by Andrew Gross
“Someone needs to see it. Someone who won’t just feed it into the shredder. Trust me, I wish I had someone else to bring it to.”
“I’m a year away from retirement. You don’t just drop this on someone’s desk and go, ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but you know that case that’s been the lead-in on every fucking newscast in the country? Well, the government’s actually orchestrating this elaborate murder-cover-up scheme. And, oh, where’d I get this from? Some ex-detective pal of mine who was booted off the Nassau County force ten years ago . . . It’s like Fukushima, Joe. It’s radioactive. At the end of the day, the only seat that’s gonna be empty at the bureau is gonna be mine!”
“The people who want her dead, Bruce, are the same people who are in charge of bringing her in. We both know that’s never going to happen.”
The FBI man stared at Joe awhile, then stood up and put the evidence envelope under his arm. “And I thought you had tickets to a Rangers game or something . . .”
“You know how much I appreciate this, buddy.”
“If you get an invitation to that early-retirement party, you’ll know it didn’t go over so well.”
“I’ll bring the club soda and lime.”
“Always the life of the party.” Bruce swallowed the rest of his drink and headed out of the bar.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The trip out west took three days.
We took Lauritzia’s Toyota, which Harold had rented for her back in Connecticut. The first night we made it all the way to Columbus, Ohio. We got a room at an Embassy Suites along the highway and basically just crashed.
The second night we got all the way to Kansas City.
That’s where the reality of what we were actually doing hit me—and began to fill me with fear. And the nervousness that I was getting into something that was way, way over my head and that I had no idea how to control. That Robert Lasser was not the tragic victim of bloodshed he had no hand in, like Harold, Lauritzia, and me. But of bloodshed that he was a part of. Harold’s warning kept ringing in my head: These men are hardened killers. You don’t have a clue what they have to hide.
And now Lauritzia was on my shoulders too. We didn’t talk much on the way out. If we had, we probably would have come to our senses and turned the car around. We shared much of the driving. When we did talk, I asked about her life back in Mexico, her brother and sisters. I admired a necklace she was wearing—a butterfly with a tiny diamond chip on a thin gold chain.
It made her smile with affection. “Miss Roxanne gave it to me. Before my trial. She said it stood for second chances. That we all could have them, no matter how lost it might seem.”
I asked her what a second chance would look like for her, and she said being with her father again. Going back home.
“Maybe you should let me wear it sometime.” I looked over and smiled. A sign told us that Missouri was a hundred miles ahead. “I could use one too.”
We spent the second night at a motel outside Kansas City. It was the last day of October. There was a chill in the air. The star-rich midwestern sky stretched above.
I left Lauritzia sleeping and went outside, my blood racing with trepidation, cars on the highway whooshing by.
I felt about as alone as I have ever felt. I missed Dave so much. His strength. His humor. How he always had the skill of making something very complex seem simple. I could use that about now! I stood there with my back against a car, huddled in my fleece and a blanket, and I realized so painfully that I would never see him again. That whatever I was doing here, whatever I was trying to prove, it would not bring him back. That no matter how tightly I squeezed my fist, I would never wrap it around his hand again. My eyes filled up with tears. And once it started, I couldn’t stop it. Second chances, I was thinking. I wanted my son and daughter back too. I hadn’t even been able to be with them at their own father’s funeral. I needed to feel them by me. I hadn’t been able to grieve.
Everything I loved had been taken from me too.
I took out my iPhone. I knew everyone would be watching for it, waiting for a call. Just turning it on was dangerous; there was probably some built-in GPS they could use to find me there.
Suddenly I didn’t fucking care. I just needed to feel close to my kids. To my old life. Just for one second. To turn everything back and have it be like it was before.
I thought about where they were. Maybe up at David’s father’s place in Madison, Connecticut. It was Halloween. Neil had always loved it. But no one would be partying now. I pictured their clapboard house near the Sound and the smoky, pipe-tobacco smell in the den. I didn’t care about the danger. I began to text:
NEIL, AMY,
I KNOW YOU BOTH JUDGE ME HARSHLY, AND THAT YOU THINK I DID THINGS THAT ARE UNFORGIVABLE. AND IF I KNEW ONLY WHAT PEOPLE ARE ALLEGING, AND NOT THE TRUTH, I GUESS I MIGHT TOO.
I CAN’T TELL U WHERE I AM. ONLY THAT YOU WILL SEE IN THE END THAT I DIDN’T DO THE THINGS THEY SAY. I DIDN’T SHOOT THAT AGENT TO COVER UP THAT I WAS THERE. IT HAPPENED IN SELF-DEFENSE.
AND I DAMN WELL DIDN’T KILL YOUR DAD.
THOUGH I DID BETRAY HIM, OR CAME CLOSE TO, WHICH IS SOMETHING NO WORDS CAN DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I REGRET. I MISS HIM SO MUCH. I MISS YOU ALL. WHEN I WISH I COULD TURN BACK THE CLOCK, IT’S ONLY OUR FAMILY THAT I LONG FOR. YOU, AMY-KINS, AND YOU, NEIL, MY HANDSOME YOUNG MAN. BUT I CAN’T TURN IT BACK. WHATEVER HAPPENS, LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. AND THAT BREAKS MY HEART. I’M CRYING NOW.
AND I’M SCARED.
MY BEAUTIFUL KIDS, I BEG, BEG, BEG YOU TO SOMEHOW HOLD BACK YOUR SCORN UNTIL YOU KNOW THE TRUTH. AND TO REMEMBER THAT I LOVE YOU BOTH AS DEEPLY AS IF YOU CAME FROM MY OWN WOMB. I ALWAYS HAVE. AND I ALWAYS WILL.
MY DEEPEST, DEEPEST LOVE,
WENDY
I looked up at the sky and thought how if I just pressed Send, it would take a second until they read this. Until they felt what was in my heart. I placed my finger on the key . . .
I stopped. I knew I couldn’t press it. The police would be on us in minutes. At the very least they would know where we were.
It wasn’t just for me; I had Lauritzia now.
I read what I’d written one more time, and it made me smile. I love you, babies . . .
Then I pressed Delete and shut down my phone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The next day we crossed into Colorado.
We got off I-70 in Denver and headed south toward Albuquerque on I-25. In an hour or so we passed by Colorado Springs, signs for the Air Force Academy and Pikes Peak. In another hour, Pueblo.
Forty minutes later we exited the highway on Route 160.
It was a two-lane road, and we climbed through the front range of the snowcapped Rockies. At eight thousand feet we entered the vast San Luis Valley, an endless, barren plain of sand and tundra that stretched out on both sides along the black outline of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
I saw a sign for Gillian, 30 miles.
My adrenaline started to rise.
I could see a huge white expanse tucked into the foothills of the 14,000-foot mountains, and we passed a turnoff for something called the Great Sand Dunes National Park. It turned out to be sand—30,000 square miles of dunes, the highest in the United States, some rising 750 feet. Blown there over thousands of years by the winds whipping across the valley floor. The sight of the Sahara-like dunes against the dark mountains was both beautiful and foreboding in the melting afternoon light, but it wasn’t why we were there.
GILLIAN. 10 MILES
There was nothing for a long time, not even a building in the vast, barren wasteland. Then we began to see auto parts warehouses and fast-food outlets. The Rio Grande railroad yards. Signs for a college.
We passed a rundown main street of old brick bank buildings and dingy 1960s storefronts—a once-thriving western town decades had passed by.
“Let’s find a motel,” I said. “We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”
Something called the Inn of the Rio Grande appeared on the right, w
ith a large, white stucco façade. It looked clean, and we were exhausted. I turned in to the driveway, pulling to a stop in a vacant parking space.
I just looked at Lauritzia. She nodded back. There wasn’t much to say.
We were here.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The man with the pockmarked face drove past the white stucco motel.
He’d been following the blue Toyota for three days now. He continued on, turning into a Conoco station a hundred yards down. He was exhausted, but patience had rewarded him again.
In a few days, he could sleep for a month if he wanted.
Once they got off I-70 in Denver and headed south, he knew where they were heading. He’d known that all along.
He also knew why they were there.
The man pulled up to a vacant pump and began to fill his car. Then he went inside to pee. It felt like he hadn’t relieved himself in a year. Tonight he would think of how the next days would go. How he would get it done. He had removed some cash from his leather satchel under the seat across from him, wrapping a newspaper around his gun.
Outside, he watched as the sun slid over the mountains into the horizon. He took out his phone. He removed a piece of paper from his jeans and punched in the number on it, and spoke in his best English when an operator answered.
“Homeland Security Tip Line.”
“Senior Agent Alton Dokes, please.”
“Agent Dokes is unavailable right now. I can assist you if you have information on the Wendy Gould case you’d like to pass on.”
“I do have information.” The man took off his sunglasses. “I want you to tell him I also have information about the tenth of March in Culiacán.”
The operator hesitated. “Can I have your name, please, sir? I’ll need to tell him who this is.”
“Just tell him it’s about Culiacán. He’ll come to the phone.”
He waited; the operator placed him on hold. He figured they had already begun a trace, but he had planned this out very carefully over the long ride out and a trace didn’t bother him now. Finally he was patched through to another line. The voice that answered sounded officious and not happy to be summoned. “This is Special Agent Dokes.”
“I know where she’s headed,” the man said, squinting into the setting sun.
“Who?” the Homeland Security agent answered, pretending surprise.
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“If you have information you’d like to share concerning a federal investigation, I can certainly pass you back to the tip-line operator . . .”
“If that’s what you want. I just thought this was something you were far better off knowing yourself.”
“Who is this?” Dokes lowered his voice, his tone still commanding.
“The better question would be where . . . where I am. And the answer would be Route One-Six-Oh in Colorado. I think you know that road, don’t you, agente? The town it goes through?”
There was a silence on the other end.
“She’s in Gillian,” the pockmarked man said. “And guess who she’s brought with her. Someone else you may be interested in. Someone Eduardo Cano would wet his panties to find.” He laughed. “You know why they’ve come here. So that ought to make you sleep like a baby tonight, right, huh agente?”
The man hung up and smiled, knowing where the next call would go.
And the call after that.
See you soon, amigo, the man said, chuckling, as he got back into his car.
It felt like he hadn’t smiled in years.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next morning we waited outside Lasser’s company’s headquarters.
Apache Sales and Marketing was situated in a modern, one-story brick-and-glass building attached to a large warehouse in a business park on Route 17, five miles outside town. I had no idea how I’d go about convincing him to tell us what we were there for. “I’m Wendy Gould. I’m on the run for the murder of my husband and for shooting a Homeland Security agent. I know you’ve been secretly selling weapons to the Mexican drug cartels. And knowing why your daughter was killed is the only way I can clear my name and show I’m innocent . . .”
That would sell.
He’d call the cops on us immediately. There had to be some kind of security department in a business this size; they wouldn’t even let me leave. No, I had to talk to him when he was alone. At home, or on his way back from lunch maybe. Not to mention that he wasn’t exactly an innocent victim in all this and had likely done things that had gotten his daughter killed. Things, like Harold said, he would absolutely want to protect.
We drove into the parking lot at 8:30 A.M. and noticed an empty space marked LASSER next to the building’s entrance. He wasn’t there. We parked our Toyota in a visitor’s space nearby. An hour passed. A couple of dozen employees arrived and went inside. No Lasser. The longer he didn’t show up, the more worried I became. What if the guy wasn’t even around? What if he was on a business trip, visiting his other locations? Or on holiday? We could wait another day for him, maybe two. But not indefinitely. We’d stick out pretty good.
Around 10:00 A.M., I was set to do the same thing I’d done while I was waiting for Harold at his office, call in and ask for him, when a white Audi A6 pulled into the driveway and parked in Lasser’s spot.
A decal on the back windshield read UNIVERSITY OF DENVER.
“That’s him!”
He stepped out of the car, and I recognized him immediately from the photos on Apache’s website. He was medium height and solidly built, wearing a blue North Face nylon jacket, plaid shirt, no tie. Fancy boots. He had close-cropped light hair and a sharp, chiseled face. He seemed around fifty.
He was on his cell phone, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He went behind his car and passed about ten feet from us. Lauritzia gave me a nod of good luck. I opened the door, but something held me back.
He was occupied. I knew it wouldn’t work, just running up and starting in. This guy had dealt with the cartels. His daughter had been killed four years earlier in some kind of retaliation. Harold’s voice echoed again: You don’t have a clue what they have to hide.
I hesitated, watching Lasser end his phone call and head up to the entrance. He opened the glass doors and went inside.
“I’m sorry.” I turned to Lauritzia. “I couldn’t do it now.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” I noticed my hands were shaking. I was afraid.
I suddenly realized how crazy it was to try and do this at his office. I suggested we could follow him when he went to lunch. But as we sat, people going in and out, large delivery trucks heading around to the loading gates, another hour going by, I just said the hell with it and took out my phone. “I can’t wait any longer.”
I called the number I had for Lasser’s company. An operator answered. “Apache Sales and Marketing.”
“Mr. Lasser, please.”
“One moment, please.”
I was patched through to a secretary. An accommodating voice came on. “Mr. Lasser’s office.”
“Is Mr. Lasser there?”
“May I say who’s calling?”
I took a breath. I hadn’t rehearsed this. I wasn’t sure what to say. “This may seem a bit out of the blue . . . but it relates to his daughter . . . Ana.” I shut my eyes. But what else was there to say?
If pauses could kill, this one was lethal. The voice on the other end grew guarded. “Can I ask you to be more specific, please?”
“I can’t . . . It’ll only take a minute of his time . . .” I was pretty much stammering. “Please.”
My heart started to race as she paused an awkward moment more and then told me to hold on. I wasn’t sure that Lasser would even take the call. His daughter had been dead for close to four years now, so while the pain of it might have receded some, someone calling like this from out of nowhere, bringing it up again, might only hurtle him back to a place he did not want to be.
&nbs
p; Then I heard someone pick up. “This is Bob Lasser.”
My heart went completely still. My throat dry. His voice was clipped and not particularly friendly. A knot formed in my throat. “Mr. Lasser, thank you for taking the call. I know I made that sound a bit vague . . .”
“I’m on the line,” he answered, “at least for about as long as it takes to tell you I’m not in the habit of discussing personal matters with someone I don’t know. Just what is it about my daughter, Ms. . . . ?”
“I was hoping I could get some time with you, Mr. Lasser. Alone. Maybe outside the office. Today, if that would work out for you. I have something I need to go over with you, and you’re the only person who can help me. I’ve come a long way.”
“Help you? You’re here? In Gillian?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes. I am.”
“Then in the ten seconds I’m going to allot you to explain why you’ve contacted me, just exactly what does this have to do with Ana?”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t tell you over the phone. But I know about the circumstances of her death. Including why . . . I also know how hard it is to lose someone. I’ve lost someone . . .”
“Listen, whoever the hell you are, I’m sorry, but I don’t really have the time or the inclination to go through this with you. I’m going to hang up now and ask you not to ever—”
“Do you know the name Curtis Kitchner?” I interrupted him.
This time there was only silence. A silence that strongly suggested that he did. Or that his secretary was dialing the police on the other phone at this very second.
“Are you a reporter? Because if you are, I’m sure you’ve been told, I don’t speak to them. At least, not about this . . . not to mention, you’re also a little late to the party. This all happened years ago. Now I’m going to hang up, so thank you very much for respecting the privacy of my family—”
