Lyon let several moments pass.
“We will stand behind our reporter as this tragedy unfolds. Is that understood?”
Murmurs of agreement went around the table then bled into talk of updates and other business before Lyon ended the meeting. She stayed behind, alone in the room, and replayed the Phoenix press conference.
Looking at Cora, at Tilly’s picture, Lyon saw the family resemblance with Gannon as she watched.
This is a hell of a way to find your long-lost sister, Jack.
11
Phoenix, Arizona, Mesa Mirage
C ora was terrified by what she had done.
Now that she had defied the kidnapper’s orders, would they carry out their threat to kill Tilly?
Forgive me, Tilly. I didn’t know what else to do.
Cora also feared that her appeal to find Tilly would resurrect her dangerous secret and make things worse.
Returning home after the press conference, she was exhausted, as if a lifetime had passed since Tilly was taken. FBI crime scene experts were still processing parts of her house and agents had set up additional lines to run off Cora’s home and cell phones.
Hackett opposed talk of sealing her entire home as a crime scene. He wanted her in the house in case, by some miracle, Tilly got free and called. Or the kidnappers called, or Galviera surfaced. The FBI would be listening and ready to take command of her line, or clear it.
As expected, the press coverage had yielded a steady number of tips to the FBI’s hotline. They were screened by analysts at the Phoenix office and assessed by agents for follow-up.
But most leads lacked detail. One caller said: “I saw that missing kid. She was walking near a Wal-Mart, or Target? Not sure which, but check it out.” Another said, “I saw a dude with a scar like the kidnapper’s in a bar.” One email said, This was foretold in the Book of Revelations. And then there was a woman claiming special powers who wanted to “spiritually channel your visions on the kidnapping.”
Tilly’s distraught friends and neighbors called. So did people from her church. All offered Cora kind words and prayers. Other support was more tangible, like the swift help that came from the American Network for Vanished and Stolen Children. The Phoenix chapter worked with police, creating flyers and marshaling volunteer search parties at the Mesa Mirage Shopping Center. News cameras recorded the response to Tilly’s kidnapping from her schoolteachers and worried parents. They quoted criminologists, expert on the nature of drug cartels.
The press also kept a vigil at Cora’s home.
Satellite trucks and media vehicles lined her street in front of her bungalow. Some two dozen in all, but the number grew along with the requests for interviews. All the networks wanted Cora to appear on breakfast and prime-time news shows. Their enquiries were handled by advisors from the volunteer group, one of them a retired news assignment editor.
“Cora’s not making any more statements today, folks,” he said. “The next media briefing might be tomorrow, if the FBI has any updates.”
Though Cora’s number was not listed, some news organizations managed to obtain it. Those that tried to call in to Cora were deflected by the FBI, except for one reporter outside, standing among the pack.
She didn’t call Cora.
Inside the house, Jack Gannon’s cell phone rang.
“Gannon.”
“Jack, this is Henrietta Chong with WPA’s Phoenix bureau. Melody Lyon in New York gave me your number and told me to call.”
“Did she?”
“I am so sorry about what’s happened to your niece. I hope she comes home safe.”
“We all do.”
“I hate doing this, but you’re going in the story. AP and Reuters are making reference to you being Cora’s brother. We have to do the same.”
“I figured.”
“Jack, New York wants me to interview Cora. Can you help me with that?” Then she clarified, “Melody wants me to talk to her, exclusively.”
After a long pause, Gannon told Henrietta he would have to call her back. Hanging up, he looked across the room at Cora resting on the sofa and approached her with the request. After considering it, she said, “Just two minutes over the phone.”
At that moment Hackett materialized, eyeing Gannon.
“Two minutes with whom and for what?”
“A short interview with the WPA,” Gannon said.
Hackett weighed it. “As long as she only repeats what she said earlier. I’ll be right here, listening.”
Gannon called Henrietta Chong on his phone, then passed it to Cora. As he watched and listened, ambiguity gnawed at him. He knew he was exploiting his sister. But he rationalized it. After all this time, she’d called him. Some twenty-two years had passed between them. There was so much he didn’t know about her and it had kept him ambivalent toward her, torn over whether he should be consoling her or questioning her account of what was really at work with Tilly’s kidnapping.
Why had Cora asked him if she was being punished for past sins? What did she mean?
I knew dealers.
What had happened in her past? Was this somehow linked?
At that moment an agent rose from the worktable where he had been listening to his cell phone while working on a laptop. His face taut, he tapped Hackett’s shoulder.
“We just got something.”
12
Tempe, Arizona
T hick dried mud covered all but the first two numbers of the license plate on the back of the truck.
Vanita Solaniz could not read the rest of it but was convinced the pickup that had wheeled into the Burger King parking lot was the one the FBI was looking for: a metallic red, 2009 Ford F-150 with a regular cab.
As an assistant manager at Clear Canyon Auto Parts, Vanita knew cars, trucks and vans. A few hours ago, she and her customers at the shop halted their business to watch the TV above the counter when the news broke about the little girl who was kidnapped by a drug cartel from her home in Mesa Mirage.
“My lord, that just breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” she said.
One old-timer shifted the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, then said, “A damn shame. I got a granddaughter that age.”
For the rest of the afternoon, with every commercial break, the TV news repeated details on the case and the F-150. Vanita watched when she could, hoping for a good ending to the story. Nothing new had happened when her shift ended and she headed for her apartment near Escalente Park.
Vanita’s welder boyfriend was out of town. They had no food in the house, so for supper she’d decided to treat herself to her favorite: onion rings and a shake at Burger King. After getting her order at the drive-through, she parked her car in a shady corner of the lot, dropped the windows and caught a sweet breeze.
That’s when the Ford pickup rolled into the spot in front of her.
Hey, it’s a metallic red 150, like the one on the news, Vanita thought, munching on her rings. From the tailgate’s style she knew it was a 2009. The driver got out, a man wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. His passenger was a girl who looked about ten or eleven. She wore a sun hat and sunglasses. The man took her hand and they entered the restaurant.
An icy feeling shot through Vanita.
She looked at the Arizona plate, making out the first two numbers.
Five, then seven.
Vanita stopped eating.
She clawed through her bag for the blank order form where she’d jotted the pickup’s plate from the news.
Oh my God.
Vanita grabbed her cell phone, called 911 and reported the details to the Tempe police, repeating her location. “It’s them! Send somebody! It’s on East University.”