Chapter 7 - The Voice on the Wire
Night fell over South Phoenix like a thick, hot blanket.
The industrial park on 27th Avenue was pitch black, save for two high-sodium security lights buzzing over the gates of Apex Property Management.
Ray Chavez’s surveillance van was parked two streets over inside an abandoned HVAC supply lot. Inside the air-conditioned rear of the van, six monitors flickered with thermal video feeds, while Ray sat wearing heavy black headphones, adjusting a series of frequency dials.
I sat beside him, wearing a headset of my own.
Through the thermal camera mounted on the van’s roof mast, we could see the second-floor window of the auto body shop. A human heat signature—a tall, heavy-set woman—was pacing back and forth across the room.
"That’s Carmen," Ray confirmed, zooming in with the laser microphone aimed directly at the double-paned window glass. "She’s alone in the office. Rossi and his two enforcers are downstairs in the garage area."
Suddenly, clear audio cracked through our headphones:
"...I don't care about the heat, Julian!" Carmen’s sharp, panicked voice echoed through my ears. She was talking on a cell phone. "The police came to the apartment! They took my clothes! They broke my locked drawer! Zayden knows about the San Diego estate!"
A deep, smooth male voice answered her over the speakerphone—Julian Rossi.
"Calm down, Carmen," Rossi’s voice sounded entirely relaxed, accompanied by the clink of ice in a whiskey glass. "The Phoenix police have zero jurisdiction in San Diego. Our attorney has the conservatorship papers ready. On Monday morning, the judge signs the order, the two point four million hits our Nassau account by noon, and you get your twenty percent."
"Twenty percent?!" Carmen shrieked. "We agreed on thirty-five!"
"The deal changed the second you let your son call nine-one-one in the middle of your little dinner party," Rossi said, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. "You were supposed to handle a five-year-old girl and a quiet housewife, Carmen. Instead, you made a scene, got arrested, and brought the SVU into my business. You’re lucky I pulled you out of that jail cell at all."
Silence hung on the line for a moment. I could hear my mother’s rapid, shallow breathing through the microphone.
"When do we leave for California?" Carmen asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"My driver will pick you up at five AM on Monday," Rossi lied smoothly. "We’ll fly private out of Scottsdale Airport. Just stay in that room, keep your mouth shut, and don't touch the windows."
The call ended with a sharp click.
Inside the van, Ray Chavez looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "Did you catch that tone, Zayden?"
"He’s not taking her to Scottsdale," I said flatly. "He’s going to get rid of her on Sunday night before the hearing even happens."
"Exactly," Ray agreed. "If Carmen dies before the hearing, Rossi’s lawyers can present a forged emergency petition claiming the mother passed away from stress, accelerating the temporary conservatorship directly to a court-appointed administrator—which just happens to be a shell company Rossi owns."
I grabbed the microphone connected to Ray’s specialized low-frequency radio transmitter—a device capable of overriding local cell signals within a fifty-yard radius.
"Ray," I said. "Override her cell phone tower connection. Put me through directly to her handset."
Ray typed quickly on his keyboard. "Signal intercepted. Her phone is ringing now. She’ll see 'UNKNOWN CALLER' on the screen."
In our headphones, we heard Carmen’s chair scrape against the floor as she picked up her phone from the desk.
"Hello?" Carmen said, her voice laced with paranoia. "Who is this?"
I leaned into the microphone.
"Hello, Carmen," I said quietly.
She gasped so loud it picked up on the laser mic. "Zayden?! How... how did you get this number?! Are you with the police?!"
"I’m not with the police, Carmen," I said, my voice cold, steady, and devoid of any anger. "I’m sitting three hundred yards away from your window, watching you pace across that room."
"You're watching me?!" She scrambled toward the window, pulling the blinds back slightly to stare out into the pitch-black industrial lot.
"Don't stand by the glass, Carmen," I advised calmly. "Unless you want Julian Rossi’s guard downstairs to see you talking on an unencrypted line."
She flinched, pulling the blinds shut instantly, backing into the center of the room. "What do you want, Zayden?! You ruined everything! You put your own mother in handcuffs! You threw away my clothes!"
"I called to give you thirty seconds of truth, Carmen," I cut her off. "Because if you don't listen to me right now, you won't live to see Monday morning."
Silence fell over the wire.
"You think Julian Rossi is flying you to Scotland or the Bahamas on a private jet?" I continued softly. "You think he’s going to give you twenty percent of two point four million dollars? Ask yourself one simple question, Carmen: when was the last time a loan shark shared millions of dollars with a sixty-two-year-old witness who just got processed by the Phoenix Police Department?"
I could hear her breath catch in her throat. The seed of doubt was planted, watering her natural paranoia.
"He called his driver five minutes ago," I lied, sharpening the blade. "He told his men that the private flight from Scottsdale is for one passenger. And that passenger isn't you."
"You're lying!" she whimpered, though her voice lacked conviction. "Julian promised me! He paid my bail!"
"He paid your bail so you wouldn't talk to Detective Vance in a state interrogation room," I countered. "Once he has the forged conservatorship papers signed, you are a loose end. A very loud, very sloppy loose end."
I paused, letting the silence stretch for three full seconds.
"I’m giving you one chance, mother," I said, using the word for the last time in my life. "Walk down those back stairs right now. Step through the side gate near the dumpster. Ray Chavez is standing there with an open car door. You hand over Rossi’s financial ledgers, you sign a full confession regarding the abuse and forgery, and I tell Detective Vance to put you in state protective custody."
"And if I don't?" she whispered, her voice cracking with terror.
"If you don't," I said, "I put my phone in my pocket, drive back to the Ritz-Carlton, and let Julian Rossi handle his business on Sunday night."
In our headphones, we heard total silence for ten long seconds.
Then, the sound of a heavy desk drawer opening echoed through the speaker.
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"He... he keeps a black USB drive in his briefcase on the desk downstairs," Carmen whispered frantically. "It has all the Nassau bank account numbers and the list of people he paid off in San Diego."
"Get it," I ordered. "And walk out."
