Got the Look (35 page)

The lightbulb had come as no surprise to her. It was the cornerstone of her worst fears, which began that night in Montalvo's suite at Club Vertigo II. She went to the after-hours party with low expectations, fully intending to do nothing more than her best hi and bye routine. About a dozen people were already inside when she presented her Got the Look pass to the bouncer at the door. Maybe it was because she was new to the group, or maybe she really did have the look. For whatever reason, Montalvo took an immediate interest. He spoke only to her, ignoring the other guests who came and went. Each time the door opened, a cloud of cigarette smoke and a blast of loud music from the dance club would fill the room. Through it all, Montalvo kept talking, obviously trying to impress her. He seemed harmless enough at first, even charming and engaging at times, so Mia wasn't worried. Then someone popped a videotape into the VCR. Mia didn't pay any attention to it, but slowly the crowd started to thin. She, too, was ready to leave, but before she knew it, the bodyguard was whisking the last few stragglers out the door. She and Montalvo were the only ones left in the suite.

Stay awhile, he said.

No. I really have to go.

The video continued to play, and Mia followed his gaze as it drifted toward the television screen. It didn't take long to figure out what kind of movie was playing. A steamy shower stall filled the screen. The glass was fogged, but the shower door was open. The camera then cut to the bathroom mirror, which was angled just perfectly to capture the action inside the shower. A young woman was completely naked, seated on the marble bench beneath the showerhead. Her hair was in pigtails to make her look even younger than she was, a turn-on in this industry. Her legs parted, and slowly she began to rock back and forth, hands working between her smooth thighs.

I'm leaving, said Mia.

He took her by the wrist, gentle but firm. He had that cheesy playboy smile. Just stay another minute.

She tried not to look worried, but her instincts were on high alert. She could hear the sound track from the film, the moaning and groaning. The woman in the shower appeared to be masturbating.

Let go of me right now, she said.

Just stay five more minutes, he said.

She was frozen for a moment, praying that he would just let go, making her plan of action if he didn't. Should she run for it? Dial 911 on her cell phone? She considered the can of Mace in her purse, then silently cursed herself for having given it to her naive little sister, who never thought of such things. She avoided eye contact with Montalvo. As her gaze swept the room in search of all possible exits, she caught another glimpse of the television screen, and this time she saw what the movie was really about. The woman wasn't masturbating. She was holding a broken lightbulb. The camera angle widened, as if to pose the symbolic question Is there anything more red than blood on white marble? It was on her hands and thighs, running down her legs in long, thin rivulets of crimson that gathered on the white tile.

Montalvo leaned closer, his grip tightening on her wrist. Do that for me, he said, his voice somewhere between a groan and a whisper, and I'll pay you ten thousand dollars.

She broke free and slugged him across the side of the head, screaming as she ran for the door.

The doorknob turned, a creaking sound that jarred her from her seven-year-old memories and drew her back to the present nightmare. The creaking noise stopped, but the door did not open. Had he changed his mind? Or was he toying with her yet again, twisting the proverbial knife in her gut, making her sit and wonder was he coming or wasn't he? He was constantly playing mental games, and Mia did her best to combat the effects. She remembered growing up, when things weren't going her way, how her father had always told her to think of all the people who were worse off than she was. The burn victim. The quadriplegic. The young child who had never even heard the words heart attack but was suddenly fatherless. It was a flawed psychological tool, as if the guy with no shoes was supposed to be happy because he wasn't the guy with no feet. In Mia's case, its application was downright ridiculous. She was the guy with no feet. She was days or hours or perhaps even minutes away from becoming the poster child for people in misery, the unlucky young woman whose unspeakable suffering at the hands of her kidnapper would ease the pains of others for years to come.

Remember Ernesto Salazar's wife, that woman who was kidnapped? Well, just be glad you're not her.

The door opened. He was back.

Don't move, he said as he entered the dimly lit room.

She wondered why he still bothered to disguise his voice and cover his face with a mask. It was as if he'd somehow forgotten what he'd forced her to do, the things he'd said to her in the making of the last video. She wondered what he'd done with it, whether he'd shared the video with Ernesto or Jack or whoever was bidding for her freedom. Would they or the police be able to piece enough of her past together to determine his identity? Was he trying to reveal himself?

He crossed the room, stopping just a few feet away from her. She didn't look up, didn't want to make eye contact. But she did notice his camera. It was time for another movie, the thought of which was enough to make the gash on her leg throb with pain.

Here, he said as he handed her a single sheet of paper. It was typewritten, like a script. Read it once to yourself, he said, just to be familiar with it. Then you're gonna read it out loud, with the camera rolling.

Reading in such poor lighting wasn't easy, but her eyes were accustomed to it, so she managed just fine. There were only three paragraphs. She tried to show no reaction, but as she reached the final sentences, he must have read the expression on her face.

That's right, he said. Your boyfriend is paying a ransom.

She looked up. Then we'll be square, right? After he pays what you want?

The response was slow in coming, and it wasn't what she wanted to hear. Just read the fucking script. He turned away to set up the camera, the lighting.

Again she tried to show no reaction, but it was as if the one-page script were vibrating in her hands. Nerves were getting the best of her. He was making false promises, exactly as she'd feared. It came as no surprise at all, really, given the way he'd treated her so far, the ugly history between them. This wasn't the stuff that deals were made of.

I have to escape, she told herself. It's the only way out.

On the count of three we're rolling, he said.

She gripped the paper with both hands, struggling to hold it steady.

One way or another, she knew, this would be the final video.

Chapter
53

After her conversation with Mia's sister, Andie took a short walk down the hall to the SAC's office. She couldn't prove it, but she was willing to bet the farm that Cassandra had known for quite some time that her sister was alive. Had Andie's own sister been raped and murdered, Andie would have been all over the police and prosecutor to bring the killer to justice. According to the Atlanta authorities, however, Cassandra had never followed up.

Maybe that's because Cassandra was an illegal alien, said Martinez. He was behind his desk, seated in an oxblood leather chair, hands clasped behind his head. If she came forward, she risked deportation, right?

That doesn't wash, said Andie. She married an American and got her citizenship four years ago. I can buy into the illegal alien and fear of deportation before that. But why no follow-up in the last four years?

That's a good point. What does Cassandra say about that?

I haven't pushed it yet. I don't want her to shut down, stop taking my phone calls. What would you do?

That's a strategy call, he said. All I can say is follow your instincts. So far, they've served you very well in this case.

A little more guidance would have been nice, but she had to settle for a show of approval and support from her SAC. She thanked him and returned to her office.

No doubt about it, she was making a name for herself in Miami with the Wrong Number Kidnapper. Her supervisor was happy. She was getting positive feedback from the Critical Incident Response Group in Quantico. Even her in-office nemesis, Pete Crenshaw, had toned down the backbiting. She had thrown herself into this case and made it the center of her universe. The bureau respected that kind of dedication. Had anyone bothered to ask why she was so committed, however, Andie wasn't sure how she would have responded. Because she approached every case this way? Because she was new to Miami and had no life outside her work? Those were certainly plausible explanations. Too bad they weren't true.

Andie went to the window and looked out toward the parking lot. There was a field beyond, and a nine-foot-high chain-link fence defined the perimeter. Security concerns had given many a government building a prisonlike quality, though Andie knew exactly why that comparison crossed her mind. She'd been thinking about prison ever since Cassandra had asked about her sister. Andie hadn't revealed much about herself, but it was impossible to scratch the surface when it came to her Native American family. Going there, even for just a moment, was like opening the floodgates. Not that she'd lied to Cassandra. Andie had grown up in foster care till she was adopted at age nine, and it was also true that she'd known nothing about a sister until many years later. The demons lay in what she hadn't told, though the heart of the story was in plain view for the world to see. It was in Andie's eyes. Those exotic, beautiful, green eyes. Andie's mother was a Native American woman married to a Native American man. And then along came Andie - the baby with the telltale eyes of an Anglo. Andie and her twin sister never made it home from the hospital. Neither did their mother. Her husband shot her dead in the maternity ward. The killer went to jail. Andie and her sister went into foster care.

Andie continued to stare out her office window toward the chain-link fence. It wasn't helpful to think about the past, but she couldn't help herself. That was the problem with keeping secrets; you couldn't keep them from yourself. She hadn't planned on leaving Seattle. Somehow, deep inside, however, Andie knew that if she visited that man, she would end up running away from the city, the job, and the people she loved. She would have to find someplace new. She went to see him anyway. It was that important.

And it was worse than she'd expected. Far worse.

Washington State Penitentiary was no place for the superstitious. The address alone was a dark omen: 1313 North Thirteenth Street. The only way to feel worse was to arrive on Friday the thirteenth.

Andie arrived on a Saturday during regular visitation hours. This was personal, not FBI business, and she pulled no favors or special treatment through the warden or the bureau of prisons. In fact, she preferred not to call attention to herself. She'd jumped through the same hoops as anyone else who was not on an inmate's approved list of regular visitors. It had taken two weeks to obtain clearance, plenty of time for her to reconsider her decision. At several points along the five-hour drive from Seattle, she was again tempted to turn back. She stayed the course, however, determined to see this through.

The penitentiary was on 540 acres of farmland in southeast Washington, a veritable fortress in an otherwise scenic valley framed by the Blue Mountains. The town of Walla Walla (the name was from a Native American word meaning many waters) could only be described as charming, having earned the Great American Main Street Award from the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Under different circumstances, Andie might have been tempted to visit one of forty nearby wineries, but on this trip her only destination was the state's largest correctional facility, which housed more than two thousand offenders. There were four separate facilities within the institution, each equipped to handle different levels of custody. Andie went to the Main Institution, a closed custody building that was second only to death row in terms of security.

This way, please, said the corrections officer at the entrance to Building One.

Upon entering, Andie didn't flash her badge or do anything else to distinguish herself from the other visitors. She simply presented herself at the check-in station in accordance with the visitation policy. A female corrections officer conducted a quick inspection to make sure she met the dress code. No transparent or translucent clothing. No bare chest or midriff. Blue jeans were fine, so long as the waistline was not more than three inches below the navel. And, of course, undergarments were mandatory.

You're clear, said the guard.

Most of the visitors broke off toward the activity center, where inmates in the general population were allowed face-to-face visitation. Andie, however, was routed in another direction.

Inmate Wicasa has been reassigned to Segregation Unit One, said the guard. Personal-contact visits have been denied.

Only after a moment did it register that Andie was there to see a man named Wicasa. You mean I drove all the way from Seattle for nothing? she said.

He can still have visitors, just no personal contact. You'll be separated by a glass partition.

Andie tried not to show how little she cared. It wasn't as if she'd planned a big hug and kiss for the man who'd shot and killed her biological mother. That's fine, she said.

The corrections officer led her down the hall to the visitation area. Another guard showed her to station number 3, which, as the numbering system implied, was the third of five stations on the visitors side of the glass partition. The other side was for prisoners, a narrow room about five feet deep and twenty feet long with a solid metal door in the rear. Down to Andie's right, at station 5, a woman was staring at an older inmate through the glass, neither of them saying a word, as if they'd run out of things to talk about after so many years on the opposite sides of prison walls. Andie looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at another's misfortune. She scooted her chair closer to the glass, closer to the phone box on the counter. She waited.