Santera. The name was vaguely familiar. He remembered Emma’s drawing of a man holding a guitar and his
jaw dropped. He said slowly, “Santera. You mean Louey Santera? The rock star?”
“One and the same,” Molly said, her voice clipped, colder than a late-spring freeze.
Ramsey wanted to know more about Emma’s father, ask her why the hell the guy wasn’t tracking with her, even though he was a famous rock star. But he could tell that Molly didn’t want to say more about him right now. There would be time enough for her to answer all his questions and for him to answer all of hers. Emma had eaten her cereal, all the while smiling at her mother, then smiling at him, like any happy well-adjusted kid.
“I know who you are now.”
He cocked his head at her. “Me? How?”
“I recognize you now that I’ve thought about your name. Are you the famous Ramsey Hunt?”
Again, for Emma’s sake, he used a light hand. “Infamous is more accurate.”
“In your dreams.”
He sputtered in his coffee, raised his head, and stared at her. “Men,” she said, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, “if they have a choice, would rather have the world believe them infamous-you know, rogues and bad boys- not heroes, not known for something worthy or moral they’ve done or tried to do.”
“No,” he said. “That’s not me.”
She sighed, and shrugged, looking away from him. “This is tough to believe. You’re a federal judge from San Francisco, but you’re here. You found Emma.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Given what you did in your courtroom, I suppose Emma couldn’t have been safer.”
He said nothing, just took another sip of the afterburner coffee.
A federal judge who was also famous, a hero truth be told, despite his reticence, and here both she and Emma were with him. Life had kicked her so much in the teeth for
the past two weeks that she supposed she shouldn’t be shocked at this latest surprise. She said to her daughter, “Em, you look beautiful. How are you, love?”
Emma kept her head down. Reality had crashed in suddenly and she wasn’t ready yet. Molly had sounded too serious, too strident. She felt stupid and so very tired. She could have kissed Ramsey Hunt when he said, his voice still light and calm, his attention seemingly on Emma, “She had to have other stuff to wear than just my T-shirts. I put off leaving the cabin for as long as possible, but she had to have some clothes. And that’s how you found us. When Emma and I went shopping in Dillinger.”
“As I said, I showed her photo around and the town folks all believed she was your little girl. Truth be told, I didn’t expect to learn anything at Dillinger. It was the last stop. I guess then I would have had to let the cops and the FBI deal with things. Naturally, they are dealing with things, in their own way. They didn’t solve a thing, didn’t turn up a thing. I gave them two days, then hit the road. I heard they called off the manhunt for her after four days.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Denver.” She picked up a spoon and fiddled with it, her eyes down on the white-and-red-checked tablecloth. “Her father is in Europe. He’s on tour and couldn’t leave, but he’ll be back soon now.” She turned to her daughter and took her small hand. “I speak to him nearly every day, Em. He’s very worried about you, really.”
Emma stared down into her bowl that had one banana slice floating in a bit of milk. She said, never looking up, “I don’t know why he’d come. I haven’t seen him for two years.”
He realized her daughter had knocked her flat. He said quickly, “I see. You’re divorced.”
“Yes,” Molly said. She’d gotten herself together again. “Emma, it doesn’t have anything to do with the divorce. Your daddy loves you. It’s just that he’s so very busy.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Time to move along, quickly, Ramsey thought, and said, “So you gave the cops all of two days then you struck out on your own?”