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.
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.
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
The 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.
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
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?”
“
“Can you tell me more?”
“No, I can’t. Keep me posted if anything breaks.”
Gannon then called WPA headquarters in New York and updated Melody Lyon, leaving out the eyeballs part, telling her nothing new had happened since the takedown in Tempe. As he was hanging up, his attention went to the FBI agents.
Hackett had called a quick huddle around one of the worktables. By their body language and the tension in the air he could tell there’d been an important break. A couple of agents were typing rapidly on laptops, while others were making cell phone calls.
Once more, Gannon heard someone say “EPIC,” the term for the El Paso Intelligence Center, and guessed that something critical to the investigation had suddenly arisen from there.
The unfolding scene was not lost on Cora, who’d been watching from across the room.
“Something’s happening,” she said. “What is it, Jack?”
Hackett approached them, hands extended to quell expectations.
“There’s been a development but we’re not sure it-”
“What?” Cora repeated. “Did you find her?”
“I can’t release details at this time because-”
“Jack!” Cora pleaded. “What’s happening?”
