Added: Aston Rommel - Date: 30.10.2021 18:03 - Views: 20045 - Clicks: 6154
She was 21 years old and short on money, but the decision to leave San Francisco still surprised her family and friends. A charismatic poet, 27 years her senior, had bought her a drink at a bar a few months earlier, then read her tarot cards.
It was decided that their future lay in the land of casinos. Their lives to date, in different ways, had been marked by losses. They wanted to start winning. In Vegas, Heather made another out-of-character move: she applied for work as a driver of armored vehicles supplying cash to casinos.
She was modest and beautiful. She had a good line in cutting comments and knowing smiles. She had no relevant experience, but she passed the criminal record check with a clean bill of health. Her references were perfect. They were sorry to lose her. When she was two years old, growing up in Buffalo, New York, her parents had divorced and her mother had moved to California.
At first, like most new drivers at Loomis, Heather was ased to the casino house runs. This work involves transporting new banknotes to thousands of gambling tables each day, but the stakes to the company and the employee are relatively low. The new notes are easily traceable. In her first weeks in her new job, Heather took a firing range test to qualify for a side-arm. She shocked her coworkers by achieving record scores. Then, in September, after proving her diligence and reliability on the house-runs, she was promoted to one of the riskier bits of work the business did: the cash machine runs.
Five days a week, accompanied by two colleagues, she would drive millions of dollars in unmarked bills to the Strip. She cared about other people. It was clear in her countenance, the way she spoke, her questions. She asked after their kids, their wives. Some of the drivers and cash couriers admired her from afar, and others convinced themselves they had become good friends with her. Some wanted her approval, others wanted more. They had the self-awareness necessary to see that she was out of their league, but not always the discipline to conceal their reverence.
She dealt with their comments about her beauty—a mix of Seneca Indian her father and Italian American her mother —with grace and patience, a self-deprecating joke or averted gaze, but it was also true that she began dressing as if hoping to limit the amount of eyes on her. It was as if she sensed her looks could be a problem for her plans. At work she wore her hair tied back with a bow. Scott Stewart, a Loomis courier who worked with Heather at the time, recalled her choice of footwear.
The 1st was a Friday. The Strip was gearing up for the weekend influx of out-of-town gamblers, the addicts and bankers and bachelor parties, people whose moral compasses would be as vulnerable as their wallets. Heather was behind the wheel. The truck was filled with neat piles of crisp, unmarked notes amounting to around three million dollars.
But her footwear did strike him as out of the ordinary. It was going to be a long day. They all knew that. Traffic, human and vehicular, is at its heaviest.
It was around 8 a. Moving money around the Strip was hard, heavy work. Stewart and his partner hauled the first of the money containers out of the truck. Stewart and his partner followed a simple route through the casino. It would take, if all went well, around 20 minutes. And at that last one was the exit to where Heather was supposed to pick us up. But when they got to the exit, on schedule, the armored truck was nowhere in sight. Nor was there any of Heather.
They waited a few minutes more. They liked Heather. But then they started wondering if there might have been a serious accident on the road. What if Heather was badly hurt?
Just three years ly, a famous heist had occurred on an armored vehicle transporting money to a Federal Reserve branch in Buffalo, New York, where Heather was from. The drivers in that case had stopped for a sandwich, then someone had stuck the barrel of a gun into a slot in the door. A female guard was held at gunpoint. Loomis employees, in the wake of this and other incidents, received training in what to do in an emergency. Stewart and his partner finally placed a panicked call to the Loomis office.
A fresh armored vehicle was sent out in a rush to pick them up. In the new vehicle, as they conducted a sweep of the streets, looking for their original truck, they tried desperately to make radio contact with Heather. But she and her vehicle, and approximately three million dollars in cash, had disappeared in the kind of daylight which reporters, the next morning, would call broad. Last month I tracked down an out-of-print book I have wanted to read for a while.
The title is Hijacked. The book was printed in by Twowindows Press in Berkeley, in an edition of only copies. One of these first editions arrived at my apartment in clean brown wrapping paper neatly affixed on three sides by two-inch pieces of Magic Tape. My interest was extra-literary. Solis was a handsome man. He had one poem published in the American Poetry Review and, when he came up for parole in the early 90s, wrote letters of support to the board, citing his contribution to American letters as relevant evidence that he had been reformed.
Solis was given parole in By that time, he had a tattoo on his right forearm bearing the words Esta Vida Loca. He went to Europe, but soon ran out of money and returned to California. Shortly thereafter, he met Heather Catherine Tallchief at a bar, and they went home together. This crazy life. That she applied to drive armored vehicles for Loomis at his suggestion, too. The FBI thinks he showed her how to apply for false identities inusing in Soldier of Fortune magazine.
These are useful assets for anyone who thinks they might, one day, need to flee into a foreign country. Apartments can be rented, jobs can be obtained, taxes can be paid. A new life can be born. The archives of the Reno Gazette show them picking up the story the next day. Both Bitsco and Duis soon proved themselves to be correct in most respects. And I wait In my prison cell Thinking true romance Watching every channel For my cinderella Whose time has not come To throw me pumpkins Nor I To offer A high-heel crystal shoe Underneath a moon of cheese The rats have left behind In the hollywood night.
When Solis wrote these lines, Heather was 4 years old, living in Buffalo, New York, watching her father struggle with drug and alcohol abuse, and receiving occasional letters from her mother in California. She must have felt, at times, that no-one on earth wanted her. Every couple in love needs a place to live.
But he never hung around the front. He always used the back stairs. A man named Walt Stowe had by then been ased to the case as the FBI assistant special-agent-in-charge. He began to pursue a lead indicating that the couple may have fled to Mexico. Travel records suggested they had visited the country just a few months before their disappearance. Then more information supporting this theory emerged.
Stowe discovered that, a few days before the heist, Heather and Solis had told the manager of a local business that they were soon planning to move to Mexico permanently. They gave the guy a business card, in fact. It was for a company called Tek-Si Consultants in San Ysidro, California, and it was accompanied by a forwarding address where they could be reached via a post office box in San Diego. Stowe checked out these addresses, and reached out to legal attaches in Mexico, hoping that Heather and Roberto Solis had slipped up by leaving evidence of their plans behind.
But Stowe soon came to the conclusion that the couple, as part of their meticulous planning for the heist, had been deliberate about everything. Several art magazines with s ripped out had been found in the apartment. Perhaps they were posing somewhere as art dealers, or perhaps this was just yet another false lead. Weeks passed, and the FBI began to sense that this was a case that would take time, a lot of time, to bring to a conclusion.
They were correct. When such prominence is afforded to a fugitive, information tends to follow, but in this instance they still received few meaningful le. The FBI marveled at the level of planning and standard of execution that lay behind the heist. But even as he tipped his hat to her skill, he expressed doubt as to how long the seeming excitement of making off with millions of dollars might last. Heather, wherever she was, would forever be looking over her shoulder. One possible last sighting of Heather did emerge, but it seemed at first like a long-shot. At an airport in Denver, several hours after Heather had vanished in Las Vegas, two workers saw a man dressed as a doctor pushing a wheelchair towards a waiting limousine.
The woman in the wheelchair, her face mostly covered, at first seemed elderly and infirm, but when she got up and climbed into the limo she did so with a speed and dexterity that struck the two witnesses as strange. She pushed a wheelchair bearing Solis, who was disguised as a wealthy, aging gambler, onto a chartered Lear jet at Las Vegas airport.
It was a dress rehearsal, or an attempt to establish a pattern, and it went off without a hitch, so Heather booked a second flight out of Las Vegas. It would leave on Friday, October 1st, late in the morning. For this second journey, they could swap roles. People would be looking for Heather after the truck went missing, but no-one would be searching for a man, even one who looked like Roberto Solis, pushing an elderly lady along. This way, if a Loomis truck somehow ended up driving into the garage on October 1st, no-one would be overly suspicious.
Heather, or Solis, had business cards for the company made in the names of Nicole Reger and Joseph Panura. On September 28th, Heather wrote a letter to her mother, apparently expressing regret at their recent estrangement. Instead of mailing it, she left it to be found in the Las Vegas apartment she shared with Solis. She parked the vehicle in the garage, where Solis was waiting.
Then they began disguising themselves.Las vegas women wanted
email: [email protected] - phone:(426) 902-4778 x 6082
Wanted by the FBI