by Leslie Wolfe
He nodded reluctantly, finally lowering his eyes for a brief moment. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Don’t go federal for no reason, Snowman,” I insisted calmly, resisting the urge to cross my arms at my chest. “I don’t know what your plan is, but did you think of calling Don to ask his advice? You’re obviously in some bind here, or else you wouldn’t risk someone dropping a dime on you over this piece-of-shite cop.”
His eyes flared a little when I suggested calling Don, another microexpression of fear. I was on the right track; I just needed to take it slowly.
“My men are one hundred percent loyal,” he replied coldly, eyeing them one at a time. He’d sent them to wait by the door, giving us the needed privacy for our conversation. “They know what I do to snitches, you feel me? They’ve seen it with their own eyes.”
I followed his glance and looked at the three men waiting by the door, doing a poor job at hiding their frustration. Like in any organized crime, the boss’s lieutenants had a sense of entitlement and being forced out of a critical conversation was insulting to all of them. Each of them would’ve killed me in a heartbeat, even if that meant bringing down the wrath of the almighty Don Cardenas; it was that personal, their hatred that palpable.
I found myself wondering how long my legend was going to last. Would it be good for another hour? A day? A month? What would I be able to do from inside Snowman’s organization?
But first things first: I needed to find Meredith and walk out of there in one piece with the girl and her dad. I still didn’t know how I was going to pull that off.
I rolled the office chair next to his armchair and repressed my urge to investigate what that powdery, off-white substance was, staining the fabric of the seat cushion. Instead, I sat, conveying the message that I was there to stay. He soon followed suit and sat in his armchair.
It was interesting to observe the scene as a whole. The armchair was entirely out of place in the middle of a poorly lit, chemical-smelling, plumbing supply warehouse. Snowman sat in it all spread out, slouched and with his legs widely opened, elbows leaning on the high armrests, a veritable king on his throne. The image he projected was a powerful one, although it made me think of an overly engorged cockroach in its nest.
I leaned forward with genuine interest and asked quietly, “How can I help?”
He chewed on his lower lip, probably still doubting if it was a good idea to share his thoughts.
“That cop will do me a favor today, if he wants his kid to live,” he eventually said.
“You got his kid?” I reacted, feigning surprise and playing Olivia’s part masterfully. “Jeez, Snowman, you must be crazy.” He frowned, unhappy with the continued criticism of his actions. Of course, he was a narcissist; no one climbed to his level in an organized crime structure without being one. “Or desperate,” I added, trying to soften the blow.
“Yeah, right on,” he replied. “My brother’s been busted.”
I waited patiently for more details, afraid to break the thin veil of trust that I’d established.
“He’ll be arraigned today; they’re moving him from lockup to the courthouse in about three hours,” he added, after checking the time on an oversized gold Rolex watch encrusted with diamonds. “This loser will break him out.”
“You need the cop to break out your brother from jail?” I asked incredulously, not even acting in that moment. He was crazy, completely unaware of how prisoner transport was conducted, precisely to avoid situations such as that. “Then, what do you think is going to happen?” I asked, forcing my voice to sound supportive.
“Then he’ll know the moment any cop looks in my direction, that I’ll slice his kid’s throat like it’s butter,” he replied coldly, his eyes sending flickers of excitement as he spoke. “I’ll set this dog free to keep the other dogs at bay. He’s my slave for as long as I have his kid.”
Holt started shouting oaths and threats in a slew of mixed words that made little sense. Within moments, one of the men shut him up with a punch to his face.
“I meant, what’s going to happen after he breaks your brother free from jail?” I asked candidly. “They’ll hunt him forever; there’s not a single corner of this earth where they won’t look for him, especially if a cop, one of their own, was involved. You’re looking at a lifetime of heat brought upon your organization.”
“He’ll go to Argentina,” Snowman replied. “Our money’s like gold over there, and they won’t extradite. He’ll be free.”
“Argentina will extradite him; there’s a treaty,” I clarified.
“They won’t give him heat, and he’ll keep his head on the DL for a while. The Argentina cops won’t care.”
I wondered what made the narcissistic sociopath installed on his leather throne care about his brother that much. Brotherly love? I seriously doubted it. I still wasn’t getting the entire picture.
“You bloody fool,” I laughed, “it’s not such a bad plan, I’ll give you that, but it’s got holes in it.”
He grinned, full of himself after my compliment.
“How did your brother get nabbed?”
“Bringing in last month’s shipment,” he admitted, lowering his gaze to the floor for the first time since we’d started talking. It must’ve been big.
“The whole thing?” I reacted, raising my voice just a little bit. “You lost an entire load of product?”
“Tyson stashed it before they took him in,” he replied. His voice conveyed mixed emotions, frustration and pride at the same time. “He knew the heat was onto him, and he managed to park the skid somewhere safe.”
“Oh, so you still have the product,” I replied, starting to understand his crisis.
“Not unless I put Tyson’s ass on a private jet to Argentina, I don’t,” he admitted, letting a pained breath of air escape his lungs. “The little bitch’s got me by my short ones.”
I felt like laughing. The hostage taker was being held hostage himself; well, his precious product was. I refrained from smiling and started working the escape plan in my mind. It was a game of dominoes; if all pieces fell into place the right way, we could hope to survive. A long shot.
“Ah, you got yourself in one hell of a bind,” I said casually. “You know, Don can’t advance you any replacement product just because you misplaced a load.”
“I’ll get it back, all right?” he reacted. “The moment that jet takes off, Tyson will give me the location of the dope.”
“And you’re sure the cops don’t have it yet?”
“He swore to me, and that’s good enough,” he replied, wringing his hands nervously. He probably wanted to believe his brother more than he actually did.
I turned toward Holt and locked eyes with him for a brief moment, then faced Snowman.
“How’s this cop going to get your brother on a private jet?” I asked. “I can see how he’s going to flash his badge and get the armored transport to pull over and make up some shite excuse to grab your brother and leave with him, but then what?”
Snowman looked at me angrily. “We were sortin’ through that when you came in.”
I laughed, a quick, calm chuckle. “Come on, Snowman, this dude hasn’t seen a private jet in his entire sorry life, man.”
“What are you sayin’, huh?”
I smiled like he and I were best friends. “I’m saying it’s all good, man, you can use mine.”
“You have a jet?” Snowman reacted, standing and pacing excitedly around my chair. “Fo’ real?”
“How do you think I travel back and forth from Colombia? By Uber?”
His excitement quickly cooled to arctic levels. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Really?” I laughed again. “I’ll stay behind with you,” I replied. “I have no intention of leaving today; your brother can leave with my pilot.” He relaxed a little, but I wanted him punished for his lingering distrust. “I have to run this by Don, you know. Before we do anything.”
His pupils dilated.
“He’s going to frown a little; he doesn’t like people losing entire shipments, especially those that can be tracked to his family. It means you’re not on top of your game.” I paused for a moment, letting him squirm.
He licked his lips and clasped his hands together but didn’t say a word.
“Why don’t you let the kid go?”
He shook his head violently. “Nah… no way. She’s leverage.”
“She’s a liability, Snowman. Every moment she’s not home doing homework, her mother’s running her big mouth to other cops she’s probably shagged. Is that what you want?”
“No, man, I ain’t doing it,” he replied, then sat on his throne again, his body language saying the conversation was now over. “Kid’s not even here, anyway. She’s tucked away nicely until the cop does his part.”
I breathed, having difficulty hiding my frustration. “I’m leaving,” I announced, standing and arranging my jacket. “I’m going to call Don because this bungler risks blowing up the entire local distribution.” I stopped talking and glared down at Snowman for added effect. “Contain this mess, Snowman, or else lose the supplier. I’m willing to help you out of this bind, but don’t take Don Cardenas or me for granted.” Then I turned to leave.
He stood abruptly, catching up with me. “It’s two hundred kilos,” he blurted, “what was I supposed to do? Tell Don it won’t happen again. I’ve been good for my word all these years, always paid on time.”
I did a bit of quick math in my head. The street rate for a brick of cocaine was twenty-five thousand dollars. That times two hundred equaled a nice, round five mil. I grinned.
“I’ll try, but when you misplace five million dollars’ worth of product, I can’t promise you anything. I’ll explain, and if he agrees to let me help you, I’ll be back within the hour and make sure the jet is fueled.” Then I got close to him and grabbed his cross pendant, pulling him even closer. He stank of sweat and grime and metabolized beer. “You’ll owe me a big one, Snowman.”
38
Help
Fifty-two hours missing
I was reunited with my guns and escorted to the door. The first thing I did when I stepped out of the plumbing store was to enjoy the direct sunlight on my face. It scared away the shadows, the unspoken fears, the doubts lingering in my mind about what I was planning to do. I walked as quickly as I could, rushed to get to the car and out of there as soon as possible. One of Snowman’s muscle, Tiny Burch, followed me with his squinty eyes, probably looking to see where I’d gone, or if I was with someone else they didn’t know about. I chose to ignore him, but then flaunted my wheels in his face, driving slowly toward the parking lot exit.
As soon as I was out of sight, I breathed a sigh of relief.
There was good news: Holt was alive and in no immediate danger, because Snowman needed him to bust his brother out of jail.
There was bad news too. I had no idea where Meredith Holt was being held. That Henderson address Fletcher had been talking about might’ve been our best shot at finding her.
Finally, there was a bit of annoyance with my own performance as a cop. As soon as I’d heard of Snowman, I should’ve pulled everything that had to do with that man from the system, including his brother’s arrest. How come I didn’t think to do that?
Another thought crossed my mind, equally annoying. None of Snowman’s muscle had given me the serial killer vibe. Holt was right; Snowman was not serial killer material. I didn’t think of myself as the ultimate authority in such matters; no one could claim 100 percent accuracy in their gut assessment of criminal potential, but still, I wondered, if not any of them, then who? Who was the man who raped and tortured Alyssa and Elizabeth, took them to the Mojave, buried them alive, and left them to die?
I pushed that bothersome thought to the side; I had other, more stringent priorities, like calling Fletcher with an update and a long list of requests. He picked up immediately.
“Hey, B, isn’t that car just awesome or what?” he asked, speaking excitedly. “If you finish early, mind if I take it for a spin?”
“Sure, why not?” I replied. “The day is far from over, Fletch. I need your help big time.”
“Go for it, what can I do for you?”
“For starters, I need you to get me a private jet. Fueled, prepped, lined up on the tarmac at McCarran International.”
There was a brief silence, then a sarcastic burst of laughter. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “You lied and got caught, and now you have to make it happen? Is that it?”
“Close enough,” I replied, taking the Interstate ramp heading north. “It doesn’t have to take off; just start the engines, show off a bit, pretend it’s Olivia’s plane. The LVMPD must know someone who’s willing to lend us a jet for a thirty-minute sting operation, huh? What do you say?”
Another brief silence. “This one’s for the sheriff. When do you need it?” he asked, his voice professional, committed.
“In thirty minutes to an hour, tops.”
He laughed again, just a quick chortle of disbelief. “Fabulous. What else?”
“Meredith Holt wasn’t there, Fletch. She must be in Henderson, at that address you found.”
“No, they raided that two hours ago. She’d been there, but Snowman apparently took her elsewhere, no one knows the location. They shot a perp, freed three other girls, but no Meredith.”
“Great, just bloody great,” I muttered, unreasonably angry at the Benz for not being equipped with sirens and flashers. “One more thing, where can I find that fed who’s been working on Meredith’s case?”
“Which fed? There’s more than one. The place is crawling with them.”
“The lead agent.”
“Oh, that’s Special Agent Glover. He’s holed up at Meredith’s house. Let me give you the address.”
“No need, I got it,” I replied, groaning from the bottom of my heart, anticipating how welcoming the former Mrs. Holt was going to be.
“Nieblas said he got the call,” Fletcher said. “Was everything okay?”
“Yes, it was, but it’s not over yet. He’s on standby; he might get another call.”
I briefed him about what the call could be, and what he should say, if Snowman was asking for advice about the kidnapped cop and his kid, about the missing dope, about Snowman’s recklessness and the associated heat that the organization had drawn upon itself.
“I’ll take care of it,” Fletcher said. “He’s right here; the captain had him wait for your instructions.”
“What?” I reacted. “What does Morales know about all this, Fletch?”
“A few things,” he replied, his voice strangled. “He asked me, and I couldn’t just keep on lying. I’m so sorry, Baxter, I really am.”
I breathed. Yes, that was bound to happen, regardless of what I did or didn’t do. “Nothing to be sorry about, Fletch. You were, and still are, bloody fantastic, and we couldn’t do what we’re doing without you.” I swallowed hard, thinking what to do, how to contain the wild card that was my boss. Then I remembered that they might’ve already tapped Fletcher’s phone, so I spoke from the heart. “Tell Morales we’re close to getting Meredith back, but Holt is in a precarious situation and any intervention would cost him his life. Please ask him to trust us and wait for our signal.”
“You got it,” Fletcher replied, a trace of hesitation in his voice telling me he wasn’t over yet. “Hey, you might want to know that the locations your ornithologist shared with us panned out. In all but one we found more victims.”
“Four more girls?” I said, feeling a wave of anger and sadness rushing through my entire being.
“Yeah, about the same age. Crime Scene is still on site, processing. I’ll keep you posted.” He paused for a moment, but I didn’t hang up. “Could I ask for a favor?” he eventually said.
“Shoot.”
“Please make sure I don’t have to change assignments when this is over, okay?”
I let out a nervous chuc
kle after the three tones marked the end of the call. That was the young analyst’s way to ask us to come back in one piece. I could make no promises, and he knew it; that’s why he’d hung up already, not waiting for an answer.
A few moments later, I pulled the black Benz up at the curb in front of former Mrs. Holt’s house. I checked the time; twenty minutes had already passed, wasted on the drive between Henderson and southwest Vegas through dense traffic.
I pushed the doorbell button but heard nothing. I didn’t have time to wait, so I knocked loudly. Within moments, Meredith’s mother opened the door. She was disheveled, her eyes red, puffy, and hollow, her skin devoid of color. She recognized me on the spot and managed to summon a lot of rage, considering how frail she appeared.
“How dare you show your face here?” she shouted, unconcerned with the neighbors who might’ve heard her.
“I’m looking for Special Agent Glover,” I replied calmly, making sure I kept my distance from the door. “I apologize for disturbing you; this is police business.”
A woman wearing an FBI badge clipped to her suit jacket lapel appeared, and, speaking softly, managed to talk the enraged Jennifer back inside the house. Immediately after they disappeared from the hallway, a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and a wrinkled, white shirt showed up, extending his hand.
“SA Glover,” he said. “Let’s talk out here if you don’t mind.”
I nodded. That seemed like a great idea. “I’m Detective—”
“Laura Baxter. Yes, I know.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You do? How come?”
He shrugged, but the gesture was friendly, relaxed. “Just diligence.” Then he offered a tiny smile and made a movement with his eyes toward the house. “What was that all about?”
My face heated with embarrassment. “No clue. I met Holt a month ago, and only met her yesterday. I gave her no reason to—”
He raised his hand in a pacifying manner. I’d said enough. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
That was the five-million-dollar question. I forced some air into my lungs, feeling how cold it was, despite the bright sun shining above our heads.
