“Play the mother’s call again.”
Special Agent Earl Hackett concentrated as his partner, Bonnie Larson, turned on her pocket-sized recorder and replayed the 911 call Cora Martin had made twenty minutes ago.
As Hackett wheeled their unmarked sedan from the FBI’s Phoenix headquarters he got a bad vibe about this case. After he and Larson had listened to the call several more times Hackett reviewed the key facts.
“This is a cartel operation,” Hackett said as Larson activated the dash-mounted cherry.
The engine hummed and they cut through traffic to the expressway. While Larson worked on her cell phone gathering background from analysts at the field office, Hackett assessed matters. Cora Martin’s call first went to the County Sheriff’s deputies. They responded, took Cora’s initial statement and were backed up by Phoenix PD, which had the Home Invasion and Kidnapping Enforcement Task Force. The so-called HIKE unit was created when Phoenix became America’s kidnapping capital, averaging a kidnapping a day, usually arising from drug and human smuggling wars. But lately, HIKE was stretched. And because this new case involved a child and potential interstate flight, it fell to the FBI. Hackett and Larson had the lead, with support from other agencies.
As they drove across Phoenix, Hackett boiled things down.
Most of these cases involved criminal-on-criminal acts. Many times people never reported them to police. They paid the ransom, cleared the drug debt and the hostage was released.
Or things ended with a corpse.
You could argue that there were no true victims in this type of crime, but this one involved an eleven-year-old girl so he kicked his biases aside. As the city blurred by, he undid his collar button and loosened his tie. His gnarled face fixed into his perpetual grimace, the flag of his life as a twice-divorced hard-ass who was raised in Yonkers.
What did he have in this world?
Two ex-wives; four grown children, none of whom would speak to him; a slight limp from a gunshot wound; and a bastard’s attitude that hardened as he counted the days to his retirement.
Hackett couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. Maybe when the Cardinals won a game? His outlook was shaped by the crap he’d faced from his time as the FBI’s legal attache in Bogota, Guatemala City and Mexico City. He was intimate with the work of narcoterrorists. His limp was a daily reminder of his role in the botched rescue attempt of an American aid worker, taken hostage by cocaine traffickers in Colombia.
The narcos had been tipped that police were coming and the aid worker, a red-haired medical student from Ohio named Betsy, and three Colombian cops, died in the firefight. Later, while recovering in hospital, Hackett learned that one of the cops had been on the traffickers’ payroll, a betrayal that, like his bullet wound, had scarred him.
That was ten years ago and since then Hackett had watched helplessly as the drug lords, with the increasing power of Mexican cartels, extended their reach deeper into the U.S. Corruption greased the drug trade, a fact evinced by the latest memo concerning cartel infiltration of U.S. police ranks. Intelligence showed that cartels were suspected of having “operatives” applying for and getting jobs within U.S. law enforcement. This threw a cloud of mistrust over joint-forces operations, underscoring that you never knew who was on your side. It was an affront to Hackett, who abided by the Bureau’s motto: Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity. These factors weighed on him as they came to Mesa Mirage.
Larson had finished taking notes over the phone.
“No complaint history on the caller’s address. The mother has no criminal history, a spotless driving record. No registered firearms. She’s unmarried and no custody issues-the same for Lyle Galviera. He resides near Tempe and is president of Quick Draw Courier. No arrests, warrants or convictions. He does not possess any firearms. His company is clean.”
“And we’ve got people moving on his company and his home?”
“Yes, based on the statements the kidnapped girl’s mother gave to the sheriff’s deputies we’ve set things in motion to expedite search warrants on Galviera. And we’ve got our Evidence Response Team rolling to the mother’s house to process it as soon as possible.”
“I’m concerned about the time that’s passed since it happened. How many people have walked through that house, contaminating our scene,” Hackett said.
“I figure we’ll want to get the place processed quickly and get a task force set up in the house,” Larson said.
“You figured right.”
Hackett considered Larson a solid young agent. Three years out of Quantico, she’d grown up in Pennsylvania, the daughter of a Pittsburgh cop. She was quiet but sharp, and one of the few agents who could stand working with the walking slab of embitterment known as Earl Hackett.
They neared Cora Martin’s street and recognized a number of unmarked county and Phoenix PD units. As the FBI had requested, they were keeping a low profile but positioned to immediately choke all traffic in the neighborhood.
Hackett stopped their sedan at Cora Martin’s house. A man answered the door. The two agents held up ID.
“Special Agents Earl Hackett and Bonnie Larson. FBI,” Hackett said.
“Jack Gannon.” He swung the door open. “My sister’s over here.”
He indicated the woman sitting on the couch, twisting a tissue in her fists. Her hair was messed and her eyes reddened. After the agents introduced themselves, Hackett said: “Cora, a lot of people are going to work full tilt to get Tilly home safely but we’re going to need your help.”
“Anything.”
After assessing the house and making calls for support, Hackett and Larson talked further with Cora.
“Will you volunteer your property to be processed by our Evidence Response Team, who will look for anything to aid us?”
“Yes.”
“Good. While they do that, would you and your brother come to the Bureau with us now to help us with a few questions?”
“Leave? No. I don’t want to leave-the kidnappers could call.”
“We’ll put an agent here and we can arrange to have any calls that come to your landline go directly to a dedicated line at the Bureau where you can answer. We will not miss a call.”
Upon returning to FBI headquarters, a redbrick and glass building at Indianola Avenue and Second, the agents took Cora alone to a separate meeting room, leaving Gannon to wait in a reception area.
“Would you like something to drink?” Larson asked Cora.
She declined.
“All right, tell us what happened,” Hackett said.
Cora recounted everything. Hackett grilled her, often coming back to the same questions several times. What did she remember about the men? Had she ever seen them before? Height, build, scars, tattoos, accents? What did they touch? Did she still have the duct tape they’d used to bind her? Did she get a look at the car, a plate? The model, make? Prior to the kidnapping had there been any strange incidents? Did Tilly report anything odd at school, like strangers watching her, approaching her?
What did she know about Lyle Galviera? Did the five-million-dollar demand mean anything to Cora or the business? Was he a drug dealer, a drug user, a gambler, a big spender? Did he have debts? What kind of businessman was he?
“Let’s go over this again.” Hackett read his notes. “The kidnappers told you that Lyle uses his company to distribute their product, launder money and that he’s stolen five million dollars from them. Do you know which group or gang this is linked to?”
“No. I wish I did but I don’t.”
