Heart of the World by Linda Barnes Page A

vandalizing their own phones, or refusing to repair them, so people would have to buy cells. Paolina thought it was just kids messing with the phones, and as for why, well, it was because it was something to do, that was all, just something to do that wasn’t boring for a change.
    It wasn’t boring because you might get caught . Making the phone call was exciting, too, just because she wasn’t supposed to do it. She quickened her pace.
    By the time she made the right turn into the alley, the two quarters and the two dimes were already moist in her palm. Without reading the instructions, because in spite of her bravado she was really worried Ana would show up, she shoved them into the slot and dialed. She knew Aurelia's number by heart. She hardly knew the phone numbers of any of the friends she’d made this year. She didn’t care about her new friends, but the thought that she might never see Aurelia again made something funny happen inside her throat. She hoped she’d be able to say hello without choking. She wondered whether she ought to disguise her voice in case somebody else answered the phone.
    The phone rang once, twice, then a hand snaked around the corner, grabbed the receiver out of her hand, and slammed it back in the cradle.
    Jorge had a weird look on his face and a hand clamped like a vise around Ana's thin arm.
    â€œYeah, you leave her for a minute, right, this happens. I told you—”
    â€œLet go of me.”
    â€œYeah, let go of her,” Paolina said.
    She could hardly believe it when he slapped her, slapped her hard, across the mouth. The pain made her eyes water and sting. She raised her hand to her cheek.
    â€œYou’ll be sorry,” she said. “When my dad finds out—”
    â€œYeah, sure I will,” Jorge said. “Get in the fucking van.”

CHAPTER 8
    Muggy . My gray silk jacket and wool slacks, too light for the Boston freeze, clung damply to my body as I wrestled my duffel bag into the cab line at the Miami—Dade airport. I shaded my eyes against sunshine so bright it seemed phony, like a late-night-TV ad for some lurid tropical paradise. Ahead of me, a man's floral-print shirt gaped over his belly; he carried a stuffed alligator in one hand and a box of pecan fudge in the other. I folded my jacket over my arm and fumbled in my backpack for sunglasses. By the time I found them, a cab beckoned.
    I gave the driver the address and settled into the back seat. The cab was faintly air conditioned, the hum like a lullaby, but I was too wound up to doze.
    If I was wrong, I’d waste time and money, but I wouldn’t jeopardize Paolina's recovery. Mooney would handle the cop routine, finesse the FBI. Roz had promised to monitor the phones. Gloria would ride herd on Moon and Roz both.
    Clients who paid me to retrieve runaways said they felt better once they’d hired me. Once they’d signed responsibility for finding their missing child over to me, they felt somehow released, freed to go on with some skeletal semblance of their lives. No way could I sign this case over to someone else. I had to go with my gut, and my gut said Miami. It said Thurman W. Vandenburg.
    Years ago, when I’d gotten a mysterious package of cash in themail—special delivery from Paolina's real father to my little sister— Thurman W. Vandenburg, Esquire, had served as go-between. I’d refused to accept it at first, on the grounds that it was drug money, dirty money. But the more I pondered, the more it seemed that money was money, that the cocaine had been paid for and consumed, that Roldan's money, dirty or not, could buy Paolina and her family out of the projects.
    I stared out the window at streets lined with low shops and stucco houses, the signs in Spanish as often as English, the colors—bright reds, hot pinks, shades of orange—hothouse and exotic. I cranked the window and the cabbie glared. I was spoiling the AC, but I