In Desperation by Rick Mofina

Cora Martin’s call from earlier. Did she actually come in today? “Has anyone seen Cora today? Maybe she knows what the hell is going on.”

8
    Phoenix, Arizona, Mesa Mirage
    C ora’s phone rang.
    All activity in her home ceased.
    She held her breath and looked at Gannon.
    This was the first call on her landline since she and Gannon had returned to the house with Hackett and Larson a few hours earlier. During that time a stream of agents and detectives had flowed through her door. The FBI had put a trace on her home phone to identify incoming calls.
    â€œThis call’s from the Phoenix area,” said the agent working at a computer laptop equipped to record calls.
    As the agent locked on the address, an FBI hostage negotiator put on a headset to listen in. He had a clipboard and pen, ready to give Cora instructions. She looked at the negotiator. He nodded.
    Her hand trembling, she answered on the third ring.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œCora, Ed at the depot. Are you coming in at all this afternoon?”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œHave you heard from Lyle yet?”
    â€œNo. Have you?”
    â€œNo, but—you sound upset, Cora. What’s going on?”
    â€œIt’s just—it’s a thing with Tilly. I’m sorry, Ed.”
    â€œWell, we’ve got trouble. We’ve got the FBI in here with search warrants and nobody knows what the hell’s going on. We can’t reach Lyle. Have you had any luck? Do you have any idea what’s happening, Cora?”
    â€œNo, I wish I could talk but it’s a bad time.”
    â€œMan, tell me about it.”
    â€œEd, I need a favor.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œIf you hear from Lyle, tell him I need to talk to him now.”
    â€œThat makes two of us, kid.”
    Cora hung up and thrust her face in her hands. Hackett, Larson and the dozen other law enforcement people from the FBI, the Phoenix PD’s HIKE unit, the County, the DEA and U.S. Immigration and Customs who’d joined the case, watched her for several moments before continuing their work.
    When Cora regained her composure, she resumed describing the suspects to the FBI’s sketch artist, a blonde woman with red fingernails.
    â€œThe one who spoke had a Hispanic accent,” Cora said. “He had a scar along his left jawline. He had narrow eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, about five feet ten inches, one hundred and sixty pounds, slim build. The silent one was in his early thirties, about the same height, weight and build. Both had short black hair. The car was a light-colored Ford. I think maybe a Crown Victoria. It looked like the one my friend at church has.”
    As the artist worked with her on the faces of the suspects, the magnitude of her daughter’s kidnapping began to sink in.
    Investigators had moved fast, filling Cora’s living room with tables of equipment, including extra phone lines, GPS, radios and encrypted fax machines. She had volunteered her phone, bank and computer records, everything. They examined it all. People worked on laptops, talked softly on cell phones, drank coffee, consulted files andshared notes, while uniformed officers came and went after updating detectives. Still others continued searching her home.
    So far, they’d determined that the call Cora had received at her office from the kidnappers was made on a prepaid cell phone bought with cash at a corner store in Tucson. From there, the trail went cold.
    After finishing with the artist, Cora joined Gannon in the hall, watching the FBI’s evidence team. They’d finished with the kitchen and living room and were now processing Tilly’s bedroom. It was the first time Cora had looked into her room since the abduction.
    Since the moment when she’d last checked on her daughter .
    Cora took a deep breath as her eyes went around the room. The room where she’d tucked Tilly in, the room where she’d listened to her dreams, chased