Taken

17

The silky night air was cool as I drove west toward Los Angeles. The wind’s heavy scream carved a peaceful place in the world when Joe answered my call.

“You on the hat?”

“The hat joined up with the Beemer, and followed it to a soju bar on Vermont north of Olympic. The hat and the suits went in, so I’m watching the bar.”

Soju was a Korean liquor.

“Is that in Koreatown?”

“Yes. The Blue Raccoon.”

I jotted the name.

“What are they doing?”

“Unknown. They’re inside, I’m a block off. The bar’s in a two-story strip mall. A barbeque place. Noraebang studios. A couple of businesses. Valet. Upscale place.”

I sketched out what I had learned from Rudy J about the Koreans and Sinaloas, and how the brothers were caught in the cross fire.

Pike said, “Is he telling the truth?”

“I think so, yes. The police are on them, the Koreans are jamming them for the two hundred thousand, and the Sinaloas are letting them hang. That can be good for us. If the Sinaloas told the truth about this guy they call the Syrian, it’s possible the Syrian scooped up Krista and Berman along with the hijack. Rudy confirmed his father sometimes used the crash site as a transfer point.”

Pike grunted.

“Would the Syrian take them south?”

If they were south of the border, it would be more difficult to find them and reach them.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the Syrian, and neither do the brothers. All they know is what the Sinaloas told them.”

“Can you find out?”

“I’m on it. I’m calling Locano as soon as we hang up. If he can’t help, we’ll find another way. If we have to, we’ll go straight to the Sinaloas.”

Pike grunted again, and this time I knew he liked it. Pike was a straight-ahead person.

I said, “We need intel on the Koreans, too. Can you get the tags off the Subaru and the Beemer?”

“Stand by.”

Pike recited the two tags as I copied them.

“How long can you stay with these guys?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Stay with the Beemer. He goes home, get the address.”

Pike hung up without another word, and I called Thomas Locano. It was after office hours, but I called his office first, and left a long, meandering message. I wanted to give him time to pick up in case he was working late, but he didn’t. I looked up his unlisted home number, and that’s where I reached him.

Mr. Locano sounded disturbed.

“We’re unlisted. How did you get this number?”

“I’m a detective, Mr. Locano. I had it in two calls.”

He still didn’t like it, and now sounded impatient.

“Well, what? We have guests. We were about to sit down.”

“Rudolfo Sanchez is dead. He was murdered on the same night Krista Morales and her boyfriend disappeared.”

“Oh my God. Hold on. I have to move to another room.”

I heard movement, then he came back on the line, talking as he walked, though his voice was low and guarded.

“All right, I can talk. Are these two things connected?”

“I believe so. Sanchez wasn’t a freelance operator like you were told. He used to be, but a cartel took over.”

“Which cartel? The Bajas, Tijuana, the Beltran-Leyva, who? There are many.”

“He was bringing people north for the Sinaloas. They believe he was hijacked by a bajadore they call the Syrian.”

“How do you know these things?”

I told him about Rudy J and his brothers, and how Rudy Senior had sometimes used the crash site as a transfer point to deliver the people he brought north.

“We know Krista and Berman stayed at the crash site after their friends returned to town. If they were at the scene when Sanchez arrived, it’s possible they were swept up in the hijacking.”

“You believe the bajadore has them?”

“Yes.”

I described the cartridge casings and tracking patterns Pike and I found in the desert, and how they indicated three smaller vehicles had assaulted a larger vehicle. I told him about the brown stain Pike found, and the footprints indicating a large number of people had clustered at the back of the larger truck.

“It would explain the ransom calls Nita received from her daughter. That’s how bajadores work their kidnappings, isn’t it? They force the victims to call their families.”

“Yes. This is how it is done.”

“Have you heard of this guy before, the Syrian?”

“Never. Is he from Syria?”

“No idea. They didn’t use his given name or say why he was called the Syrian, and Rudy didn’t ask. He just wanted them to leave.”

Locano was quiet before speaking again.

“Were the sons involved?”

“Rudy says they weren’t, and I believe him. They’re scared. They’re caught between the cartel, the police, and Korean gangsters who had people on the truck. I need a lead on this guy, Mr. Locano. If he has Krista Morales, then I need to find him.”

Mr. Locano was quiet for several long moments, but I knew he was thinking, and I knew he would help.

“I have helped people who were with the Sinaloas. Let me speak with them.”

“That would be great.”

“May I have your home phone? I might call tonight, or early tomorrow.”

I gave him my cell and my home, then asked for a second favor.

“I’m going to phone Nita, but I would like you to call her, too. She could use some reassurance.”

“Because she has no documents?”

“Yes, sir. She has enough on her mind without having to worry about losing her home and her business.”

“She’ll lose neither. The Immigration courts are overloaded with violent criminals they can’t deport fast enough. A woman like Nita with an established business and employees can easily get a stay of removal. These things are at the judge’s discretion. We see this all the time.”

“Will you explain this to her?”

“Should it come to that, I will represent her.”

“Thanks, Mr. Locano. For that, and for everything. Anything you find out about the Syrian will help.”

“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I put down the phone, and took a deep breath. I wanted to call Nita Morales, but wasn’t yet sure what I was going to tell her and how I was going to say it. I rolled down the window and filled the car with the thunder of rushing air. The tail lights ahead were frozen red eyes; the oncoming headlights were screaming white tracers. I had been racing hard all day, maybe too hard, maybe so hard I needed to slow down before I made a mistake that cost Krista Morales her life.

Pike had given me the tags off the Subaru and Beemer. I rolled up the window, found the scrap with the numbers, and called an L.A. County Deputy Sheriff I knew who worked the West Hollywood night watch. She was fast, efficient, and happy to cooperate for two guaranteed Dugout Club seats to a Dodgers-Giants game.

The DMV showed the Subaru was registered to a Paul Andrew Willets in Northridge, California. I wasn’t an expert on Subarus, but the DMV showed Mr. Willets as owning a blue Subaru, and the hat man’s car was tan. This told me the hat man was driving a stolen car, and had swapped plates with Mr. Willets’s vehicle.

The BMW told a different story. It was registered to something called Yook Yune Entertainment with a Wilshire Boulevard address showing a suite number. The suite might be an actual office, but I suspected it was a mail drop. I used my iPhone to google Yook Yune Entertainment, but found no website, business listing, or mentions of any kind.

Joe Pike was still parked one block from the strip mall when I called to fill him in. Neither the Beemer nor the Subaru had moved. It was seven minutes after ten that night.

Pike said, “Yook is a family name. Don’t know about Yune.”

“Forget the hat. Follow the Beemer when it leaves. A residential address might help us get an ID.”

“Remember Jon Stone?”

“Sure.”

“Jon speaks Korean. He spends time here. He might be able to help.”

“Great idea. Call him.”

Pike hung up without waiting for a response, and left me with no one but my phone and Nita Morales. I went through what I was going to say, then dialed her number. There was much to tell, and most of it was bad. Even tough-guy detectives like me hate to spread the bad word.

But when she answered my call, her voice was as brittle as dried parchment, and my rehearsal was useless. She had already heard something far worse than what I was going to say.

“This is real, isn’t it? Krista’s been kidnapped.”

“What happened?”

“She called this evening, in that funny voice with the accent. When the man took the phone, he demanded more money. I told him they had gotten their last cent from me-”

Her voice broke when she said it, but she pushed through the sob.

“They made her scream.”

I said, “Did you wire the money?”

“Not yet.”

“Pay them. Pay, and keep paying, and they will keep her alive.”

“Did you know this was real?”

“Yes. Yes, I found out what happened, and how, and I know who took her.”

“Who did this?”

“A bajadore called the Syrian. You know what that is, a bajadore?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Where is she?”

“With the Syrian. I’m looking for him. When I find him, I’ll find Krista.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Bring her home.”

“How? How will you do that?”

“I’ll take her. Trust me, Ms. Morales. I’ll find her, I’ll take her, and I will bring her home.”

“Please. Please, Mr. Cole-”

Her voice broke, and was swallowed by tears.

“Cry, Nita. Cry all you want. Talk. I’m with you. I won’t let you go.”

I pushed on through the darkness, whispering to Nita Morales until her signal was lost in the roaring black night, wondering what they had done to make Krista Morales scream.

Jack and Krista: four days after they were taken