Rick Mofina - In Desperation

He worked his way to the 1-10 north, then took the Black Canyon Freeway west. His caller had provided no details, only instructions to meet him on the hour at a specific bench in the southwest area of Harmon Park. Upon arriving, Gannon parked on Pima and walked the rest of the way to the bench, carrying a copy of the Arizona Republic, as the caller had specified.

The guy had refused to give up any data over the phone. He sounded halfway articulate and credible, but it was a crapshoot gauging people in these situations. Odds were this was all bull. Gannon knew how some people, sickos, liked to get involved in high-profile cases.

They were a waste of time.

But a good reporter never dismissed a tip without checking it out, and with Tilly’s life on the line Gannon had to follow through. Waiting at the bench, he inventoried the area: a mom with a baby in a stroller, two girls sitting on the grass in the distance playing guitars.

Gannon glanced through the newspaper and reread the Republic ’s last story on the case. Was there anything they had that he could use?

“Jack Gannon?”

A man in his early thirties sat next to him. He wore a navy suit jacket, matching pants, blue open shirt and dark glasses. He’d recognized the voice of his caller.

“That’s right. And your name?”

“Forget that.”

“Come on. I didn’t come here to play games, pal.”

“Neither did I. This is serious shit, Gannon, very serious.”

He talked rapidly, as if he’d downed five energy drinks.

“I’ve been watching the news. I saw you on TV with your sister. I read your news stories, even the old ones. You’ve been places. You’re pretty good, almost won a Pulitzer.”

“What is this about?”

“Jack, did they figure out how the kidnappers found your sister’s house?”

“No. Well, if they did, they didn’t tell us.”

“They hired my firm, the firm I work for. I’m a private investigator.”

“What?”

“Don’t blame me. We didn’t know anything at the time.”

“Hold on. Back it up. Who the hell are you? What is this?”

“The only thing I’m giving you is information, so unless you want to end this now, I suggest you listen.”

“Go ahead.”

“A few days before the kidnapping, a woman with a Hispanic accent comes into our office, wants to hire us for a ‘very urgent job.’ She said she was with an export company in Mexico City that was about to enter into a deal with Lyle Galviera’s company.”

“Quick Draw Courier?”

“Yes. She said her people were having last-minute doubts about Quick Draw and wanted a full background on Galviera and his executive office. She said her clients had to know now before they would sign the deal in a few days. To confirm her connection to the export company, she presented me with a letter on letterhead from Mexico. I even called the number. It all checked out. Now, we’re licensed to lawfully look into the conduct, whereabouts, affiliations, transactions, or reputation of any person or group.”

“A background check?”

“Exactly. So in the time we have, we provide as much detail as we can on home addresses, financial, social standing, everything on everyone in the exec office-twelve people in all-and give her the report. We tell her Galviera is divorced, no kids. But his credit card records show jewelry purchases and flower deliveries, and through our calls to the florist, we learn he is dating your sister, who has an eleven-year-old daughter, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Jesus.”

“The woman thanks us, pays us in cash, and a short time later, your niece is kidnapped. I just about upchucked my lunch. I called the number on the letterhead in Mexico City again, and guess what?”

“No longer in service?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus. You have to go to the FBI with this.”

“That’s exactly what I told the owners of the firm.”

“And?”

“They said, look, we provided a service. What the client does with the information is on the client, not the firm.”

“That’s not right. Don’t you have some duty to report this?”

“Exactly, I told them. I thought we were close to committing some kind of felony, aiding and abetting or something, and we should report this and cooperate.”

“So what happened?”

“I was ordered to shut up and advised to forget about it.”

“Why?”

“Let me tell you about the people I work for. They do some pretty sketchy work with drug dealers and coyotes, the guys who smuggle illegals into the U.S. Very, very dark stuff. I only joined them three months ago. Now, I don’t want to lose my license, or go to jail, or worse. So I’m quitting today, taking a job with a friend in corporate security in Tucson.”

“Wait. Why don’t you go to the FBI?”

“I’ve got too many other issues with law enforcement.”

“Where does this leave me? Who was the woman who came to you?”

“I poked around in the files and was able to get a number. I needed to clear my conscience. Here you go. You’re on your own with this.”

The guy passed Gannon a slip of paper, then left.

It was a telephone number in Juarez, Mexico.

Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Arriving for her shift at the Forest Valley Hospice, Olivia Colbert went to the small office and reviewed the patient notes.

She had volunteered here a year ago, determined to offer the same compassion the staff had provided her mother before her death. They took exceeding care in preparing people dying of cancer for their final days.

And they helped their families, too.

It was not easy. Facing people in pain took an emotional toll but Olivia was strong, like her mother, who’d been a nurse. Olivia was completing a nursing degree at the University of Ottawa and dedicated her work to her mother’s memory.

Here we go.

Olivia came to today’s notes for Mr. Montradori. She was especially concerned about him because he was alone. Since he’d arrived a month ago, Olivia had tried her best to help him. While all of her other patients had relatives, or a friend, Mr. Montradori had no one.

He was not married. He had no children. No friends.

“Been a loner all my life,” he’d told her the first week. “Just me and my sins to keep me company.”

He was fifty but so ravaged by his cancer he looked like an eighty-year-old man. He’d been a small-engine mechanic, fixing lawn mowers and snowblowers in his small shop in Alta Vista.

“Was wild in my younger days before I toned things down,” he said. “When the doctor gave me the news, he gave me a brochure for Forest Valley. I liked the pictures. Seemed like a nice place to die.”

Olivia smiled to herself, logged off, slid the keyboard tray under the desktop, collected her notes and started her duties.

The hospice was a stone building located in the eastern suburb of Orleans atop a hill, nestled among a pine forest. It overlooked the Ottawa River, Quebec and the Gatineau Hills, which turned into a patchwork quilt of color in autumn.

The building had twelve patient rooms. Seven were occupied. Olivia took her time checking on each one. She helped those facing death contend with their fears and the concept of the end. Many reconciled unsettled matters, unresolved relationships; made their peace and planned their memorials. While making her rounds, Olivia was pleased that each patient had a friend or relative with them. No patient was alone, except for Mr. Montradori.

He’d preferred it that way.

“Hello, Mr. Montradori.”

Olivia smiled when she entered his room. He was in bed, watching TV news. His eyes brightened slightly above his breathing tube, his way of acknowledging that he was happy to see her, but they remained fixed to the newscast.