Free The Lost Ones by Ace Atkins

embossed in neat type. “We’re interested in her stepfather.”
    “Ramón?”
    “You know him?”
    “To be honest, never met either him or Janet,” Quinn said. “Thought we had them in Memphis this morning, but something spooked them. Most people recall Janet ’cause of her size. No one seems to recall the husband or daughter.”
    “Didn’t her daughter go to school?”
    “Dropped out two years ago to help with all those kids.”
    “I read there are thirteen children missing?”
    “Eleven that we know about,” Quinn said. “What’s that have to do with ATF? The Torreses doing some moonshining, too?”
    Brand took a cautious breath, one that let her think for a moment, decide what to say. She wasn’t really sure about Quinn, not too sure if some hick sheriff could keep up with someone who trained in Washington. Always an enlisted man.
    “Mr. Torres has some friends we’re investigating,” she said. “He may know where we can find them. We’ve been looking at Mr. Torres for a while now.”
    “What kind of friends?”
    Brand’s gray eyes roamed over Quinn’s face, and she nodded after a few moments as if she’d just decided to take him into her confidence. She crossed her legs, and Quinn tried his best not to stare. It had been a long while between women. A sweet-hearted hairdresser in Columbus, Georgia, who needed someone to raise her two kids. And then a real estate agent in Phenix City who was twenty-four but acted like she was eighteen. And then there was the brief thought of Anna Lee when he’d come home, although she’d married Luke. But that whole idea seemed to make much less sense now that she was pregnant.
    “We have a paid informant who thinks Mr. Torres works with the Los Zetas.”
    Quinn looked away from her legs. He smiled.
    “Miss Brand, I’ve been away for about ten years,” Quinn said. “You’re going to have to get me up to speed. The only Mexican folks I know in this area are some people in the restaurant and construction business. A couple of them I played high school football with.”
    “There’ve been some changes in law regarding buying weapons,” Brand said. “States that border Mexico have to report anyone who purchases a large amount of weapons.”
    “You’re talking straw buys?”
    “Yep,” Brand said. “Cartels will pay a lot for good weapons. They used to back their trucks up to gun dealers on the border and get forklift loads of 39-millimeter cartridges. Nobody said anything to them. As long as they presented a clean driver’s license, no questions asked.”
    “And now these cartel folks are sending people into the Deep South?”
    “Mississippi doesn’t have much bite in its gun laws.”
    “But we are last in education and health,” Quinn said. “Where are you from?”
    “Atlanta.”
    “How long have you been working with the Feds?”
    “Since college.”
    “You married?”
    Her face colored. Her eyes roamed over Quinn’s smiling face. She looked up at the brick wall of a framed photo of his squad at the Haditha Dam. A photo of him and Uncle Hamp with a prize buck. A small school picture of Jason on his desk. There was always that beat of surprise when people saw Jason, because they saw the resemblance but also noted his color. Sometimes it was racism, often just surprise, not sure of how to ask if they were kin.
    “Are you?” she asked, widening her eyes.
    “Nope.”
    “Ever?”
    “Never.”
    “Who’s the child, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “My nephew.”
    She tilted her head to the side and nodded.
    “I came to see Mara Black,” Brand said. “Can you set that up?”
    “I can.”
    “Will you.”
    Quinn nodded and stood.
    Brand stood and smoothed down her skirt. She reached for her purse as Quinn walked to the door and opened it wide. They shook hands. She smelled very nice close up, just a little perfume to draw you in and then cut your ass to pieces.
    “You think you might stick around Jericho after you’re done?” he