Rick Mofina - In Desperation

Grover reached for the file, tapped at specific pages.

“You’ll see here that Currency Transaction Reports were filed with the IRS for all of his cash transactions over ten thousand dollars.”

“What about SARs?”

“This bank filed three Suspicious Activity Reports with the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network at Treasury.”

“What was their response?”

“Nothing to us. We did our part.”

“The bottom line here, plain and simple?”

“He owes $1,950,000 by end of next month and if he does not pay that amount in full he will lose his company. Now I know Lyle built that company practically from the time he was a college kid and I don’t think that he was going to let that happen under any circumstances.”

The agents closed the files, thanked Grover and left. Next stop: Cora Martin’s bank in Mesa Mirage to scrutinize her records. Heading to their car in the lot, Reeve turned to Sarreno.

“Our guy was in a dire financial situation, then found a sudden and significant source of cash. Someone dropped the ball. This should’ve raised flags,” Reeve said.

“Sure raises some big ones now.” Sarreno was reaching for his cell phone. “I’ll alert Hackett and Larson.”

At that moment, Vivian Brankowski, manager of the Tranquility Palms Condominiums near Tempe, reread the document the two FBI Agents, Douglas and Allard, had presented her.

Shocked, she watched the words leap at her from the pages: “…United States District Court…Search Warrant…affidavits…electronic data process and storage devices, computers…” The list went on, but offered no details as to what it concerned, other than the property listed for Lyle Galviera.

Vivian stood there in disbelief. This sort of thing never happened at Tranquility, a sedate community of urban professionals.

“Ma’am?” Agent Allard said. “We don’t want to force the door. Do you have a key and a floor plan?”

“Mr. Galviera uses Tranquility’s cleaning service. I have a key.”

It was the Segovia model, a two-bedroom multilevel condo with a balcony overlooking the small lake. Several swans were gliding on the surface when the FBI backed a white panel van into the driveway.

Vivian felt like she was trespassing as she opened the door to Mr. Galviera’s home for the agents. But the warrant gave them legal access. With mute efficiency, the agents snapped on latex gloves and began seizing and cataloging Galviera’s computer, personal files and other belongings.

Vivian stood at the doorway watching in disbelief. Mr. Galviera was a first-rate resident. Always smiled and chatted. Now the FBI was searching his home, taking things. Good Lord, what was going on? She stared at the warrant for the umpteenth time but failed to find an answer.

“Can you gentlemen at least tell me what this is about?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Agent Douglas said. “We can’t discuss it.”

Ed Kilpatrick’s jaw dropped when the FBI and detectives from the county arrived at the main office of Quick Draw Courier’s depot. They gave him a copy of the warrant authorizing them to seize the company’s computers, files and phone records, among other items.

“What the hell is this?” Kilpatrick asked.

Heads turned and conversations halted as management and administrative staff watched.

“We’re not at liberty to share other information at this time,” Agent Hutton said.

“But you’ll shut us down. Our customers are relying on shipments.”

“That’s not our concern, sir,” Hutton said. “Have your people step away from their units now.”

Kilpatrick and his staff complied with the order, then scrambled.

“Bobby! Get Lyle on the phone-tell him what’s going on. Agnes, call our lawyer, Kendall Fairfield. His number is on the firm’s calendar in my office.”

Kilpatrick was stunned as he watched FBI agents and county detectives shut down and disconnect computers. He tried to think.

“Gloria, can you get through to Metrofire Computer Solutions? Tell them we need emergency backup-now. Then start calling our clients. Tell them we’re having a major computer issue.”

Bobby Wicks shouted to Kilpatrick that he could not reach Lyle Galviera.

“Damn.” Kilpatrick ran his hand over his face, remembering Cora Martin’s call from earlier. Did she actually come in today? “Has anyone seen Cora today? Maybe she knows what the hell is going on.”

Phoenix, Arizona, Mesa Mirage

Cora’s phone rang.

All activity in her home ceased.

She held her breath and looked at Gannon.

This was the first call on her landline since she and Gannon had returned to the house with Hackett and Larson a few hours earlier. During that time a stream of agents and detectives had flowed through her door. The FBI had put a trace on her home phone to identify incoming calls.

“This call’s from the Phoenix area,” said the agent working at a computer laptop equipped to record calls.

As the agent locked on the address, an FBI hostage negotiator put on a headset to listen in. He had a clipboard and pen, ready to give Cora instructions. She looked at the negotiator. He nodded.

Her hand trembling, she answered on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Cora, Ed at the depot. Are you coming in at all this afternoon?”

“I can’t.”

“Have you heard from Lyle yet?”

“No. Have you?”

“No, but-you sound upset, Cora. What’s going on?”

“It’s just-it’s a thing with Tilly. I’m sorry, Ed.”

“Well, we’ve got trouble. We’ve got the FBI in here with search warrants and nobody knows what the hell’s going on. We can’t reach Lyle. Have you had any luck? Do you have any idea what’s happening, Cora?”

“No, I wish I could talk but it’s a bad time.”

“Man, tell me about it.”

“Ed, I need a favor.”

“What is it?”

“If you hear from Lyle, tell him I need to talk to him now.”

“That makes two of us, kid.”

Cora hung up and thrust her face in her hands. Hackett, Larson and the dozen other law enforcement people from the FBI, the Phoenix PD’s HIKE unit, the County, the DEA and U.S. Immigration and Customs who’d joined the case, watched her for several moments before continuing their work.

When Cora regained her composure, she resumed describing the suspects to the FBI’s sketch artist, a blonde woman with red fingernails.

“The one who spoke had a Hispanic accent,” Cora said. “He had a scar along his left jawline. He had narrow eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, about five feet ten inches, one hundred and sixty pounds, slim build. The silent one was in his early thirties, about the same height, weight and build. Both had short black hair. The car was a light-colored Ford. I think maybe a Crown Victoria. It looked like the one my friend at church has.”

As the artist worked with her on the faces of the suspects, the magnitude of her daughter’s kidnapping began to sink in.

Investigators had moved fast, filling Cora’s living room with tables of equipment, including extra phone lines, GPS, radios and encrypted fax machines. She had volunteered her phone, bank and computer records, everything. They examined it all. People worked on laptops, talked softly on cell phones, drank coffee, consulted files and shared notes, while uniformed officers came and went after updating detectives. Still others continued searching her home.

So far, they’d determined that the call Cora had received at her office from the kidnappers was made on a prepaid cell phone bought with cash at a corner store in Tucson. From there, the trail went cold.

After finishing with the artist, Cora joined Gannon in the hall, watching the FBI’s evidence team. They’d finished with the kitchen and living room and were now processing Tilly’s bedroom. It was the first time Cora had looked into her room since the abduction.