by Andrew Gross
“I don’t know . . .” I kept watching the police. “That ambush was set up in advance. No one had a clue she’d be taking photos. Anyway, it’s not her family that was being targeted in revenge. It was Oscar Velez’s. To keep him from telling the truth to the feds. About what he knows . . .
“I’ve been approaching this all wrong,” I said. It was like some Mensa puzzle that was making my brain ache. “I’ve been focused on the Bienvienes and Lauritzia, when it’s about this girl. Eduardo Cano has been trying to kill Lauritzia, not because of her but because of her father. Maybe it’s the same thing here. Hruseff said, ‘This is for Gillian, asshole,’ when he shot Curtis, not ‘This is for Ana.’ Because it’s not about her literally, but where she’s from. Gillian. It’s about what’s there. She was just the person who was killed.”
Harold nodded. “It never made sense to me that Eduardo Cano was let go simply because of holes in Oscar Velez’s testimony. The man murdered five U.S. citizens. He knew something no one wanted to come out.” He gave me the look of a man who was no longer fighting the truth. “Okay, I think there’s someone you ought to meet.”
“Thank you,” I said, and grasped his arm.
Just as quickly my gaze became diverted by the sight of two more policemen. They seemed to be making their way through the crowd, checking faces against some kind of sheet.
A knot tightened in my stomach. “Shit.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
I don’t like how this is feeling,” I said to Harold, drawing his eye to the cops, my heart starting to race. “I think I ought to get out of here.”
Maybe the people at the inn where I was staying had somehow recognized me. I was going over what I may have left in my room—some toiletries and whatever extra clothes I had.
I realized I wasn’t going back to get them.
Harold said, “I want you to talk with Lauritzia. But I’m going to need some time to make sure I’m covered with my kids. Can you meet me in the garage in my office? In about an hour?”
I nodded. The cops seemed headed our way. “Stand up and give me a hug,” I said.
Harold looked at me curiously.
“Just give me a hug. Like you know me and we’re saying good-bye. These officers are looking for someone. There’s no reason they should be here for me, but . . .”
We stood up and Harold awkwardly put his arms around me and gave me a squeeze. I looked at them over his shoulder. I knew my newly clipped blond hair and sunglasses would conceal me. And even if they were somehow on my trail, there was absolutely no reason to think I’d be at the mall.
But somehow they were on to me.
“I’ll leave first,” I said, pulling away. “Here’s my number. If you see them come after me, I’d really appreciate a heads-up.”
He glanced at them with concern and nodded.
“You are my lawyer, right?” I said, holding on his gaze with a reluctant smile.
“I guess I am. Now. If it comes to that.”
“Good.” I gave him an upbeat look. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
I made my way to the exit without even a look behind. I found the fire staircase next to the elevators and headed to the second floor. Before the door fully closed I glanced around. The officers seemed to have moved on. No one was coming my way. I let out a sigh of relief, and my nerves began to calm.
I went up to the second floor and headed down the first row in the garage to where I’d left the Explorer, two aisles over. I took out the electronic key and was about to press the Unlock button.
I stopped.
I saw the Explorer—and realized in an instant just why all the police were at the mall. There were three or four of them—maybe a detective or two as well—hell, for all I knew they could’ve been the FBI!—huddled around it.
The bottom fell out of my stomach.
It took about one more second for my throat to go dry and for me to become completely encased in sweat. I turned around, pretending I’d arrived at a completely different car two rows over, and I held there like a plank, not knowing what to do. Jim and Cindy’s car must have been on alert. I’d been discovered.
I was sure I was about to hear a command to stop, to get down on the ground, the authorities rushing over me. The next thirty seconds went by as slowly as any in my life. I stood in front of some strange sedan, glancing back to see if they knew I was there.
Somehow they didn’t. But there wasn’t any doubt that I had to get out of there. I had to get to Harold. I was close to finding out what I needed to know, what I needed to save myself, and if I waited there too long, if they had my car, the entire mall might be put on lockdown. The detectives were on their radios. All the exits were probably covered.
How the hell are you going to get out of here, Wendy?
I drew in a deep breath and made my way back in the direction of the mall. My legs were so rubbery, they would barely move. I didn’t look behind. I just kept on walking, waiting to be ordered to stop.
As I neared the elevator suddenly a policeman stepped out of the stairwell. My heart beat so loudly I thought it would give me away. It took everything I had to hold it together. I just looked him in the face, praying, and nodded. “Hello.”
“Ma’am.” He nodded back and passed me by without stopping.
I exhaled.
I was about to go into the staircase when the elevator doors opened and a mother and her ten- or eleven-year-old daughter stepped out, so I ducked inside. The doors closed and I almost fainted with relief. I pushed the button for 3, not knowing what I would do there, also knowing that there was probably a security camera trained on me now, and at some point, when no one had come back to the Explorer, they would review it and know it was me.
The elevator opened on the third floor. I didn’t see any police around. I did see a security cart driving up the ramp, so I went the other way, out to the atrium balcony, and peered over the railing into the mall. I thought that maybe I could get out through one of the restaurants. The Capital Grille. Mitchell’s Fish Market. P.F. Chang’s. They all had both mall entrances and ones that led to the outside. A couple of cops stood in front of the entrance to P.F. Chang’s, eyeing whoever was going in.
You can’t risk it. My chest filled up with fear. But in a few more minutes, the entire mall might be locked down.
I went back into the garage and headed down a row of cars, trying to think of my best way out. Steal a car? I didn’t know how. Hijack one? A couple of women passed me, deep in conversation. “Then you know what she did?” A young mother dragged her whining five- or six-year-old daughter, who was carrying on about some toy. Another woman was carrying a bunch of bags from Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her from a distance. Arriving at her car, a tan Acura SUV, she reached into her purse and took out her key. She opened the rear hatch and loaded in her bags.
I don’t even know what made me watch her. She had a kindly face—I was so desperate and mixed up, I thought about just jumping in next to her and begging her to drive me out. But instead of getting in her car, the woman fumbled around in her bag and brought out her parking ticket.
I suddenly knew what to do.
She headed over to the payment machine at the top of the ramp, five or six cars away.
I hurried over to her car. I saw her trying to figure out the machine, and as she inserted her credit card I pulled open the rear driver’s side door, completely hidden from her view, and threw myself in. I climbed over the backseat and fell into the cargo bay, wedging myself tightly against the seat back, hoping it hid me from view. I pulled her shopping bags around me and curled into a ball.
This just might work.
I pressed my face into the carpet, praying when she came back she wouldn’t need to get into the cargo area again. Thank God, she didn’t. The wait was agonizing, but I finally heard the lock beep again, and the woman opened the driver’s door and climbed in.
My heart wa
s going crazy. I lay there, making myself as tiny as I could, eyes closed, begging her to start the fucking car and get us out of there. I heard her arrange her bag for a minute, barely four feet away. Finally I heard the ignition and the car started up. The engine rattled—almost the same vibration as my pulse. I couldn’t tell which was shaking more.
We started to back out. Suddenly I heard the woman grunt, “Shit,” and hit the brakes. I was thrown against the backseat. She went, “C’mon, buddy,” and I felt as if she was looking directly over me out the rear window.
I was afraid to even breathe.
Finally the car went forward. We drove down the incline and turned sharply, coming to another stop, seeming to inch along, then turned sharply again. I heard the radio go on. “New York Minute” by Don Henley. I was sure we were approaching the ticket counter on the ground floor.
Then we stopped.
“Grrrr, what is this now?” The woman let out a frustrated sigh.
What if the police were searching all vehicles? The windows were tinted. I was pretty sure no one could easily see in. Unless they were specifically looking for me. I crunched into a ball. My limbs started to physically shake. I was on the verge of finding out what I needed. What could prove my innocence. Please don’t let them take me in now.
We inched along to the ticket booth. I pulled the shopping bags tighter around me. I raised up slightly and saw the rate sign on the cashier’s booth, the window above me. I tensed, prepared for someone to ask to open the hatch and peer in.
To my elation, all I heard was the woman ask, “Insert it in here?” I realized she was putting in the parking ticket. The next couple of seconds I just lay there with my eyes closed, sure that someone was about to pull open the hatch.
But no one did. Instead, I heard the attendant say in an accent, “Have a nice day!”
We pulled out of the garage. It was at least thirty seconds before I allowed myself to actually believe we were free. I rolled over and blew out a triumphant gasp of air.
Now, how the hell would I get out of here?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Back in his office, Harold called Roxanne’s mom, who’d been staying with him since the disaster, helping out with the kids. He told her he had a business thing and wouldn’t be back that night until late, and that he’d call in from the road and say good night to the kids. Then he got on the computer and put in the name of the college student Wendy had told him about.
Ana Lasser.
Immediately the article from the Denver Post came up. Harold quickly went over it, finding the link to the photography exhibit Wendy had mentioned. He clicked on it, and looked at the black-and-white photos there, the studies of the villagers, their brown, smiling faces. He shook his head in resignation—such a shame that the life of a girl with such talent and promise had been cut short like that.
But that wasn’t what he was looking for.
He scrolled down, bypassing pages of articles connected to the Culiacán ambush, until he came across something from what appeared to be the local newspaper where Ana Lasser was from.
The Alamosa County Courier.
STAND-OUT LOCAL STUDENT AMONG FIVE KILLED IN MEXICAN AMBUSH
Harold clicked on the link and read how Lasser, an honors graduate of William Payne High School and the former photography editor on the school newspaper, “was listed among the victims of what appeared to be a drug-motivated shooting in a remote Mexican town.” The article described how she was traveling by car through the Sinaloa region on spring break with two other University of Denver students, one of them, Ned Taylor, described as her boyfriend.
There was no mention of the Bienvienes or any details on the shooting. The article said that she was survived by her brothers Ryan and Beau, both still at the high school. And her parents, Robert and Blair Lasser, of Gillian.
Harold pulled himself away from the screen. If Ana Lasser had indeed been the target of this shooting, it surely wasn’t because she was dealing dime bags of marijuana out of her college dorm room. It was clearly intended as a message to someone important, a devastating payback. Just as the vendetta against Lauritzia’s family had been a payback.
And if it was, it only made sense that the person it was most likely aimed at would have been her father.
Harold checked the name again. Robert Lasser.
With time, Harold knew he could find out virtually anything he needed to about the man. Background checks, LexisNexis, D and B reports, private investigation services—the firm had the means. He knew he could uncover every bad check the guy had ever written. Every traffic ticket he’d received. Every phone call he’d made in the past few months; whether his business was healthy or in trouble. Whether he’d been screwing his secretary.
But that would take time and leave a trail of money, and Harold knew it was vital for him to be 100 percent confidential about why he would be looking into him.
The last thing he could do was risk having it coming out that he was the person behind the search. If it got back to the wrong people, he’d be putting everyone in jeopardy, including Jamie and Taylor. He’d already seen what these people do when they feel threatened.
He checked his watch. He still had about a half hour until Wendy was supposed to meet him. Since the police never went after her, he assumed she’d gotten out of the mall safely.
He punched Robert Lasser, Gillian, Colorado, into Google Search.
Dozens of hits came back—most having to do with the death of his daughter, almost four years ago, which had been picked up by newspapers around the country. Harold kept scrolling down. There were two other Robert Lassers who were on the web—a financial advisor in the Twin Cities and a personal liabilities lawyer in Boynton Beach, Florida.
Then an item caught his eye. Harold stopped on it.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MAKES
GENEROUS GIFT TO SAVE PUBLIC PARK
Gillian businessman Robert P. Lasser has donated seventy-five thousand dollars to the town’s landmark preservation board to preserve Francis A. Dellinger Park, to fend off interest from an out-of-state real estate development group that had submitted plans to buy the park from the cash-strapped town and convert it into a business park. Lasser, a longtime resident of Gillian and president of Apache Sales and Marketing, and whose daughter, Ana, was tragically killed in Mexico three years ago, the victim of a drug-related shooting, said he donated the money “to preserve the integrity of our town and because it was one of his daughter’s favorite spots to photograph . . .”
Nice gesture, Harold remarked to himself. He exited out of the article and typed in Apache Sales and Marketing. The company had a website. It said, “The finest in TV’s and home consumer brands . . .” It looked like some kind of consumer distribution company. Harold noticed they had warehouses in Colorado, Kansas, and Texas. It appeared they distributed products to Indian reservations. The home page was decorated with the logos of several recognizable brands: Sony. Panasonic. Samsung. HP. Norelco.
Colt.
Then he saw a promotional tagline that hit him like a blunt instrument to the face: Direct sales solutions in the U.S. and Mexico.
He also noticed an official-looking crest with a U.S. Government “Approved Vendor” logo on the bottom of the page.
Did Apache sell to the U.S. government? Maybe to military bases? Were Indian reservations still on government land? He’d have to check that. Then there was that “in the U.S. and Mexico.” He’d have to check that too.
But the connection to the Culiacán murders had just narrowed a little.
He jotted all this down, then glanced at his watch and saw the time. He picked up his phone and punched in a number only he knew. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answered.
“I’m going to be coming up,” he said. “I’m bringing someone. Someone needs to talk with you.”
“Okay,” Lauritzia said haltingly. “If you think it’s wise.
“Just trust me on this. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
We made a right turn out of the garage onto what had to be Summer Street and pulled up at a light.
I raised myself up and peered out the window at the tops of buildings in downtown Stamford. Somehow I had to get to Harold’s office in half an hour—and that was in the completely opposite direction.
And every second it was becoming farther.
We continued through the light, and I recognized the library and an Italian restaurant Dave and I used to eat at sometimes. Then we drove for a while down a long straightaway in the direction of Long Ridge Road without stopping. What began to throb in my mind like some silent alarm was what if the woman was heading back home and upon arriving went to take out her bags—she was about to get the scare of her life! In seconds she’d be on the phone to 911. Who even knew where she lived? I could be out in the middle of backcountry Stamford or New Canaan with no way to get back.
I’d be dead meat for the first cop who came on the scene.
The next time we stopped, I lifted my head and saw we had merged onto Long Ridge Road. Long Ridge was a highly trafficked, commercial boulevard, fast-food places and big box stores on both sides. Suddenly I heard the woman get on her phone. It connected over the speaker.
A man’s voice answered. “Hey . . .”
“Hey, hon,” the woman said brightly. “Just wondering what time you’d be home for dinner?”
I lowered myself back into the rear.
“Not sure . . . should be finishing up here no later than six. Maybe around seven.”
“I’ve got some sauce in the fridge. We could do a pasta. I could also pick up a pork chop and maybe do a baked potato?”
“Pork chop sounds good.”
“Okay . . . I’m passing the Stop and Shop in a second anyway. I’ve got to pick up some stuff for the kids.”
