Several Spanish-speaking churches put out emphatic denials of the existence of satanic cults in their communities. Soon however, the virgin sacrifice—as one tabloid called her—was identified as Kathryn Brown, a physical therapist from Brooklyn, aged twenty-eight, single, and pregnant. Forget the virgin. It also emerged that the tiny stone sculpture did not represent Satan but a goddess from Maya mythology, and the skull was a frequent decoration on the commonest bottles of tequila. At this, interest from public and press diminished until it faded away completely, making it harder for Richard and Lucia to follow the case.
The article that appeared in the New York Times during the last week in May, which Richard Bowmaster confirmed through other sources, had little to do with Kathryn Brown. It concerned a human trafficking network that involved Mexico, several Central American countries, and Haiti. Frank Leroy’s name was mentioned in the article, along with that of other accomplices, and Kathryn’s death warranted barely a couple of lines. Even though it was within the police department’s jurisdiction, the FBI had investigated the Kathryn Brown case due to her links to Frank Leroy, who was briefly arrested as the main suspect for the crime but released on bail. For several years, the FBI had been on the trail of a vast human trafficking operation, and they were more concerned with laying their hands on Leroy for that than with the fate of his unfortunate lover. They were aware of Frank Leroy’s involvement in the trafficking but did not have sufficient proof to prosecute; he had protected himself carefully against that eventuality. It was only by linking him to Kathryn Brown’s murder that they were able to obtain a search warrant for his office and house, uncovering sufficient evidence to implicate him.
Leroy escaped to Mexico, where he had contacts and where his father had lived quietly for years as a fugitive. That could have been his destiny as well, were it not for a special FBI agent who had infiltrated their gang. This man was Ivan Danescu. It was thanks to him more than anyone that they were able to disentangle the criminal knot in the United States and its links with Mexico. Danescu was killed during a raid on a ranch in Guerrero where many of the victims were imprisoned, and where several of the network’s bosses were holding a meeting. According to the press, Ivan Danescu accompanied the Mexican military in a heroic operation to free more than a hundred prisoners waiting to be transported and sold.
Between the lines, Richard read a different version, because he had studied the methods of both the cartels and the authorities. Any cartel boss arrested usually succeeded in escaping from prison with astonishing ease. The law was constantly flouted, since both police and judges yielded to threats or corruption, and anyone who resisted was killed. Very seldom were the guilty men who operated with impunity in the United States ever extradited.
“I’m convinced the military entered that ranch to kill, backed up by the FBI. That’s what they do in operations against the narcos, and I don’t see why it would be any different in this case. Their plan to take them by surprise must have failed, and it ended in a shootout. That would explain the death of Ivan Danescu on the one hand and Frank Leroy on the other,” Richard told Lucia.
THEY CALLED EVELYN, who had not heard the news, and agreed she should come up from Miami to Brooklyn, as she was obsessed with the idea of seeing Frankie again. She had not as yet dared to call Cheryl. Lucia had to convince Richard that now that Frank Leroy was dead, Evelyn was in no danger, and that both she and Cheryl deserved some closure on what had happened. She offered to make the initial contact, and faithful to her conviction that it was always best to take the bull by the horns, she immediately phoned Cheryl and asked to see her because she had something important to tell her. Terrified, Cheryl hung up. Lucia left a note in the mailbox at the house of statues: I’m a friend of Evelyn Ortega’s, she trusts me. Please see me, I have news of her. She added her cell phone number and put the keys to the Lexus and Kathryn Brown’s house in the envelope. The same night, Cheryl called her.
An hour later, Lucia went to see her. Richard waited in the car, so nervous his ulcer began to throb. They had decided it would be better if he didn’t appear, as Cheryl would feel more at ease with another woman. Lucia discovered that Cheryl was exactly as Evelyn had described her: tall, blond, almost masculine, but a lot older looking than she had expected. She was agitated, fearful, and defensive. She was trembling when she showed Lucia into the living room.
“Tell me right away how much you want, so we can get this over with,” she said in a choking voice, standing with her arms folded.
It took Lucia half a minute to grasp what she had heard.
“Good Lord, Cheryl, I don’t know what you’re thinking. I haven’t come to blackmail you, far from it. I know Evelyn Ortega and what happened to your car. I’m sure I know a lot more than you do about that Lexus. Evelyn wants to come in person to explain, but above all she wants to see Frankie. She misses him a lot; she adores your son.”
At this, Lucia witnessed an astonishing transformation in the woman in front of her. It was as if the armor plating protecting her had been suddenly smashed, to reveal someone with no backbone, nothing to hold her up inside, a person held together by an accumulation of pain and fear, so weak and vulnerable that Lucia could scarcely resist the urge to hug her. A sob of relief escaped from Cheryl’s chest. She collapsed onto the sofa, head in hands, crying like a baby.
“Please, Cheryl, calm down, everything is all right. All Evelyn ever wanted is to help you and Frankie.”
“I know, I know. Evelyn was my only friend, I told her everything. She left when I most needed her. She vanished with the car without saying a word.”
“I don’t think you know the whole story. You don’t know what was in the trunk of the car . . .”
“How wouldn’t I know?” said Cheryl.
CHERYL TOLD LUCIA that the Wednesday before the January storm, when she was going through her husband’s shirts for the laundry, she saw a grease stain on his jacket lapel. Before adding it to the pile she discovered a key hanging from a golden ring. A jealous itch told her it belonged to Kathryn Brown’s house, which confirmed her doubts about her husband and that woman.