“This is Supervisory Special Agent Noah Armstrong with the Federal Bureau of Investigation with a warrant for two properties managed by Direct Property Holdings. I am at your business office and they claim they have no access to the files in question. I want all records including owner information, maintenance, rental agreements, finances, and copies of every check or transaction. And I want them ready immediately.”
He listened, then gave the two relevant addresses. He listened again and said, “Next week is not going to work. One hour… I don’t care if the lawyer who handles DPH is not in the office, I have a federal warrant.” He looked at his watch. “One hour.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Siobhan had the driver take her back to the hotel, then picked up her rental car to drive out to the address Eric had given her. She didn’t want to intimidate the midwife by driving up in a black Town Car. Now that she was alert, she was certain she wouldn’t put herself in a position of danger.
She appreciated Sean-though she suspected Kane had a lot to do with it-providing her with a secure hotel and transportation, but she’d been a photojournalist for more than a decade and had taken care of herself more often than not. She’d traveled through dangerous countries and was hyperaware of her surroundings. She admitted to herself that being in the States had lulled her into a false sense of security, but now that she was reminded that the States could be as violent as Mexico and Central America, she wasn’t going to be caught unawares.
The midwife Eric had identified, Cora Smith, lived in a small two-bedroom, one-bath postwar box house in the middle of a long line of two-bedroom, one-bath postwar box houses. It was late morning, and day laborers who couldn’t find work at dawn were now back in their yards, watching Siobhan with cautious, quiet eyes when she stopped the rental car in front of house number 1127. She walked up the short, weed-choked concrete walkway and knocked on the door. The scent of fresh tortillas and chili powder wafted through the air as the door opened. “I’ve been expecting you,” Cora said and opened the door wide.
“You have?”
“I heard a pretty redhead wanted to talk to me. That would be you, right?”
“I’m Siobhan Walsh,” she said. “I’m looking for two girls-the daughters of my best friend-and I heard you might have some information.”
“Come, I just finished making dinner.” In true southern fashion, she called her midday meal dinner, while supper would be a smaller, lighter meal.
Cora wasn’t what Siobhan expected. First, she was an octogenarian. And small-not even five feet tall and couldn’t possibly weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Silver-white hair so short and straight she could have been mistaken for a man. Her house was immaculate but cluttered, with no television that Siobhan could see, and a crucifix over every doorway. An enormous paint-by-numbers of the Last Supper hung in the kitchen’s eating area, dwarfing the small room. From a distance, it didn’t look half bad.
Two young boys stood in the kitchen at attention. Cora finished filling a dozen lunch boxes with some sort of spicy stew, stacks of fresh tortillas, and small apples. She stacked six lunch boxes into each of two larger cardboard boxes. In Spanish she said, “Thank you, boys. When you return the boxes, I’ll pay you. And your lunch will be ready.”
The boys stared at Siobhan with wide eyes and nodded at Cora, then left through the back door, each carrying a box that seemed too large for him.
“Good boys,” Cora said with a nod. “I prepare meals a few times a week for some of my older neighbors who can’t get around so well. The boys help deliver for me. I’m not as spry as I used to be.”
Older neighbors? Must be the ninety-somethings, Siobhan thought.
“Sit, I’ll dish some stew.”
“You don’t have to-”
Cora gave Siobhan a look that told her not to argue. “I don’t have to do nothing I don’t want to. Sit.”
Siobhan sat. “Smells delicious, Ms. Smith.”
Cora smiled as she dished bowls of stew and put them on the table, one in front of Siobhan and one at an empty place. She brought out more fresh tortillas and then Cora sat, crossed herself, and said a blessing. Then she smiled when Siobhan said “amen” and motioned for her to eat.
Halfway through the meal Cora said, “You want to know about the dead girl.”
Siobhan nearly dropped her spoon. “Yes. I think she’ll lead me to Marisol and Ana.” She explained who they were and why she was looking for them.
“It’s a sad situation, and I don’t know exactly how the girls found themselves in it.” Cora seemed to be picking her words carefully. Siobhan wondered if she knew more than she planned on saying. “Suffice it to say, I have been a midwife for more than sixty years. I’ve delivered nearly two thousand babies. Some didn’t survive. I know when I can’t help, when they need a doctor. Some don’t want to go, but I tell them, they go. Because life is precious, and a baby is God’s hope in a troubled world.”
Siobhan believed Cora had the ability to make anyone do anything even if they didn’t want to. She had that quiet, serene confidence that inspired loyalty and trust.
“Two weeks ago, I was called to a house in the middle of the night near Our Lady of Sorrows.”
Siobhan’s ears perked up. Father Sebastian’s church.
“It was far for me to go, but one of my neighborhood boys took me. An old friend, Loretta Martinez, had a complication with one of her clients. I told her go to the hospital. That wasn’t an option. Against my better judgment, I went to help.”
She sipped black coffee, then continued. “The baby was breech, the girl was unconscious when I got there. There was excessive bleeding and tearing and I thought we’d lose them both. I urged Loretta to call an ambulance and was told that would not happen. This made me suspicious, but there are many young women who come to America illegally in order to deliver their babies. I don’t condone it, because who is to help them if they trust no one? But sometimes, life is harder back home. I don’t turn my back on God’s children when asked to help. I care about the girl, the baby, that’s it. Yet, when it’s a matter of life or death, I always choose life.
“I would have called, but my phone was taken away and this man”-she said man as if she were saying the word Satan-“threatened me. He said, I will never forget, ‘Save the baby, I don’t care about the girl.’” Cora’s thin jaw clenched, and she rose from her seat. She moved a few bottles, then retrieved what she was looking for and came back to the table. She poured red wine into her empty water glass, then sipped. “He didn’t use the word girl, but I don’t allow swearing in my house.”
Siobhan almost couldn’t speak. She whispered, “What happened?”
“Loretta is good, but not as good as me. I was able to turn the baby in the womb and deliver a beautiful baby boy. He was a large baby, over nine pounds, and the girl was so small. It’s no wonder she tore so miserably.”
“Small as in young?”
“She was eighteen, maybe nineteen. I thought we’d lose her, but we didn’t. I sewed her up and Loretta and I watched her for twenty-four hours. She finally regained consciousness.”
“Did you have any medical supplies?” Siobhan thought about the small room in the house that she walked through Sunday night. The IV, the tools.
“Yes, the house we were in was well stocked, and I have delivered so many babies and even assisted doctors in difficult births if the mother was one of my clients. We kept her hydrated, through an IV, and she finally woke up. But during those twenty-four hours, I learned things I wish I had never known before I leave this earth. Some things, you don’t want to know. But I trust God, and He wanted me there to know these difficult things.”