No Way Back: A Novel (26 page)

Something about this sucker didn’t seem right.

A tingling danced across Javier’s skin, not far from what he imagined he’d be feeling when he stood in that starched blue uniform one day when they presented him his badge. He took his radio and called Victor in the office.

“Hey, bro, you know that APB we received yesterday . . .”

Javier was thinking that application to the Stamford police academy might’ve just moved to the top of the pile.

CHAPTER FIFTY

I
told Harold what I’d found. That Gillian was never a person. It never had been.

It was a town. The hometown in Colorado of Ana Lasser, the girl who had been killed in the second car along with the two other University of Denver students.

I told him how I was looking through the photos she had taken just before she was killed when I just happened on it.

“Hruseff told Curtis just before he shot him, ‘This is for Gillian.’ It was never about the Bienvienes.
They
were the ones who just happened in. It was always about this girl. Ana
.
On spring break with her friends. They were in similar cars. Maybe that was it.”

“But Curtis went to see Lauritzia in the hospital,” Harold said, cocking his head, “and Lauritzia doesn’t have anything to do with that girl. And you were sure that’s what got him killed.”

“No. Something to do with this girl Ana Lasser got him killed. I think the reason he needed to see Lauritzia was to confirm this. Her father carried out the hit. He needed to know if Ana was the intended target. Or the Bienvienes. That’s why he needed to die.”

My eyes went wide and fixed on Harold. “Eduardo Cano wanted to get back at Oscar Velez, and he wiped out his entire family. But not just for revenge. What if it was also to keep him silent? To keep him from ever divulging what he knew? That this was never, ever about those DEA agents. That they just happened in, just as randomly and tragically as we thought the three students had. But because they were DEA agents everyone assumed they were the targets. But they never were. It was always about this girl . . .”

“Why?
” Harold said, shaking his head. He was a lawyer, clearly a person who operated in logic, and this wasn’t making sense.

“I don’t that know yet. I—”

My gaze was suddenly drawn to the sight of two uniformed police officers coming down the escalator.

“Maybe she photographed something?” Harold postulated. “Maybe she saw something at the hit she should never have seen and got it on film?”

“I don’t know . . .” I kept watching the police. “That ambush was set up in advance. No one had a clue she’d be taking photos. Anyway, it’s not
her
family that was being targeted in revenge. It was Oscar Velez’s. To keep him from telling the truth to the feds. About what he knows . . .

“I’ve been approaching this all wrong,” I said. It was like some Mensa puzzle that was making my brain ache. “I’ve been focused on the Bienvienes and Lauritzia, when it’s about this girl. Eduardo Cano has been trying to kill Lauritzia, not because of her but because of her father. Maybe it’s the same thing here. Hruseff said, ‘This is for Gillian, asshole,’ when he shot Curtis, not ‘This is for Ana.’ Because it’s not about her literally, but where she’s from. Gillian. It’s about what’s there. She was just the person who was killed.”

Harold nodded. “It never made sense to me that Eduardo Cano was let go simply because of holes in Oscar Velez’s testimony. The man murdered five U.S. citizens. He knew something no one wanted to come out.” He gave me the look of a man who was no longer fighting the truth. “Okay, I think there’s someone you ought to meet.”

“Thank you,” I said, and grasped his arm.

Just as quickly my gaze became diverted by the sight of two more policemen. They seemed to be making their way through the crowd, checking faces against some kind of sheet.

A knot tightened in my stomach.
“Shit.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

I
don’t like how this is feeling,” I said to Harold, drawing his eye to the cops, my heart starting to race. “I think I ought to get out of here.”

Maybe the people at the inn where I was staying had somehow recognized me. I was going over what I may have left in my room—some toiletries and whatever extra clothes I had.

I realized I wasn’t going back to get them.

Harold said, “I want you to talk with Lauritzia. But I’m going to need some time to make sure I’m covered with my kids. Can you meet me in the garage in my office? In about an hour?”

I nodded. The cops seemed headed our way. “Stand up and give me a hug,” I said.

Harold looked at me curiously.

“Just give me a hug. Like you know me and we’re saying good-bye. These officers are looking for someone. There’s no reason they should be here for me, but . . .”

We stood up and Harold awkwardly put his arms around me and gave me a squeeze. I looked at them over his shoulder. I knew my newly clipped blond hair and sunglasses would conceal me. And even if they were somehow on my trail, there was absolutely no reason to think I’d be at the mall.

But somehow they were on to me.

“I’ll leave first,” I said, pulling away. “Here’s my number. If you see them come after me, I’d really appreciate a heads-up.”

He glanced at them with concern and nodded.

“You are my lawyer, right?” I said, holding on his gaze with a reluctant smile.

“I guess I am. Now. If it comes to that.”

“Good.” I gave him an upbeat look. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I
made my way to the exit without even a look behind. I found the fire staircase next to the elevators and headed to the second floor. Before the door fully closed I glanced around. The officers seemed to have moved on. No one was coming my way. I let out a sigh of relief, and my nerves began to calm.

I went up to the second floor and headed down the first row in the garage to where I’d left the Explorer, two aisles over. I took out the electronic key and was about to press the Unlock button.

I stopped.

I saw the Explorer—and realized in an instant just why all the police were at the mall. There were three or four of them—maybe a detective or two as well—hell, for all I knew they could’ve been the FBI!—huddled around it.

The bottom fell out of my stomach.

It took about one more second for my throat to go dry and for me to become completely encased in sweat. I turned around, pretending I’d arrived at a completely different car two rows over, and I held there like a plank, not knowing what to do. Jim and Cindy’s car must have been on alert. I’d been discovered.

I was sure I was about to hear a command to stop, to get down on the ground, the authorities rushing over me. The next thirty seconds went by as slowly as any in my life. I stood in front of some strange sedan, glancing back to see if they knew I was there.

Somehow they didn’t. But there wasn’t any doubt that I had to get out of there. I had to get to Harold. I was close to finding out what I needed to know, what I needed to save myself, and if I waited there too long, if they had my car, the entire mall might be put on lockdown. The detectives were on their radios. All the exits were probably covered.

How the hell are you going to get out of here, Wendy?

I drew in a deep breath and made my way back in the direction of the mall. My legs were so rubbery, they would barely move. I didn’t look behind. I just kept on walking, waiting to be ordered to stop.

As I neared the elevator suddenly a policeman stepped out of the stairwell. My heart beat so loudly I thought it would give me away. It took everything I had to hold it together. I just looked him in the face, praying, and nodded. “Hello.”

“Ma’am.” He nodded back and passed me by without stopping.

I exhaled.

I was about to go into the staircase when the elevator doors opened and a mother and her ten- or eleven-year-old daughter stepped out, so I ducked inside. The doors closed and I almost fainted with relief. I pushed the button for 3, not knowing what I would do there, also knowing that there was probably a security camera trained on me now, and at some point, when no one had come back to the Explorer, they would review it and know it was me.

The elevator opened on the third floor. I didn’t see any police around. I did see a security cart driving up the ramp, so I went the other way, out to the atrium balcony, and peered over the railing into the mall. I thought that maybe I could get out through one of the restaurants. The Capital Grille. Mitchell’s Fish Market. P.F. Chang’s. They all had both mall entrances and ones that led to the outside. A couple of cops stood in front of the entrance to P.F. Chang’s, eyeing whoever was going in.

You can’t risk it.
My chest filled up with fear. But in a few more minutes, the entire mall might be locked down.

I went back into the garage and headed down a row of cars, trying to think of my best way out. Steal a car? I didn’t know how. Hijack one? A couple of women passed me, deep in conversation. “Then you know what she did?” A young mother dragged her whining five- or six-year-old daughter, who was carrying on about some toy. Another woman was carrying a bunch of bags from Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her from a distance. Arriving at her car, a tan Acura SUV, she reached into her purse and took out her key. She opened the rear hatch and loaded in her bags.

I don’t even know what made me watch her. She had a kindly face—I was so desperate and mixed up, I thought about just jumping in next to her and begging her to drive me out. But instead of getting in her car, the woman fumbled around in her bag and brought out her parking ticket.

I suddenly knew what to do.

She headed over to the payment machine at the top of the ramp, five or six cars away.

I hurried over to her car. I saw her trying to figure out the machine, and as she inserted her credit card I pulled open the rear driver’s side door, completely hidden from her view, and threw myself in. I climbed over the backseat and fell into the cargo bay, wedging myself tightly against the seat back, hoping it hid me from view. I pulled her shopping bags around me and curled into a ball.

This just might work.

I pressed my face into the carpet, praying when she came back she wouldn’t need to get into the cargo area again. Thank God, she didn’t. The wait was agonizing, but I finally heard the lock beep again, and the woman opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

My heart was going crazy. I lay there, making myself as tiny as I could, eyes closed, begging her to start the fucking car and get us out of there. I heard her arrange her bag for a minute, barely four feet away. Finally I heard the ignition and the car started up. The engine rattled—almost the same vibration as my pulse. I couldn’t tell which was shaking more.

We started to back out. Suddenly I heard the woman grunt, “Shit,” and hit the brakes. I was thrown against the backseat. She went, “C’mon, buddy,” and I felt as if she was looking directly over me out the rear window.

I was afraid to even breathe.

Finally the car went forward. We drove down the incline and turned sharply, coming to another stop, seeming to inch along, then turned sharply again. I heard the radio go on. “New York Minute” by Don Henley. I was sure we were approaching the ticket counter on the ground floor.

Then we stopped.

“Grrrr, what is this now?” The woman let out a frustrated sigh.

What if the police were searching all vehicles? The windows were tinted. I was pretty sure no one could easily see in. Unless they were specifically looking for me. I crunched into a ball. My limbs started to physically shake. I was on the verge of finding out what I needed. What could prove my innocence.
Please don’t let them take me in now.

We inched along to the ticket booth. I pulled the shopping bags tighter around me. I raised up slightly and saw the rate sign on the cashier’s booth, the window above me. I tensed, prepared for someone to ask to open the hatch and peer in.

To my elation, all I heard was the woman ask, “Insert it in here?” I realized she was putting in the parking ticket. The next couple of seconds I just lay there with my eyes closed, sure that someone was about to pull open the hatch.

But no one did. Instead, I heard the attendant say in an accent, “Have a nice day!”

We pulled out of the garage. It was at least thirty seconds before I allowed myself to actually believe we were free. I rolled over and blew out a triumphant gasp of air.

Now, how the hell would I get out of here?

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

B
ack in his office, Harold called Roxanne’s mom, who’d been staying with him since the disaster, helping out with the kids. He told her he had a business thing and wouldn’t be back that night until late, and that he’d call in from the road and say good night to the kids. Then he got on the computer and put in the name of the college student Wendy had told him about.

Ana Lasser.

Immediately the article from the
Denver Post
came up. Harold quickly went over it, finding the link to the photography exhibit Wendy had mentioned. He clicked on it, and looked at the black-and-white photos there, the studies of the villagers, their brown, smiling faces. He shook his head in resignation—such a shame that the life of a girl with such talent and promise had been cut short like that.

But that wasn’t what he was looking for.

He scrolled down, bypassing pages of articles connected to the Culiacán ambush, until he came across something from what appeared to be the local newspaper where Ana Lasser was from.

The Alamosa
County Courier
.

STAND
-
OUT
LOCAL
STUDENT
AMONG
FIVE
KILLED
IN
MEXICAN
AMBUSH