Rick Mofina - In Desperation

“Coffee would be good.” Pruitt reached for his briefcase.

In the brightly lit meeting room, the investigators helped themselves to the ceramic FBI mugs and coffee on the credenza, then took seats at the polished table.

“If this is going to have a bearing on the polygraph, I think Oren should be involved now to expedite things. Oren Krendler is our division’s polygraph examiner. I’ll get him.”

“Paul, Russ, any objections?” Bruller asked.

“None.”

Once Krendler joined them, Pruitt began by summarizing the homicide of Eduardo Zartosa. He distributed old reports, maps, crime scene photos, explaining how the case had dead-ended.

“It went into a deep freeze for nearly twenty years, until now,” Pruitt said. “Things just started happening, cracking it wide-open, to the point where we think we can finally clear it.”

Pruitt said Donald Montradori, a drug dealer known as “Donnie Cargo,” was in San Francisco at the time of Zartosa’s murder. Montradori, a Canadian national, returned to Canada after Zartosa’s homicide and lived a quiet life until he recently passed away. Before he died he gave Canadian police a sworn statement on the crime.

“Let’s view that now,” Pruitt held up a flash drive.

Larson installed the drive in the meeting room’s laptop and the group viewed Montradori’s twenty-three minute deathbed statement.

“To me, the question is,” Hackett said, “whether he’s telling the truth.”

“That’s the reason we’re here,” Moseley said. “We need to be certain, just as you do.”

“Montradori indicated that the high-profile coverage of your kidnapping had weighed on him,” Pruitt said, “because of its connection to the old case and the fact that his conscience had never been at ease since the murder. Our receipt of the statement from Canada came at the same time your fingerprint lab and ViCAP got a hit on latents from your case, matching those on the murder weapon in our cold case.”

“This is wild, Earl,” Larson said, “just wild.”

Hackett nodded, concentrating on the files in the San Francisco case, the photos of the murder weapon, a Smith & Wesson.38 Special, a set of clear latents obtained from it. There were pictures of other items in the file-a wallet, a ring, a crucifix and a lighter. Hackett was unsure of the importance of each to the case.

“Then,” Pruitt added, “the El Paso Intelligence Center kicked out a little family history on Eduardo Zartosa. Admittedly, this aspect was lost on our people back then. But we’ve certainly grasped the significance of his family ties to your case now. We think we can help each other.”

“What do you propose?” Hackett said.

“We don’t want to get in your way,” Pruitt said. “Your case is more pressing. If you’re going to polygraph Cora Martin, consider weaving some of the questions we have into it. We’d need to do this delicately but we think it would also help your case.”

“Sure,” Hackett said.

“Then let us interview her afterward. We’ve spoken to our D.A. on charges and the way to proceed, depending on what we determine.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Hackett said. “Do you, Seth?”

Bruller stuck out his bottom lip. “It should be fine. I’ll call the Assistant U.S. Attorney and brief the office. Start working with Oren here on your approach. We need to keep moving on this.”

As the investigators worked with Oren Krendler on developing a line of questioning, Hackett grew confident that this was the break they needed.

He knew that Krendler-calm, cool, nonthreatening-was a master at obtaining admissions.

Yes, Hackett thought, something’s going to pop.

But will it come in time?

Mesa Mirage, Phoenix, Arizona

“Why do you need the names of the top defense attorneys in Phoenix? What’s happened, Jack?”

In the dead silence that followed Henrietta Chong’s question, Jack Gannon realized that he’d made a mistake.

“Forget it.”

“Is it for Cora?” Chong asked. “What’s going on? Are they going to charge her?”

Gannon squeezed his phone, retreating from the request he’d made.

“No, no, nothing like that.” Chong’s not stupid and she’s not my confidante. She is a WPA reporter. What was I thinking? “Forget I asked, just forget it. Did anything more come out of the news conference, the search for the suspects?”

“No-”

“Okay. I have to go. Thanks, Henrietta.”

“Wait, Jack! What the hell’s going on? Asking me to recommend a lawyer is more than weird, given that I’m reporting on your sister. It raises questions and puts me in a conflicting situation.”

“Just drop it, Henrietta. Forget it, all right? Have you never had a source backpedal on you? We’re under the gun, please drop it.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

“Christ, forget it.”

Gannon hung up. Angry at himself for not thinking clearly, he cupped his hands to his face and exhaled. He was in Cora’s bedroom, trying to arrange an urgent meeting with a lawyer, a good lawyer. But he didn’t know anybody in Phoenix.

Still, going impulsively to Henrietta for help on this was like putting out a fire with gasoline.

He had to regain control but he didn’t know who to trust, where to turn.

The FBI was pressuring them, an assassin was coming, Cora was not telling the whole story, no one could find Galviera. He’d already seen two headless corpses. Would they find Tilly next?

Gannon resumed searching for a lawyer on his laptop when Cora stuck her head in the door. “I called Amy Henson next door. They’ll let us borrow their Honda when we’re ready. We can cut through the side yard by the garden shed. No press should see us.”

“Great.” He didn’t look up from his typing. “I need more time.”

It took another twenty minutes of scouring news articles on recent high-profile criminal cases in Phoenix before he found something. There was the case of a welfare mother wrongly accused of murdering her baby boy. Turned out the injuries could have been caused by a neighbor’s dog. A note to that effect in an autopsy draft report was overlooked by police. And in another case, a man imprisoned for twenty years for kidnapping and murdering a college student was set free after DNA exon erated him. Both cases were handled by Augustine Goodellini, a top-notch criminal defense attorney with Goodellini, Pereira and Chance.

Gannon called the firm.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Goodellini’s not available.”

Gannon was connected to a senior attorney in the firm, Lauren Baker-Brown, who, after listening to what he had to say and recognizing Cora’s case, cleared her calendar and instructed them to come to their downtown offices immediately.

Gannon got Cora and they left.

“You know our prayers are with you,” Amy Henson said, handing Gannon the keys to her white Honda and hugging Cora. “Good luck.”

Gannon entered the law firm’s address into the GPS before they slipped by the press unseen and cleared the neighborhood.

As they merged with freeway traffic, Cora started to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. You’re a good brother.”

He said nothing as buildings flowed by them, like so many past hurts. He just wanted to get Tilly home safe, deal with the truth-whatever it was-and then get on with his life.

His cell phone rang and he passed it to Cora to read the call display.

“It says, WPA NY Lyon,” she said.

“Don’t answer.”

The offices of Goodellini, Pereira and Chance were on North Central Avenue. The firm’s reception area held an air of solemnity.

“Please be seated. I’ll let Lauren know you’re here,” said the wispy, twentysomething man at the front desk.