by Jeff Shelby
Except it wasn't a solicitor.
A tan-skinned man in his twenties stood there, wearing a light blue shirt beneath a dark blue suit, sans a tie. His close-cropped black hair was damp, not a single hair out of place. He was slightly taller than me and stood with that loose confidence that guys who can do anything between dunk a basketball and break a leg seem to possess. He was holding sunglasses in his right hand and he held up his left in greeting.
“Mr. Tyler?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“My name's Robert Simmons,” he said, a thin smile on his face that came off as neither friendly or unfriendly. “John Anchor sent me.”
Anchor. Fast as always.
I offered my hand and we shook.
“I know I showed up without a phone call and I apologize,” Simmons said. “But I've been told you were advised that setting up this meeting could happen quickly. And it has.”
Anchor. Mind-blowingly fast.
“Okay,” I said.
“My colleague, Jason Benning, is in your driveway in our vehicle and we have instructions to accompany you to this meeting,” Simmons explained. “And to avoid being late, we need to go as soon as possible. Again, I apologize for the lack of warning.”
I wondered if Codaselli made all of his guys go to charm school.
“No, it's fine,” I said. “Let me grab a couple things and we can go.”
Simmons nodded. “Excellent. And, just so there are no misunderstandings, Jason and I will be accompanying you and we are properly equipped. There's no need for you to bring anything other than your necessary personal belongings.”
Translation: don't bring a gun.
“Got it,” I said. “Give me one minute.”
Simmons nodded.
I left the door open and jogged to the bedroom. I pulled on a zip up Adidas jacket, socks and running shoes, found my wallet and phone and headed out with Simmons.
He introduced me to Benning, who was behind the wheel of a gray Land Rover and looked nearly identical to Simmons. He was exceedingly polite, but didn't say much after the introduction, focusing instead on the driving. Simmons sat up front with him and I was in the backseat. Simmons assured me we weren't going far.
We took the bridge over the bay back toward downtown and I was surprised that we headed north on five rather than south. We cut through downtown and past the airport on the highway and then got off the freeway again five minutes later at Moore and turned toward Old Town.
Old Town was an area in San Diego that had undergone multiple incarnations and refused to die. When I was a kid, it had been a place full of Mexican restaurants and small vendors selling handcrafted wares, meant to resemble a small downtown village in Mexico. But the city and vendors had butted heads over the years and the city brought in more development, much to the chagrin of those that wanted to keep the traditional vibe that the area had always exuded. Merchants and restaurants vacated, only to be replaced by chain storefronts and a more commercialized feel. Developers had tried to retain some of the original feeling by convincing several of the restaurants to stay, but Old Town felt more like a shiny new tourist attraction that had been constructed in a historic neighborhood.
Benning drove us through Old Town and parked in a paved lot across from a small, family owned Mexican restaurant.
Simmons twisted in his seat to look at me in the back. “You'll be meeting with a man named Mario Valdez. Are you familiar with him?”
“No.”
“Within his organization, his position is probably most similar to that of a vice president,” Simmons explained. “Perhaps the number two most senior member of his organization, number three at worst. He agreed to this as a favor to Mr. Codaselli. I have no idea what to expect, except that we should treat him with the kind of respect a man of his stature is accustomed to.”
“So don't go in and start demanding things or grab him by the neck,” I said. “I got it.”
Simmons nodded and pushed open his door.
I followed him and Benning into the restaurant. I was surprised to see that the restaurant was actually busy, a mix of families and businessmen enjoying an early afternoon lunch. Soft mariachi music played through the speaker system and waiters bustled by carrying large plates of steaming burritos and tacos. At the front of the building, adjacent to the hostess stand, a group of elderly Hispanic women gathered in a makeshift kitchen, hand-forming and cooking flour tortillas. Simmons nodded in greeting at one of the women, who offered a mostly toothless smile in return. He approached the hostess podium, leaning in close to speak to the young woman stationed behind it. She smiled at him, picked up the phone attached to the wall, spoke several words into it, hung up and said something I couldn't hear to Simmons. He nodded and smiled back.
A minute later, a young man in his twenties emerged from a door near the kitchen, wearing a dark suit and a yellow dress shirt.. He strode to the podium, introduced himself to Simmons, turned on his heel and Simmons motioned for Benning and I to follow him. We followed him through the door he'd come through, down a narrow hall. He stood to the side of another doorway, gesturing for us to enter.
The room looked like a private banquet room, with a long table covered in a red tablecloth and surrounded by about a dozen chairs. Eleven of them were empty.
Mario Valdez sat at the head of the table. He looked about my age, with thinning black hair combed to the side. A thin goatee encircled his mouth and chin and he wore rimless glasses over his eyes. A purple and black golf shirt hugged wide shoulders and thick arms, a silver watch on his wrist catching the light in the room. A large oval plate filled with enchiladas sat in front of him and he cut through them methodically, slicing and forking bite after bite as we gathered in the doorway.
He looked up as we entered, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap, wiped at his mouth and stood.
He smiled at Simmons and extended his hand. “I'm Mario. You must be Mr. Simmons.”
Simmons nodded and they shook hands. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Mr. Codaselli appreciates any help you can offer us.”
Valdez nodded. “Of course. Peter is a friend. If we can help, we will.”
Simmons introduced Benning quickly and they shook hands. Then he looked at me. “And this is Mr. Joe Tyler.”
Valdez studied me carefully for a moment, the smile still on his face, but his eyes scrutinizing who he was meeting with. “Mr. Tyler. A pleasure.”
We shook hands and Valdez looked at Simmons. “I trust we are good here?”
Simmons nodded. “We are, yes sir.”
Valdez looked past me to the man who'd brought us to the room. “Alonzo. Please see that Mr. Simmons and Mr. Benning are attended to while Mr. Tyler and I meet. Anything on the menu, as my guests.”
“Yes, sir,” Alonzo said. “Gentlemen?”
Simmons and Benning followed Alonzo out of the room and closed the door behind them.
“Please. Sit, Mr. Tyler,” Valdez said, resuming his seat. “And please excuse me finishing my lunch. I got here later than anticipated. Can I get you anything?”
“No, sir,” I said, sitting down in the chair closest to me so there was one chair in between us. “I'm fine. Thank you, though.”
“As you wish,” he said. He cut off a large piece of enchilada, put in his mouth and swallowed. He took a drink from the water glass next to his plate and wiped at his mouth again with his napkin. “Mr. Codaselli and Mr. Anchor speak well of you.”
“They've been very kind to me.”
“They say that you helped them,” Valdez said in between bites. “In a way that no one else did. That you are trustworthy and that they would consider it a favor if I spoke with you.”
“Again. They've been extremely kind to me.”
“Peter does not go out of his way to help people he does not trust, so that is high praise.” He speared the last bite of enchilada from the plate and chewed it, his eyes still on me. He laid the silverware on the plate and pushed the plate gently
to his right. He wiped at his mouth again, leaned back from the table and crossed his legs. He tossed the napkin next to the plate and smiled. “So. If you are his friend, then you are mine, as well.”
I wasn't sure if that was a great thing, but I wasn't in a position to debate the merits of his statement. “Thank you.”
“How might I be able to help you?” Valdez asked. “Peter has left me in the dark as to the reason for your visit.”
“It involves my daughter,” I said. “A few years back, she was abducted from my front yard.
His brow furrowed and his smile faded. “I'm sorry. I have three daughters myself.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And it's okay now. I found her recently and she is safe.”
He raised his eyebrows, then a flicker of recognition flashed through his eyes. “You are the man who found Peter's son. The man he hired.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Valdez extended his hand across the table to me. “Peter and I have been friends for quite some time. I know how hard on him that was and I know how grateful he was. So I will thank you for helping my friend.”
We shook hands. I hoped he was going to remember how great I was when I asked for what I wanted.
“I'm sorry,” Valdez said. “I interrupted you. Please continue.”
“I should be upfront with you,” I said. “I'm a former police officer.”
Valdez nodded. “I'm aware.”
Of course he was.
“I have reason to think that one or more of my former colleagues might have been involved in my daughter's disappearance,” I explained. “And there's a possibility that it might in a roundabout way be tied to a case that your organization was involved in.”
Valdez looked at me thoughtfully, then nodded, encouraging me to continue.
I laid out for him what I knew. That the buy in Imperial Beach went bad, undermined by an agent that had gotten inside, screwing up the safe passage that had supposedly been paid for.
Valdez didn't say anything.
“I know...or maybe I should say that I assume, that if your organization had paid for a service that it didn't receive,” I said, pausing for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “You would've wanted to be compensated. To have your fee reimbursed since services that were promised weren't delivered.”
Valdez gave a small shrug, but nodded. “Yes, I'd say that would be accurate. That is...common procedure for us.”
“My belief is that the person who you dealt with,” I said. “The person who offered to provide a safe environment for your transaction is the person responsible for my daughter's disappearance.”
“Why do you think that it's specifically tied to one of our deals?” Valdez asked, tilting his head to the side, considering his own question. “I'm not sure I see how that is relevant.”
“I think that when you asked for repayment for lack of services, your contact didn't have the money and had to look elsewhere for it in order to stay in your good graces. That wasn't an easy thing to do and got him into trouble.”
Valdez nodded slowly, his eyes on the table, thinking through what I'd told him. He laid his hand on the table and tapped his fingers lightly.
“You have done some excellent research,” he finally said with a smile. “I can see why Peter was pleased to have worked with you.”
I didn't say anything.
“I can confirm I know of the deal you are speaking of,” he continued. “It wouldn't be prudent for me to go into details, but I will tell you that the majority of your research is correct. We were involved in the transaction. It did not go as planned, despite precautions that were promised.” He smiled at me. “And we did ask for the return of our fee. Perhaps with a bit of interest.”
The smile stopped at his eyes and I finally saw the face of a man who was capable of far more than I could probably imagine. The kind of man who put the barrel of a gun in someone's ear and pulled the trigger. The kind of man who enjoyed the fright that the sound of a chainsaw brought. The kind of man who did whatever he wanted.
He blinked and the look vanished as soon as it had appeared.
“But I'm afraid I cannot give you what you're looking for,” he said.
“Why not?”
He tapped his fingers on the table again. “The...integrity of our organization is based upon trust. Confidentiality. And relationships. So while I can understand your frustration here, it is not my normal practice to reveal the name or names of anyone that we may have worked with in the past. No matter their shortcomings. We don't disclose our associations and I'm sure you can understand why.”
I could. I knew what he was saying. But I didn't care.
“Even if the person you worked with proved themselves incapable of delivering on their promise?” I asked.
Valdez hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. We would deal directly with that problem, as we saw fit. No matter our displeasure, we would not consider it good business to publicize whom we might be working with.”
I seriously wondered if there were any more bad guys out there who weren't so goddamned polite.
And then I remembered the conversation Lasko and I had after visiting with Ben Dailey.
“I have an uncomfortable question,” I said. “Please know that I don't mean any offense.”
Valdez raised an eyebrow.
“Has your organization ever been involved in child trafficking?” I asked.
The look in his eyes changed back to what I'd seen before. Cold. Angry. Evil.
“I appreciate your preface, Mr. Tyler, but that is still an offensive question,” Valdez said, his fingers drumming a silent beat on the table.
“I apologize. But I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to.”
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands tented together in front of him. “As I told you. I have three daughters. I love them the same way I'm sure you love your daughter. Children. They are...gifts.”
I nodded.
“And I know that in my business, in my world, things happen,” he said, his eyes boring into me. “Not always good things. Necessary things, but not always good. We choose our landscape, Mr. Tyler. And I can assure you, that landscape never, ever involves children.”
“I understand,” I said. “And I never believed that you did. I understand that there are...rules.”
Valdez nodded. “Rules. Yes.”
“Would those rules prevent you from...establishing a relationship with someone who trafficked children?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “It's a business we deplore and we have zero interest in working with anyone associated with it.”
I nodded, my heart beating against my chest. I knew this was maybe as close as I'd get if I was right. I needed to be right and I needed Valdez to help me.
“So what if I told you that the person I believe was responsible for my daughter's disappearance, the same person who you worked with on the failed transaction...was involved in trafficking?” I paused, letting it sink in. “Would that change your mind about letting me know who specifically you worked with?”
Valdez leaned back in his chair and recrossed his legs, thinking.
“You know this for sure?” he asked after a moment.
I shook my head. “Not for sure, no. I'm trying to link things together and this is as far as I've gotten. But my guess, based on everything I've been able to put together, is that the person we're speaking of sold my daughter to pay back the debt owed to you.” I paused again. “He literally took Elizabeth from my front yard, sold her to someone else, and then made good on his debt to you.”
Valdez shifted in the chair, then rubbed at his chin, his eyes moving to some far off spot on the other side of the room.
I waited.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “Do you spell that with a z?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “I see.” He tapped his index finger to his lips, like he was pointing a gun at the ceiling. “You ha
ve given me something to think about, Mr. Tyler.”
Disappointment settled in my gut. “Have I?”
He nodded. “Yes. I am not happy to learn about this. As I said, we have rules. And if this person did what you think he did, then...” He stopped and stared at me for a long moment. “Then we are indirectly responsible for your daughter's disappearance. And this displeases me. Greatly.”
“I didn't mean to insinuate that you or your people were responsible,” I said quickly. “That was not my intention here. I only wish to know the identity of the person you worked with. He is the person I hold responsible.”
He nodded. “Yes. But still. I'm not happy that we may have been somewhat responsible for your pain.” He took a deep breath, his broad chest rising, then falling. “Can you leave me a phone number?”
I pulled my wallet from the pocket of my pants, extracted one of my cards and slid it across the table to him. “It's my cell. I'm the only one who answers it.”
Valdez picked up the card, examined it, then slid it to the side. “I am not promising anything, Mr. Tyler. Just so you understand. There are others whose opinions matter as well. But I will present to them what you've shared with me and see if there's anything we can do to help you.”
I stood, disappointed that he hadn't given me a name, but grateful that he hadn't slammed the door, either. “That's all I can ask for. And I've taken up enough of your time already.”
Valdez pushed out of the chair and stood. We shook hands.
“I will be in touch,” Valdez said. “Either way.”
“I appreciate it.”
I headed for the door.
“An s,” Valdez said.
I looked at him, my hand on the doorknob. “I'm sorry?”
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “My middle daughter. Her name is Elisabeth, too. But we spell it with an s.” He nodded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tyler.”