social life was limited; she knew a lot of people, but none intimately, and in circumstances like this she needed someone she knew she could rely on.

Then she drew a quick breath of relief. There was one other, if she could just get in touch with him: Rip Kosper. Quickly she looked up his office number; of course he didn’t see patients in the office, since he was an anesthesiologist, but he and his partner had an office for handling the paperwork and billing, and taking messages.

He hadn’t yet left the hospital, the woman who answered said. Milla said it was urgent, gave her name and number, and the woman promised to page him. While she waited for him to return her call, Milla ran upstairs and changed into jeans and sneakers.

More than an hour passed before Rip called. In that time Milla paced, tried Diaz’s cell phone three more times, and forced herself to eat a sandwich. The caller hadn’t given a time, so this could well be an all-nighter.

“Milla?” Rip sounded concerned when he finally called. “What’s wrong?”

“I need someone to go with me into Juarez tonight,” she said. “My regular crew is either gone or sick, and this isn’t something I can do by myself. Can you go with me? I know this is way out in left field, but you’re the only friend I can think of.”

“Sure, no problem. Where and what time?”

She told him which bridge to meet her at, and when. “You’ll need to change clothes, if you can. The cantina we’re going to will probably be on the rough side.”

“All riiight,” he said with relish. “It’s been a while since I’ve done any cantina crawling.”

“Oh, one more thing: I have no idea how long this will take. It could be all night.”

“I have a light schedule tomorrow anyway. Nothing until almost noon. I’m good.”

“Thanks, Rip. You’re a doll.”

“I know,” he said smugly.

An hour later they walked across into Juarez. Milla had previously used Chela’s services only if they were leaving the border zone, but under no circumstances would she ever willingly be near Pavón without being armed, so she had placed a call to the arms dealer and arranged to meet her. “Do you know how to use a pistol?” she asked Rip when they were on the Juarez side.

“Never have. I’ve hunted, but with a rifle. Haven’t hit anything yet.” He gave her a concerned look. “You really think we’ll need guns?”

“I know I’d rather have them and not need them, than vice versa. I didn’t tell you, but the man who took Justin is supposed to be at this cantina tonight. If he is, you can bet he’ll be armed.”

Rip stopped in his tracks, an uneasy expression crossing his face. “Don’t you think you should call the cops? The PJF or the PJE, whichever would handle things like this.”

“And tell them what? I think he’s the man I saw very briefly ten years ago?” She didn’t want to deal with either the state or the federal judicial police. Both were highly unpopular in Mexico.

“You took out his eye. That makes him easy to identify.”

“Unless I think all one-eyed men could be the same man. I don’t even know that he’ll be here. I had an anonymous call that said he would be. Do you know how many other calls I’ve had over the years? Take a guess how many of them have actually been worth anything.”

“I’m guessing not any,” he said, relaxing.

“One, actually.”

“So this is more of a wait-and-see.”

“Probably. I won’t know unless I show up. But I definitely don’t want to hang around a rough cantina without some means of protection.”

Rip knew the score on cantinas, knew she couldn’t go inside—which meant she would be on the street. Even sitting in a car, as she intended to do, had its risks.

Her old friend Benito met them with a grin and a Ford Taurus in fairly good shape. He also knew where the Blue Pig was and gave her careful directions, along with a warning. The Blue Pig had a very bad reputation. Most cantinas were friendly places where men relaxed and got shit-faced drunk, but the Blue Pig was where the very rough element gathered.

Milla began to think Pavón might actually be there, if the place was that bad.

They met Chela, who silently handed over a shopping bag, took her money, and walked away. “Is it always that easy?” Rip asked in surprise.

“So far. If a policeman ever wants to look in the bag, though, I’m dropping it and running.”

“I’ll run with you,” he said, grinning.

They got back into the Taurus, with Milla behind the wheel. Without hope, before they went to the Blue Pig, Milla tried Diaz’s number one more time. To her absolute astonishment, he answered.

“Where have you been?” she all but shouted at him, then caught herself and felt her face getting hot. She’d said that as if she had a right to know. Then she thought briefly and decided she did have a right to know. They were lovers, and she’d been worried about him.

There were three beats of silence; then he said, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“My cell phone won’t receive calls. I can call out, but that’s it.”

“I’ve had my phone turned off most of the time.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want it to ring.”

This time she was the one who waited before she spoke, fighting the urge to beat her head against the car’s dashboard. She had the feeling that if she could see him, he’d be wearing that tiny smile of his. “Why not?”

“I didn’t want the noise to attract attention.”

He’d been on stakeout, then. “Did you find out anything?”

“Something very interesting. Where are you?”

“Juarez. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. I got a call this afternoon saying Pavón will be at the Blue Pig Cantina tonight.”

“I know the place. Stay where you are until I can get there. Don’t go there alone.”

“I’m not alone. Rip Kosper is with me.”

His voice was suddenly tense. “Kosper?”

“Remember my friends Susanna and Rip?”

“She’s involved, Milla. She’s part of it. Get away from him, go back to El Paso. Do it now.”

She actually took the phone away and stared at it in astonishment for a second before putting it back to her ear. “What did you say?”

“Susanna. She set up Justin’s kidnapping. She’s probably neck-deep in the organ smuggling, too. Someone with skill has been removing the organs, and a doctor is the most likely bet.”

She was so stunned she couldn’t think. Susanna? The idea was preposterous. Susanna was her friend, she had delivered Justin, she had made a point of staying in touch all these years and offering support and friendship. She had kept track of Milla’s efforts to find the kidnappers.

Milla was hyperventilating. She caught her breath and held it before she got dizzy, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Milla?” Rip asked, his voice worried. “Are you all right?”

“Get away from him,” Diaz’s voice said in her ear, the tone deadly.

“How soon can you be here?” she asked with a calm that took every ounce of control she possessed.

“I’m seventy kilometers away. An hour, at least.”

“I won’t pass up a chance at Pavón. We know he probably won’t show, but maybe he will.”

Evidently realizing the futility of telling her to go home, Diaz took a deep breath. “Are you armed?”

“Yes.”

“Is he?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Keep it that way. What kind of car are you driving?”

She described the Taurus to him.

“Stay in the car. Keep the doors locked. Park on the street where I can find you. I’ll be there as fast as possible. And if Kosper does anything the least bit suspicious, shoot his ass.”

“Yes. Okay,” she said to the staccato list of commands.

He disconnected the call, and she did the same. She felt shell-shocked, and she didn’t dare look at Rip. He couldn’t be involved. Not Rip. He had a gentle heart, that of a true gentleman. The only time she had ever seen him be less than friendly was the night Susanna had tried to set her up with True; he’d made it obvious that he didn’t like the man.

Neither did Diaz. How odd that both of them would so intensely dislike the same man, and knowing that Rip disliked True, how odd that Susanna would try to throw Milla at him anyway. Why would she do such a thing?

True and Susanna talked. Nothing incriminating about that. He was wealthy now, but he’d dragged himself out of poverty. She had heard that he’d come from El Paso’s meanest, toughest section. She knew that he still had contacts in that world, that he knew all sorts of unsavory characters such as smugglers.

Susanna... and True?

It made sense. She was going solely on instinct now, without a shred of corroborating evidence, but it made sense.

She took one of the pistols out of the shopping bag, then put the shopping bag in the floorboard on the other side of her legs.

“What’s wrong?” Rip asked. “Who was that?”

“A man named Diaz.”

He heaved a weary sigh. “I’ve heard about him.”

“How?”

“I overheard Susanna and True talking.” Rip stared out the window. “I’m guessing he knows about Susanna.”

Startled, Milla stared at him, and kept her hand on the pistol. He rubbed his eyes. “She’s careless sometimes. She says things she shouldn’t, forgets how sound carries. Her home office, for example, seems to amplify sound. I’ve overheard conversations for years, but only in the past few months have things started to come together for me. She was talking to him on the phone one day, and—I don’t remember exactly what she said, but the meaning was pretty clear. Something about how much money they’d earned with the babies, though the hullabaloo about Justin had nearly gotten them caught. Earned. She actually said they earned the money.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Milla asked. “Go to the cops?”

“Lack of evidence. Hell, no evidence. Just some phone calls that I heard only her side of. She asked True if he was sure this Diaz guy was coming up empty and they didn’t have to worry. I don’t know what True said, but it was obvious he took Diaz seriously. So I did some investigating on my own, did more eavesdropping, and found out there was going to be a transfer of some kind of cargo behind the church in Guadalupe. I know a few hard-asses in Mexico myself. I contacted one of them, told him Diaz would appreciate knowing about this, hoped it worked. Then I called you, used a fake accent and told you Diaz would be there. I didn’t know for sure, but there was a possibility. Guess I was right, huh?”

Rip was the anonymous caller. He had to be; otherwise he couldn’t have known about that night. “He was there,” she said, her throat tight.

Rip bowed his head. “When I found out what she’d done... I’ve loved that woman for twenty years, and I never knew her. It was the money, I guess. We were almost bankrupted paying back our student loans, credit card bills, you name it. She isn’t good with a budget. I’m not either, truth be told. That’s why we went to Mexico, to get away from the bill collectors for a year. The money situation got much better that year, and now I know why. She was selling babies. Hell, she delivered them, she knew their sex, age, general health.”

And the poor Mexican women had traveled considerable distances to reach the clinic so they could have a real doctor in attendance during birth. The kidnappings would have been spread out over a sizable area, and who would ever think to ask who had delivered the babies? Since Susanna had had no contact with them once they left the clinic, she had never even blipped on the radar of suspicion.

“She sold Justin,” Rip continued. “They got a lot of money for him. I’m sorry, Milla, I don’t know where they sent him. I’ve gone through all of her paperwork, but there’s nothing about what happened to the babies. I don’t think she cared.” Tears gathered in his eyes. “She said they’d kept you busy chasing your own tail for ten years. They’ve been hindering you every way they could.”

“What are you going to do?” Milla asked, her voice thin. This hurt. She was shocked and hurt and angry. Susanna was lucky she wasn’t within reach at that moment, or Milla would have done physical damage to her.

“I don’t know. Divorce, obviously. I haven’t left her because I wanted to be in a position to snoop. Can I testify against her? I don’t know if I can make myself do it.”

“Diaz thinks she’s involved with black market organ transplants, that they’re killing people and selling their organs.”

Rip stared at her, his mouth working soundlessly. Finally he managed to say, “She—she couldn’t do that. That’s beyond—”

“The ‘cargo’ that was transferred in Guadalupe that night was a person.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” All color washed out of Rip’s face and he closed his eyes. He looked as if he was going to vomit.

Milla felt as if she might be sick, too. She checked the time and a spurt of adrenaline had her starting the car with quick, jerky movements. “We have to get to the cantina. Pavón might already be there.”

“I thought you said he probably wouldn’t—”

“There’s always a chance.”