Sufficient Ransom (17 page)

The police didn’t seem to have much to go on
.

“A motive’s what we need,” Julian Fox said. “It’s obviously not money; there’ve been no ransom demands. Four children missing and none involve ransom. Too many to be a coincidence, if you ask me.”

“So you think Kika didn’t take Travis,” Richard said.

“We’re doing everything possible to shake out a suspect that touches on all the cases,” Julian said. “It may not work out that way. But we feel it’s important to keep an open mind. We don’t want to miss anything.”

None of the children had been found. What if they didn’t find Travis? Five days ago he was happy and safe, and now…

“One more thing,” Julian said, addressing Ann. “Your blog post about Chuck Blackmart... The one that got you all that hate mail.”

Ann’s eyes grew still. “Yes?”

“We’re cross-checking all the emails and comments.” The agent shook his head. “Lot of diehards in the art world.”

Richard reached for Ann’s hand. “How do you plan to find Kika?”

“My liaison in Tijuana’s working on that,” Julian said. “We should know something soon.”

Ann wished that Tom and Julian had stayed longer. It felt strange being in the house with just her husband.

Richard stood at the kitchen door. “Let’s go outside, Ann. The fresh air will do you good.”

She tensed. “Please, Richard. I can’t go out there.” Not to the backyard, the last place she saw their son.

Instead, she let Richard walk her around the house. They moved from room to room, holding hands. Everything was clean and tidy, just as Ann had always insisted it be. No specks of dried grass on the kitchen floor. No toys strewn all over the family room. The hand-embroidered pillows sat at perfect angles on the leather sofas. The cashmere throw from Rome was folded over the back of the winged armchair. The white mohair chaise was placed at just the right spot in front of the stone fireplace. No blankets and towels on the floors, part of makeshift forts. No chairs and tables toppled to make meandering tunnels. No childish pictures of rockets and volcanoes taped all over the walls. No shouts of, “Mommy, Daddy! Look what I did. Mommy, let’s play hide-and-seek. Daddy, do you like my picture? Does it look like a real snake?” No Lego pieces to trip over. No castles built to the ceiling.

The perfection Ann had always sought was finally hers, and it made her sick to her stomach.

C
HAPTER
9

Monday, October 8

7:30 A.M
.

I
t’s been six days since Travis disappeared, Richard. We’re getting absolutely nowhere.” Ann moved through the kitchen, straightening chairs, wiping counters. She had been up for hours scrubbing, sweeping, and dusting. The smell of bleach and Pine Sol hung in the air like a poisonous gas.

Richard’s hand rested on the counter, the other hand on the wall, blocking her way to the paper towels. “How many times do we have to talk about this? Why would Mexican drug dealers want Travis?”

“It’s not the cartels per se,” Ann said. “It’s Ruiz. The papers are saying the Ruiz family’s secretly financing a growing army to challenge the El Martillo cartel’s control of Tijuana. You can’t tell me Max is not involved with drugs after that.”

“According to Tom, it’s the other side of the Ruiz clan that’s into narcotics. Max has nothing to do with it.”

“How do they know he’s not involved?”

“I just told you,” Richard said. “It’s the other side of the Ruiz family—Max’s cousin.”

“I don’t buy any of it.”

Her husband’s voice was firm. “You’re not going back to Mexico.”

Ann took up the bottle of diluted bleach and started re-spraying the kitchen counters.

Richard lifted his hand and wiped them on his jeans, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re not even listening. You just keep cleaning the same things over and over, acting like
I’m
some broken record.”

“Why should I listen to you when you refuse to look at the facts?” Ann said. Snatching a pad of paper from the counter, she pointed at the inked pages. “Pedro Valdez lives minutes from the border. His parents bring in a pittance and they have a new addition on their house and new furniture. When I mention money, the woman freaks out. She says ‘they’ won’t give her son back. Who’s
they
I ask? She freaks out some more. Can’t you see, Richard, what this is about?”

“No, Ann. I don’t jump to conclusions the way you do. There is no evidence these people are in with the cartels. Okay, so they have some money. There’s any number of ways they could have gotten it—a loan, a second or third job. Besides, where does Hanna Aziz fit into this cartel fiction?”

“Her parents were robbed in Mexico two weeks before their daughter disappeared. Their house was vandalized. They were
threatened
, Richard!”

“Remember. Consider the evidence as is. Making up fictitious connections to drug cartels is
not
helpful.”

Her husband’s snideness infuriated Ann. He was wearing blinders and accusing her of not seeing. She took a deep breath. If he wanted to take potshots at her, so be it—she would walk the high road. Her voice quieter she said, “You were supposed to research the Azizs and ask around the school where the mother works. What did you find out?”

Richard looked resigned. “The principal of Ridgeview High called me back last night. He could only say that Mrs. Aziz has worked there for five years. She does her job well and is liked by students.”

“Did they ever get their stolen stuff back from the robbery?”

“Interestingly,” Richard said, “they put in a claim for the jewelry, and they collected on it.”

“That
is
interesting. How much?”

“Thirty thousand.”

Ann’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money. Did they file the claim before or after their daughter disappeared?”

“They filed the claim two weeks after and collected the money a month later.”

“How did you find this out?” Ann said.

“Tom emailed me late last night. Remember. The stuff he tells us like this is not to be repeated to anyone.”

Ann nodded. “That makes two of the victims—the Valdezs and the Azizs—who got windfalls after their kids disappeared. Something’s not adding up. I can’t help thinking there’s more to that mother.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Aziz,” Ann said. “She was so striking in her opinions. She’s the kind who pisses people off. So different from the husband. He was a peach.”

“Sort of like me and you?” Richard said.

The lump in Ann’s throat was getting bigger. She turned away, her voice low. “Funny.” She missed the laughter she and Richard had always shared over the little things. But even when they found Travis—she couldn’t imagine that they wouldn’t—she knew life would never again be the same.

Her husband was the backbone of Ann’s world, the one person who knew everything about her and still loved her. “Richard?”

He was beside her. “Yes?”

“Don’t be mad if I go back to Tijuana. Chuck Blackmart knows a lot of people there. Maybe he can point me in the right direction.”

Richard’s hands fell to his sides in obvious frustration. “What if you get killed or kidnapped? Then what? We find Travis and you’re gone. How smart is that? Besides, what does Blackmart know?”

“It’ll only be for a few hours. I won’t take any chances this time. I promise.” Ann glanced at the clock. “I should be back by noon.”

“Why don’t you call Blackmart instead?”

Sighing, Ann took her phone from her purse. “Fine.” She found Blackmart’s phone number on the Internet. “I’ll call him now.” She punched his numbers in. “Mr. Blackmart? Uh, this is Ann Olson. I wanted to thank you for helping me that night. I don’t know what I would have done without—” She took the phone from her ear. “He just hung up on me! If I walk into his gallery he can’t muscle me out.”

Ann was about to climb into her Lexus when she spotted the morning newspaper sitting in the driveway. She opened the San Diego Chronicle and blinked. The headline screamed:
Fifth Child Missing
!

10:00 A.M
.

R
ichard agreed to let Ann go to San Ysidro to talk to the Ramirez family about their newly missing son, Jesús, while he contacted the police to get the details. Ann had wondered why neither Tom Long nor Julian Fox had called to tell them another child was missing. She concluded they were probably busy getting ready for the Ramirez press conference mentioned in the news article.

Ann was in such a hurry to get to South San Diego she almost slammed into a truck on the freeway. Deeply saddened for the Ramirez family, she was hopeful that just
maybe
their child’s disappearance could yield some helpful clues about Travis’s whereabouts. Unwilling to risk getting lost in the maze south of the city, she parked her car at the Bonita Mall off Interstate 5 and took a taxi to San Ysidro.

A few streets from the Ramirez home, Ann alighted from the cab. She hoped to approach unseen by the reporters and police who would soon be gathering for the press conference. She didn’t want anyone interfering with her plans to get information. Rounding the corner at the far end of the street, Ann stopped a half block from the Ramirez row house. Agent Julian Fox was standing on the front steps of the Ramirez home talking to a short man with a long mustache. Julian’s reddish-gold hair and the brilliant blue of his shirt looked out of place amidst the drab surroundings.

Ann scrunched up behind a leafy jacaranda tree on the sidewalk, hoping to observe the men unseen. Watching Julian’s impassive face while his companion gesticulated angrily, it occurred to Ann that there was something unfeeling about the agent. Always cool and collected, nothing seemed to bother the man.

Fox’s companion ducked into the Ramirez home. Moments later, he re-joined the agent on the sidewalk, shook his hand, and took his leave. Fox looked up and down the street apparently trying to decide which direction to take. When he turned and walked in the opposite direction from where she stood, Ann heaved a sigh. As soon as the agent disappeared around the corner, she sprinted down the sidewalk.

Like the dwellings around it, Jesús Ramirez’s house was in need of work. Several cracked windows were taped over. The narrow roof was patched over with an assortment of drab gray material. After securing the dangling front screen door with a discarded brick, Ann knocked on the front door. It swung open unexpectedly, startling her. Inside, it was almost pitch black.

The air smelled of stale cigarettes, sour milk, and moldy towels. “Hello? Is anyone home?” Ann detected a sound a few feet away, then movement. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she made out the lines of a human form reclined on a sofa. “Is someone there?”

“Who is it?” a woman’s muffled voice answered.

“My name is Ann Olson. I want to talk to you about Jesús.” Ann made sure to pronounce the boy’s name correctly, with a Spanish accent.

The woman on the sofa stood up and moved to the door. Thin and short, she was built like an underdeveloped a teenager. Her face, though pockmarked, was attractive with regular features. “What do you want?” she said, her dull eyes fixed on Ann.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Ramirez, Jesús’s mother,” Ann said.

The girl’s voice, like her expression, was heavy. “What do you know about my boy?”

Ann was nervous. Words spilled from her mouth like marbles rushing to reach the woman’s comprehension. “My name is Ann Olson. My son, Travis, disappeared too. I thought we could help each other.” She fell silent as Mrs. Ramirez’s gaze moved over her face, her pale skin, and her light hair.

Her perusal of Ann complete, Mrs. Ramirez raised her hand and let it fall in a gesture of helplessness. “Didn’t the… The CPS lady take your son? Something about it in the papers.”

“The police are looking to question her,” Ann said. She didn’t want to take the time to explain the whole convoluted Kika thing. “Look, I know it’s a long shot, I’m just trying to gather information that might help us both.”

Mrs. Ramirez closed her eyes for a long moment, and then she opened them. “You know….CPS came here too.”

Really?
“Why?”

Mrs. Ramirez swayed slightly, her voice fainter. “A week before Jesús …”

“Why did they come here?” Ann asked, trying not to sound too eager to hear this unexpected information. Mrs. Ramirez struck her as emotionally unstable. She didn’t want to do or say anything that would make her end the conversation. Mrs. Ramirez gripped the doorjamb in an apparent effort to keep from falling. Ann wondered if she was on something.

“It was a misunderstanding.” Mrs. Ramirez waved her hand vaguely. “A neighbor reported me. They said Jesús was home alone all the time. Lies...”

Maybe Kika took Jesús. Or had someone else take him, to save him from his junkie mother
.

Mrs. Ramirez turned away and shuffled into the darkness.

Ann wanted to question Mrs. Ramirez more, but she hadn’t exactly been invited in. She stepped into the house. Her eyes adjusting to the lack of light, she spotted Mrs. Ramirez on the sofa. Ann made her way to the group of seats and helped herself to the edge of a ragged armchair, a few feet from her hostess. The thought of calling this woman anything but her first name, considering what they were both going through, didn’t seem right. “Please, tell me your first name,” she said.

“Marty. Short for Martina.” Marty’s eyes were shining like disks of black glass in the dimness. She reached over to a table lamp and pulled the light switch. Ann watched as Marty swept a cigarette between her lips and lit it with a metal lighter—the old fashioned kind, with a flip top. Exhaling mouthfuls of the smoke, Marty seemed to relax.

“Marty,” Ann began. “I read in the newspaper that you reported your son missing last night. When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday morning. He was having breakfast right there.” Marty pointed to a dark corner of the room where Ann, for the first time, noticed a table and chairs. “He was supposed to have lunch with me at work.” Her cigarette tip burned brightly for a few seconds before turning
to ash. Exhaling she added, “He didn’t show up. I cut hair. A place a few streets over.”