In Desperation

by Rick Mofina

  Who was behind it?

  How did they know Cora worked for him? How did they know how to find Cora’s home? How did they know she had a daughter? Christ, they’d better not hurt her. How did everything turn to shit?

  Now, as he drove to the meeting place, the knot in his gut tightened.

  Galviera saw himself in the mirror, gaunt and looking like something that should be flushed. How had his life come to this? Hell, he sponsored three Little League ball teams. He’d worked hard for his piece of the American dream.

  Now he could lose it all.

  His father, a bus driver, had died, leaving his mother to support him by cleaning offices before she died from a heart attack. Galviera dropped out of college to work full-time as a bike-riding courier. Then he got a truck and started his own business delivering packages by day, pizzas at night. He built it into a major regional courier company but then married a nutcase, who preferred ferrets to children.

  When she caught him cheating with an office worker, she got an asshole lawyer and tried to steal his company. It forced Galviera to hide assets, get creative with numbers. He kept his company, but the battle left him poorer and bitter.

  He vowed to never get married again.

  The stress of his divorce led to his gambling addiction, which he’d kept hidden. It was his lame bid to try to recoup some of what he lost in his divorce settlement. He ran up heavy gambling debts but had always cleared them.

  Along the way he’d hired Cora from an agency. She was pretty, but unlike most of the empty-headed agency bimbos, she had brains and a mature attitude.

  He liked her. Really liked her.

  She’d had a hard life but was a strong, independent single mother. He liked being with her and he liked Tilly. She was a smart, sharp kid. He liked having them in his life.

  They made him feel whole.

  Sometimes he and Cora talked about marriage but he was gun-shy.

  “Not sure I’m ready to go down that road again,” he’d always tell her.

  Around the time the economy tanked, Galviera made some bad investments, just when company bills were mounting. He was facing an overdue $1.9-million payment. If he couldn’t make it, he’d lose Quick Draw. He kept negotiating extensions but time was running out.

  Quietly, he asked around for financial help.

  His out-of-state bookie knew a guy, who knew a guy who knew people who were interested in an arrangement that could help him.

  A meeting was set up in a hotel in Tijuana.

  The investors wanted a very confidential off-the-books arrangement to have Galviera’s company deliver religious items made in convents and monasteries in Mexico to select addresses in the U.S.

  The deal would involve special codes, contacts and payments. In a short time, it would earn Galviera a lot of cash. The beauty of the plan was that Galviera’s clients would handle everything-customs and inspections, any “difficulties” that might arise.

  The truth: he was dealing with a drug cartel.

  To agree meant a pact with the devil.

  They smiled and assured him there would be no complications. They assured him they would take care of all risk. They assured him that with sufficient notice, he could end the arrangement for any reason at any time.

  In desperation, Galviera took the deal.

  And it went well.

  The shipments flowed, and he collected and secured cash payments according to the instructions he was given. For his work, his first earnings totaled $976,000. A second payment a month later, was $1,034,000. The next was going to be just over two million dollars. All of it tax free. With the two million to come, Galviera would clear his debt, end his partnership with the cartel and focus on his company.

  That was his plan before Tilly was kidnapped.

  He’d never expected this to happen.

  There were to be no complications.

  Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn it.

  Now, as he adjusted his grip on the wheel while pulling up to the Broken Horses Bar, he checked the time. Fifteen minutes to five. Octavio and his partner specified meeting here at five.

  The building’s chugging air conditioner dripped water over a fractured metal door that creaked when Galviera entered. He kept his dark glasses on, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light while he dealt with the stench of stale beer and hopelessness.

  A large TV on mute loomed over the wooden U-shaped bar where several pathetic cases were perched. There were a few wooden chairs and tables on the main floor, while along the wall, high-backed booths offered privacy.

  Galviera ordered a beer at the bar and carried it to the booth, where he took a long pull and did his best to keep himself from shaking.

  Christ, the TV was tuned to FOX. They were showing his face as a “person of interest,” up there for the whole goddamned world to see.

  He lowered his head.

  Adrenaline surged through him.

  He had to do something.

  But what? What could he do? If he went to the police now, while sitting on five million in cartel money, he was a dead man.

  That would seal Tilly’s fate.

  Be calm. Stay cool. He had to fix this.

  Stick to the plan. That was all he could do.

  He glanced at the time. Damn. It was flying. Now it was fifteen minutes after the hour and no sign of Octavio.

  What happened to them? They were never late.

  Galviera took another pull of his beer.

  His hands were shaking. He was a mess. He needed those guys to walk through that door so they could take care of the money, so he could give them their share and fix this.

  They could deal with the people who had Tilly.

  It had to be their competition, whoever that was.

  I’m trapped between two cartels.

  Octavio could give them their cut, convince them to release Tilly unhurt on the street or something-like that other kid, a few years back in Houston. Just let her go, no questions asked.

  Everything would be settled.

  It was now thirty minutes after the hour.

  As Galviera eyed the clock over the bar, his Adam’s apple rose and fell with each passing minute. Thirty-five minutes after the hour, forty, forty-five.

  No sign of Octavio and his partner.

  At the top of the hour, the news came on. A few stories in, Tilly’s face appeared on the screen.

  Staring at Galviera, imploring him to do something as the minutes ticked down.

  17

  Mesa Mirage, Phoenix, Arizona

  The incident with the eyeballs was horrifying.

  Tension in Cora’s home mounted as the investigators hammered away at the case. Watching her go to pieces as she reckoned with the rising stakes in her daughter’s kidnapping, Gannon struggled with the questions that were plaguing him.

  Who was Cora?

  Was she just his sister, with a niece he’d never met-and might never see? Or an ex-drug addict with secrets, caught in a deal gone wrong?

  At times he found himself looking upon her as the detached journalist, trying to determine what was true. Was Cora a victim in this thing, or a player? Again he came back to her reference to “karma,” which made him question if the kidnapping was tied to her years as a drug user. And her reluctance to volunteer her fingerprints was another question.

  But when Gannon considered what he knew, the picture clouded.

  Seeing your child kidnapped, then believing her eyeballs had been delivered to you was beyond comprehension.

  In his years as a crime reporter Gannon had seen so many people collide with unimaginable horror. Through it all, he had come to learn that there was no guide on the proper way to react. People blamed others, or themselves. They looked for the guilty, or they looked guilty.

  Reason and truth were always fugitives.

  So at times he found himself looking upon Cora as more than a former drug addict who’d devastated his family in Buffalo over twenty years ago. She was no longer los
t to him. She was a near-middle-aged single mother, who had made mistakes, who had human failings.

  The person he needed to forgive.

  For at seventeen Cora had been his best friend, the guiding light who’d nurtured his dream to become a writer before she ripped his life apart. Yes, she’d resurrected years of pain, but they’d found each other. And seeing what she had become underscored what he had become-a loner, a truth-seeker.

  Gannon’s regard for her whipsawed with each passing minute.

  He loved her. He hated her. He ached for her. He suspected her.

  Now, as he checked his cell phone for messages, he grappled with the old wound that Cora had carved into him, realizing that it ran so deep he didn’t know where he stood. Didn’t know where to place his trust, his instincts or his love.

  Of one thing he was certain: he was in the middle of a huge story.

  Up to now, he’d been swept up by events. It was time he took journalistic control of matters, time he started digging into the case. With an eye on the investigators at work, he’d placed a call on his cell phone to a number in Buffalo, New York.

  It rang several times.

  “Clark Investigations,” a female voice said. “Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  The voice belonged to Adell Clark, a former FBI agent who ran her own one-woman private investigation agency out of her home in Lackawanna, where she lived with her daughter.

  Several years back, Gannon had profiled Clark after she was shot during an armored-car heist. They became friends and Adell became one of his most trusted sources. Hell, she was his best source. After Cora’s press conference, Gannon had texted Adell, asking her to poke around within her connections-and she had plenty-for anything that might help him on this case.

  Her message cue beeped but he didn’t leave one, deciding to call her back later. He tried another number.

  “WPA, Henrietta Chong.”

  “Henrietta, it’s Gannon. Are you hearing anything new out there on my niece’s case?”

  “Sorry, nothing new, Jack. Say, what’s up with that cabdriver? The word going around is that he dropped off a note from the kidnappers or a message or something?”

  “Or something would fit for now.”

  “Can you tell me more?”

  “No, I can’t. Keep me posted if anything breaks.”

  Gannon then called WPA headquarters in New York and updated Melody Lyon, leaving out the eyeballs part, telling her nothing new had happened since the takedown in Tempe. As he was hanging up, his attention went to the FBI agents.

  Hackett had called a quick huddle around one of the worktables. By their body language and the tension in the air he could tell there’d been an important break. A couple of agents were typing rapidly on laptops, while others were making cell phone calls.

  Once more, Gannon heard someone say “EPIC,” the term for the El Paso Intelligence Center, and guessed that something critical to the investigation had suddenly arisen from there.

  The unfolding scene was not lost on Cora, who’d been watching from across the room.

  “Something’s happening,” she said. “What is it, Jack?”

  Hackett approached them, hands extended to quell expectations.

  “There’s been a development but we’re not sure it-”

  “What?” Cora repeated. “Did you find her?”

  “I can’t release details at this time because-”

  “Jack!” Cora pleaded. “What’s happening?”

  “Let him finish, Cora,” Gannon said.

  “We’ve had a lot of tips and this newest one is cross-jurisdictional-”

  “Cross-what? What’s that mean?” Cora was frantic. “Is my daughter dead? If she’s dead, you tell me right now!”

  “All I can tell you is that we have a lead that requires more investigation and it’s going to take time. I know it’s frustrating-” he glanced at Gannon “-but I’m sorry, that’s all I can release right now.”

  “No, that’s not acceptable!” Cora said. “I have a right to know what’s going on! You tell me what’s happened!”

  As Gannon and another detective tried to get Cora to rest, Gannon’s cell phone rang. He excused himself and went to a quiet corner to take the call, expecting Adell Clark or Henrietta Chong.

  “Gannon.”

  “Jack, it’s Isabel Luna.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something has come up near Juarez, something very important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jack, it’s related to your niece’s kidnapping.”

  “Did you find her? What is it?”

  “All I can say is that it’s tied to the kidnapping. I’m sorry, that’s all that was revealed to me.”

  “Was it the kidnappers who called you? Who’s your source?”

  “I can’t tell you any more at this moment.”

  Gannon shot Hackett a look over his shoulder, thinking the two matters were linked.

  “Isabel, tell me what you know. Maybe I should pass it on to the police here.”

  “No, tell no one about this! Because I have also learned that the task force investigating your niece’s case may have been infiltrated by a cartel.”

  “What? I don’t believe this. Are you certain?”

  “My sources here have heard this.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jack, I think it’s very important for you to return to Juarez immediately. There’s something you need to see.”

  18

  Chihuahuan Desert, Northern Mexico

  Dust clouds trailed the white 1999 Chevrolet Blazer slicing through the eroded stretches and dried arroyos of scrubland some thirty miles outside of Ciudad Juarez.

  Out here, the police scanner mounted to the dash was picking up mostly static. The driver, Arturo Castillo, a news photographer with El Heraldo, adjusted it and glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Jack Gannon was in the backseat searching the desolate expanse for a hint of what awaited him. After Isabel Luna had called him in Phoenix, he’d left for El Paso with Cora’s pleas echoing in his ears.

  “Don’t leave me, Jack, please!”

  “I have to check something out.”

  “What? Where? Why won’t you tell me?”

  Hackett was out of earshot but eyeballing him from across the room, where he was working with the other investigators, watching coldly but not interfering.

  “Cora, let me check this out. I don’t have details, just a lead from a good source.”

  “Jack, please don’t go. Something bad has happened. I feel it.”

  A few hours later, when his jet landed in El Paso, Gannon made his way across the border to the offices of El Heraldo. Luna, true to her word, had arranged to rush him to “a location in the desert.” Now, as the Chevy Blazer bumped along the dusty road, Gannon shifted his attention to Luna. She was sitting in the front passenger seat and when she’d finished sending a text message on her phone, Gannon came back to the question he’d asked earlier.

  “How solid is your information?”

  “My source is unassailable.”

  Twenty minutes later, Castillo, guided by the odometer reading and directions Luna gave from her notebook, shifted the transmission of the Blazer into four-wheel drive and headed off road and over the parched grassland.

  Two miles in, they came to a fast-flowing irrigation stream. Castillo chose a narrow bend and carefully forded it. The water rose to the running boards as the Chevy wobbled over the stony bottom.

  After they’d gone another two miles, a small ranch came into view. As they got closer, Gannon discerned a rickety house that looked as if it was about to collapse and a ramshackle barn. The place appeared to have been abandoned for years…until now. A handful of police vehicles were concentrated at the barn, which was encircled with police tape.

  Luna, Castillo and Gannon approached the four uniformed officers leaning on the cars just outside the police tape.

  “We are from El Heraldo
and the World Press Alliance,” Luna said in Spanish as the three showed their ID. Tapping her notebook against her hip, she added: “Let me speak to the person in charge here.”

  A hot breeze kicked up grit as Luna stared into the implacable reflection of the first officer’s sunglasses. A long, tense moment passed before he spoke into his shoulder microphone.

  A terse response crackled over the radio. Then, in a move that surprised Gannon, the officer lifted the tape for them to approach. Through the gap-toothed boards of the barn, he saw a car was parked inside.

  A man in blue jeans, a polo shirt and cowboy boots, with a badge clipped on his belt near his sidearm met them at the entrance. As he handed over his ID, Gannon noticed the blue latex gloves he was wearing. Taking stock of Gannon, Castillo and Luna, the cop spoke in Spanish with Luna. Gannon soon figured that this cop was asking questions as Luna responded with string of sí…sí…sí’s. Gannon guessed they were questions about him, as this cop-save for a quick scan of the empty horizon beyond them-never took his focus from him.

  The detective was in his late thirties, about six feet tall with a firm build. He had a few days’ growth deepening the craggy features of his face, accentuating his piercing hooded eyes.

  “Come inside,” he said in English. “Follow me on the path marked on the ground by tape.”

  What was going on? This press access to a crime scene was astounding. As Gannon struggled to figure it out, he was assaulted by the stench of excrement mingled with putrid meat. Something was humming. Flies. Blinding beams of sunlight gleamed through the barn’s walls and Gannon needed a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Several other men in plainclothes were reviewing notes and items by an open barn window.

  Gannon saw that the car was a four-door Chevy Caprice, late model with Texas tags…a rental, maybe? The windows were tinted and reflected the flash from Castillo’s camera as he began taking pictures.

  The detective opened the driver’s door. The keys were still in the ignition and the indicator chimed softly.

  Pong. Pong. Pong.