Marshal On A Mission. Ryshia Kennie
the scene.”
“Doesn’t give her much trust that the system will be there for her,” Trent said.
“No, it doesn’t. But I don’t know why I’m repeating this. You knew all that,” Jackson said and shrugged as if that didn’t matter. “Add to that the fact that no one spoke to her about protection of any kind.” He smacked the desk. “By the time we sent a man to interview her, it was clear that someone else had been there first. The back door had been broken in. And the porch door was open. Interesting thing was that there was nothing taken. At least that’s what we assume, as everything was in place.”
“I can see why she might have run but son of a—” Trent bit off the expletive. “This makes things difficult.”
“Between us, we’ll get her back,” Jackson said.
“Us?” Trent repeated with just a hint of sarcasm.
“You,” Jackson stated with finality.
Ten hours later
IT HAD ALL sounded so easy then. But it was early morning the next day before Trent was on the last leg of his journey to Mexico City. An hour before the plane landed, he called Enrique Gonzales. Despite the time, the second in command of the Mexican Federal Police was already up and on his second cup of coffee. An hour after the plane landed, Trent was in a cab and heading for the coffee bar Enrique had suggested for them to meet at.
“I’ve found nothing,” Enrique said with a grim look. “We know she landed here. We know that it was a late-afternoon flight. She didn’t rent a car at the airport. We interviewed everyone in the vicinity. Only the man at the concession stand had any information. He got the impression that she wasn’t planning to stay long, at least not in Mexico City.” He shook his head. “Don’t forget the guy’s grasp of English is poor to say the least. He could have misunderstood. So, other than that, there’s nothing. But you know how it is. That’s the downfall of a city this large. There’s too many people, even the tourists disappear into the chaos.” He shrugged. “That doesn’t mean that I’ve given up. That’s the status for now.”
Trent nodded. Everything that Enrique was saying made sense. Coming down here was a long shot. Now he wondered if he’d been overly optimistic in thinking that finding her might be that easy.
“Anyway, I did a little more digging based on what you told me,” Enrique said. “The fact that she’s an artist got my interest and also got me thinking. Now, this is only a guess. But I wondered, would she go to San Miguel de Allende?”
Trent wasn’t surprised to hear the name. It was a popular haunt for many in the arts community. “She’s been there before. Twice. I saw it on her Facebook feed from a few years ago.” In fact, he’d done a search on the city on the flight here, thinking that it might be a possibility. She’d been a gifted artist as a girl. But it was a clue that might have struck gold.
“The arts community is tight. Someone there may know something. I’d say it’s worth a shot.”
“I planned to search here first,” Trent said. “There’s no guarantee that she’s left Mexico City.”
“Good point, but we can save time if I keep my nose to the ground here and you check out San Miguel. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Thanks, man.”
An hour later, Trent was heading for a car rental agency. Whether Tara was in San Miguel de Allende or whether she was somewhere else in Mexico was anyone’s guess. The only thing he knew for sure was that she hadn’t boarded another plane out of Mexico City.
Tara leaned back on the ornate white metal chair that was already well warmed by the morning sun. She was in a small courtyard that faced the main cobbled street where vendors congregated. The courtyard fronted the arched alcove of the heritage building. It was there where she’d rented a tiny apartment. The landlords—Carlos and his wife, Francesca—specialized in housing artistic types from all over the world. Their rates were good, or in better terms cheap. She’d stayed there before on her last visits. But this time around it seemed empty and worn and more than a little sad. Things seemed a little more run-down, like business hadn’t been so good.
She watched as a stooped and withered woman wheeled a wagon full of red, yellow and blue baskets down the street. The wheel of the barrow bounced on the cobblestones. A young boy ran behind her, dashing to one side and then the other.
Tara smiled as she leaned forward, watching the scene, taking in the details. She held a sketching pencil in one hand, and a strand of blond hair slipped free of the braid that hung down her back. From the first moment she’d discovered San Miguel de Allende, she’d felt at home. Even now, after all that had happened, she felt safe.
The place she rented was in the heart of the city. Here, one historic building after another butted against each other. The city was founded in the early-sixteenth century and much of the architecture from that time still existed.
She glanced over and caught a glimpse of Siobhan O’Riley coming out a side door. Siobhan worked in the small café that was part of the property and run by her landlords. Tara had met her on her first visit to the city and since then, they’d stayed in touch. On that visit, when Tara had left to go home, Siobhan had stayed, putting down roots and swearing that she’d never return to the rains of Ireland.
“Here’s your coffee,” Siobhan said. “With a touch of milk. Toast. Butter and jam on the side.” She set the breakfast down.
“Thanks.” Tara closed her sketchbook and put her pencil down.
“You here for long this time?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, unable to hide the pensive note she knew was in her voice. She was running on cash and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do when that ran out. There was a lot she didn’t know, like the legalities of working here should she need to. But if staying meant finding a job, whether it was legitimate or under-the-table, she’d do it. She’d do whatever it took.
The memories of what she’d witnessed haunted her sleep and potentially threatened her life. Money seemed such a small thing in comparison. She had bigger things to worry about, like not being found, possibly changing her name. Eventually, she knew she’d go home and testify. When it was safe, when she was needed, just not now.
Tara ate her toast as she watched the activity on the street. Sellers’ stalls lined the street for as far as she could see. The smell of cooking food filled the air. She reached down to scratch the ear of her landlords’ small dog. He was a true mutt, so mixed that she wasn’t sure what breed might dominate.
“Ah, Maxx, if only every man were like you. Adoring and patient,” she said with a laugh and another scratch behind his ears. A door opened. The dog turned.
She waved at Francesca, who gave her a smile and waved back. She felt safe here, the older couple who owned the rental units were kind, and it made her feel safe to know that Carlos was a retired police inspector.
“Maxx,” Francesca called. The dog got to his feet and ran toward her.
Tara had to laugh at the speed the dog moved. She guessed that it might be mealtime. Her smile stayed as her attention went back to the bustle of commerce on the street just below her. For the courtyard was raised above the street level by a flight of stone steps. It was a busy and entertaining sight. The colors alone could keep one’s attention. The awnings over the storefronts and the vendors’ stalls were numerous hues, all of them vibrant. They added to the collage that was only enhanced by the merchandise. Color was the theme reflected everywhere.
She loved the market. Each of the vendors had their stories if you had time to listen. The first time she’d been here, she’d celebrated her thirtieth birthday. That had been four years ago. The