In Desperation (11 page)

Mesa Mirage, Phoenix, Arizona

T
hey'd met when she was working as a waitress at a North Hollywood bar and still messed up on drugs. Ivan would talk to her. He was a tough patrol cop, divorced because of the job. Cora dated him. Then she got pregnant. It took a long time before she could bring herself to tell Ivan.

His reaction was seared into her memory.

He drove her to a clinic somewhere around Wilshire Boulevard, slapped five hundred dollars in her hand and told her to “take care of it.” She got out and he drove away.

The clinic was a decaying building that smelled like a veterinarian's office where they put down dogs and cats.

Cora was so afraid.

“You're too far along,” the nurse said.

Cora took it as a sign. Overwhelmed, she went to a church and prayed until she'd reached the decision to keep her baby. This was her one chance to save herself. She took a city bus to a community support agency. They counseled her, helped her get clean for her baby. It was hard, very hard, but she had Tilly alone.

And she raised her alone.

Cora never saw Ivan Peck again.

Later, she'd bumped into one of the girls from the bar who told her that Ivan was a cheating asshole who was married when he was dating Cora.
Everyone knew. Didn't she know?
And this girl had also heard that Ivan got caught up in some kind of cop scandal.

“Scandal? What kind of scandal?” Gannon had asked Cora.

“I don't know.”

“Was it corruption, use of force, what? Was it in the papers?”

“I don't know.”

“Ivan Peck may be linked to Salazar, the dead guy in the desert. He was ex-LAPD.” Gannon consulted his notebook. “Did you know a cop named Octavio Sergio Salazar?”

“No.”

“I need to contact Peck.”

“Why, Jack?”

“Maybe Peck knows something about Salazar, something that could help. Do you have any idea if he's still on the force?”

“I don't know.”

“Think, Cora!”

“Jack, it was more than eleven years ago, I don't know.”

“I need to find him.”

Gannon immediately dug into Ivan Peck's background.

He called his best source again: Adell Clark, the ex-FBI agent turned private investigator in Buffalo. This time he got through.

“Jack, I am so sorry,” Clark said. “I've been tied up with an insurance fraud. I got your messages. I saw the news out of Phoenix. It's just awful. It breaks my heart. I want to help. Tell me what you need.”

Gannon confidentially related every aspect of the case to Clark.

“I need all I can get on Octavio Sergio Salazar and John Walker Johnson. But first, I need everything you can get on Peck right now. I'm assuming he's alive. Adell, I need to confront him face-to-face to find out if he can help us. He's Tilly's father. He's got a stake in this. I know I'm grabbing at straws but we're running out of time.”

“Okay, I've got some friends with the LAPD. I'll make calls and get back to you as quick as I can.”

Before ending the call, Gannon gave Clark both names Cora had used and her date of birth then asked Clark to check if his sister had any arrests, warrants or convictions.

He then requested urgent help from the WPA news library. Then he went online and used every database the WPA subscribed to, to search for more on Salazar, Johnson and Peck. He scoured property records, state and municipal records. At the same time, he searched news archives for anything on an assassin known as The Tarantula. He texted Isabel Luna in Juarez and pressed her for updates on the executions in the desert, the cartels, anything.

Nothing new, Luna responded. Will alert you when I know more.

The news library got back to him with more on the ritualistic worship of the bogus La Santa Muerte, or “Saint Death.” By collecting the blood of their victims to honor the “narcosaint,” the hit men believed she would protect them while they exacted vengeance on their enemies. The images of the corpses in the barn flashed in Gannon's mind when his cell phone rang.

“It's Adell. I got nothing on Cora. I'm still working on Salazar and Johnson but I have more on Ivan Peck. Ready?”

“Okay, Adell.” Gannon pulled out his pen and notebook.

“He'd been on the job roughly ten years by the time he'd met Cora. He left the department about a year ago.
In all, he had twenty years with the LAPD, starting as an officer on a foot beat, then a black-and-white patrol. He was with SWAT, working his way up the officer ranks until he made Detective I.”

“Any problems?”

“Hold on. He'd been assigned to the Vice Division then worked Robbery, Homicide, Gangs and Narcotics. He was decorated, received the medal of valor.”

“For what?”

“It's posted on their site. He was off duty, traveling on an L.A. freeway, when a school bus blew a tire, rolled and caught fire. He helped lead the rescue of twenty children, their teacher and driver. They all survived.”

“So he's an all-star—apart from cheating on his wife and impregnating my sister.”

“Well, it was sometime after Cora that he actually did get divorced. His ex claimed he hit her, punched her one night after she'd asked him about his affairs. That triggered a slow downfall, which led to his troubles on the job.”

“What kind of troubles?”

“He was suspected of being…under the influence is the term I got, of some of L.A.'s gangs, notably those with ties to the Tijuana cartel.”

“Really?”

“Over his last years with the department, it was alleged he stole narcotics, used excessive force and beat suspects.”

“Bet he didn't get a medal for that. Was he ever charged?”

“No. He went before a Board of Rights, at least four times. He was written up, given temporary desk duty, never charged or threatened with termination. They never had enough evidence. After he clocked in twenty years, he hung it up, took his pension.”

“Where is he?”

“He runs his own detective agency in downtown L.A.”

“Can you give me the address?”

“I've got it right here.”

Los Angeles, California

G
annon's motel was on West Olympic Boulevard, at the edge of Koreatown, a mile from the Staples Center.

It was just after midnight when he arrived in L.A.

“You gotta be real careful down here this time of night, man,” his airport shuttle driver, who was missing a front tooth, warned while unloading Gannon's bag in the lot.

Sirens echoed and a police helicopter whomped above while raking its light over the next block. The noise faded by the time Gannon had checked in to his ninety dollar a night “suite.” The stained carpet was damp and smelled of disinfectant and foot odor.

He didn't care.

He'd stayed in worse. This was his life: hotels, motels, airplanes, fast food and deadlines. He strained to remember the past few days. He'd lost track of time after being in Mexico that morning, before returning to Phoenix. Then, once he felt he was armed enough with information on Ivan Peck, he flew to Los Angeles. Before he'd left, he told Cora what he was doing. She seemed anxious.

Is there more to her history with this guy than she's telling me?

Gannon would find out soon enough.

He was only going to be in the city a few hours and needed a room near downtown, something cheap because
he was paying for this trip. It was easier to do that than try to explain why he had to fly to California to pursue a long shot lead on Tilly's father.

Gannon tossed his bag on the bed, fired up his laptop to check for emails and consulted his BlackBerry for texts. Something new had come through from Adell, more information on the two guys murdered in the desert.

 

Jack,

Got this on John Walker Johnson: Ex U.S. Customs, alleged but never proven that he stole seized property while working the border at Juarez. Suspended, resigned.

On Octavio Sergio Salazar: Ex LAPD, left the job after being on leave for psychological problems after shooting a suspect.

On Ivan Peck: Additional info on one of his alleged offenses before the Board of Rights. Accused of planting drug evidence against an LA gang member with ties to Mexican cartel. Complaint dead-ended. No evidence.

More when I have it— Adell.

 

Gannon sat on the bed and closed his eyes to concentrate on the latest intel, especially the data on Peck. It could be relevant. It could be useless. Nothing was simple when something like this was unfolding. It was never tied together neatly like in books and movies. Gannon didn't know what fit, what to ignore or what he should follow. All he knew was that he had to do everything he could to find his niece.

That was all he thought of until he fell asleep.

 

Peck's agency was called Ivan Private Investigations.

It was tucked in a warren amid a low brick building downtown in L.A.'s fashion district.

To get to it, Gannon had to navigate the vendors hustling knockoff sunglasses, shoes and handbags to the throb of loud rap. Then he bypassed a homeless man camped out on a bench and a few weirdos left behind by the mother ship.

The sign at the door directed Gannon to ascend the narrow stairwell above the tattoo shop and “…ffel's Canteen”—letters were missing—to the second-floor office.

Before flying to Los Angeles, Gannon had gone to Ivan's website. He'd sent an email from an anonymous online account WPA used to confirm Ivan Peck would be in his office the next morning to meet a potential client who wanted to check on someone's past.

Will be in from 9 am to 1 pm – IP, was the response.

The creaking door announced Gannon's arrival in the dimly lit office. The musty air was in keeping with the pale walls and scuffed hardwood floor. A woman in her thirties sat at a standard police-issue steel desk and looked up from her
People
magazine.

“May I help you?”

“I'd like to speak with Ivan Peck.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Her eyes flicked to the half-opened door of a small room. “No.”

“Hang on,” a male voice said over the rush of water in a sink. It came from the small room. A large man emerged, holding a glass coffee decanter. He positioned it into the dual coffeemaker on the credenza, pressed a switch then poured a mug of black coffee from another near-empty decanter.

“I'm Ivan Peck. And you are?”

“Jack Gannon.”

“Want a coffee?”

“No, thanks, I'm good. I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I got some time.”

Peck led Gannon to a large office where Venetian
blinds filtered the morning sunlight on the drab walls. Olive file cabinets were secured with large padlocks. Gannon smelled onions and bacon wafting up from the canteen below as Peck hooked his foot around a visitor's chair, offering it to Gannon. The chair was before the large dark wood desk. On the desk were a pack of Marlboro Reds, a file folder, a legal pad, a pen and a holstered pistol.

Peck wore a powder-blue dress shirt, the collar button undone. His navy tie was loosened and shirtsleeves were rolled to the forearms. He filled out the shirt as if he were made of stone. He stood about six four, had a few days' salt-and-pepper growth and short, silver cop hair.

His face was void of emotion as he lowered himself into his high-back swivel chair and took a hit of coffee. Then he shook out a cigarette and, without consideration for Gannon, lit it with a match and took a long pull.

“Gannon? The name's familiar. What can I do for you?”

“I want to look into someone's background.”

“Who?”

Gannon set a recent photo on the desk for Peck to see.

“That's my sister. Cora.”

Peck picked it up, held it before him. Then Gannon set another photo on the desk.

“That's her daughter, Tilly.”

Peck studied both photos, shot Gannon a look and passed the photos back.

“You know who they are, Ivan?”

“I know who they are. I see the news.”

“Tilly's your daughter.”

The little muscles in Peck's jaw started pulsing. He locked Gannon in a gaze for a long, icy moment before he got up, shut the door and inserted himself between the desk and Gannon. Towering over him, invading his space.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I want you to help me find Tilly.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Just over eleven years ago, you fathered a child with my sister, Cora. Just over two days ago, Tilly—your daughter—was kidnapped by a cartel holding her for a five-million-dollar debt they say is owed by Cora's boss, Lyle Galviera. They say they will kill Tilly if they are not repaid. In connection with this, Octavio Sergio Salazar, an ex-LAPD officer, and John Walker Johnson, ex-Customs, were found murdered in the desert outside Juarez, Mexico.”

Peck stared at Gannon for several moments, then returned to his chair and his cigarette, dragging on it while keeping his eyes on Gannon. He leaned back in his chair, swiveling like a ruler on a throne as Gannon searched for resemblance to Tilly.

“What's any of this got to do with me?”

“I think you might know something.”

“Why would I know something?”

“You were a cop. You worked in drugs.”

“That's quite a leap. I still don't see why I should care.”

“Tilly's your daughter. Cora says you dated her when she was a waitress at a bar in North Hollywood. You wanted her to have an abortion then walked away.”

Peck studied the tip of his cigarette.

“Okay, the fun's over. I'm not her father. I'm not anyone's father. I got a low count, which is partly why I'm divorced.” He took a few last pulls.

“Then why did you give her money and drive her to a clinic?”

“Because she begged me.” Peck stubbed the cigarette in an LAPD ashtray. “Gannon? You're a reporter, right? I've seen your name in the
Times
with the Associated Press or some wire service.”

Gannon didn't respond.

“Jack, let me tell you something about your sister. She was not a waitress at that bar. She was hooking there. Yeah, I banged her. Despite being a tripped-out whore, she was a fine piece of ass.”

Gannon's gut spasmed as if he'd been punched.

She was hooking…a tripped-out whore…a fine piece of ass.

The insult burned through him but Gannon refused to believe it. A memory pulled him back to his childhood in Buffalo.

Here he is with Cora, Mom and Dad at Mass. Here's Cora receiving Communion, crossing herself, genuflecting.

A tripped-out whore…

Cora had had her troubles but she was not a prostitute. She couldn't be. She would never do that. How could she do that? She was a waitress. This prick is trying to humiliate me.

But Cora was an addict and addicts turn tricks.

Was it true?

Oh Christ, images of this douche with his hands all over Cora.

Maybe Peck was just trying to knock him off his game.

“That's right, Jack, your sister was a sweet piece of tail, and that's the truth about her.”

Peck glared at Gannon. His words were meant to wound him and the detective was assessing their impact.

Gannon struggled to focus.

Don't flinch. Rise above the blow. Use the pain.

“You know,” Peck added, “I saw Cora on CNN begging for her kid. Got to admit it's a heartbreaker and with these cartels, well, there's not much hope. Tragic for the kid and I'm sorry for that.” Peck reached for his Marlboro cigarettes. “But the whole time, I'm thinking that while Cora's still looking good after all these years.
I admit, I'd still tap that again.” He winked at Gannon. “But I'm thinking, after all these years, that stupid bitch is still messed up with drug shit. I mean, I heard she got into trouble way back. She is one stupid bitch.”

Gannon was a heartbeat away from leaping across the desk.

But he held his ground because this was Peck's world. Gannon knew enough about hard-asses and assholes, knew that Peck wanted him to take his shot so he could physically destroy him. Gannon had no cards to play except one—which would take him over an ethical line as a reporter, but he had no choice.

“She looks like you,” Gannon said.

“What?”

“Tilly. You can see the resemblance. It's there.”

“What?”

“I'm with the World Press Alliance. WPA stories go around the world, you know. Now, I'm thinking about a story—just thinking about one—that would suggest that the anguished mother, Cora, has named you as Tilly's father, an ex-cop with a number of blotches on his record. Use of force and, oh right, some tie to cartels and planting evidence. Right, that would be a good one. I'm just thinking about a story that implicates you in the abduction and likely murder of your eleven-year-old alleged daughter. Should be good for your business, your life, whatever would be left of it after the hellfire that would befall you. Oh, and I kind of let my editor know about you already, in case I end up in hospital, or worse.”

Peck's jawline pulsed again.

“Now, Ivan, you're a smart man. You know that old ditty about the pen being mightier than the big, bad asshole with a gun. You can work with me, or you can work against me. I do not give a damn because the only thing that matters is the life of an eleven-year-old child.”

The detective eyed Gannon for several cold moments. While the wheels turned, Gannon asked him, “What
about Octavio Salazar or John Walker Johnson? Can you help me out there?”

Peck stared at Gannon.

“Oh, I'm going to help you, Jack.” He reached for a pen and jotted something on the notepad. “I'm going to give you a name.”

Peck tore the page from the pad. Gannon looked at the name.

“Vic Lomax.”

“Back in the day when I worked Vice, we knew Lomax as a piece-of-shit pimp. Your sister's pimp. I recall hearing that she got into some trouble with him way back. Word is he's in Las Vegas now. He's a major casino exec and allegedly a player with one of the big Mexican cartels. Lomax is a powerful guy. You do not want to fuck with him. So you go try your little game with him, sport. See where it gets you.”