In Desperation (2 page)

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

A
n anguished cry rose from the morgue's viewing room.

“Mi hijo! Mi hijo!”

Paula Chavez bent over the corpse of a young man in his late teens, her son, Ramon. Her face creased with pain. She stared into his open eyes then at the bullet holes in his tattooed chest. Helpless against the horror, she caressed his face and pressed one of his cold hands to her cheek.

It was evocative of Michelangelo's
Pietà,
Jack Gannon thought, watching from across the room.

He turned to Isabel Luna, who had raised her camera to shoot several frames of Paula Chavez. At times, the priest and morgue workers had to steady the grieving mother, who was now childless.

Ramon was sixteen. He'd been Paula Chavez's last living son.

She'd already lost two others to the violence this year.

The sorrow in the air was as biting as the smell of chlorine and the reek of death.

For much of the day, Gannon and Luna had been riding along with forensic experts and coroner's staff, pinballing from homicide to homicide, when they had come to the fringe of a squatters' village. Paula Chavez was in a ditch
on her knees weeping at the crime scene tape near her son. A priest prayed alongside her while windswept garbage and desert dust enshrouded them.

The priest brought Paula to the morgue. A coroner's van brought her son. Gannon and Luna had followed them here, where workers had set Ramon's corpse on a table next to the bodies of six other people murdered across the city so far that day.

Now, after taking half a dozen pictures, Luna lowered her camera and indicated to the pathologist who'd granted access that they were finished.

Gannon and Luna stepped outside into baking heat as another coroner's van delivered two more white body bags strapped to gurneys.

Another corpse, another coffin, another grave. Another day in Juarez, a battlefield in Mexico's drug wars.

Welcome to Murder City.

Gannon slid on his dark glasses, and as he and Luna walked to his rented Ford he reflected on Paula Chavez. She lived in a shack and earned less than ten dollars a day running a tiny hamburger stand. She'd lost her husband and sons to the violence. Gannon thought of the pain carved into her weatherworn face, the agony of her cries, how she embodied the toll exacted by the carnage. These images burned into his memory.
The impact of random cruelty
. Throughout his years on the crime beat he hammered the heartache he bore for people like Paula Chavez into a quiet rage that he used to fuel his work.

Gannon was a journalist with the World Press Alliance, the global wire service headquartered in New York City. He'd been dispatched to Mexico to file features in the WPA's ongoing series on the drug wars. Correspondents from the WPA's Mexican, Central and South American bureaus had provided exceptional coverage, but his editor, Melody Lyon, wanted more for a new series.

“The cartel wars have been spilling into U.S., Canadian and European cities with increasing violence. We
need to understand why this is happening,” Lyon had told him. “We need you to take WPA readers beyond the statistics, the corruption and the bloodbaths. Take us deeper. Find the human faces on all sides. Take us into the inferno.”

As part of his research before leaving Manhattan, Gannon had contacted Isabel Luna, a crime reporter with
El Heraldo,
a small family-run newspaper in Juarez known for its courageous reporting.

Few knew more about crime in the region than Luna.

Her father, the paper's editor, had been murdered several months ago for exposing cartel ties to corrupt officials. His death left Isabel defiant and forged her determination to continue his crusade. She did not hesitate to respond when Gannon called in advance of his arrival.

“I propose we work exclusively together while I'm in Juarez,” he said. “Your English is better than my Spanish and I admit I'll need help. In exchange, I'll share the resources of the WPA. We could buy your photos or pay for joint work on exclusives.”

“Call me when you arrive,” she said.

During their first meeting in
El Heraldo
's hectic and cluttered newsroom, which had reminded Gannon of his campus paper in Buffalo, he told Luna of the stories he had in mind.

“I'd like to profile you.”

She blushed and a crooked smile nearly blossomed on her face. It waned when he told her of the other story he wanted to do.

“I want to write about cartel assassins, the young ones they train to be killers. I'd like to interview one. Do you think that's possible?”

A somber look flitted across Luna's eyes as she scanned the newsroom, focusing on nothing before inhaling slowly.

“It's possible,” she said.

“Will you help me?”

She looked at him for a long moment before she said, “Yes.”

In the back of his mind Gannon suspected Luna had her own reasons for pursuing a story on cartel assassins. As with most murders in Juarez, her father's killer had not been found.

Now, as they left the morgue, Gannon glanced at Luna, in the passenger seat studying her camera, reviewing the crime scene photos she'd taken that day.

“You got some nice stuff there,” he said. “You see anything that looks like an organized cartel hit?”

“No. Just everyday murders, low-level barrio gang members and Juarez drug dealers. It's terrible to say, but it's true.”

Luna called her paper to ensure her desk alerted her to any breaking stories as she and Gannon continued roaming the city.

He took in the sprawling metropolis. Juarez was a factory town with a population over one and a half million. It stood on the Rio Grande, across the U.S. border from El Paso, Texas, where close to eight hundred thousand people lived in relative safety and peace.

Gannon figured he had seen most of Juarez since he'd arrived three days ago.
Or was it four?
He'd filed news features but had yet to go beyond what had already been reported on the tragedy of the region.

Juarez's despair had first greeted him with the panhandlers dotting the Santa Fe Street Bridge from El Paso. The city's beauty was lost in a cloak of desperation and in the dust from sandstorms that laced the low-rise stores and office buildings along the streets.

The downtown bled into bars, cantinas, neon and the never-ending come-on from the hookers in the red-light district. Beyond were endless strip malls, roadside taco
stands, pizza shops and neighborhoods of concrete houses and apartment complexes.

Farther out was the bullring.

Then there were the hundreds of huge factories, the
maquiladoras,
where the women of Juarez earned a few dollars a day working in shifts assembling appliances, electronics and a range of exported goods.

At the city's edge, beyond the simple wooden crosses of the cemeteries, along a jumble of paved and unpaved sandy roads, among the cacti, tumbleweed and scrubland, were the clusters of shantytowns. Here, Gannon thought, amid the shacks, lived the enduring human virtue: hope.

No matter the odds, one must never abandon hope.

As Juarez rolled by, Gannon, a thirty-five-year-old loner, who grew up in blue-collar Buffalo, was visited by a cold hard fact: he had no one in his life. All he had was his job.

Stop,
he chided himself, and turned to Luna.

“If you'd like to knock off, I'll take you home. Or we can eat first.”

“There's a good restaurant near my paper,” she said.

It was after sunset when they'd finished dinner. Their conversation was centered on recent history of the drug wars.

Luna said that Juarez was a marshaling point for those yearning to escape poverty by fleeing to the U.S. It was also a major transit point for drugs, and cartels battled for control of the smuggling networks that gave them access to the U.S. market. This was how Juarez came to be one of the world's most violent cities—with a homicide rate greater than any other city on earth. To battle the violence the Mexican government had deployed thousands of troops and federal police across Mexico.

But the cartels had infiltrated all levels of police.

“Imagine,” Luna said. “You're a Mexican police officer and the cartel offers to triple your monthly pay for your
cooperation. You've seen the conditions most people live under.”

Gannon agreed.

“And,” Luna added, “if you refuse to cooperate, the cartels threaten your family. This is how they've grown, and they operate with military precision and firepower. The cartels have unimaginable reach and domination everywhere.”

Luna caught herself. Embarrassed, she cupped her hands to her face. She'd never spoken so much to Gannon.

“I apologize for boring you.”

“Don't,” Gannon said. “It must mean you're comfortable with me. I still want to profile you, but you've been so quiet. I know very little about you.”

Luna told him about her life.

She was thirty-one. Her mother died from cancer when Luna was young. Her father remarried. She had a stepbrother, Esteban. She'd lived in Los Angeles when she attended UCLA. After graduating she'd returned to help with the paper. She was married to a human rights lawyer and they had a four-year-old son. They were guarded about their lives.

“Because of the cartels and what happened to your father?”

Several long moments passed before Luna answered. “You must never tell anyone this, but I was there when my father was murdered. I saw his killer.”

“Did you tell police?”

“No. We told them there were no witnesses. My husband and stepbrother urged me to trust no police. My father's death was an orchestrated cartel hit because of his editorials about the cartels corrupting police. The killer came to my father's house as a courier, very nonthreatening. He didn't see me, but I was there and I saw him. One day we will find him.”

Luna stopped.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't like to talk about it. My father was a respected man. I don't have the influence he had. No one among the Juarez press does. He was incorruptible. Please, Jack, you must never reveal what I told you. If the cartel knew that I was a witness, they'd kill me. Swear you will not tell anyone, please.”

Gannon gave Luna his word, then drove her home to her family.

That night he stepped out onto his hotel balcony.

He gazed upon the twinkling lights of the city. He could hear sirens and see a helicopter's searchlight sweep over the latest killing, and a creeping sense of looming failure came over him.

How would he make sense out of this chaos?

He was tired and his thoughts shifted back to himself, the price of being alone. Unlike the teen gangster in the morgue, Ramon Chavez, no one would mourn Gannon. His parents were dead. He'd been estranged from his older sister since she'd run away from home some twenty years ago.

Shut up,
he told himself.
Quit wallowing.

He got into bed.

But before sleep came, Gannon fell into his usual pattern of wondering what had happened to his sister.

Is she still alive?

Phoenix, Arizona

F
ear pulsed through Cora Martin.

This can't be happening! It's a nightmare! Wake up! Come on, wake up!

Cora's cries for Tilly were muffled by the duct tape sealing her mouth. She tried to move but was fused to the kitchen chair.

Please, God. Protect her. Please.

Questions blazed through Cora's mind.

How could this be happening? How could these fuckers just come into her home and take Tilly? Could it be connected to her own trouble years ago in California?

No.

It's impossible. No one knows about that. No one must
ever
know. No, they said this was about Lyle. But Lyle couldn't be involved with drug cartels. She trusted him. My God, they'd talked about living together. About marriage! This was a horrible mistake. It had to be!

Cora forced herself to concentrate.

Calm down. Think.

Her arms were tingling. Her blood circulation had been squeezed by her bindings. Cora's kitchen chairs were Windsor-style, armless with a fan backrest. The invaders had duct-taped her wrists behind the narrow back and
they were starting to hurt. She kept making fists so she wouldn't lose the feeling in her hands.

Tape bound her chest to the chair's back and her ankles to the legs.

Time was slipping away.

She rocked the chair, got up on her feet, only to lose her balance and fall back, sitting in the chair. It wasn't easy to move. She had trouble directing her weight. She could try smashing the chair but it was metal and heavy. She couldn't risk hurting herself.

She had to find a way out of this.

You have to do something now!

Again, Cora rocked until she got to her feet. She bent forward, tensed her muscles and, using the weight of the chair, kept herself upright. By carefully shuffling her feet with the heavy chair affixed to her back and legs she painfully inched her way across the kitchen like a grotesque snail.

When Cora reached the drawer where she kept utensils, her heart sank.

The splayed legs and angle of the chair kept her from reaching the handle with her hands.

Cora growled into the tape.

Those motherfuckers better not hurt my baby!

Don't give up! You have to do this!

Carefully contorting her body with strategic leaning, her fingers blindly brushed the handle to the utensil drawer. Her arms, legs, shoulders were ablaze as she forced herself up on her toes and with one great heave got the drawer open. She rattled it until the plastic tray erupted with utensils. Finally the weight against her position demanded she sit.

She fought the pressure.

Come on! Come on!

She shook as her fingers clawed at the disgorged spoons, forks, knives.
There!
Battling the weight brought waves of pain before she seized as many knives as she
could in one solid grab. Her nostrils flared and her breathing roared as she sat, clenching the knives behind her.

Eyes on the ceiling, fingers sweating, Cora sorted the knives and ran her thumb along each blade, one by one. The first was a butter knife. So was the second.
Damn. Wait!
The third had sharp serrated edges.

A steak knife.

She dropped the others. Working her fingers down the blade to improve her grip, she delicately sawed at the edges of the tape. The first ripping sound encouraged her to work harder. It was followed by another, then another as she sawed without stopping until the tape gave way.

Relief flowed into her arms as she brought them forward, pulling the tape from her mouth, gulping air as she yanked the remaining strips of tape from her wrists, massaging them before cutting her chest and ankles free.

She reached for her kitchen phone, jabbed the button for 9 then 1—

If you go to the police, your daughter will die.

Recalling the kidnapper's warning stopped her cold.
She wouldn't risk Tilly's life.
Cora aborted the call. She had to find Lyle.

She called his cell phone, got his voice mail and left a message.

“It's me! Something bad has happened to Tilly!” Cora broke down. “She's gone, Lyle! They're going to kill her! Call me!”

Then she called his home number, her heart racing as it rang. No answer. She left a message. Then she texted him and urged him to call.

Cora fumbled through her bag for her notebook, struggling with her composure as she called his hotel in San Diego.

“Blue Sapphire Regency, how may I help you?”

“I have to speak to one of your guests, Lyle Galviera.”

“One moment please, I'll connect you—”

The line clicked with the transfer.

“Front desk? May I be of—”

“I need to speak to one of your guests, Lyle Galviera! It's urgent!”

“Of course, that last name again?”

“Galviera. G-A-L-V—”

Rapid typing on a keyboard.

“Lyle Galviera of Phoenix?”

“Yes, that's him!”

“I'm sorry. We had a reservation for Mr. Galviera but our records show that he never arrived.”

Cora hung up, called Lyle's hotel in Los Angeles and got the same result.
What was happening? Where was he?
She stood there, her mind racing.

Do something! Go to the office. Look there!

She dressed without showering and ran to her car.

Dawn was breaking and freeway traffic was light as Cora sped west then north toward Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. Quick Draw Courier's depot, a squat single-story warehouse, was located amid the industrial buildings southwest of the terminals.

Cora could see the delivery trucks backed to the rear loading bays where the night crew was going full tilt processing orders. She parked out front by the landscaped entrance to the administration office. At the card lock, she swiped her employee card and punched in her security code. She entered and hurried to her desk.

No one was in at this hour.

She closed the door to her office, hit the lights and started her computer. Tilly smiled back from her screen saver before Cora navigated to the itinerary she'd prepared for Lyle's business trip.

She went to the website of the airline he was using and called. She rushed through the prompts only to be put into the queue for a living, breathing agent. While holding, she checked her cell phone for any response from Lyle.

Nothing.

She opened another file for Quick Draw Courier's credit card. Lyle used a company card for all business. While still on hold with the airline, Cora used her cell phone to call the credit card company's security department and report a lost card.

“Could you please give us details on the last transaction?” Cora asked.

The card was last used to pay for a business lunch in Phoenix. The agent provided the time. It was the day before Lyle had left for the trip.

“Would you like us to cancel the card now, ma'am?” asked the agent.

“No, thank you. We're hoping it will turn up. Thanks.”

Cora finally got through to a human being at the airline. She begged the agent to help her confirm if Lyle had boarded any of the flights she'd booked for him.

“Unfortunately airline privacy policy prevents us—”

“Please! This is a family emergency! The ticket was purchased with our company credit card. I'll give you the number to verify.”

A tense silence passed.

“Please!” she said. “It's extremely urgent! Please!”

“Give me the number. I'll check with my supervisor.”

Cora recited it and the agent said: “One moment please.”

As seconds ticked by, Cora looked at the online news pages showing sports scores; celebrity gossip; international news out of London on the Royal Navy, Hong Kong on business mergers, drug-war murders in Mexico. Then the line clicked.

“Sorry for the delay, ma'am. I can confirm that the departure ticket purchased by your company has not been used, nor has it been adjusted to a different date or flight.”

Cora hung up and concentrated.

Today was Monday. Lyle was to have left Friday morning for San Diego. Tomorrow morning, he was to fly to Los Angeles and return to Phoenix on Thursday. Cora had expected to hear from him later today but was not concerned that he hadn't called or emailed her over the weekend. She was not clingy and it was no big deal if he didn't call every day. And, as far as she knew, things were quiet with the business.

But now Cora was desperate.

She dialed the home number for Ed Kilpatrick, the operations manager. It was 5:15 a.m. Ed usually started at 6:00 a.m. Maybe she'd catch him at home. He was accustomed to early calls from the guys in shipping.

“Hello.”

“Ed, this is Cora.”

“Hey, Cora, what's up?”

“Sorry to bother you at home.”

“I was on my way in. What's going on?”

“Have you heard from Lyle since he left for California?”

“No. Is something going on?”

“Some people had been asking about him over the weekend.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yeah, but he's not answering—maybe his phone or BlackBerry's not working.”

“Could be—I don't know. I sent him an email Friday on the new shipment deadlines for Zone Five. I need an answer by this afternoon, so if you hear from him tell him to call me. I gotta run. I'll see you later.”

Cora drew her hands to her face and exhaled. Through her fingers she saw Lyle's empty office across the hall and went to it. She scoured his calendar, his notes, anything for a clue. She searched his trash bin but the weekend cleaning staff had already recycled everything.

Her cell phone was ringing in her office.

Cora ran back to her desk.
Please be Lyle.
The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“Mommy!”

“Tilly!”

“Mommy, please help me!”

“I will! I love you! Are you okay? Where are you, sweetheart?”

The phone was shuffled.

“So you got free?”

“Yes. Don't you hurt her!”

“Where are you? Did you find him yet?”

Cora recognized the voice of the man who had invaded her home.

“I'm at the office going through his desk! I'm doing all I can! Let her go! Please!”

“Find Lyle Galviera or we'll release your daughter in pieces.”

The line went dead.

Cora stared at the phone, sank into her chair, dropped her head to her desk and sobbed. She hadn't slept. She couldn't think. She didn't know what to do, or where to turn.

What if they killed Lyle? What if he was dead somewhere?

She fought to keep herself together.

There had to be something she could do. Someone who could help her.

She stared at her computer screen, vaguely remembering an item on drug wars in Mexico. It was a newswire story. She scrolled through the website. Here it was—from the World Press Alliance, a feature that profiled the people victimized by one day of violence in Ciudad Juarez.

She studied the byline.

Jack Gannon.

She knew him, yet she didn't
.

He was from Buffalo, just like her. For years, wherever she'd lived, she'd followed his byline. She'd visited the web editions of the
Buffalo Sentinel
before he left for the World Press Alliance, a big wire service.

Now that he was with the WPA, Cora saw his stories everywhere.
It was like he was always near
. Just knowing how he was doing had been so important, she thought, biting back her tears. Her fingers traced his name on the screen. She considered the letter she'd written to him a million times but never sent.

She never had the guts.

Cora thought of Tilly and shut her eyes to deflect her agony.

If ever there was a time that Cora needed to reach out to Jack Gannon, this was it.

His email was at the bottom of the article.