by Rick Mofina
Even with his eyes shut, everything was on fire.
Cora was crying now.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Just tell me the truth. Tell me how you are certain he is Tilly’s father.”
“He refused to use protection. He paid double. He was the only one. I was an addict, Jack. I needed money to survive. I was in hell. I was messed up. You could never understand how much shame I felt, why I could never go home again.”
Gannon searched the preboarding area in vain, looking for the right words.
After a moment, Cora found a measure of composure and continued.
“Peck is Tilly’s father. Damn it, did you not see the resemblance?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Look, he gave me a lead, so I came here, straight to LAX.”
“A lead?” Hope rose in her voice. “What is it?”
“A guy you used to know. He’s in Las Vegas now.”
“Who?”
“Vic Lomax.”
“Lomax. No. No, Jack!”
“Listen, Cora, I realize Peck may have been feeding me bullshit. I know this is a long shot but he said Lomax was tied to cartels. He might get us closer to people who have Tilly.”
The gate agent announced the first boarding call for his flight over the public address.
“Are you flying to Las Vegas now?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t. I’m begging you to stay away from Lomax.”
“Why?”
“He’s a dangerous monster, Jack. Stay away from him.”
“We don’t have many options here.”
“Lomax is not one of them. He’s in the past, buried, dead to me, Jack.”
Confusion and anger began churning in Gannon’s gut.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “Tilly’s life is on the line. We have to try everything. Lomax might know something!”
“Do not go to Lomax!”
“What the hell’s going on? You begged me to help you. Are you telling me everything? Are you playing me? Are you involved in this, Cora? Tell me the goddamn truth!”
“No!”
“Then what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Jack, please.” Cora swallowed. “In all those years, with everything I went through, my life was a nightmare. It’s still a nightmare. If I lose Tilly… I’m so sorry. I just don’t know anything anymore.”
The long-distance static between them carried her sobs until Gannon heard another boarding call.
“I have to go, Cora.”
25
Las Vegas, Nevada
The sedate, upscale community of Tall Palm Rise was east of The Strip, between Flamingo Road and East Sahara Avenue.
Big celebrity names, casino execs and a few mobsters had once lived in this enclave of custom-made luxury homes, bordered by golf courses, country clubs and palm groves.
It oozed retro grandeur.
Gannon’s cab rolled by the coral-colored stucco houses. Their butterfly roofs crested the high stone-and-shrub privacy walls. Some remained hidden by the fruit and palm trees. Most had fenced yards equipped with security systems that kept visitors under surveillance.
This was where Vic Lomax lived.
A long way from pimping in North Hollywood, Gannon thought.
From the moment he’d left Peck’s office in Los Angeles for Las Vegas, Gannon had launched an all-out investigative offensive on Victor Lomax. In the short time he had, Gannon worked his sources, texting Isabel Luna and Adell Clark.
In the taxi to LAX, he used his BlackBerry to search every WPA database he could for records and learned that Lomax held controlling interest in the World of Dreams, a Las Vegas casino-hotel. Soft news stories had portrayed him as a philanthropist involved in local, state and national charities.
There were pictures.
Cora was right, the guy looked all wrong. Like smiling was painful. Like being in human skin was alien to him. Yet there he was, grinning with Hollywood stars, handing out big checks, including one for a shelter for abused women.
“Be careful, Jack,” Adell had cautioned him over his phone after he’d landed in Las Vegas, as he walked through Arrivals. “I called in a lot of big favors-retired FBI, DEA and Las Vegas Metro. Told them this was all about behind-the-scenes work to find your niece and that I needed their best intel on Lomax ASAP.”
“And?”
“This guy is scary. He’s come up in a number of investigations but there’s never been enough to take to a grand jury.”
“Bottom line?”
“The DEA and IRS suspect Lomax is using his casino to launder money for one of the cartels.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“There are rumors that Lomax performs other services for the cartel, that he makes bodies disappear in the desert.”
“You find anything linking him to Salazar or Johnson?”
“No, but Lomax has entertained major cartel figures at his casino.”
“Then he’d likely know something about Tilly’s kidnappers.”
“It’s possible. Listen, I think the best place to find him is his casino.”
“No, I’m going to his home.”
“Are you nuts? You do not want to show up at his home.”
“I want his attention.”
“Jack, don’t do it. It’s too dangerous.”
“Thanks, Adell.”
Gannon had ended the call, gotten into a cab and checked his bag at a cheap airport motel before heading to Tall Palm Rise.
Now, as his cab reached Lomax’s address, Gannon reached for his wallet. He paid the fare, tipped the driver, then held out two twenties. “You get one now and the other when I get in after you wait down the street. Not sure how long I’ll be, but wait.” Gannon slid on his dark glasses.
“I’ll give it as long as I can,” the driver said.
Lomax’s house was 28 Ripple Creek Path, a single-story pale yellow stucco frame. It had an extra-large carport and gurgling fountain in the circular drive. The house sat on an acre lot hidden by shrubs, trees and professionally maintained landscaping. It was fully fenced, protected by high stone walls and a double wrought-iron gate, with an intercom embedded in the right stone column.
Gannon pushed the intercom button and waited.
A mechanized whirr sounded as the security camera atop the right column tilted slightly to record his visit.
“Yes?” a female voice asked through the intercom.
“My name is Jack Gannon. I am a reporter with the World Press Alliance. I want to see Mr. Lomax, Vic Lomax.”
“He’s not here. I suggest you try his office at World of Dreams.”
“I suggest you give him a message. Tell him his North Hollywood past has caught up with him. Tell him he’s going to be named in a news story about the kidnapping of a child by a drug cartel. Tilly Martin is my niece. Tell him he can meet me face-to-face in the next ninety minutes at the Loaded Dice diner on Las Vegas Boulevard to comment on the story. Otherwise, the story goes out with his name, his picture and the allegations.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Gannon removed his dark glasses and stared at the camera.
“Jack Gannon. World Press Alliance, the newswire agency. Take my picture. I’ll wait at the diner for ninety minutes for Mr. Lomax. Then the story goes. Tell him that, now. Got it?”
A mechanized whirr sounded again as the security camera pulled tighter on Gannon. He waited, replaced his glasses, then walked to the waiting cab, reaching for the twenty to give the driver.
Did he just make a mistake?
Gannon glanced at the big clock above the counter of the Loaded Dice diner. For the better part of an hour, he’d subtly scrutinized every customer who’d entered the diner, concluding that they were tourists, rollers or local characters. No one resembled Vic Lomax.
What if he struck out? What next?
As the waitress topped up his coffee, he was assailed by images of Cora’s past. He saw her with Ivan Peck-“she was
a fine piece of ass”-with Vic Lomax and other scumbags and creeps.
My sister.
He considered his mother and father and the sleepless nights they’d spent sitting in the darkened Buffalo kitchen, sick with worry, not knowing if Cora was alive.
Knowing the truth would have killed them.
After picking over the remainder of his cheeseburger and fries, Gannon stared at himself in the black surface of his coffee. He needed to shave. The past few days had been mashed together, Mexico, Phoenix, Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Where did he go from here?
He checked his phone again.
No texts from Luna or Adell. One word from Lyon in New York.
Update?
Chasing a new lead. Tell you more when I can, he responded.
Cora texted him: What’s happening, Jack?
Not sure, we’ll talk later.
Then he looked at Tilly’s picture again. It was like looking at Cora. Memories started to swirl until the waitress arrived to remove his plate. Two hours had passed. It was time to go. He paid the bill, then went outside to flag a cab to the airport.
“Got the time?” a voice asked.
Gannon turned to a large man who’d materialized on the sidewalk, just as an SUV with tinted windows halted beside them. The rear passenger door swung open. Sitting inside, a man with a jacket on his lap tugged it back to let Gannon see a gun barrel.
“Get in,” the stranger behind him said.
26
Las Vegas, Nevada
The SUV traveled southbound along Interstate 15.
Gannon was positioned in the rear seat, between the large man and the man with a gun. Another man sat up front with the driver.
No one spoke.
They had to be Lomax’s people. Be calm. He inhaled and tried to control his breathing. Think, Gannon told himself. Is there anything you can do here?
The large man was rough as he patted Gannon for a weapon. Then he took Gannon’s BlackBerry and wallet and passed them to the guy in the front passenger seat. He studied Gannon’s ID, made a call and spoke in muted tones.
Gannon felt the highway clicking under them as they traveled beyond the city, then turned onto a secondary road, then turned again onto a back road. Fewer and fewer buildings dotted the landscape. Before long, the area had grown desolate. The SUV jiggled when they turned off the road and cut across the desert, coming to a ridge that descended into a low valley that looked like a dried river-bed.
They stopped and jerked Gannon out of the SUV.
The heat was intense as they led him several feet away. He heard the tail door open. A shovel clanked on the cracked earth.
“Start digging, asshole,” one of the men said.
Gannon looked at his captors, stone-cold behind their dark glasses. One stepped forward, seized the shovel and scraped a six-foot-by-two-foot square in the surface, then put the shovel in Gannon’s hand.
One of the men directed Gannon with his gun hand.
“Dig down three feet.”
Gannon’s stomach spasmed as all the saliva evaporated in his mouth. He barely felt the shovel as he started digging.
“My news organization knows where I am and who I went to see,” he said.
The air exploded and Gannon flinched as the gunshot echoed.
“Shut the fuck up and dig,” the gunman said.
Gannon started digging.
Odd, he was not afraid. He was at peace. If this was how it was going to be, then this was how it would be. But he would not go down without a fight. He considered charging the gunman with the shovel, swinging that blade at his throat, but no doubt the others were armed, too. They were standing too far apart. At best, he’d get a shot at two of them, he figured as the sweat dripped from his face, making blotches in the sand.
Gannon was down a little over two feet deep when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dust cloud. He heard the crunch of tires, then saw an approaching vehicle. Another SUV.
The gunman took the shovel from Gannon.
“Get on your knees and face the hole.”
Squinting against the sun, Gannon saw doors open. A man in a white suit got out of the vehicle and approached the group. His dark glasses were locked on Gannon as he took Gannon’s wallet from one of the men. He went through it quickly and nodded to the gunman, who then pressed the barrel hard against Gannon’s head.
The new man removed his dark glasses.
Vic Lomax.
His face seemed as if it had been broken; his eyes were asymmetrical, as if one had migrated down and the other was sunken. His upturned shark’s mouth twisted into a sneer and Gannon’s head snapped when the back of Lomax’s hand flew across his face.
“Who sent you, Gannon?”
“Nobody sent me.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Nobody sent me.”
“You go to my home. You threaten my family. You know, I scrape shit like you off my shoe. Did that old skank of a sister send you?”
“No.”
“Some shit-for-brains cop?”
“No.”
“Why come to me about this kidnapping shit that’s all over the news?”
“To beg for your help to find my niece.”
Still breathing hard, Lomax’s nostrils flared as he glared at Gannon.
“I only know what’s in the news and it looks like a lost cause.”
“I’m begging you, please.”
“Your stupid bitch sister never learned. She’s at it again. You ask her why she got herself tied up with this Galviera asshole, who seems to have pissed off the wrong people.”
“Just help me. A name, advice, anything, and I’ll go away, I swear.”
“I can make you go away-” Lomax snapped his fingers “-like that.”
The gun bored into Gannon’s skull.
“Please, she’s eleven years old.”
“I got nothing to do with this. Bet you didn’t know that your bitch sister got into trouble with a cartel a long time ago. Ask her if it’s got anything to do with this kidnapping shit.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The worst kind.” Lomax gave it a few seconds to sink in. “You ask her what she and Donnie Cargo did in San Francisco all those years ago. When I first heard about it, I told them to hide, stay out of the mix. I told her this would follow her all of her life. Well, now it’s caught up to her. So you talk to your sister, asshole, because I’m thinking that if your niece is not dead yet, she will be. And the only person Cora can blame for that is Cora.”
27
Lago de Rosas, Mexico
The old woman was dying.
At her son’s request, Father Francisco Ortero’s weekly visits had become a daily ritual, now that she was so close to death.
She lived with her family at the hamlet’s edge in a shack built of wood salvaged from pallets discarded by the fruit warehouse in the next town. The priest always declined the family’s invitation to supper, not wanting to further strain their meager means.
He always arrived when the woman’s daughter-in-law was washing her battered pots and pans, or taking dried linen down from the line. The little house was well kept and the corner of it where the old woman was confined to a narrow bed smelled of fresh flowers.
She always took Holy Communion from the priest, who would talk with her into the evening, telling her that she would be with her husband soon, for it was his job to prepare her to meet God. His words comforted her and she smiled.
When Father Ortero left, the moon was rising, washing the dirt road in blue as he walked back to the rectory. Finding peace in the evening, he looked back on his day. His foremost thought was the sicario who’d entered the confessional. While he had always expected some repercussion for the outspoken stand he had taken in Juarez against the narcotraficantes, the encounter was unexpected.
A cartel assassin had come to him-not for blood, but to confess.
The priest wondered if he had done enough to guide the killer back to God.
Should he somehow alert police investigating the double murder south of Juarez? Wouldn’t that break the seal of the confession, violate his vow? Perhaps he should talk to his bishop. His questions fell into the silence that cracked with the long, wild cry of a coyote, reminding him that primitive forces were near.
No one else was on the road tonight.
It was a lonely walk, his only company being his thoughts and the mournful wail of the predator in the darkness. This one was likely hunting mice or lizards. While coyotes were common here, they did not attack humans. He was not concerned. He’d walked this road many times and was often serenaded by coyotes.
Thud!
A stone hit the ground and rolled behind him. Instinctively, the priest stopped and turned.
Nothing was there.
When he turned back, a figure was standing before him, a few feet away, blocking his path. He was slender, taller than the priest, who stood five feet eight inches. A young man, judging by his build and his posture.
A bandanna covered his face, allowing the priest to see only his eyes and short hair. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a shoulder holster that cradled a semiautomatic handgun.
“Father Ortero.”
Immediately, he recognized the voice.
“Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“I asked for you in the town. They told me I would find you here tonight. Don’t be afraid.”
“As I recall, you are the frightened one.”
“You insult me. I have killed men for less.”
The priest extended his arms, opened his palms.
“Go ahead. Guarantee your seat in hell.”
The moon was ablaze in the sicario’s eyes.
“I have given more thought to my situation, my offer to the church and what you said.”
“You wish to confess here, now, and surrender to police?”
“I need to understand redemption and salvation. If I am truly repentant and I make my generous donation, will I receive absolution?”