Thread of Innocence (Joe Tyler Mystery #4) (16 page)

THIRTY THREE

I was awake nearly the entire night, trying to figure out what I could do with my remaining two days. Everything that came to mind ran back to the initial bust in Imperial Beach. I'd talked to one side of that deal, but I hadn't talked to the other side.

The cartel.

I wasn't sure how to get to them, though. I thought about asking Lasko, but I was already feeling guilty about how far I'd dragged him into the entire mess. I appreciated his help and I knew I'd owe him, though I doubted he'd ever ask for repayment. But I didn't want to push him so far into the abyss that his career imploded.

So as I dragged myself out of bed at daybreak, I turned to the one person I knew could get things done.

“
Mr. Tyler,” John Anchor said on the other end of the line after one ring. “Good morning.”

I poured coffee from the pot into my mug. “Good morning. I hope I'm not calling too early.”

“It's never too early.”

I wondered if he ever slept. Or if he was some sort of robot.

“How was Phoenix?” he asked.

“
Phoenix was good, I guess,” I said. “I spoke to the woman. Thank you again for that.”

“
My pleasure.”

“
And I'm wondering if you might be able to put me in contact with someone else.”

“
In Phoenix?”

“
No,” I said and I laid out for him what I was looking for.

“
It's the Tijuana organization?” Anchor asked when I was done.

“
Yes.”

“
Can I put you on hold for just a moment?”

“
Sure.”

The line buzzed quietly and I imagined Anchor paging through his contacts, seeing if he had a phone number for the leader of one of the most violent drug cartels in the world. I wasn't sure which would be better – if he had it or if he didn't.

He was back on the line within a minute. “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Tyler. I had to check on something.”

“
No problem.”

“
I'll see what I can do,” Anchor said. “Setting up a meeting like this requires some...coordination.”

“
I understand.”

“
It also might be at a moment's notice,” he said. “There might be a short window of time.”

“
That's fine.”

“
And, again, Mr. Tyler. I want to be clear that...”

“
I know, John,” I said, cutting him off. “I appreciate the favors I'm asking for here and I will be happy to return them in kind.”

“
Forgive me,” Anchor said. “I don't mean to be insensitive. I just want to make sure we're clear that it's business.”

“
Completely understand.”

And I did. I knew that I was selling my soul to the proverbial devil. I had no idea when Anchor might come calling for repayment or what he'd need me to do. But I knew the stakes. It wouldn't be a surprise. It was a trade-off I was willing to make if it got me what I wanted.

“Thank you,” Anchor said. “For your professionalism.”

I wasn't sure that's what it was, but he could call it what he wanted.

“I need to make a few calls,” Anchor said. “I also think it may require having someone from our organization accompany you. Trust can be an issue sometimes with these kind of things. I assume you have no objection to that?”

“
None,” I said. “I'll do whatever's needed.”

“
Excellent. I'll be in touch as soon as I can.”

We hung up and I set the phone back on the counter. I stared at it for a moment.

It was going to ring at some point in the future and it was going to be Anchor. And he was going to ask me to do something I most likely wouldn't want to do and I wasn't going to be able to say anything but yes. It wouldn't be a choice. It wouldn't matter that I wouldn't like it or feel comfortable doing it. I'd already agreed to do whatever was asked. A dangerous way to do business.

I looked at the phone again.

I hoped I knew what I was doing.

THIRTY FOUR

I opted for my run instead of breakfast and did a slow thirty minutes along the water, the ocean shrouded in fog, my legs just as tired as the rest of my body. The fog made the air feel wet, almost like running through a cold shower, and as I turned up my street, I couldn't tell what was sweat and what was morning dew on my face and neck. I crossed the pavement and wiped my shirt sleeve across my face, rubbing at my eyes.

A dark red sedan was parked in my driveway and I could see a figure through the tinted driver's side window. As I approached, the car door opened and Agent Blundell got out, pushing sunglasses off her face and looking my way.

I didn't rush to reach the driveway and she closed the door just as I got there. “Mr. Tyler.”

I nodded, but didn't say anything.

“Nice morning for a run,” she said.

“
Not really.”

“
Cool, at least,” she said. “I can't stand running in the heat.”

I shrugged.

“How's your daughter?”

“
Fine.”

“
Yeah?”

“
We're figuring it out.”

Her hands were clasped in front of her. “Your wife, too?”

“Yep.”

“
Why didn't you go to Minnesota with them?”

I smiled. “Keeping tabs?”

She leaned back against her car. “My job.”

“
Is it?”

“
Investigation is still open,” she said. “You'd know that better than anyone.”

“
How's that?”

“
You're still looking.”

“
Am I?”

She finally returned my smile. “You are.”

“Why are you here?” I asked.

She looked around the neighborhood. “You wanna go inside?”

“Not really.”

She unclasped her hands and folded her arms across her chest. “What do you know?”

“I know that I don't why you're here.”

“
I'm still working Elizabeth's disappearance,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “And I know you are, too. I thought we agreed to share information.”

“
I don't think we ever agreed on anything. But do you have something to tell me?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not really. But I hear you're knocking on all kinds of doors.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“
In my ear,” she said, frowning, tired of the cat and mouse conversation. “What do you know?”

“
So much for sharing,” I said. I reached down, unlaced my running shoes and pulled on the tongues, loosening the shoes. I stood up. “Pretty sure it was from inside my old department.”

“
Coronado?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Highly doubt that,” she said, shaking her head. “I would've gotten wind of that a long time ago. Even a rumor, I would've heard it.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

We stood there looking at one another.

“
That's it?” she said, holding her hands out like she couldn't believe it.

Of course that wasn't it, but I was irritated that she would just show up and expect me to share what I knew when she wasn't sharing a damn thing. And part of me was seriously pissed off that, for years, I hadn't seen a single agent show up at the house to talk to me or to Lauren. Elizabeth's case may have been open, but they hadn't treated it like it was. But now that she was back and the media had brought the case back to the forefront, Blundell and her colleagues were all hot and bothered to supposedly figured it out.

Yet they seemed to want me to do all the work.

“
I need a shower,” I said. “I'm going inside, Agent Blundell.”

She dropped her hands. “You know, I don't get why we can't find a way to work together.”

“Me either, actually.”

“
So why are you being so stubborn?”

I stared at her. “Tell me exactly what you or your agency has done, besides piggy back on all the work I've done here. I tracked her for years. I found her. And I'm gonna find out what happened to her. I'm really close. But that's me.” I gestured at her. “Tell me exactly what the hell you've done.”

She looked away from me and took a deep breath. She rubbed her hands together, almost like she was cold, then shoved them into her pockets and looked at me again.

“
You know what happens when a case like this actually turns out like yours?” she asked. “I mean, when a kid is actually found and returned to whomever she belongs to?”

I wasn't sure if it was a real question or a rhetorical one, so I didn't say anything.

“Fingers get pointed,” she said. “Everybody's doing everything they can to make sure it wasn't their fault, that it didn't happen on their watch. No one wants to take the blame. So while everyone's sure happy that the kid gets found, no one wants to dig in because they don't want anyone looking at them like it was their fault. No one want to raise their hand and say 'Yep. I was the one who fucked up.'”

I knew how vital politics were to surviving in any profession, but especially in law enforcement. She was telling the truth.

“Everyone slowly backs away,” she continued. “Paperwork gets filled out, but unless it's clear cut, everyone chooses to focus on the happy reunion rather than backtracking the case. Because somewhere, sometime, someone's going to get hammered for missing something. So resources get cut, requests get denied and you get assigned something else to keep you from finding out what happened. Not always. But a lot of the time. And this is one of those times.” She shook her head. “People are slowly backing away because they're afraid of what they might find. I don't have the freedom to go do what I want to do.” She paused. “So I need some help here.”

I looked up at the sky. The fog was beginning to burn off, strips of blue visible through the gray. I didn't think she was playing me, but I also wasn't willing to just jump into the investigative bed with her. I didn't give a crap who got credit for finding out the truth or how it happened. I just wanted the truth.

But I believed her more than I didn't.

I looked at Blundell. “Give me a day or two. I'll give you what I have then.”

“That's not what I was hoping for,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “Don't give me the sob story about your investigative obstacles and then bitch at me, alright? I said a couple of days and I meant it.”

“You find anything in Phoenix?” she asked.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

“What?”

I shook my head and walked up the driveway. “I'll call you in a couple of days.”

“You aren't a cop anymore, Mr. Tyler,” she said behind me. “Don't forget that. There are boundaries.”

I stopped and turned around. “So maybe I should just stop then? And then no one can do anything and we'll just all let it go as one of those unlucky things that happens in life? That what you want?”

She didn't say anything.

“
I didn't think so,” I said. “So don't tell me what I'm not. Because right now, I'm more of a cop than you are.”

I turned and left her in the driveway, slamming the front door behind me.

THIRTY FIVE

The doorbell was ringing before I was out of the shower.

I heard it the first time and ignored it, letting the hot water sting my neck and back, trying to roll the tension that had gathered in both places. The ringing stopped and I took longer than normal working the shampoo into my scalp, again trying to rid myself of the anxiety and anger that Blundell's visit seemed to have brought me. I was rinsing it out when I heard the bell again. I shut off the water, toweled off, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and stalked to the door as the bell chimed again. I was irritated and ready to take the head off whatever solicitor was wearing out my doorbell.

Except it wasn't a solicitor.

A tan-skinned man in his twenties stood there, wearing a light blue shirt beneath a dark blue suit, sans a tie. His close-cropped black hair was damp, not a single hair out of place. He was slightly taller than me and stood with that loose confidence that guys who can do anything between dunk a basketball and break a leg seem to possess. He was holding sunglasses in his right hand and he held up his left in greeting.

“
Mr. Tyler?” he asked.

“
Yeah?”

“
My name's Robert Simmons,” he said, a thin smile on his face that came off as neither friendly or unfriendly. “John Anchor sent me.”

Anchor. Fast as always.

I offered my hand and we shook.

“
I know I showed up without a phone call and I apologize,” Simmons said. “But I've been told you were advised that setting up this meeting could happen quickly. And it has.”

Anchor. Mind-blowingly fast.

“Okay,” I said.

“
My colleague, Jason Benning, is in your driveway in our vehicle and we have instructions to accompany you to this meeting,” Simmons explained. “And to avoid being late, we need to go as soon as possible. Again, I apologize for the lack of warning.”

I wondered if Codaselli made all of his guys go to charm school.

“No, it's fine,” I said. “Let me grab a couple things and we can go.”

Simmons nodded. “Excellent. And, just so there are no misunderstandings, Jason and I will be accompanying you and we are properly equipped. There's no need for you to bring anything other than your necessary personal belongings.”

Translation: don't bring a gun.

“
Got it,” I said. “Give me one minute.”

Simmons nodded.

I left the door open and jogged to the bedroom. I pulled on a zip up Adidas jacket, socks and running shoes, found my wallet and phone and headed out with Simmons.

He introduced me to Benning, who was behind the wheel of a gray Land Rover and looked nearly identical to Simmons. He was exceedingly polite, but didn't say much after the introduction, focusing instead on the driving. Simmons sat up front with him and I was in the backseat. Simmons assured me we weren't going far.

We took the bridge over the bay back toward downtown and I was surprised that we headed north on five rather than south. We cut through downtown and past the airport on the highway and then got off the freeway again five minutes later at Moore and turned toward Old Town.

Old Town was an area in San Diego that had undergone multiple incarnations and refused to die. When I was a kid, it had been a place full of Mexican restaurants and small vendors selling handcrafted wares, meant to resemble a small downtown village in Mexico. But the city and vendors had butted heads over the years and the city brought in more development, much to the chagrin of those that wanted to keep the traditional vibe that the area had always exuded. Merchants and restaurants vacated, only to be replaced by chain storefronts and a more commercialized feel. Developers had tried to retain some of the original feeling by convincing several of the restaurants to stay, but Old Town felt more like a shiny new tourist attraction that had been constructed in a historic neighborhood.

Benning drove us through Old Town and parked in a paved lot across from a small, family owned Mexican restaurant.

Simmons twisted in his seat to look at me in the back. “You'll be meeting with a man named Mario Valdez. Are you familiar with him?”

“No.”

“
Within his organization, his position is probably most similar to that of a vice president,” Simmons explained. “Perhaps the number two most senior member of his organization, number three at worst. He agreed to this as a favor to Mr. Codaselli. I have no idea what to expect, except that we should treat him with the kind of respect a man of his stature is accustomed to.”

“
So don't go in and start demanding things or grab him by the neck,” I said. “I got it.”

Simmons nodded and pushed open his door.

I followed him and Benning into the restaurant. I was surprised to see that the restaurant was actually busy, a mix of families and businessmen enjoying an early afternoon lunch. Soft mariachi music played through the speaker system and waiters bustled by carrying large plates of steaming burritos and tacos. At the front of the building, adjacent to the hostess stand, a group of elderly Hispanic women gathered in a makeshift kitchen, hand-forming and cooking flour tortillas. Simmons nodded in greeting at one of the women, who offered a mostly toothless smile in return. He approached the hostess podium, leaning in close to speak to the young woman stationed behind it. She smiled at him, picked up the phone attached to the wall, spoke several words into it, hung up and said something I couldn't hear to Simmons. He nodded and smiled back.

A minute later, a young man in his twenties emerged from a door near the kitchen, wearing a dark suit and a yellow dress shirt.. He strode to the podium, introduced himself to Simmons, turned on his heel and Simmons motioned for Benning and I to follow him. We followed him through the door he'd come through, down a narrow hall. He stood to the side of another doorway, gesturing for us to enter.

The room looked like a private banquet room, with a long table covered in a red tablecloth and surrounded by about a dozen chairs. Eleven of them were empty.

Mario Valdez sat at the head of the table. He looked about my age, with thinning black hair combed to the side. A thin goatee encircled his mouth and chin and he wore rimless glasses over his eyes. A purple and black golf shirt hugged wide shoulders and thick arms, a silver watch on his wrist catching the light in the room. A large oval plate filled with enchiladas sat in front of him and he cut through them methodically, slicing and forking bite after bite as we gathered in the doorway.

He looked up as we entered, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap, wiped at his mouth and stood.

He smiled at Simmons and extended his hand. “I'm Mario. You must be Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons nodded and they shook hands. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Mr. Codaselli appreciates any help you can offer us.”

Valdez nodded. “Of course. Peter is a friend. If we can help, we will.”

Simmons introduced Benning quickly and they shook hands. Then he looked at me. “And this is Mr. Joe Tyler.”

Valdez studied me carefully for a moment, the smile still on his face, but his eyes scrutinizing who he was meeting with. “Mr. Tyler. A pleasure.”

We shook hands and Valdez looked at Simmons. “I trust we are good here?”

Simmons nodded. “We are, yes sir.”

Valdez looked past me to the man who'd brought us to the room. “Alonzo. Please see that Mr. Simmons and Mr. Benning are attended to while Mr. Tyler and I meet. Anything on the menu, as my guests.”

“
Yes, sir,” Alonzo said. “Gentlemen?”

Simmons and Benning followed Alonzo out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“Please. Sit, Mr. Tyler,” Valdez said, resuming his seat. “And please excuse me finishing my lunch. I got here later than anticipated. Can I get you anything?”

“
No, sir,” I said, sitting down in the chair closest to me so there was one chair in between us. “I'm fine. Thank you, though.”

“
As you wish,” he said. He cut off a large piece of enchilada, put in his mouth and swallowed. He took a drink from the water glass next to his plate and wiped at his mouth again with his napkin. “Mr. Codaselli and Mr. Anchor speak well of you.”

“
They've been very kind to me.”

“
They say that you helped them,” Valdez said in between bites. “In a way that no one else did. That you are trustworthy and that they would consider it a favor if I spoke with you.”

“
Again. They've been extremely kind to me.”

“
Peter does not go out of his way to help people he does not trust, so that is high praise.” He speared the last bite of enchilada from the plate and chewed it, his eyes still on me. He laid the silverware on the plate and pushed the plate gently to his right. He wiped at his mouth again, leaned  back from the table and crossed his legs. He tossed the napkin next to the plate and smiled. “So. If you are his friend, then you are mine, as well.”

I wasn't sure if that was a great thing, but I wasn't in a position to debate the merits of his statement. “Thank you.”

“How might I be able to help you?” Valdez asked. “Peter has left me in the dark as to the reason for your visit.”

“
It involves my daughter,” I said. “A few years back, she was abducted from my front yard.

His brow furrowed and his smile faded. “I'm sorry. I have three daughters myself.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And it's okay now. I found her recently and she is safe.”

He raised his eyebrows, then a flicker of recognition flashed through his eyes. “You are the man who found Peter's son. The man he hired.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

Valdez extended his hand across the table to me. “Peter and I have been friends for quite some time. I know how hard on him that was and I know how grateful he was. So I will thank you for helping my friend.”

We shook hands. I hoped he was going to remember how great I was when I asked for what I wanted.

“
I'm sorry,” Valdez said. “I interrupted you. Please continue.”

“
I should be upfront with you,” I said. “I'm a former police officer.”

Valdez nodded. “I'm aware.”

Of course he was.

“
I have reason to think that one or more of my former colleagues might have been involved in my daughter's disappearance,” I explained. “And there's a possibility that it might in a roundabout way be tied to a case that your organization was involved in.”

Valdez looked at me thoughtfully, then nodded, encouraging me to continue.

I laid out for him what I knew. That the buy in Imperial Beach went bad, undermined by an agent that had gotten inside, screwing up the safe passage that had supposedly been paid for.

Valdez didn't say anything.

“I know...or maybe I should say that I assume, that if your organization had paid for a service that it didn't receive,” I said, pausing for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “You would've wanted to be compensated. To have your fee reimbursed since services that were promised weren't delivered.”

Valdez gave a small shrug, but nodded. “Yes, I'd say that would be accurate. That is...common procedure for us.”

“My belief is that the person who you dealt with,” I said. “The person who offered to provide a safe environment for your transaction is the person responsible for my daughter's disappearance.”

“
Why do you think that it's specifically tied to one of our deals?” Valdez asked, tilting his head to the side, considering his own question. “I'm not sure I see how that is relevant.”

“
I think that when you asked for repayment for lack of services, your contact didn't have the money and had to look elsewhere for it in order to stay in your good graces. That wasn't an easy thing to do and got him into trouble.”

Valdez nodded slowly, his eyes on the table, thinking through what I'd told him. He laid his hand on the table and tapped his fingers lightly.

“You have done some excellent research,” he finally said with a smile. “I can see why Peter was pleased to have worked with you.”

I didn't say anything.

“I can confirm I know of the deal you are speaking of,” he continued. “It wouldn't be prudent for me to go into details, but I will tell you that the majority of your research is correct. We were involved in the transaction. It did not go as planned, despite precautions that were promised.” He smiled at me. “And we did ask for the return of our fee. Perhaps with a bit of interest.”

The smile stopped at his eyes and I finally saw the face of a man who was capable of far more than I could probably imagine. The kind of man who put the barrel of a gun in someone's ear and pulled the trigger. The kind of man who enjoyed the fright that the sound of a chainsaw brought. The kind of man who did whatever he wanted.

He blinked and the look vanished as soon as it had appeared.

“
But I'm afraid I cannot give you what you're looking for,” he said.