In Desperation (23 page)

“Is this true?” Cora asked the investigators.

Moseley nodded.

“Then why all this?” Cora indicated Krendler and the polygraph.

“We had to see if your account of that night fit with Donnie's and all the evidence.”

“Evidence.”

“The fingerprints you submitted for your daughter's case matched those on the murder weapon and this.” Pruitt passed her a large color photograph of the crucifix.
Her crucifix
. “This was held back. Very few people knew what the victim held in his hand, or what he told paramedics before he died.”

“He spoke before he died?”

“He said an angel put him in God's hands.”

Cora covered her face with her hands.

“Cora,” Pruitt said. “We're not going to arrest you or charge you. Not at this time. You were present at the commission of a crime and you fled the scene, but we'll talk to our D.A. There are plenty of complications and mitigating factors. We need to talk to other parties. We'll be in touch.”

“Hold on. With regards to the victim…” Hackett, who had not eased off on his suspicions entirely, folded his arms across his chest, turned to Cora and said, “The man who was murdered in San Francisco was Eduardo Zartosa, the youngest brother of Samson Zartosa, leader of the Norte Cartel. The men who have your daughter work for him.”

All the color drained from Cora's face.

A soft knock sounded at the door and a man opened it. “Sorry to interrupt but the task force at the house just received a call for Cora. The caller said he was Lyle Galviera.”

Six Feathers, Arizona

L
yle Galviera was under siege.

A couple of boys were kicking the shit out of the soda machine outside his room at the Sleep City Motel because it had swallowed their money without giving up a drink.

Galviera had been striving to find a way out of his situation with the cartel but the assault outside on the machine was interfering.
“Come on, you stupid freaking—”
The earsplitting racket, the vibrating floor, as if forces were coming for him.

His chest was tightening; he couldn't think.

Since the kidnapping, his face had appeared in the news next to Tilly's, then Salazar and Johnson's. But he had cut his hair, had stopped shaving, wore a ball cap, dark glasses and managed to move around freely.

For how much longer? I don't know
.

His entire room shook.

Christ, he wanted to go outside and slap those little assholes, but he couldn't afford to cause a scene, to give anyone reason to remember him. He turned back to the TV to face himself on the news again, then concentrated on his work on the desk.

He'd emptied all the contents from his wallet—not his fake wallet, but the real one that he'd kept hidden in the
liner of his travel bag. The desk was layered with credit cards, membership cards, cash, business cards, worn tattered bits of paper with notes scrawled on them.

Where is it? It
has
to be here.

He inspected each item, looking for an elusive scrap of information he had seen before. He'd placed a mental flag on it. He reexamined each business card, searching for the one possibility, the tiny thread that could lead him out of this.

His attempt back at Apache Junction to contact the cartel by trying Salazar's secret number, using the phone he'd stolen in the restaurant, had failed.

The line just rang and rang.

He'd gotten nervous and given up. He'd left Apache Junction and driven aimlessly, trying to find a way out, until exhaustion stopped him here.

He wasn't sure where
here
was but it seemed fitting for the hell he was in. The room smelled bad, there were cigarette butts in the corner of the bathroom floor, the ceiling was scuffed and the sheets were frayed.

Is this it?

It was a card Johnson or Salazar had given him long ago for their hotel, one he'd overlooked because it had been compressed against another card. He turned it over to a faded notation. A telephone number and next to it
Thirty,
penned in ink and crossed out.

Was this his link to the Norte Cartel?

Galviera recognized the area code as Ciudad Juarez. He knew that major cartel operators used numbers for aliases. Studying the number, he came back to his dilemma. If he surrendered to police, it was over. He'd lose his business, go to jail and risk Tilly's life.

If he could reach the Norte Cartel, reason with them, put this all on Salazar and Johnson, give the cartel the money in exchange for Tilly, he might be able to make it work.

What do I do?

He returned to the all-news channel as once more it replayed the most recent development: the identities of Tilly's kidnappers, who were known to belong to the Norte Cartel. And there was a new suspect, a young one, who'd been on a Phoenix-bound bus before eluding arrest. Then he saw Tilly's face again.

Oh Jesus, should I go to police or try the cartel option?

Either way, I'm dead.

Time was running out.

Do something. Now.

Galviera gathered his wallet items, locked his room and drove through town until he found a bar that looked like it would do: The Cha Cha Club. Chicken wire covered the windows. The linoleum floor was warped. A few people were inside. A sign over the bar said Cash Only. There was a jukebox playing something painful, a pool table, two TVs mounted in the far corners, and there was a pay phone in a booth with a folding privacy door.

Galviera got change from the bartender, got into the booth, held his card up to the neon to read the number, checked with the operator, deposited coins and placed his call. The number clicked, followed by long-distance static, then it rang.

He licked his lips. He'd expected a recording, a disconnection, a wrong number, but it rang two, three, four times, then,
“Sí?”

Galviera's heart skipped and he focused his thoughts. This was it, his shot. He spoke in Spanish.

“This is Lyle Galviera.”

A long, cautious silence.

“Who gave you this number?”

“Salazar, before he was murdered in the desert.” Another long silence passed before Galviera broke it. “It's very important that I speak to Thirty now.”

“Speak.”

“Your people are looking for me.”

“My people are concerned about the theft of our property and are holding an asset for return of that property.”

“I am an innocent third party in this dispute,” Galviera said. “So are the others connected to the asset. But I have a solution.”

“And what is it?”

“That we meet in the Phoenix area. I will return your property in exchange for the asset, undamaged. Then the matter will be closed.”

“That is desirable. We wish to resolve the issue quickly, amicably. I assure you no damage has been done to the asset.”

“I will give you an email address and propose the time and location.”

“No. We will tell you the time and location, in the Phoenix area as you prefer. Your email?”

Galviera gave him an email address from an online account he used under another name.

“If this is a setup, the asset we're holding will be destroyed.”

“I assure you, this is not a setup.”

“Good, Mr. Galviera, we'll contact you. We'll finish this within the next forty-eight hours.”

The call ended.

Did that happen?

Adrenaline pumped through Galviera, blood drummed in his ears. He sat at the bar, ordered a Coke and took a few minutes to let his pulse level off.

“You all right there, pal?” the bartender asked.

“I lost my cell phone and need to buy a new one. Is there a good place around here?”

“Six Feathers Mall, down the street. Can't miss it.”

The clerk at the Six Feathers Mall cell phone store fixed him up quickly with a top-notch, good-to-go, prepaid plan for a phone. Galviera paid cash for it and felt relatively safe with a new phone under an alias. He knew
that you did not have to be making a cell phone call for the location of the caller to be tracked; something about triangulating the roaming signals. So to be safe while driving to Phoenix, he shut it off and removed the battery when he wasn't using it, to ensure he did not accidentally switch it on.

When Galviera got to the outskirts of the city, he went to JBD Mini-Storage and found the self-storage unit he'd rented. He collected the nylon gym bags containing the $1.1 million in cash. Then he drove across the metro area to another self-storage outlet and collected more bags until he had a total of $2.5 million in brick-sized bundles of unmarked tens and twenties.

He checked his email.

Nothing had come in.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he drove along the edges of Phoenix. From the news reports, seeing Cora begging for Tilly, urging him to go to police, he knew Cora was in agony. That Cora and Tilly were suffering because of him was tearing him up.

God, he was so sorry. He'd never, ever meant for any of this to happen.

He scanned the streets, thinking that whatever Cora thought of him now, she had to know that he was doing all he could. First, he needed gas. He spotted a service station.

One with a pay phone.

While filling up he decided he had to tell Cora, he had to risk the call being traced. He'd do it to give her some relief. After filling up, he went to the phone and called her number. A man answered, put him on hold, then—

“Lyle! Oh my God! Oh my God, Lyle!”

“Cora, I'm so—”

“Do you have Tilly?”

“I'm working on it…. I—”

“Where are you?”

“Cora, listen, I am so sorry…this is all so complicated. I know we had dreams—”

“Turn yourself in now! Tell the FBI where you are. We have to find Tilly! Where are you?”

“I'm going to see Tilly soon, Cora. I swear to you I am going to fix this!”

Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona

S
oon it would be over.

Ruiz Limon-Rocha finished his call and switched off the stolen cell phone. After taking the precaution of removing the battery, he hurled the pieces into the river, looking at the silvery rush of water for relief from his apprehension.

Considering their recent narrow escape from the motel and their brush with the patrolmen at the gas station, Ruiz figured it was a race between completion of the job or their luck running out.

Ruiz would be glad to return to Mexico; for the first time he missed the low-paying job of a soldier in the military.

It was a much simpler life.

Now they were wanted, hunted men in America and the FBI was gaining on them, given that Ruiz and Alfredo's faces were as prominent in news stories about the kidnapping as the girl's.

Since fleeing the motel, they had lain low, awaiting orders here on an isolated back road east of Interstate 17. They'd found sanctuary among a stand of mesquite trees. Their twisting branches offered cool shade. Nothing and no one else in sight.

“Was that Thirty again?” Alfredo said from the car's reclined passenger seat.

“Yes. He said the
sicario
is coming, that he is close.”

“That's what he said an hour ago. Does he have our coordinates?”

“Yes.”

“We should abort the operation. There is too much heat.”

“They don't care. The operation will be completed. It's a matter of honor for them. Remember, they want everyone to get the message.”

Ruiz narrowed his eyes, keeping vigil on the long dirt road.

“I have never killed anyone, Ruiz, have you?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you kill?”

“I don't wish to talk about it,” Limon-Rocha said.

“If it comes down to us, I cannot kill a child. I have children.”

“Alfredo, I told you we do not do this, the
sicario
does it. We follow his orders. That is how it is done. And he does it in the most stunning way. You saw the news. You saw what he did to the American cops.”

“The Tarantula.”

“Yes.”

“He is a legend, there are
narcocorridos
written about him. Have you ever met him?”

“Yes, I helped him once before.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He is a perfect assassin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He will kill anyone. He is hollow, nothing inside.”

Ruiz nodded to the distance. Alfredo sat up and saw the rising dust clouds. After a long moment, a battered pickup truck emerged. As it drew closer they distinguished an old man in a straw hat behind the wheel.

The brakes creaked as it came to a halt with the engine running.

The young man in the passenger seat gave the driver cash and got out. He retrieved a backpack from the bed of the truck, tapped it with his palm, waving to the driver as the truck disappeared down the road, leaving his passenger standing before Ruiz and Alfredo.

Wearing sunglasses, a Lady Gaga T-shirt and torn, faded jeans, his pack slung over his shoulder, Angel Quinterra—the most feared cartel assassin—looked as if he'd just come from a high school class.

“Hola, Ruiz.”

Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona

T
illy could hear the creeps.

Beyond the metal walls of the trunk, their voices were clear, but they were talking so fast in Spanish she couldn't understand everything they were saying.

Something about the legend of a dangerous spider, a tarantula
.

Now she heard the crunch of wheels on dirt; a car was approaching, coming very close then creaking. It stopped but a motor was running.

A door opened then shut and the car drove away.

A new voice—it sounded younger.

Was this help? Or was this danger?

Fast talking in Spanish that Tilly could not understand before the voices faded and the talkers walked away, leaving her on the brink of tears.

Alone in this hot, dark, stupid coffin.

She wanted to scream at them.

Let me out! Let me go! I want my mom!

But she kept quiet. Noise made them angry.

Her eyes stung.

How long had it been? What day was this? She didn't know how much longer she could last.

Don't cry. Don't give in. Be strong. Be smart.

The creeps fed her by placing bags of hamburgers,
French fries, tacos, potato chips, chocolate bars and cans of soda in the trunk. Then they removed her gag and stood over her, watching for anyone approaching until she finished. Then they'd replace the gag. And she had no privacy. For a toilet, they'd take her to rest stops, one of them always entering with her, keeping the stall door open, making her hurry, making sure no one saw. It made her feel like an animal.

But she got used to it.

It was a little better now—now that they'd stopped cramming her into the suitcase. When they'd let her out, her hopes rose with the glowing interior trunk-release handle. Tilly pulled it but it didn't work because the creeps had cut the cable. They'd put thick blankets and pillows on the trunk's floor, letting her stretch out. They'd still kept her gagged with a bandanna and bound with duct tape. It was a bit cooler, too, but it was still stinky like rubber tires, exhaust and gasoline.

What's going to happen? What're they going to do to me?

A wave of sadness rolled over her.

Tilly missed her mom. She was the best mom in the world.

“Sweetheart, if you see me, I love you. We're doing everything to bring you home safely….”
When Tilly saw her on the TV news, she knew her mom would never give up looking for her.

And Tilly knew her mom would tell her the same thing she'd always told her:
“You shouldn't think about what you don't have. Instead, you should thank God for what you do have—a mother who loves you and will always love you, no matter what.”

There were a few other things Tilly had learned from her mother.

Never ever give up on the important things, because they don't come easy.

Tilly's heart began to beat faster. Her pulse quickened.

Always fight back
.

Like the day she showed Lenny Griffin how wrong he was to try to drown her in the pool.

Anger bubbled in the pit of Tilly's stomach, anger at Lenny Griffin, anger at these creeps who'd taken her. She began kicking and pounding the trunk, rage burning through her as she writhed and struggled with her bindings.

The fury she'd unleashed strained the tape around her wrists. Her sweat and the wear had transformed it to material akin to fabric that now gave her enough play to nearly work her hands out.

Oh! Almost free! Please! Oh, please!

Tilly froze.

Footsteps of people approaching, the trunk's lock being keyed.
Don't let them see my work on the tape.
She held her breath under an explosion of sunlight diffused through the trees.

She shut her eyes tight for a long moment before gradually relaxing them to squint at the silhouettes looking down on her.

There were three people now.

Who was the third person?

Her eyes adjusted to the new face, which belonged to a man who was younger than the creeps.

He stared at Tilly as if she were something more than an eleven-year-old girl who'd been kidnapped.

Much more.