Final Payment

Chapter Nineteen

Three morgue photos were fanned out on the table in front of Hector Ocate. He tried not to look at those incriminating, grotesque faces. Instead, he concentrated on his hands clenched in his lap.

“Tell me who did this,” Estelle said. “You know what happened.”

The teenager didn’t respond. Despite his momentary eagerness out at the airport, now that he was sequestered inside the county building, Hector had retreated to some distant place. The boy knew he was in trouble, that was obvious. But it was equally obvious to Estelle that he was having difficulty weighing his options.

“Right now, you have two choices,” Captain Eddie Mitchell said, understanding the boy’s dilemma. Mitchell sat on the edge of the conference table, his fingers busy pinching a corduroy pattern in the rim of his foam coffee cup. He wore his best neutral expression, perhaps encouraged by being awakened after so little sleep. “You can spend a hell of a lot of time in a prison here, or you can spend the rest of your life in a prison in Mexico.” He turned his head to regard the boy. “I’m sure there are some folks who’d like to talk to you down home, ¿verdad?” The Spanish grated, the one word using up about half of Mitchell’s fluency. “That’s just about the extent of your choices.”

“Tell me their names.” Estelle pushed one of the photographs toward Hector. The high-contrast black-and-white photo, a head and torso shot, showed the corpse who had been found closest to the runway. Cactus thorns studded the man’s right cheek. The 9mm slug had not exited after its path from back to front through the man’s skull, but it had lodged in the globe of the left eyeball after bursting through the thin orbital bone, leaving the left side of the man’s face pulpy and grotesque. The other eye was open, death coming before surprise.

“You don’t know who this is?”

“They called him Guillermo. I heard her say that.” He touched the edge of the photo of the heavy-set woman without picking it up. “This one talked so much-”

“Her name?” Sheriff Torrez snapped.

“I…I don’t know.”

“So now we’re supposed to believe you’ve never seen these people before,” Torrez said. “Who did the shooting? You know that?”

“I picked these ones up outside of Culiacán,” Hector said. “They are from El Salvador. That is what I heard. I was told to meet them…at Culiacán.”

“Told by who?”

“The man who promised to pay for the flight. That is where he got on the airplane as well,” the boy amended.

“He is not one of these?”

“No.”

“His name?” Estelle asked.

Hector hesitated. “Manuel, I think. No…Manolo.” The boy took a deep breath. “I knew when I saw him that…that…no sé,” he finished lamely.

“You knew him, you mean? Before all this happened?”

“No,” Hector blurted. “But he had a…I don’t know the word. Actitud.”

“A way about him? An attitude?”

“Yes. Exactamente. The command.”

“Is he the man who hired you in the first place?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I cannot be sure, agente. But I believe he is the one who contacted me originally.”

“While you were living with the Uriostes?”

“Yes.”

Estelle sat for a moment, regarding the boy. “I don’t understand, Hector. A group of Salvadorans somehow make arrangements to rendezvous with a flight north out of Culiacán, across the border at night into the United States. The assassin-whatever he is, whoever he is-contacts a kid who is a student in the United States to steal an airplane and do the flying? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“But is true.”

“I don’t think so,” Estelle said. “How did he contact you, then?”

“Through the e-mail, agente.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mitchell said. “How would he know your e-mail address unless you had sent it to him? What, you met him on an assassins’ chat room, or what?”

Hector frowned deeply, his lips pressed into a white line.

“You may be a hell of a pilot, fella, but you’re a piss-poor liar,” Mitchell observed.

“All your communication was by e-mail?” Estelle asked.

“Yes.”

“His address?”

“I have it, yes.”

“I suppose you do,” Estelle said. “What is it?” She slid a small pad of paper across to him, along with a pencil.

“E-mail,” Mitchell scoffed as Hector jotted down the electronic address. “All that tells us is that he’s on this planet…probably. And half the world has e-mail with that same search engine.”

“It’s something,” Estelle said. She turned the paper and looked at the address. “Neat. All numerical.” She handed it to Mitchell, who in turn passed it to the sheriff. “When did he first contact you?”

“In March. Yo creo que sí. It was early in March.”

“Two months ago?” Estelle asked incredulously. “How would he know your e-mail address?”

“I…I don’t know.” His eyes flicked toward Torrez, as if he feared the silent sheriff was going to reach out and smack him.

“So out of the blue, somehow,” Estelle said, “cuando menos se lo esperaba, here comes an e-mail asking that you do this, and you jump at the chance.”

“No…yes.”

The undersheriff sighed loudly. “Caramba, Hector.” She tapped the table with the eraser end of the pencil. “We’ll come back to this. Tell me what he asked you to do.”

“Only that I should pick up these people at Culiacán, and that he would ride with us north across the border, because he had unfinished business in the north.”

“Business with whom?”

“He did not say.”

“When he first contacted you, how did you know you could find an airplane to use?”

“Is easy,” Hector said.

“I see. Is easy. You chose a time, figured out how to take the plane without being noticed, and flew south.”

“Exact.”

“To Culiacán.”

“Yes. Direct there.”

“The four people were waiting?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“When we were in the air, Manolo told me that he needed to deal with people in Albuquerque.”

“Deal how?” Estelle asked.

“I don’t know. But…” He stopped again. “He did not want me to fly him to Albuquerque. To be exposed at the International Airport, perhaps. I don’t know.”

“Tell us what he looked like,” Mitchell said.

“Not too tall, perhaps,” Hector said. “As tall as me, I think. Heavy.” He held his fists clenched, flexing his muscles. “He is like the bull. Strong. And quick.”

“Features? What does he look like?” Mitchell repeated patiently.

Hector frowned. “Nothing to notice. A small scar is at the corner of his right eye.” He flicked a finger to his own face. “Here, like so. Just a little one. Black hair. Brown eyes, I think.”

“What was he wearing?”

The boy grimaced. “I did not…do not…remember. A black jacket, I think. And blue jeans.” He circled his left wrist with his right hand. “A large gold watch.”

“Did the three passengers appear to know him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And he paid you?”

“Some. And promised more when we were safely in the United States.”

“Between Culiacán and Posadas, you didn’t see any relationship between this Manolo and the other three? Did they talk?”

“No. Manolo sat in the front seat. The others in the back.”

“What did you think?”

Hector shrugged hopelessly. “I thought that…I don’t know.”

“Why did you choose to land on that little strip by Regál? That could not be where the three wanted to go originally.”

“No. I was to take them to Socorro. It is easy to fly low up the valley of the river, and that is where this Guillermo and the talking woman had a relative. That is what they said. They were most excited.”

“So what happened? Why the change of plans?”

“We had been in the air for only a few minutes, and Manolo ordered me to go to Posadas-not the airport, but this one.”

“He used your map?”

Hector shook his head. “He already knew the way. I agreed. How could I not? I could see that he had a pistol.”

“Ah. Now he has a weapon. He threatened you?”

“No. But in the airplane, the pistol was obvious, so.” Hector leaned back and jabbed his hand in his waistband, on the left side.

“Did he say anything to the other passengers? About landing near Posadas? About the change of plans? About not going to Socorro?”

“No. He did not speak to the others. He sat in the front, with me. I believe they thought he was with me, somehow.”

Torrez leaned back, expression skeptical. “They-Guillermo or any of the others-didn’t talk like he was the one who arranged their flight?” he asked.

“No.”

“But that was your understanding…that he had made the arrangements.”

“I…I think so. But maybe not.” The boy looked at each of the officers in turn, as if trying to judge who was his ally.

“So you landed here, and everyone bailed out,” Torrez said.

“Not right away. I land, and we are…taxi? Is that what you say? We taxi down the pavement, and this man demands that they give him the money. Each. He took them all.”

“Them all what?” Mitchell asked.

“The…the cinturones? Con dinero.”

“Money belts,” Estelle prompted. “They were each wearing a money belt?”

“Yes. Each the three of them. He used the pistol to threaten these people. I think that he kills them if they do not agree. I think at that time, they think about robbery, and that they were going to be abandoned there, in the desert.”

“They gave up the money without a struggle?”

Hector shrugged. “He had the pistol, señora. They did not want to give him the belts. But they had to.”

“What kind of weapon? Do you know?” Mitchell asked.

“Yes. A large pistol with a…” and he made a round shape with one hand, screwing it onto the invisible pistol in the other.

“Silenciador?” Estelle offered. “A silencer. A suppressor?”

“Yes.”

“That would convince a lot of people,” Torrez said.

“Guillermo said they would give the money, if they were not to be hurt. Manolo took all the belts, and ordered the people out of the plane. He gave one of the belts to me.”

“Tom, would you get the effects?” Estelle said, and Sergeant Mears disappeared for a moment, returning with a brown manila envelope. He dumped it out on the conference table: ninety-seven cents in change, a wallet, a small pocketknife, sunglasses, and a heavy leather belt.

Hector reached across the table and touched the belt’s tooled leather. “There is money, I think.”

“You know damn well there is money,” Torrez snapped. “Try four thousand five hundred in hundred-dollar bills. That’s what I counted.” He lifted the inside fold and spread the belt, revealing the tightly folded bills. “Five grand and ninety-seven cents, counting the change and the money that’s in the wallet. Not bad pay for a night out on the town.”

“He said that if I had to take him home, sometime, that he would give me another.”

“If,” Estelle repeated. “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“No. Only north.”

“How did this Manolo know that the people had money?” Mitchell asked.

“I think that is why he came here,” Hector said. “I don’t know so much, but I think the men he works for…I think they would know.”

“And how do you know that?” Estelle said softly. “The men he works for. Did he actually tell you that he worked for someone?”

“Well, that is what I think. This kind of money-”

“This is Salvadoran money coming north?” Estelle asked. “Is that what you think?”

“I am not so sure. But I think so. That is what I guess.” He gulped as if his throat were full of cotton. “I did not ask. He had the pistol. And he seemed like a man to use it. That is all I know.”

“I bet,” Torrez said. “What do your parents do?” The change of subject was jarring, and Hector coughed violently until his eyes teared. Mitchell left the room and returned promptly with a can of soda. The boy sipped eagerly, and they waited until he had regained his composure. “Your parents?” Torrez repeated.

“He…” And Hector stopped abruptly. Estelle could see that it wasn’t any lack of facility with English that made him so hesitant. Eventually, he said, “My father flies the charter out of Acapulco. Sometimes it is the tourists, sometimes…others.” Quickly, he added, “He does nothing against the law. Nothing.”

“You learned to fly from your father?” Estelle asked.

“Yes. I learned to fly with the big Grumman. He used to…what is the word…to spray?”

“He was a crop duster?”

“Yes. He doesn’t do that now. I have flown since I was ten. I am licensed now.”

“Whether you have a license or not is the least of your problems, joven,” Estelle said.

“I am licensed.” His eyes strayed to the wallet, and the watchful Mitchell leaned forward, took the wallet, and examined the contents.

“This?” he asked, holding up an official certificate. Hector nodded. Mitchell handed it to Estelle, who read both sides.

“Is this accurate?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“It says your date of birth is April of 1989. That makes you eighteen, doesn’t it?”

Estelle turned to one of the chairs, pulled it forward, and sat down beside Hector Ocate. “It’s hard to believe anything you say, señor.” She emphasized the salutation, and its obvious contrast with joven, the generic greeting for a teenager.

“You landed, got out of the plane, and popped those three. Is that what happened?” Torrez asked. “There ain’t no goddamned fifth passenger.”

“That is not what happened,” Hector said, a trace of panic creeping into his voice. Despite the circumstances, it was still hard to look at the young man’s round face, his expressive brown eyes, and think him a killer.

“What did?” As he asked the question, Eddie Mitchell leafed through the remainder of the wallet’s contents, finally tossing the scant documents back on the table.

“I landed the plane as you say,” Hector pleaded. “That is all. Manolo ordered everyone out, and he followed.”

“You had to get out of the airplane as well,” Estelle said. “There’s no passenger side door on the right side of the cockpit. For Manolo to exit the plane, you had to get out first-to get out of his way.”

“Yes. That is so. Then I climbed back in.”

“And waited.”

“And waited, yes.”

“You knew what he was going to do?”

“Yes.” The single word was nearly inaudible.

“You saw what happened, then?”

“No, I did not,” Hector said quickly. “I was inside the airplane. What happened was…was behind me. I could not see.”

“But you knew,” Estelle said, and Hector nodded.

“Who are these folks?” Mitchell asked. He held up a photograph that had been framed in one of the wallet’s plastic inner pockets. The photo had been folded, a crease running through the picture between the boy in the middle and the man on his right. “This is you in the middle.” He held out the photo to Hector.

“Yes,” the boy said. He took a deep breath.

“The others?”

“That is my father, just so.” He touched the photo, indicating the man standing to his right, isolated by the crease where the photo had been folded. “Rudolfo Villanueva. But he is not my father. He is padrastro. I do not remember the word in English.”

“Stepfather,” Estelle prompted.

“Yes, I think so.”

“And this?” Mitchell tapped the photo. The third figure, a heavy-set man with black curly hair, stood with one arm draped around Hector’s shoulders. The man, perhaps fifty years old, wore only a pair of bright yellow shorts-and a lot of muscle. His left foot rested on a cooler, and his calf muscle looked like a football. Estelle examined the photo. The family resemblance was striking.

Once again, Hector hesitated. “He is…a friend of my father.”

“His name?”

“I…I do not know.”

“Shit, you don’t remember,” Mitchell snapped. “You two are standing there like old buddies.”

“Really. He is just a man we met that day. We were fishing, and when we posed on the boat, my mother, she took the photo.”

Estelle fingered the crease.

“He’s a lyin’ little shit,” Torrez said affably.

“He is just a friend. Mira,” he added. “My father knows nothing of this. Please…”

“You’re lying, Hector,” Estelle said abruptly.

“No,” he said.

She held up the photo again so Hector could see it. “This is the man who flew north with you, isn’t it?”

“I…I…he was just there that day. We were fishing,” he said lamely.

“He’s the one, isn’t he?” When Hector refused to answer, she grimaced with impatience and turned to Eddie Mitchell. “We need to bring the Uriostes in. Both of them. I don’t believe that all this went down without them knowing something. While you’re doing that, I’ll see if I can reach el capitán Naranjo. He may have contacts that will be useful. We’re going to need to talk with this alleged padrastro.” She picked up the photo. “And we have this. This other face.” She leaned close, examining the photo. The man wore a heavy watch, perhaps a Rolex. All three men were relaxed in the photo, not a moment among strangers.

“I…” Hector said, and put his head in his hands.

“I’ll do it,” Sheriff Torrez said. “You want ’em both? Mom and Pop?”

“Yes.”

“No, please,” Hector said from behind his hands. “They know nothing of this. And…”

“And what?”

“Please…”

Estelle nodded at Torrez. “Go ahead. Give me a minute with him.” When the door had closed, she leaned closer to Hector. “So tell me, señor. You waited for this Manolo to finish his business?” When the boy looked up at her, confused, she added, “You waited in the airplane, and after a little while, Manolo returned to the airplane? You got out so he could climb back inside?”

“He entered through the big door. The cargo door in the back.”

Estelle pictured the tight confines of Jerry Turner’s Cessna. “There’s no easy way from there to the front seats,” she said, and looked at the photo again. “And he’s a big man, Hector.”

“No, no. He remained in the back.”

“And the two of you flew where?”

“Here,” Hector said. “We flew to the airport. I parked in front of the hangar, and got out to open the doors. When I returned to the airplane, he was gone.”

“Sure thing,” Mitchell scoffed.

“He was gone,” Hector insisted. “I do not know where.”

“You just locked up and went home?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it by then?”

“Perhaps two or three in the morning.”

“Your host family-the Uriostes-they knew nothing of any of this?”

“Nothing.”

“What time did you leave the house that night?” Estelle asked, as if “that night” was a time in the distant past and not just days before.

“Eight in the evening,” Hector said promptly. “Maybe a little earlier. The Señor Bergin had a meeting. I know that. The…I don’t know what it is called, but the businessmen of the town all meet.”

“The Chamber of Commerce?” Estelle prompted.

“Yes. That is it.”

Tuesday evening’s dinner meeting of the Chamber had been an important one, by all accounts-and well-publicized. “How did you know that?”

“He told me,” Hector said.

“Ah.” Estelle looked across at the others. “Jim Bergin told you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Yes. Several times. He came to school once, and I have visited the airport.”

Estelle turned to Mitchell. “See if you can reach Jim, will you?”

“You got it,” Mitchell said, but he paused before turning to the door. “What did you tell the Uriostes when you left the house?” he asked Hector.

The boy ducked his head, as if loath to reveal the subterfuge. “I go to study with one of my friends,” he said. “He lives just a short distance.”

“But instead, you went next door and took the old man’s truck,” Estelle said. “You park in the rest stop along the highway, just east of the airport.” She relaxed back in the chair, regarding Hector Ocate. His story included some grains of truth, no doubt. Her flight with Jim Bergin, over rough country at night, had surprised her. What to the uninitiated might seem suicidal or at best foolhardy was hardly that; they had managed the flight with comfort and ease.

“What time did you return home?”

“It was nearly four in the morning,” Hector said.

“Your host family doesn’t mind that you’re gone all night?”

“They are sure that I’m with the Grahams.”

“Your study partner.”

“Yes.”

Captain Mitchell reappeared at the door, cell phone in hand. “Jim’s on his way in.” He beckoned to Estelle, who joined him outside the conference room.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Bizarre, is what I think,” Estelle said.

“He’s a real piece of work,” Mitchell said. “Woulda been nice to run an NAA on his hands. But it’s been too long now.”

“I don’t think he fired the gun, Eddie.”

“I don’t either, but it was a thought. At the same time, I’m not sure I buy all this Manolo shit, either. But it’s a fact-we’ve got somebody who is as cold-blooded as they come. Like some shootin’ gallery. Pop, pop, pop. And in the dark, even with a laser sight, it ain’t easy. It ain’t something that a kid does. And that’s what bothers me. Here’s a kid who’s a hot-dog pilot. All right, I can buy that. Motorcycle, four-wheeler, airplane, it doesn’t make any difference. Kids are immortal and know it.”

“The flying is one thing,” Estelle said.

“That’s where I’m going,” Mitchell agreed. “He knows what went down out there in the desert, and he still flies back, calm as shit, makes a perfect landing, puts the plane away, remembers to fuel it…Shit.” He shook his head. “Don’t jibe. That’s cold.”

“The money troubles me,” Estelle said. “Three money belts, and maybe five thousand in each. That’s petty cash, Eddie. You don’t run those kinds of risks for fifteen thousand dollars. Not in this day and age.”

“Well, now, I don’t know. We have people walking across the desert every day and every night without a peso between ’em.”

“This is different. Someone from El Salvador makes complicated, risky arrangements to flee north, carrying enough money for the trip without being weighted down? I have to wonder…Where’s the rest?”

“Transferred to some bank stateside,” Mitchell said. “Or a million other places. Caymans, Switzerland, wherever money is going these days.” He nodded as the possibilities opened. “Odds are good it isn’t their money,” he said. “That’s an obvious motive.” He frowned. “But why not just pop ’em in Mexico, when he caught up with ’em? What’s the point of takin’ the risk?”

“That’s the part that doesn’t make sense to me,” Estelle said.

Mitchell grinned. “Just that part, eh? That puts you way out ahead of me.” He looked across the small lobby toward the clock. “We’re going to keep after this little shit until he gives us some answers,” he said. “The Uriostes will be here in a minute. They have some explaining to do. Are you going to talk with Naranjo?”

“Yes. If the Judiciales can help in some way, he’ll be the best contact that we have. If this is all out of El Salvador or some such, there’s not much they can do.” She held up the picture of the boy and his two guardians. “Maybe this will help as well. I’ll e-mail it to Naranjo’s office right now so he can have a look. That and the name of the boy’s stepfather might ring a bell with someone.” She shook her head slowly. “Hector makes things up as easily as breathing.” She tapped the photo. “Who knows. This guy in the bathing suit might be an innocent shrimp fisherman, just minding his own business.”

“Maybe.”

“But I’ll bet a lot that he isn’t. He looks more like Hector than his stepfather does.”

“If there is a Manolo who needs a return flight, he might be coming back this way. Be nice to be at the plane to meet him.”