by Sylvia Sarno
8:00 A.M.
Kika heard a car stop outside her house. An object hit the porch with a thud. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and headed for the stairs.
Though Kika had slept through the night she felt sluggish. Her head aching, she leaned down to pick up the daily newspaper wrapped in a plastic sheathe. She opened the paper hoping to find good news about Travis Olson. Bold words across the front page took her breath away. “ANN OLSON MISSING. After the mother of missing child, six-year-old Travis Olson failed to return home last night, husband Richard Olson called police….”
Twenty minutes later, after a shower and a quick cup of coffee, Kika eased her car from her driveway and headed to San Ysidro, to the Ramirez residence where Ann was last seen.
When Kika introduced herself, Mrs. Ramirez tried to shut the door in her face. “You took that boy!” she shouted.
Kika pushed back on the door. “I had nothing to do with it! Look. I’m not leaving until you talk to me.” Kika’s boldness seemed to crush Mrs. Ramirez’s resistance. As soon as she backed away, Kika followed her into the dark house.
On the sagging sofa, Mrs. Ramirez picked up a cigarette from the ashtray at her elbow. After sucking at the remaining tobacco, she crushed the stub in the tray. She slipped a second cigarette out of its pack. Her mechanical gestures, her wooden demeanor, and her glazed eyes informed Kika that Mrs. Ramirez was high on drugs.
“You were the last person to see Ann Olson,” Kika said, hoping to get Mrs. Ramirez to admit the truth so she could get down to the business of finding Ann.
Mrs. Ramirez’s hands began to shake.
Kika guessed that Mrs. Ramirez was not forthcoming about Ann because she was afraid. “No harm will come to you if you tell the truth about Ann Olson,” she said in a quiet voice.
Mrs. Ramirez started rocking back and forth. Ashes from the cigarette cascaded down her soiled tee shirt onto the sofa.
“Mrs. Ramirez,” Kika said. “Mrs. Olson’s life’s in danger. It’s your duty to help her.”
Marty Ramirez mumbled something about being afraid.
Mrs. Ramirez’s poor living conditions; her proximity to the border; the fighting in Tijuana; her own recent conversation with Max about the drug cartels… Suddenly Kika understood. Mrs. Ramirez was afraid to say what happened because she knew that whoever was holding Ann could very well harm her. Her voice softer, Kika said, “This has to do with drugs, doesn’t it?”
Mrs. Ramirez waved her hand. “Please… Go away.”
Confident she had hit on the truth, Kika pressed on. “Ann is danger. You must tell me where she is.”
Marty crumpled forward. “The warehouse,” she mumbled. “She went looking for Jesús.”
1:00 P.M.
Kika Garcia and Max Ruiz faced each over coffee at the Starbucks on Camino de la Plaza, a few minutes from the San Ysidro border crossing. Kika was grateful her boyfriend was able to meet her on short notice, given his heavy work schedule and the unpredictable wait time to enter California. Fortunately with the Border Fast Pass it took only twenty minutes to cross in. Speaking in Spanish, Kika was agitated and talking too fast.
Max replied in their native tongue. “Slow down, Kika. You’re tripping all over your words.”
“Okay. Okay,” she said, slowing down her breathing.
Max gathered her hands in his. “Now tell me from the beginning, Cariño. The police thought you had kidnapped the Olson boy?”
Kika cringed. “And to think everyone thought that I did it.”
“Cariño, why didn’t you say anything about this before?”
“I was holed up with you in that funeral home for days. Remember? I only found out when I turned my phone back on.”
Max’s voice was a little stern. “Could it be that you knew something about this and didn’t want to tell me?”
“I was upset about the child,” Kika said. “But not because I had anything to do with his disappearance. Come on, Max. Did you really think I would kidnap anyone?”
Max’s smile was beautiful. “Of course not, Cariño. But why were you upset about this boy, then?”
Kika never did get around to telling Max about her trouble with the Olsons. He was in South America on business when the investigation started. “I was upset because I thought his mother was abusing him.”
Max pulled back. “You don’t think Señora Olson had a hand in this, do you?”
“I did at first, but not anymore.”
“And now she’s missing.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Kika said. “You see, I think I know what happened to her.”
Her boyfriend lifted his hands in a questioning gesture. “What’re you talking about?”
Kika told Max about her visit to Martina Ramirez.
Max’s eyes grew still. “What else did she tell you?”
“She told me about this abandoned warehouse where her son played with his friends. After I pried the information out of her—about the warehouse— I went to check the place out myself.”
“You did what?”
“Guess what I found.”
Max’s frown deepened. “Where exactly is this place?”
“It’s by the border. No one around for miles.” Kika’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Max, I saw a graveyard.”
His droopy eye opened wider.
“The warehouse door was unlocked. The place was so creepy. There was a car filled with bullet holes and something strange about the floor. I managed to pull a board up. Guess what I saw?”
Max’s face had darkened. “A hole.”
Kika nodded, excited. “I was so scared. I ran out of there as fast as I could. Then I called you.”
Max’s fingers tightened over hers. “Do the police know about this place?”
“Martina Ramirez was too afraid to tell them. I asked her to keep the warehouse a secret until I checked it out. She agreed.”
Max’s gaze turned inward as he apparently considered what she had just revealed. “This could be the way,” he finally said.
“The way to what?” Kika asked.
“El Martillo’s drug tunnel,” Max said. “They must have captured Mrs. Olson when she went looking for the missing child.”
The glimmer in Max’s eye told Kika that he was hatching a plan. Something dangerous. “What’re you going to do?”
“I’m gonna avenge my brother. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“And what about Ann?”
“If she’s still alive,” Max said, “we’ll get her out.”
“Who’s we?”
Max’s voice was hard. “That son of a bitch cousin of mine, Julio. That’s who!”
8:00 P.M.
Max reached forward and signaled his driver to pull up to the curb. “Wait for me, Herman. It might be a while.”
Max stood looking up at the modest ten-story building, one of many that lined Playa de Tijuana. The windows of Julio Ruiz’s latest Baja residence, located on the top three floors of the tan edifice, were brightly lit against the night sky. The muffled sounds of the Pacific Ocean, on the other side of like structures stretching along the beach, mingled with an ambulance siren in the distance.
A heavily muscled man sat in a parked car directly in front of the building. The man’s eyes tracked Max as he stepped up to the front door. Max scanned the resident directory for Julio’s alias. Looking back over his shoulder, Max noticed that the man’s eyes were locked on his every movement. He’s probably one of Julio’s men, he thought.
Max pressed the buzzer. Waiting, he noted the video camera propped high in the inside vestibule. The intercom crackled and a male voice answered. Max repeated the secret code Julio had given him on the phone while he was en route to Playa de Tijuana. He pulled the buzzing door open, entered the vestibule, and waited. The first door firmly shut behind him, the second door buzzed Max in.
After one of his cousin’s bodyguards patted him down, Max was escorted into the penthouse apartment. T
he soaring ceiling of the huge living room was covered with skylights, their angular frames revealing dark skies dotted with specks of lights. Beyond the wrap-around balcony visible through the floor-to-ceiling-windows, the Pacific Ocean heaved and churned. The rich purple of the leather sofas and the bright yellow and green of the accent cushions matched the colors in the abstract paintings on the walls. Glancing around, Max pursed his lips. He had little tolerance for such so-called art.
Julio Ruiz entered the room. Though short and slender, with a pale, boyish face that belied his thirty-nine years, his cousin had a magnetism that drew people to him.
The weak ones especially, thought Max. It’s that narco swagger and those piercing black eyes that never miss a thing. When his cousin leaned in for an embrace, Max pulled away. He was in no mood to fraternize with the enemy.
The last time he saw Julio, Max had ripped him for getting Pablo into his rotten business. “You turned my brother’s head with your talk of filthy millions from that damned plot of dirt,” Max had said. “Tell Pablo he’s out, before it’s too late.”
“Cousin of mine,” Julio had shrugged. “Pablo’s not a little kid any more. It’s about time you let him live his own life. Besides, your brother’s learning useful stuff. Like how to run a really big business. Worry not, Max. Pablito will be fine.”
When Max begged Pablo to leave the drug business before he suffered their uncle’s fate, Pablo had laughed. “And give up the mansion on the ocean, the bodyguards, and the women? You gotta be kidding! This is the big time, Maxie baby.”
Pablo’s apparent indifference to their uncle’s murder deeply offended Max. Julio was right—Pablo had to live his own life. There was nothing Max could do to save his brother from the consequences of his poor choices, though he had wanted to.
After Pablo was killed, Julio had the audacity to call Max. “I didn’t think it would come to this,” he had pleaded. “You gotta believe me. Pablo was so angry. He thought he’d been cheated. I tried to explain that the arrangement with the farm was temporary, until things calmed down. But he wouldn’t listen. He tried to sell us all out. Pablo betrayed us, Max!”
Max was in no mood to forgive. The drug cartels had destroyed his family and his country. “This is your fault, Julio,” he had said. “Don’t ever forget that you killed my brother. And if you don’t take responsibility for your part in this I swear one day I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Now, facing his cousin, Max’s face was a mask of calm, his nerves chiseled points of steel. He knew if he let Julio lure him into another useless conversation about who was to blame for this or that, he would not get what he came for.
Max pushed Julio’s offer for a drink away with an impatient wave. He spoke to his cousin in Spanish. “I’ll tell you right off, if you don’t do what I ask, you’ll be sorry. After what you did to my brother, you owe me. Big time. So listen carefully.”
Julio’s eyes glittered like black diamonds.
Max knew Julio wasn’t used to being talked down to, much less threatened. Max understood his man. He understood that despite Julio’s bravado, deep down his cousin was weak. That he caved in to El Martillo after his own father was killed proved it. Across the room Julio’s bodyguards were playing cards at a long glass table by the door. “What I’m about to say is for your ears only,” Max said.
Julio snapped his fingers. “Ramόn, Raúl. Outside.”
The two men gathered up the cards, opened the front door, and stepped out. The door shut firmly behind the bodyguards, Max began. “Did you hear about the missing American woman? Ann Olson’s her name.”
Julio’s eyebrows lifted. “There was something about it on the Internet. So what?”
“I have it on good information she discovered a drug tunnel on the border in San Ysidro. You know anything about it?”
Julio’s face darkened. A vein in his neck pulsed as he debated how to respond. He slammed his fist into his hand. “That bastard kept this mierda from me!”
Max’s mouth curved up slightly. “Good. I have a job for you, then.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Max pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “After you sign this, I’ll tell you the tunnel’s location. And after that—what you’re going to do.”
Scanning the document, Julio muttered, “You can’t be serious!”
“If you don’t sign that letter admitting your role as enforcer for El Martillo,” Max said, “I’ll send this letter, detailing your crimes and his, to all the major papers in Mexico and in the States. Along with everything else I know about your rotten business.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna sign my own death warrant. And yours too, by the way. Don’t think you’ll get away with this.”
His brother’s senseless death had sickened Max. All he wanted to do now was punish his killers. That he could be harmed in the process didn’t much matter to him. “If you sign that, you have my word I won’t show it to anyone. It’s simply my insurance against your failure.”
“What do you want me to do, Max?”
“Find your way into the tunnel and get that foolish woman out. Once she’s out, blow up the tunnel. Hopefully with El Martillo in it. If you do all that for me, consider the slate clean. You keep out of my life and I’ll keep out of yours.”
Julio’s face broke into a grin. “That’s it? That’s all you want to me to do? Deal that hijo de puta a big blow?” He punched the air to show how big. “And save some gringa, in the process?”
“That’s all.”
“And you won’t interfere with my business any more?”
Max sat back. “You couldn’t pay me to get involved. Millions of dollars. Whatever. I’d spit on them.” And you too, he thought.
“Sure, I can handle this,” Julio said. “Wait a minute. What if this American—if she’s still alive, which I doubt. What if she catches a bullet in the middle of things?” He smacked the sheet of paper. “Is our deal still on?”
Max suddenly felt tired. “Yes. But you have to try and get her out alive. You hear me?”
Julio’s face screwed into a lewd grin. “Why are you interested in this woman, Max?” His hands traced a woman’s curves in the air. “Is she special to you or something?”
Max shook his head. “It’s a long story.”
Standing up, Julio waved his own question away. “None of that’s important. Let’s get down to business. First, we’ll take a look at some maps, and see what this area’s all about.” He opened the front door and addressed his bodyguards. “Both of you come in. Bring the box of maps to the dining room table. Then you, Raúl, make me some coffee. No whiskey this time. I need a clear head.”
After poring over maps of the area where the warehouse was located, Julio unlocked his phone. “I’m going upstairs to call a few friends. Wait until I get back, Max. I want to give you the details so that you know I mean to keep my end of the deal.”
Tired of the whole business, Max just wanted to go home. But he realized that if his cousin was willing to share his plans to storm the warehouse, he had better stay. Julio could too easily renege on his promise before the rescue was set in motion. He sipped cup after cup of black coffee while Julio was upstairs recruiting his men to service. Max heard an occasional shout, a few laughs, and a lot of loud swearing as his cousin apparently unfolded his plan to his minions.
When Julio finally reappeared, he patted Max on the back. “Hey cousin of mine. As we speak, ten of my most loyal hombres are on their way to that warehouse by the lovely border.”
Wired from all the coffee, Max pictured a gang of hoods, like Julio, wielding guns the way children handle toys.
Julio was saying, “After they secure the outside, four of mis secuaces will enter the tunnel from that warehouse. Two men will guard the point of entry while two more will search the place for your lady friend.” The lewd smile briefly returned to his lips. “My orders?” He made a shooting motion with his hand. “My guys
are to bang bang El Martillo’s men on sight. No questions asked. As soon as the Señora is safe and sound, they’re going to blow the place to high heaven. So what do you think, Maxie? Your cousin knows his business, or what?”
It was almost midnight when Max left Playa de Tijuana. Sitting in the back seat of his speeding Mercedes, the cool night air blowing in from the open windows, Max thought of his cousin with a sort of grudging admiration. In no time, Julio had come up with a plan to rid the earth of El Martillo’s drug tunnel. If only men of ability, like Julio, would turn their attention to making money legitimately, Pablo would still be alive. Along with the fifty thousand other victims of the senseless narco wars.
CHAPTER 12
Thursday, October 11
9:30 A.M.
When Ann failed to return home, Richard had called Tom Long. When Richard explained that Ann had headed to San Ysidro to talk to the Ramirez family about their missing son, the detective had not hesitated. “I’ll go down there and speak to Martina Ramirez myself,” he said. “See if we can’t figure out what happened to your wife.”
Richard was hopeful Ann would be home soon, though he couldn’t help but wonder if once again she had acted rashly, embroiling herself in more needless trouble. Her story had spread like wildfire. Friends, neighbors, and co-workers alike had called to offer their help. Among the callers was Dr. Aziz.
Now, Seated in the Olsons’ living room, Richard filled the doctor in on the scant details concerning Ann. After they talked about what her disappearance might signify vis-à-vis their missing children, Richard struggled to keep his mind off Ann and on his visitor. Dr. Aziz was apologizing for his wife’s rudeness the day the Olsons visited. “Shahdi’s a kind person with a bit of a temper,” he said.
“Sounds familiar,” Richard answered resignedly.
When Dr. Aziz suggested they review their children’s situations for possible overlooked clues, Richard agreed. Talking about Travis was not as a hard as he imagined it would be; Dr. Aziz was a sympathetic listener. In turn, Richard asked many questions about the evening Hanna disappeared and the efforts to find her.
