Sufficient Ransom (10 page)

“Sure I tried, but she wouldn’t listen,” Richard said.
She never does
. “When I got back from the grocery store she was gone.”

Tom Long’s gray eyes appraised Richard for a long moment. “I don’t have kids of my own. But I tell you, if my kid disappeared I might’ve done the same.”

Richard was
not
expecting to hear the detective approve his wife’s foolhardy trip. “Frankly, I’m not sure that’s what I wanted to hear. You said yourself the FBI’s working on Max Ruiz. Ann has no business in a place like Tijuana. The conversation with Agent Fox is was set her off. She felt he was accusing us of having something to do with this.”

“Julian’s a bit of a hard ass,” Tom said nodding. “I should’ve warned you.”

“Look,” Richard said. “Before you arrived, I was reading about Kika online. Trying to figure out her thought process. I was also reading about the other missing children. You haven’t said much about them.”

“Are you as sure as your wife that Ms. Garcia took your son?” Tom asked.

Standing up, Richard ran his fingers through his hair debating how to respond. “No. I’m not as certain as she is.”

“You’re a scientist, aren’t you?” Tom asked.

Richard nodded. “Yeah.”

“I would think that your training would make you more skeptical.”

“I guess. Well, what about you?” Richard said. “Are you sure?”

“The fact that Ms. Garcia’s missing in action bodes badly for her,” Tom replied. “But remember, three other children have disappeared.”

Richard sat on the sofa facing the detective. “Tell me about them.”

Tom Long leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Pedro Valdez, age six, was reported missing on March 5. He was last seen playing in the street, around the corner from the house he shares with his parents and siblings. Two brothers, and a sister. Apparently a leaking fire hydrant kept the neighborhood kids entertained that afternoon with water games. According to a child witness, Pedro threw water on a man who was passing by. Apparently the guy was a well-dressed Latino. He demanded to know who had done the deed. Pedro admitted it was him. The man shouted a string of obscenities at the kids who were all laughing at him, and then he stormed off.”

Richard’s sadness deepened. “Sounds like something Travis would do.”

“Pedro’s parents, laborers both in the country illegally, waited more than twenty-four hours before calling the police. It came out that they feared being deported. So they waited until they could wait no more. The task force assigned to the case chased down leads for months. Nothing doing. Pedro remains missing.”

“Wasn’t there also a Muslim child?” Richard asked.

Tom Long nodded. “Hanna Aziz. Eight-years-old. Disappeared on June 10. The girl’s mother had sent her to a pregnant neighbor’s house to deliver a home-cooked dinner. Mrs. Aziz called to see what was holding her daughter up. The neighbor said Hanna had left twenty minutes earlier. No ransom requests were made there either. Interestingly the Azizs were victims of a robbery in Ensenada. Cash and jewelry were stolen from their hotel room. The owner of the hotel fired the entire staff on duty that day.”

“That must have gone over well,” Richard said.

The detective leaned back. “I’ll say. Mexican police detained some of these employees, but no arrests were made.”

“Hanna’s disappearance could be related to the robbery,” Richard said.

“It’s possible. But as of yet, we have no proof.”

“What about the girl who was taken a few days before Travis?”

Tom Long’s eyebrows came down in a frown. “Sabela Villarreal’s newly hired Mexican nanny checked the child out of school and never brought her home. Mr. Villarreal manages a large
maquiladora
in Tijuana. Hundreds of factory workers. No ransom requests have been made on behalf of their child either.”

Richard considered the situation. “All young children with connections to Mexico.”

The detective nodded. “Sharing a border, we have lots in common with Mexico.”

“Was CPS involved with any of these families?”

“Nope.”

Richard picked up a stack of papers from the table that he had downloaded from the Internet. He shook his head, discouraged. “Getting back to Kika. She was born and raised in Mexico City. You probably know all about her.”

“Refresh my memory,” Tom said. “It’s possible you dug up something new.”

“Well. She’s thirty-four. Bachelors in child development and a master’s degree from the University of Arizona in social work. Three years ago, her mother died from a stroke. Apparently Kika used her inheritance to buy a place in La Jolla, about three miles from here.” Richard pulled a paper from the stack and handed it to the detective. “Here’s an old resumé from a career website. Two employers before CPS. Her first job, working with children with disabilities at a Boston non-profit, lasted more than three years. Her next job, counseling foster care children, lasted more than five years.”

Tom Long looked over the resume. “Pretty stable.”

“Job-wise at least,” Richard said. “She’s also involved with the Catholic Diocese in San Diego. No surprise there, given that medallion she wears around her neck.”

“What medallion?”

“A Madonna and Child charm, on a gold chain,” Richard said.

“That’s different,” the detective mused. “Most Catholics wear crosses, if they wear anything.”

“She volunteers at an orphanage in Baja,” Richard added. “She seems pretty busy. Wonder where she finds time for it all.”

“According to her boss, she loves children and is very dedicated to her work,” Tom said.

“Do you think maybe she could have taken Travis to the orphanage?” Richard said.

“The FBI in TJ’s looking into that.”

“When will you know about Max Ruiz?” Richard asked.

“Hopefully soon. I assume your wife hasn’t talked to him yet.”

Mention of Ann in Tijuana made Richard more anxious. “She went to Ruiz’s factory but he wasn’t there.”

Tom Long’s voice was reassuring. “She should be home soon then.” He stood up. “As soon as Julian gets the lowdown from his liaison in TJ, I’ll call you. And please text me when your wife gets home. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Richard nodded. “One more thing. You mentioned the public can be a help in these situations. What do you think of a Facebook page? Maybe a website. Expand our reach and get information about Travis out everywhere.”

“Good idea. I’ll email you contact info for someone we’ve worked with who does that sort of thing. That reminds me…” Tom reached into his front pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “One of my team members set up a support group for the families of all the missing children. Here’s the info in case you and your wife want to talk to them.”

The detective left the house.

Richard entered his home office and checked voicemail. After listening to a message from the CEO of his company, he put his phone down. His boss had been more than understanding about his taking time off. Over the last day two days, since Travis disappeared, every one of
his fifteen co-workers had each, in their own way, offered to help in the search. Yet each offer underscored the danger Travis was in.

Richard leaned back in his chair, worried about his son and his wife. Ann had always been impulsive. Back to the very first day they met, nineteen years ago, at a bar on the Charles River. Richard was completing his Ph.D. studies at MIT. Ann was down from Smith visiting a friend at Harvard. It was Regatta Weekend. The bar was swarming with university students from all over the Boston area, celebrating the world’s biggest annual rowing event. Richard and his roommate were ensconced on bar stools sipping pints of Guinness enjoying the time off from their studies and teaching duties.

A leggy blonde in fitted jeans and running shoes had squeezed her way to the bar. Standing inches from Richard, this woman summoned the bartender with a tilt of her head and a smile. He noticed that several of the men across the bar were checking her out, signaling their friends to do the same. Richard’s friend too had nudged him, indicating that he should take a look at the blonde.

When Ann caught Richard admiring her, she smiled. “What’re you looking at?”

No stranger to women, Richard had matched her boldness. “I’m looking at you.” Ann chuckled to herself, picked up her drinks, and turned to go. Richard was eager to talk to this woman. “Stay a while,” he said, “and I’ll buy you another.” Ann’s friend had pushed her way through the crowd and was chatting with Richard’s roommate. Seeing that her friend was busy, Ann relented.

Richard and his future wife ended up talking for hours that afternoon, surrounded by revelers cheering for their favorite rowing teams. When she suggested they walk all the way to Chinatown for dinner—across the river, Chinatown was more than an hour’s walk through a questionable part of Boston and it was getting dark—Richard had agreed. Already, he couldn’t stand the thought of being away from this interesting woman. And he didn’t want her to think that he wasn’t up for adventure.

After dinner, Richard proposed a cappuccino and a cannoli in the North End, and then on to her friend’s apartment in Harvard Square.
Ann agreed, but insisted they walk to the North End and afterwards, on to Cambridge. Richard was not looking forward to walking ten miles across two cities at night, but Ann seemed so keen on it, he dared not disappoint her.

Half way to the North End, they spotted a stray kitten meowing in the doorway of a Dunkin Donuts. Patrons were coming and going from the coffee shop, and the little kitty was trying not to get trampled. It was dark out and getting cold. Ann picked the kitten up, unzipped her jacket, and snuggled the creature to her chest. “The poor little thing,” she said, patting its matted fur. “She must be hungry. Let’s go into Dunkin and get her some milk.” Richard’s eyes, meanwhile, were red and watering, and his skin was starting to itch.

The kitty’s appetite sated, Ann gave Richard a grateful smile. “You’re allergic to cats, aren’t you?” She must have noticed his discomfort. He nodded ruefully. “Yeah.”

“I don’t have the heart to leave this poor thing on the street. Mind if we take her with us? Mary—the girl I was with at the bar—has been talking about getting a cat. She might want to keep her.”

The look Ann gave him when he agreed had set Richard’s heart thumping wildly. “You’re such a good sport,” Ann smiled dreamily, her eyes half closed. At that moment, Richard realized he was in love.

It was raining when they left Mike’s Pastry in the North End. The kitten was snuggled against Ann’s chest, sleeping. Richard hailed a taxi. At the door to her friend’s house, Richard told Ann he would come by in the morning to take her to breakfast. They had been a couple ever since.

Nineteen years later, Richard loved Ann more than ever, though her impulsiveness was a stressor in their relationship. He was concerned for his wife’s physical safety in Tijuana and for her mental state. Not only did she blame herself for Travis’s disappearance, she seemed to be re-writing history. Her belief that she was a negligent mother was not borne out by the facts. She had lovingly cared for their child, countless times putting Travis’s needs above her own.

He remembered the time Travis had a nasty respiratory infection. Ann had insisted on staying by his bedside for days and nights on end, even though Richard had offered to share the burden. When the fever passed and Travis was sleeping comfortably, Ann was so worn down by lack of sleep and nutrition that Richard had to call a doctor for
her
.

Ann, Richard realized with sharpened anxiety, seemed unable to take credit for the good that she did, only for the imaginary bad. Her compulsive need for perfection distorted her perceptions. Because nothing she ever did was good enough, she was always pushing herself to do more. And when things didn’t turn out the way that Ann thought they should, she got frustrated and blamed herself.

That it took the tragedy of their son’s disappearance to bring out this dormant aspect of his wife’s personality deepened Richard’s sorrow.

Afternoon

A
fter her harrowing trip to the Ruiz factory Ann risked a taxicab back to the center of Tijuana. The thought of the beggar lying in wait for her along that lonely stretch of road between the factory and the city center trumped all concerns that a ruthless cab driver would harm her. Slumped in the back seat of the speeding vehicle, she let the warm air from the open windows stream over her face and arms. Her parched tongue felt like swollen rock in her mouth.

It was past two o’clock when Ann alighted from the cab on Avenida Revolución. Unsure what to do next she wandered down the street, past men hawking trinkets on the half-empty sidewalks, past shuttered shops. Waiters in white aprons tried to lure her into restaurants for a margarita or carnitas. She bought a can of soda from a vendor. The random bullets and kidnappings, a by-product of the drug wars, she realized sadly, must have destroyed the once bustling tourist trade. She passed prostitutes dressed in short, schoolgirl skirts with knee-high socks—an occasional would-be customer checking them out, these sad-faced women theirs for a few pesos.

Ann had a fleeting thought that searching for Travis in Tijuana was futile. But damn it! It felt so good to do something and not just wait for the police to call. She considered turning her phone back on to check in with her husband, but she was afraid he would bawl her out again.

Ann continued walking past Avenida Revolución’s giant arch. She pulled out a picture of her son and the image of Kika that she had downloaded from the Internet. Stopping random people, she asked if they had seen her son and the social worker. After suffering countless blank looks and some sneers, she started entering cantinas and other retail businesses to talk to people, to get at the names of the local “men in charge,” as she came to think of them. Max Ruiz was a big businessman. Someone was bound to know where he lived. Ann realized with a sudden pang of distress that she had pinned all her hopes of finding Travis on this Ruiz character. What if she failed to find him? What would she do then?

She pushed herself to enter one last place—a restaurant nestled in a picturesque courtyard. The manager contemplated her with unabashed suspicion after she showed him the pictures of Kika and Travis. When she ventured Max Ruiz’s name, the man excused himself for a few minutes. When he returned, his eyes were hooded and his face shut. He walked her to the door. “The streets aren’t safe for women these days. Especially American women,” he said. “You should go home.”