Deltrano went with his instinct: Harry’s phone was stolen for the call.
By who? Why? And was the information true?
After ruling out Harry Burgelmeyer, Deltrano continued using all of the cartel’s resources to try to track down the person behind the call. He worked at it in vain for some forty-five minutes until he heard distant thunder, rising until it grew deafening.
Paintings rattled on the walls as the helicopter ferrying Samson Zartosa from his private airstrip landed on the compound’s helipad. He was returning from a business meeting in Buenos Aires.
Deltrano’s hair lifted in the prop wash as he greeted Zartosa, taking his bags as he walked with him into the house.
“I need to piss, then a little swim and eat, Garcia. Then we’ll talk.”
Twenty minutes later, servants brought them club sandwiches at the poolside. The two men sat alone, working, while armed guards patrolled the grounds.
Deltrano had two laptops showing Zartosa the latest shipments, updating him on issues and outstanding security matters.
“You’ve taken care of the asshole in New York, Garcia?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I am growing tied of our situation in Arizona. On the plane I saw the latest news, all those pictures, all this attention on us. I don’t like it, of course. We need to end it.”
“Just before you landed, I got a call, a strange call. I’m sorry to speak of this, but I think you should be aware. It was about Eduardo’s murder.”
“Eduardo?”
As Deltrano recounted the call, he watched a dark curtain fall over Zartosa. It was Samson who had flown alone to California to bring the body of his little brother home.
“The caller said to tell you that he knew that Eduardo had died with God in his hand. What does that mean, Sam?”
Zartosa’s gaze bored into Deltrano, who then watched pain seep into Zartosa’s eyes.
“It means the information is true. Only those who witnessed Eduardo die would know what was in his hand. Do we know who called?”
“We’re working on finding out.”
“And the caller said the mother in the Phoenix kidnapping case is behind Eduardo’s murder?”
“Yes. What do you want me to do?”
“I need to be alone, to think.”
Samson Zartosa looked to the mountains and back on his life, back to when he was a boy growing up with his brothers in the barrio in Juarez. For a few joyous years, they were so happy, never realizing how poor they were because everybody was poor.
Samson, Hector and Eduardo did everything together-played together, ate together, bathed together, slept in the same bed and dreamed together. Eduardo was always in the middle, safe between his two older brothers.
“I want to be a pilot and fly jets when I grow up,” he said.
“I want to be a bullfighter,” Hector said.
“I want to lead an army like Zapata,” Samson said.
Then came the night of their father’s murder, the night the Zartosa family’s destiny was written in blood.
They were all gone now, his mother, father, Hector and Eduardo.
While Zartosa could do nothing about his mother’s death, he had avenged his father’s murder and his brother Hector’s murder. He thought back to that long flight from California with Eduardo’s coffin in the belly of the plane- I want to be a pilot -thought back to the cemetery where Eduardo was buried.
Who would have thought that in all the galaxies of chance that this arrogance by the Americans-Salazar, Johnson, this Lyle Galviera-to plot a betrayal of the cartel, would actually lead him to Eduardo’s killer?
Anger began to bubble in the pit of Zartosa’s stomach.
At first Zartosa only wanted to use Galviera’s girlfriend’s daughter to draw him out, to retrieve their stolen millions and teach them all a lesson about the Norte Cartel.
He had even contemplated returning the girl-if they’d cooperated.
But now this happens.
Zartosa thought of Cora, thought of the piece of information the caller had given: Eduardo died with God in his hand.
This changes everything.
Zartosa picked up his house phone and pressed a button.
“Garcia?”
“Yes.”
Garcia was like a brother to Zartosa. Garcia had grown up with him, with Hector, with Eduardo and was the first to join their little gang after they’d avenged their father’s murder.
“Garcia-” Zartosa cleared his throat “-is everything still in play for Arizona?”
“Everything is in play.”
“You know Eduardo was the best of us all.”
“He was, Sam.”
“You know when we lowered him into the ground I made him a promise.”
“I was there beside you when you made it.”
“It is time to honor my promise.”
51
Phoenix, Arizona
A s Cora, her lawyer and her brother were led through the FBI offices, she remembered that distant night when she’d given birth to Tilly.
She recalled the antiseptic smells, the blinding lights, everyone masked, leaving her afraid and alone, until the moment she held her baby in her arms.
Now her fear that she would never hold Tilly again grew with each step she took. It carried her along a blue hazy stream of sounds and images that flowed to the truth buried in her past.
They’d arrived at a large meeting room.
Here again were Hackett; Larson; their boss, Bruller; and the two San Francisco inspectors, Paul Pruitt and Russ Moseley.
“We’ll be observing,” Pruitt said after the usual greetings. “We helped Agent Hackett with some questions. Then we’ll talk to you afterward about your time in San Francisco.”
Cora nodded before turning to Oren Krendler, the FBI’s polygraph examiner. On the polished table beside him was a collection of files next to a hard-shell case.
“I will need some time alone to chat with you.” Krendler offered Cora an officious smile.
After the others left, he acknowledged her anxiety. “I’ve been doing this a long time and I know you’re nervous-that’s expected.” He unscrewed a fountain pen and for the next twenty minutes, asked her about her medical history, about medication, if she felt rested, able and willing to help with the investigation by undergoing the examination.
Satisfied that Cora was a capable subject, Krendler then snapped open the latches of his case and showed her his polygraph machine. He tried to make her comfortable with it, telling her that it was an older standard five-pen analog that he swore by.
“These models are very efficient.”
The machine worked by using instruments he would connect near Cora’s heart and on her fingertips to electronically measure her breathing, perspiration, respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, blood and pulse rate, recording her responses on a moving chart as she answered questions.
Krendler said the questions would concern her original statements to the FBI about the kidnapping, her relation to it and her time in San Francisco. He would look at how her answers fit with the facts and known evidence, analyze her chart and determine one of three possible outcomes: She was truthful, untruthful, or the results were inconclusive.
Cora understood and was ready.
When the others returned, Hackett came to her and said, “Before we get started, I want to advise you of your rights.”
She glanced at Baker-Brown, who nodded, and Hackett proceeded.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…” How did her life come to this? “Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?” No, I do not understand any of this. “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to proceed?”
“Yes.”