Rick Mofina - In Desperation

In the taxi to LAX, he used his BlackBerry to search every WPA database he could for records and learned that Lomax held controlling interest in the World of Dreams, a Las Vegas casino-hotel. Soft news stories had portrayed him as a philanthropist involved in local, state and national charities.

There were pictures.

Cora was right, the guy looked all wrong. Like smiling was painful. Like being in human skin was alien to him. Yet there he was, grinning with Hollywood stars, handing out big checks, including one for a shelter for abused women.

“Be careful, Jack,” Adell had cautioned him over his phone after he’d landed in Las Vegas, as he walked through Arrivals. “I called in a lot of big favors-retired FBI, DEA and Las Vegas Metro. Told them this was all about behind-the-scenes work to find your niece and that I needed their best intel on Lomax ASAP.”

“And?”

“This guy is scary. He’s come up in a number of investigations but there’s never been enough to take to a grand jury.”

“Bottom line?”

“The DEA and IRS suspect Lomax is using his casino to launder money for one of the cartels.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“There are rumors that Lomax performs other services for the cartel, that he makes bodies disappear in the desert.”

“You find anything linking him to Salazar or Johnson?”

“No, but Lomax has entertained major cartel figures at his casino.”

“Then he’d likely know something about Tilly’s kidnappers.”

“It’s possible. Listen, I think the best place to find him is his casino.”

“No, I’m going to his home.”

“Are you nuts? You do not want to show up at his home.”

“I want his attention.”

“Jack, don’t do it. It’s too dangerous.”

“Thanks, Adell.”

Gannon had ended the call, gotten into a cab and checked his bag at a cheap airport motel before heading to Tall Palm Rise.

Now, as his cab reached Lomax’s address, Gannon reached for his wallet. He paid the fare, tipped the driver, then held out two twenties. “You get one now and the other when I get in after you wait down the street. Not sure how long I’ll be, but wait.” Gannon slid on his dark glasses.

“I’ll give it as long as I can,” the driver said.

Lomax’s house was 28 Ripple Creek Path, a single-story pale yellow stucco frame. It had an extra-large carport and gurgling fountain in the circular drive. The house sat on an acre lot hidden by shrubs, trees and professionally maintained landscaping. It was fully fenced, protected by high stone walls and a double wrought-iron gate, with an intercom embedded in the right stone column.

Gannon pushed the intercom button and waited.

A mechanized whirr sounded as the security camera atop the right column tilted slightly to record his visit.

“Yes?” a female voice asked through the intercom.

“My name is Jack Gannon. I am a reporter with the World Press Alliance. I want to see Mr. Lomax, Vic Lomax.”

“He’s not here. I suggest you try his office at World of Dreams.”

“I suggest you give him a message. Tell him his North Hollywood past has caught up with him. Tell him he’s going to be named in a news story about the kidnapping of a child by a drug cartel. Tilly Martin is my niece. Tell him he can meet me face-to-face in the next ninety minutes at the Loaded Dice diner on Las Vegas Boulevard to comment on the story. Otherwise, the story goes out with his name, his picture and the allegations.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Gannon removed his dark glasses and stared at the camera.

“Jack Gannon. World Press Alliance, the newswire agency. Take my picture. I’ll wait at the diner for ninety minutes for Mr. Lomax. Then the story goes. Tell him that, now. Got it?”

A mechanized whirr sounded again as the security camera pulled tighter on Gannon. He waited, replaced his glasses, then walked to the waiting cab, reaching for the twenty to give the driver.

Did he just make a mistake?

Gannon glanced at the big clock above the counter of the Loaded Dice diner. For the better part of an hour, he’d subtly scrutinized every customer who’d entered the diner, concluding that they were tourists, rollers or local characters. No one resembled Vic Lomax.

What if he struck out? What next?

As the waitress topped up his coffee, he was assailed by images of Cora’s past. He saw her with Ivan Peck- “she was a fine piece of ass” -with Vic Lomax and other scumbags and creeps.

My sister .

He considered his mother and father and the sleepless nights they’d spent sitting in the darkened Buffalo kitchen, sick with worry, not knowing if Cora was alive.

Knowing the truth would have killed them.

After picking over the remainder of his cheeseburger and fries, Gannon stared at himself in the black surface of his coffee. He needed to shave. The past few days had been mashed together, Mexico, Phoenix, Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Where did he go from here?

He checked his phone again.

No texts from Luna or Adell. One word from Lyon in New York.

Update?

Chasing a new lead. Tell you more when I can, he responded.

Cora texted him: What’s happening, Jack?

Not sure, we’ll talk later.

Then he looked at Tilly’s picture again. It was like looking at Cora. Memories started to swirl until the waitress arrived to remove his plate. Two hours had passed. It was time to go. He paid the bill, then went outside to flag a cab to the airport.

“Got the time?” a voice asked.

Gannon turned to a large man who’d materialized on the sidewalk, just as an SUV with tinted windows halted beside them. The rear passenger door swung open. Sitting inside, a man with a jacket on his lap tugged it back to let Gannon see a gun barrel.

“Get in,” the stranger behind him said.

Las Vegas, Nevada

The SUV traveled southbound along Interstate 15.

Gannon was positioned in the rear seat, between the large man and the man with a gun. Another man sat up front with the driver.

No one spoke.

They had to be Lomax’s people. Be calm . He inhaled and tried to control his breathing. Think, Gannon told himself. Is there anything you can do here?

The large man was rough as he patted Gannon for a weapon. Then he took Gannon’s BlackBerry and wallet and passed them to the guy in the front passenger seat. He studied Gannon’s ID, made a call and spoke in muted tones.

Gannon felt the highway clicking under them as they traveled beyond the city, then turned onto a secondary road, then turned again onto a back road. Fewer and fewer buildings dotted the landscape. Before long, the area had grown desolate. The SUV jiggled when they turned off the road and cut across the desert, coming to a ridge that descended into a low valley that looked like a dried river-bed.

They stopped and jerked Gannon out of the SUV.

The heat was intense as they led him several feet away. He heard the tail door open. A shovel clanked on the cracked earth.

“Start digging, asshole,” one of the men said.

Gannon looked at his captors, stone-cold behind their dark glasses. One stepped forward, seized the shovel and scraped a six-foot-by-two-foot square in the surface, then put the shovel in Gannon’s hand.

One of the men directed Gannon with his gun hand.

“Dig down three feet.”

Gannon’s stomach spasmed as all the saliva evaporated in his mouth. He barely felt the shovel as he started digging.

“My news organization knows where I am and who I went to see,” he said.

The air exploded and Gannon flinched as the gunshot echoed.