In Desperation

by Rick Mofina

  Hackett and Gannon had convinced her that it was critical to reach out to the kidnappers and that this was the best way to speak directly to them, to Tilly, to Lyle, and to get the whole world looking for them. It could lead to a break in the case. Her plea would be distributed everywhere on the air and online.

  Jack had helped her compose a few sentences. They were printed in large font on the folded sheet of paper she now held in her hand.

  Cora clasped her hands over it to steady her nerves as a thousand disconnected thoughts shot through her mind; her fear for Tilly juxtaposed with the absurdity of deciding how to dress for the press conference.

  What do I wear to plead for my daughter’s life?

  She’d decided on her charcoal jacket and matching pencil skirt, what she would have worn to work or a funeral. What about makeup? A female FBI agent had offered to help fix her face, but Cora had declined. Somehow it seemed wrong.

  My daughter’s life is at stake.

  The conference began.

  Gannon was standing a few inches to her right and the Special Agent in Charge of the Phoenix FBI was a few inches on her left, gripping the podium. She noticed his wedding band but had forgotten his name. Lewis something. He’d given it to her with a crushing handshake.

  As the agent spoke, Cora struggled against a state of unreality. Her child had been abducted by a drug cartel. How could this be happening? She was a single mother, a secretary. She wanted her daughter back. She thought she knew Lyle. Where was he? Was he dead? Five million dollars! What had he done?

  What had she done?

  The kidnappers’ warning flashed.

  “Lyle must return our money or your daughter will die. And if you go to the police, your daughter will die…”

  Cora heard her name.

  The FBI man finished his opening remarks and had turned to her.

  “Now, Tilly’s mother, Cora Martin, will make a brief statement. But please-she will take no questions.”

  He gestured and she stepped in front of the cameras. The intense light glared like a judgment. Beside the podium she saw the tripod bearing enlarged photos of Tilly and Lyle. Next to it stood another tripod bearing a sketch of one of the suspects and a picture of Lyle’s pickup truck.

  This was real.

  Cora’s mouth went dry. She glanced at her brother. He nodded encouragement.

  She had to do this for Tilly.

  Cora unfolded her paper. The cameras tightened on her, the lines on her face, her bloodshot eyes: the anguished mother. News networks were broadcasting live with Breaking News flags. Some carried a graphic at the bottom of the screen: Drug Gang Kidnaps 11-year-old Girl From Phoenix Home Demand $5 million.

  Cora started.

  “To the people who have my daughter, Tilly, I beg you, please, do not hurt her and please return her to me.” Cora stopped, then resumed. “Sweetheart, if you can see me or hear my voice, I love you. We’re doing everything to bring you home safely.”

  She paused, kept her composure and continued.

  “Lyle, if you see this, please help us. Go to the police, wherever you are. Please. We need your help. And I beg anyone who has any information to please contact the police. Thank you.”

  As the agent took her shoulder and Gannon helped her retreat from the podium, several reporters fired questions. Above them all, they heard the voice of Carrie Cole, a news celebrity known across America for her nationally televised crime show based in Phoenix.

  “Mother to mother, Cora! One question, please!”

  Cora stopped, looked at the famous face and lifted hers, inviting the question.

  “I know this must be a horrible, gut-wrenching time. No one can know what you’re going through, but please share with us the last words your little girl spoke to you and when?”

  Cora glanced at the FBI and her brother. The FBI man nodded.

  “It was early this morning, after the kidnappers took Tilly. They called me and put her on the phone.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  Cora hesitated.

  “‘Mommy, please help me!’”

  Cora covered her face and turned away sobbing. The reporters shouted more questions, but the agent raised his palms and resumed control.

  “To recap and conclude, as you know we’ve just issued a national alert. The FBI is asking for the public’s assistance in locating Tilly Martin and Lyle Galviera. I want to stress that Mr. Galviera is not a suspect but a person of interest. He was last known to have been destined by air travel for California on business. He has not been located. All vehicles registered to him have been located except for his red Ford F-150 pickup truck pictured here. You have details. We are also seeking any information concerning the unknown suspects fitting the artist’s sketch and details. There is still no description of the suspects’ vehicle involved in this case. That is all we can release for now. Anyone with information is strongly urged to call the Phoenix FBI or your local police. We’ll keep you apprised of any developments. Thank you.”

  10

  New York City, New York

  At that moment, at the World Press Alliance headquarters in midtown Manhattan, several senior editors had extended the late-day story meeting to watch the news conference on the large screen in the main boardroom.

  “Am I wrong, or did I just see one of our reporters participating in an FBI press conference, in violation of WPA policy that we don’t align ourselves with police?” said George Wilson, chief of all of the WPA’s foreign bureaus.

  No one spoke. A couple of the other editors consulted their cell phones for messages. One made notes on a pad.

  “Am I the only one who has a problem with this?”

  It was known that Wilson, a pull-no-punches journalist, had a prickly relationship with Gannon. Wilson swiveled his chair, turning to the head of the table, taking his issue to Melody Lyon, the WPA’s deputy executive editor.

  “Mel? Are you aware of the perception here?”

  Lyon arched an eyebrow. She was a legendary reporter who’d spent decades covering the world’s most turbulent events and was the most powerful person in WPA management after her boss, Beland Stone, the WPA’s executive editor.

  “I’m well aware of the perception. As I said in my memo to senior management, Jack advised me of his situation and is keeping me apprised. Henrietta Chong from our Phoenix bureau staffed the conference and will cover the story for us.”

  “Gannon’s supposed to be in Mexico on foreign features. We’re led to believe he’s on the brink of delivering an exclusive. Then he abandons the assignment because of this cartel kidnapping of his niece,” Wilson said.

  “Yes, I alerted you when he informed me that his situation had changed,” Lyon said.

  “I never knew all the details until now. None of us did, Mel.”

  “I recognize this puts him in a potential conflict, but that’s not our main concern right now.”

  “You seem to be missing the greater point,” Wilson said.

  “Which is?” Lyon was twisting a rubber band in her hand.

  “Look at the optics. While on assignment covering cartels in Mexico, Jack Gannon suddenly surfaces in Arizona in the eye of the kidnapping story involving cartels, drugs, five million dollars and his family. It implicates him and by extension implicates the WPA and threatens our credibility.” Wilson muttered, “Remember who hired him.”

  “What was that?”

  Unease rippled around the table.

  “It’s no secret that many of us were opposed to Gannon’s hiring,” Wilson said.

  Lyon had stood alone with her desire to hire Gannon after he was fired from the Buffalo Sentinel, where he’d become embroiled in a scandal over a source there. Everyone had rejected him but she’d sensed something about him, about his news instincts, his passion, his ability to dig. He was as uncompromising as truth itself.

  “I resent what you are implying. No one has been charged in this case.”

  “Not yet.”

 
Lyon slapped her palm on the table.

  “Stop this bullshit, George!”

  The air tensed as she continued.

  “When reporters find themselves in trouble or victims of circumstance, their news organizations stand behind them. Look at the cases of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the BBC. And look at what we just went through in Brazil.” Lyon paused. “Gannon is a WPA employee. His niece has been abducted by a drug cartel. And you’re damned right-by extension that implicates the WPA. But at a time like this the WPA does not consult its policy, George. It looks into its heart and makes the easy, moral choice to do what’s right. Because at a time like this, we’re talking about the life of an eleven-year-old child. Is that clear?”

  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

  Cora 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

  Thick 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 pla
te, 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.”

  The Tempe police dispatcher kept her on the line while she alerted the FBI. A moment later the dispatcher told Vanita, “Police are on the way. Keep your eyes on the vehicle, your line open and do not move.”

  Hackett drove and Bonnie Larson relayed information over the phone to a Tempe police detective who’d turned up his radio.

  “Tempe’s on the line with the caller now,” Larson said. “The vehicle description fits Lyle Galviera’s pickup.”

  “And the man and the girl?”

  “They match the general description of Tilly and Galviera.”

  As they wove through traffic, Hackett shook his head, uncertain what to make of this break. If it was Galviera, what was he doing with Tilly? Had the kidnappers released her?

  “Advise Tempe not to send any marked units into the area,” he said.

  “They’re only sending unmarked cars, no lights, no sirens.”

  “We don’t want to lose them.”

  “Tempe’s dispatching marked units to set up a one-block perimeter to stop the suspect vehicle if he flees.”

  In Mesa Mirage, Cora waited in agony.

  The investigators who’d stayed behind with her had few updates.

  It was torture, as it had been watching Hackett and Larson scrambling from her home a few minutes ago when she’d begged them to tell her what was happening before they’d left.

  “We have a lead on a truck that looks like Lyle’s,” Hackett had said.

  “Take me with you!”

  “No, we don’t know what to expect. We urge you to stay here.” Cora turned to Gannon as Hackett added, “I can’t prevent you or your brother from leaving your home. You’re not under arrest, but you could jeopardize things. That’s why I’m not giving you details on the location. It’s for your own safety.”