Jordan fidgeted with a lock of her hair. “That might explain the tic, and why he’s been behaving so erratically.”
“As opposed to his methodical, sadistic kills.”
Jordan nodded, her expression troubled. “It also explains why he’s going to see his mother now. Time is running out for him.”
And maybe for Timmy.
But Miles bit back the words. He couldn’t allow himself to believe that.
Jordan didn’t comment further either. She turned and studied the passing scenery while he focused on the road. The miles crawled by, but finally he neared the border. The border patrol was on full alert, official policía vehicles in abundance, traffic clogged as the patrolmen checked passports and inspected vehicles.
Agent Storm was supposed to alert the authorities he was on his way, so he pulled to the side, stepped from the car and approached one of the officers.
The officer immediately looked wary, his hand poised on his weapon. Miles had already removed his ID and passport and held both of them for identification purposes. “Miles McGregor. Special Agent Graham Storm of the FBI was supposed to contact you about me. I’m here to meet with your authorities about a man named Robert Dugan. He’s wanted for kidnapping a child. I’ve just been alerted that he crossed the border.”
The officer examined his ID, ordered him to stay put, went to speak with another officer, then returned. “One of our policía officers is waiting to meet with you across the border. Pull your car up here and we’ll check your passports, then you can be on your way.”
“Thank you.” Miles quickly returned to his Jeep, drove to the checkpoint, then handed him their passports. The officer scrutinized their paperwork and his badge, then finally let them pass.
Another policía officer pulled up in front of him and escorted him to the nearest police station. They passed several trucks and cars and a tourist bus as they entered the small town, then wove through the village where locals sold their wares. Other small stores, a cantina, gift shop, cigar shop and beer store occupied one row while the police station sat at the far end of the town.
The small adobe structure looked worn and was overgrown with weeds. Frustration knotted his insides.
Hell, he didn’t want to deal with the police here. If he found Dugan he wanted to kill him without worrying about the rules.
The Mexican police were known for taking bribes to supplement their poor pay, too, but since his business with them wasn’t related to drugs, he hoped for assistance.
The officer who’d led them to the station climbed out and escorted them up the dimly lit path to the doorway. Dirt and weathered patches made the building look ancient, and as Miles entered, he scanned the front room that consisted of dingy concrete walls and floors.
The place reeked of sweat, cigarettes and filth. A short robust Hispanic man in uniform with a bulbous nose and thick mustache stood, tugging at his too-tight uniform. “Officer Sanchez,” the man said in greeting.
Miles introduced the two of them. “You know why we’re here?”
“Sí.” Sanchez gestured toward his desk where a faxed photo of Dugan and Timmy lay. “Your FBI call, he say this man wanted for kidnapping your son.”
“That’s right,” Miles said, antsy to skip the chitchat and find Dugan. “We have reason to believe that his mother lives here, and that he’s on his way to visit her. I hope you can help us track her down.”
“Sí, we will try.” The man rubbed at his thick mustache, then gestured toward the ancient computer on his desk. “Unfortunately we do not have the fancy equipment you do, but our federal police division has better. I contact them and let you know.”
Miles clenched his teeth in frustration. That could take days. Days he might not have.
“Where will you be staying?” Sanchez asked.
Miles glanced at Jordan with a frown. “I’m not sure. But you can reach me on my cell phone.” He scribbled down the number and handed it to the officer. “Please check your records for information on Dugan’s mother. Her name is CeeCee Dugan. I think she’s a prostitute.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, making his mustache twitch. “If she is as you say, she may not have a steady address. But there is a whorehouse where many of the locals work.”
Miles’s pulse picked up. “Where is that?”
Sanchez rolled a cigar between his fingers. “I tell you, but you don’t give girls no trouble. They see you and think arrest and run.”
“I’m here to get my son back, not arrest your street girls,” Miles said. He’d use whomever he had to in order to find Timmy.