She studies me for a long time. A long, long time. And then nods abruptly.
“Okay. You’ve got everything you need?”
“Just so you understand,” I explain. “First, I’ve got to find an identity, find a legend. That’s a name I can use without challenge by law enforcement databases. A name that’s got a birth date near enough to yours, a somewhat facial resemblance.”
“That’s going to be altered here,” she says. “Depending on what you tell me I’ve got to do. I’ll dye my hair, cut it, stuff cotton wads into my cheeks and nose, whatever it takes so I look like whatever picture you provide. So find me a golden legend.”
“Even after I find the legend, I’ll have to locate somebody who’ll work up the identity materials. That will take some hours. I might not be able to guarantee delivery.”
“Then now is the best time to start.” She stabs a finger at the watch. Not needing to say anything, the chronometer dial winding down.
“Even if I can create the legend, I can’t get the documents to you down here.”
“Not here,” she says. “Tucson airport. And the credit cards have to be good enough to get me a ticket on any airline connecting to Chicago. And you’ll have to use all your skills to make it look like the tickets were purchased weeks ago. That’s it, okay?”
She dismisses me, moves inside the house. Dial sits on a rusted wrought-iron chair, pistol in his lap. Rey slumps in another chair, refusing to look at me. I have to test my chances, have to know if I have an edge. I go to him, kneel and put my hands on his face, turning his eyes to mine.
“Rey,” I say. “How did you get into this dirty business?”
“Don’t play me, Laura. No way can I help you.”
Dial finishes a Sonoran hot dog, smacks his lips. When I look at him, he blows me a kiss. In that moment, I get busy. Open my carryall, take out my gear, boot up my laptop, turn on my ComSat phone, and get online.
“Lovitta,” I say. I’ve dialed her private number. “Lovitta. Wake up.”
Lovitta Kovich groans. “Laura?” Lovitta is a sergeant with the Tucson narcotics department, my inside source, my treasured coordinator of drug dealer information.
“Yes.”
“Where are, what are you doing?” Groggy. “I’ve been working twenty hours. What?”
“Hello,” I say carefully. “How are you? Have you arrived safely.”
“Arrived... ah, oh yeah. Laura. Still sending pretty little pics?”
“To everyone I know in my postcard perfect world.” The most basic of voice codes, an agreed-on exchange to indicate urgency.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How can I help?”
“I need a legend.”
“How quick?”
“Six hours.”
“Impossible.”
“Six hours,” I repeat.
“What kind of documents?”
“Everything. SSN card. Driver’s license. At least three working credit cards, each with a purchase and payment legend. Medical records, if you can do that. Miscellaneous stuff. Safeway card, whatever.”
“Passport?”
“No.”
“Well, that saves time. Not impossible. But improbable.”
“Who’ve you got?”
“Larry Marshall. Mary Emich. Alex Emerine. Mary can Photoshop the documents, Larry can coordinate sources for printing, he knows a nonprofit that will let him use a flat-bed press and special inks. Alex can set up computer legends for bank accounts, credit, hospitals. She knows just where to hack into records, add a new identity. But. You’ve got to get a name. A legend is no good without the right name.”
“I’ll have that in an hour,” I say. “You get them set up, wait for my call.”
Disconnecting the cell, I sit in front of my laptop. Small, sudden nods of my head as I think through each step. I start typing.
“What are you doing?” Rey asks.
Opening a web browser, I call up a website, begin typing in physical and age characteristics. Rey watches over my shoulder as a series of photo images scrolls down the screen.
“Jane... JaneJohnDoe dot com?” he says. “What kind of website is that?”
“People who disappeared.”
“What help is that?”
“I don’t have time to buy a name. Usually that would take days. Weeks for something really specific. This is a national database of people who’ve disappeared — men, women, and children who’ve vanished from their jobs, their homes, their loved ones.”
“I don’t get it.”
“We’re looking for women who disappeared five to ten years ago. Once I get those compiled, I’ll search the photos for a face that resembles Talancón. When I find that, I’ll crosscheck the name of the missing person with other databases to get a Social Security number. And then anything is possible.”
“How many people are in here?”
“Lots. Probably three to five thousand. And that’s just people who’ve disappeared. There are hundreds more who are dead but unidentified. Rey, stop asking me questions. Leave me alone.”
“I just want to help.”
“You have nothing to offer me. Not anymore. You,” I say to Dial, “get your boss out here. I need to ask her something.”
Talancón appears in the doorway, stripped to bra and panties, a bath towel over her shoulder, her hair already cut very short. Dial stands, pulls out his Glock as though there’s been a prearranged signal.
“Kill me now,” I say, “you get nothing.”
“Are you afraid of Diablo?” Her smiling face caught in a sudden, cold light from the sun. I see she wears no makeup, small beads of sweat form on her upper lip, her pupils dilate, and then a flatness comes into her eyes. “Okay, there’s nothing left. Diablo, give me your gun.”
Dial hands over the Glock. Talancón thumbs back the slide, checking that a live round is chambered. She has an odd way of holding the Glock; her middle finger is on the trigger, and without hesitation she targets Dial.
“Pela las nalgas, puta,” he says bitterly as she cranks a double-tap to his chest, striding quickly to stand over his twitching body to put another round directly into his forehead.
“Jesus Christ!” Rey gasps, hands out in front, thinking he’s next.
“Not you, loverboy. You’re intocable. Untouchable, so far. Anything else?” she says to me. I shake my head, ears ringing from the gunshots. Talancón tosses the weapon to Rey. “Drag him inside.” She turns to me with a look and shrugs. “Vámanos, señora! Ahorita!”
Get busy. Now!
And I’m wondering what seed she sprang from, what made this bitter fruit.
Fifty minutes later I have a name, ten minutes after that I get the information I really want when I call Lovitta to get data from NCIC, the national crime database.
“Judith Dunnigan Fletcher,” I shout at the house. Talancón comes to the doorway, pressing her hands up against the inside of the door sill and taking three long, deep breaths.
“Okay,” she says. “You have a picture?”
I swivel my laptop so she can see the screen. She studies the photograph of a woman with short-cropped graying hair, an open-necked button-down shirt, and tortoise-shell glasses.
“Tell me about her.”
“Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. Missing since July 3, 1997. Thirty-six years old then, makes her mid-forties now. Missing from Omaha, Nebraska. At time of disappearance, five-one, 105 pounds. White woman, but she looks a bit Latina. Graying hair, some brown left, brown eyes. No tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks. No nickname, not married at time of disappearance, no children, both parents deceased, no siblings. If seen, notify the Omaha Police Department. She’s perfect.”