In Desperation

13

Somewhere in Greater Phoenix, Arizona

T he whine of the meat saw’s electric blade filled the night air.

Rising from the Golden Cut Processing Plant, it echoed over the forgotten piece of industrial wasteland occupied by the plant, the Coin-O-Clean Car Wash, Odin Tool amp; Die and the Sweet Times Motel.

Several years back, the Sweet Times had been a favorite of truckers. Sitting across from the Golden Cut, the motel had been lovingly cared for by the original owners, a retired Navy cook and his wife.

It had offered guests a small restaurant, and flower gardens everywhere.

But the restaurant was gone and the little gardens died long ago, leaving dirt patches that encircled the property like a disease. Chipped paint ravaged the motel’s exterior walls. Nearly half of the doors were fractured from being kicked in and the neon sign only lit the word Time, as if it had run out on a dream. The motel, now a refuge for down-and-out hookers, crackheads and outcasts, was managed by an embittered alcoholic with green teeth, who told every guest, “I don’t give a rat’s A what you do in there-it’s sixty bucks cash for every twenty-four hours up front.”

Several beer cans bobbed in the pool’s brown water, near the shallow end and Unit 28. This was a deluxe suite of adjoining rooms. Inside, the lights had been dimmed. The two male guests were surfing TV channels, monitoring news reports on the kidnapping of Tilly Martin. The screen’s glow flickered on their faces and the room.

An assortment of empty take-out food containers and a bag of fruit covered the small table. The desk near it had an array of prepaid cell phones. The phones would be used for one call then destroyed.

Two police uniforms hung in the room’s closet, ready for use. Under one bed, there were two AK-47 assault rifles and four Glock-20 semiautomatic pistols. At the edge of one of the two beds, there were three portable digital police scanners. Their volumes were low but the men were listening. They understood the codes.

Now, as they watched the TV news reports, their concern continued to grow. It seemed all of Phoenix was looking for Tilly.

“You did not answer me, Ruiz. What do we do now?” Alfredo, the younger man, asked in Spanish. “The bitch disobeyed the order and went to police. Now she’s got the damn FBI involved!”

As with Alfredo’s other questions, Ruiz’s response was silence.

Until now, Ruiz had hidden his anger over the situation. This time, he reached for his knife. The glint of its blade reflected in the TV light as he cut into a large apple. He placed the first slice carefully into his mouth and chewed slowly.

Chewing helped Ruiz think.

He knew Alfredo was less experienced in these matters and therefore worried. Let him ramble with his questions.

“So what are we going to do, Ruiz?” Alfredo opened a soda. “In Mexico, a case like this is business. People don’t trust police. They don’t go to police.”

“Alfredo-” Ruiz pointed the knife at him “-you knew this one would be different, or did you forget that after you took your extra advance payment.”

“Yes, but she went to police.”

“It was to be expected.”

“So what do we do? This creates a problem for us, for the operation. It is our job to set up the arrival of the sicario, to make sure everything goes smoothly for him. And now-” Alfredo thrust his finger at the screen as the clip of Cora’s press conference plea and photographs replayed. Again, the entire screen filled with the artist’s sketch of one of the suspects-the one resembling Ruiz. “And now your face is shown over and over for all of America and the world to see, Ruiz!”

Ruiz stared at the sketch. Once more he listened to the details about his description and his scar. He scratched his growth under his chin. He had not shaved.

“Ruiz, you and I know they will check your scar with the databanks and sooner or later they will know who we are. We have to do something.”

Ruiz cut another piece of the apple and chewed.

“I think we should pull out of the operation,” Alfredo said.

“No,” Ruiz said. “We’ve not been ordered to abort. We’ve heard nothing, which means we continue.”

“Continue? And do what? Where is Galviera? We have nothing set up for the sicario. We’re not even close. They told me you were the best. I don’t think so. Tell me, what is your next move?”

Ruiz turned to Alfredo. He’d insulted Ruiz’s pride.

Ruiz was seething. His anger was directed at Cora, but Alfredo’s fretting fueled it. Now, watching Cora, over and over, pleading to the camera while standing next to a sketch of his face, a good sketch, Ruiz grew furious.

All they’d asked was that she find Galviera so they could retrieve the money. That was all. The kidnapping was their leverage, their insurance that Cora would act quickly.

But does she find him?

No, she goes to the FBI. This woman did not know her place. She did not know the price she was going to pay for her disrespect.

“Ruiz, what are we going to do?”

The muscles along Ruiz’s jawline pulsed as he turned to the open door and Tilly Martin, bound and gagged on the bed in the next room.