Read Online Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller by Michael L. Weems - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael L. Weems
Ads: Link
press.
The hotel and its staff were still in shock that the horrific event had occurred right outside their doors and the hotel chain’s corporate offices in the U.S. had pledged their unequivocal support. Inside, the conference room bustled with activity while outside, a single palm tree stood back-dropped by the azure ocean in a picturesque view.
Across from the Woodalls sat senior officer Juan Ramirez and his partner Hernando Vargas of the Quintana Roo anti-kidnapping unit. Ramirez was 5’8” with a thin mustache and hair that was plastered into place by years of disciplining it with a sturdy comb. His eyes were sharp and he spoke English effortlessly. He was dressed in gray slacks with a white button down shirt and plain navy blue tie. Vargas was slightly older, his dark brown hair accented by gray that began in the part in his hair and slowly worked its way down like spilled paint. He wore a blue suit with a gold and blue tie.
In his hand Ramirez held an artist’s rendering that Kendra had provided only hours before. She’d given them enough to create a strikingly accurate picture of the man named Martin. “We have circulated this photo to all the departments in and around Cancun,” he was explaining to the Woodalls. On the table sat a picture of Taylor, one she had just taken before the trip for graduation where she wore her cap and gown. “We’ve also sent both pictures to every police station, gas station, and hotel in and around the district.” He tapped the sketch with his index finger, “If this man shows his face anywhere in public, we will know. We will have his picture placed in every newspaper and in every shop window by this time tomorrow.” It was already on every television channel in Mexico and the U.S.
“Why haven’t they asked for a ransom?” asked Amy Woodall. It was the thought that worried her most. Why wasn’t there a money demand? If someone had kidnapped her, and they didn’t take her for ransom, then what did they take her for? She shook in fear to think of it. At first she was terrified of the idea of a ransom call, but now she was praying for one. Just some news that Taylor was still alive, some hope that she could get her back.
Ramirez had wondered the same thing about the ransom, and the only answer that fit didn’t bode well. But it was not something he was prepared to share with the girl’s parents. He knew the helpless feeling and the fear they suffered. He had worked many disappearances of young women during his time as an officer in Mexico City and then a detective in Chihuahua State. Usually, they never found the girl, or if they did, it was a body out in the desert. Many of the young women in Ciudad Juarez were forced to travel long ways for the jobs they found, either by bus or often walking across the barren landscape for hours. Hundreds of such women had gone missing, many turning up raped and killed. He’d seen the look in their mother’s eyes when they learned what had happened to their missing child. He wondered if he’d be giving the Woodalls similar news in the near future. He hoped not, but the more time that went by without a ransom, the more likely the prospect.
Ramirez had worked in a department called Unidad de Atención a Víctimas de Delitos Sexuales y Contra de la Familia, or the Unit for the Care of Victims of Sexual Offences and Offences Against the Family, for three years before being put in charge of a search commission, set up at the behest of Amnesty International and former President Vicente Fox. He was all too familiar with looking into worried family members’ eyes and telling them “We’re doing everything we can,” which is what he said now to Taylor’s mother. “I can’t say why there has not been a ransom demand.”
She wasn’t satisfied. “But that’s what they do, right? These people , they kidnap Americans or wealthy people and then demand a ransom,
The hotel and its staff were still in shock that the horrific event had occurred right outside their doors and the hotel chain’s corporate offices in the U.S. had pledged their unequivocal support. Inside, the conference room bustled with activity while outside, a single palm tree stood back-dropped by the azure ocean in a picturesque view.
Across from the Woodalls sat senior officer Juan Ramirez and his partner Hernando Vargas of the Quintana Roo anti-kidnapping unit. Ramirez was 5’8” with a thin mustache and hair that was plastered into place by years of disciplining it with a sturdy comb. His eyes were sharp and he spoke English effortlessly. He was dressed in gray slacks with a white button down shirt and plain navy blue tie. Vargas was slightly older, his dark brown hair accented by gray that began in the part in his hair and slowly worked its way down like spilled paint. He wore a blue suit with a gold and blue tie.
In his hand Ramirez held an artist’s rendering that Kendra had provided only hours before. She’d given them enough to create a strikingly accurate picture of the man named Martin. “We have circulated this photo to all the departments in and around Cancun,” he was explaining to the Woodalls. On the table sat a picture of Taylor, one she had just taken before the trip for graduation where she wore her cap and gown. “We’ve also sent both pictures to every police station, gas station, and hotel in and around the district.” He tapped the sketch with his index finger, “If this man shows his face anywhere in public, we will know. We will have his picture placed in every newspaper and in every shop window by this time tomorrow.” It was already on every television channel in Mexico and the U.S.
“Why haven’t they asked for a ransom?” asked Amy Woodall. It was the thought that worried her most. Why wasn’t there a money demand? If someone had kidnapped her, and they didn’t take her for ransom, then what did they take her for? She shook in fear to think of it. At first she was terrified of the idea of a ransom call, but now she was praying for one. Just some news that Taylor was still alive, some hope that she could get her back.
Ramirez had wondered the same thing about the ransom, and the only answer that fit didn’t bode well. But it was not something he was prepared to share with the girl’s parents. He knew the helpless feeling and the fear they suffered. He had worked many disappearances of young women during his time as an officer in Mexico City and then a detective in Chihuahua State. Usually, they never found the girl, or if they did, it was a body out in the desert. Many of the young women in Ciudad Juarez were forced to travel long ways for the jobs they found, either by bus or often walking across the barren landscape for hours. Hundreds of such women had gone missing, many turning up raped and killed. He’d seen the look in their mother’s eyes when they learned what had happened to their missing child. He wondered if he’d be giving the Woodalls similar news in the near future. He hoped not, but the more time that went by without a ransom, the more likely the prospect.
Ramirez had worked in a department called Unidad de Atención a Víctimas de Delitos Sexuales y Contra de la Familia, or the Unit for the Care of Victims of Sexual Offences and Offences Against the Family, for three years before being put in charge of a search commission, set up at the behest of Amnesty International and former President Vicente Fox. He was all too familiar with looking into worried family members’ eyes and telling them “We’re doing everything we can,” which is what he said now to Taylor’s mother. “I can’t say why there has not been a ransom demand.”
She wasn’t satisfied. “But that’s what they do, right? These people , they kidnap Americans or wealthy people and then demand a ransom,
Similar Books
