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
T he 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 lost 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.”