Final Payment

Chapter Twenty-one

As if the mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had opened a floodgate, Hector Ocate’s recitation of events poured out in a babble of fatigue, and Estelle probed for something that would point her in the right direction.

“When you landed at the Posadas airport,” she said, “in the early morning hours on Wednesday, your uncle was still with you?”

“Yes, he was,” Hector said vehemently.

“But when you became engaged in putting the plane back in the hangar, he simply disappeared?”

“Yes. I turned my back, and he was gone.”

“You never saw him again? Not since then?”

“No.”

“And he hasn’t contacted you?”

“No. Never.”

Estelle fell silent, regarding the boy. He shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. In a rural county, Manolo Tapia’s choices would be limited. He couldn’t simply hail a cab. Stealing a car would be risky without urban cover. He could hitchhike, trying to blend in with the many strangers in town for the bike race. He might attempt to rent a car from Chavez Motors, if they had any left to rent. Or, he could simply find a place to stay and hole up until an opportunity presented itself to skip back across the border. There would be no rooms available at the two local motels, or at the one bed and breakfast, but an enterprising person could always find shelter.

“Where do you think he went?” she asked.

“I…I don’t know.” Hector didn’t sound convincing.

“He could as easily be back in Mexico,” Estelle offered, waiting to see if Hector jumped at the possibility. He nodded quickly. “During the entire time that you were with Tapia-beginning that night in Culiacán when you picked up the passengers and met with him-he never mentioned another destination or…job? Other than the passing mention of something up in Albuquerque?”

“Nothing.” Hector rubbed his face again. His skin was pale and a sheen of sweat had formed on his face from the effort of trying to stay awake.

“Are you hungry?”

“No, I…” Hector began before the question actually sank in. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I could eat something.”

Without being asked, Eddie Mitchell rose and headed for the door. “How about you?” he said to Estelle.

“No, thanks.” She turned back to Hector. “Tell me what you know about the Salvadorans.”

“I know nothing,” he replied. “Really. They talked, but in the airplane, it is not so easy to hear. The woman, she…” and he made a yak-yak motion with the fingers of his right hand. “I could not hear much of what was said.”

“But each carried a money belt? You knew about that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Your uncle paid you with one of them. That’s five thousand dollars, Hector. A lot of money. And he promised the possibility of another payment?”

“If a return flight was necessary. Yes.”

“You say if…Señor Tapia wasn’t sure?”

“He did not say.”

Estelle’s cell phone chirped and she pulled it off her belt.

“Guzman.”

“Ah,” Captain Tomás Naranjo said. “I am sorry for the interruption. But I thought you should know what we have discovered. Are you free to talk now?”

“Certainly,” Estelle said, fascinated that the mere mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had set the ponderous wheels of Mexican law enforcement in motion. That phenomenon, all by itself, told her that fortunes stood to be won or lost, depending on Tapia’s actions and connections.

She held the door for Eddie Mitchell, returning with the box of not-so-fresh donuts that had graced the dispatch desk, then slipped out into the hall and stepped into her own quiet office.

“The three victims are from Santa Ana, a city of no particular distinction in El Salvador,” he said. “Guillermo Haslán-the victim referred to by name-he is an accountant for PDC. Do you know of them?”

“I don’t think so,” Estelle replied. The world of corporate initials was so cluttered that any combination would sound familiar.

“Yes,” Naranjo said. “Let me see.” She could hear the rustle of paper. “A mining consortium with a regional office in Santa Ana. Most interesting. Ah, here it is. Pemberton, Duquesne, and Cordova.” He pronounced each name slowly, as if he enjoyed the musical sounds. “Are you familiar with them? Construction, mining, and other undertakings.”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“There’s no reason you should be, I suppose. They are headquartered in New Zealand, but there are offices worldwide, I’m told. My sources profess to know little more than that, other than that it appears that Señor Haslán may have disposed of some funds that were not his. Certainly not an unusual story, I’m sure you’ll agree. I suppose that the powers that be are perhaps justifiably irritated.”

“Enough to send Manolo Tapia to retrieve the funds, minus administrative fees,” Estelle said.

Naranjo chuckled. “Just so.”

“PDC funds? Do we know?”

“We do not know that. The disappearance of Señor Haslán and his family was something of a local incident, I’m told. One day, they are home, well-regarded in the community, a pleasant family. The next day, their house stands empty. This happened sometime last week. The exact time of their disappearance seems to be something of a mystery.”

“Who remains behind?”

“I will endeavor to find out for you. Perhaps there are more relatives. We don’t know. Suppose I have someone from Santa Ana contact you directly?”

“That would be good, Tomás. I appreciate your assistance.”

“Most assuredly. This boy pilot has no idea where Señor Tapia might have gone?”

“He says not. We’re looking under every rock, believe me.”

Naranjo sighed with commiseration. “I wish you well. This is a big country, of course. And we are so few. I have issued orders of my own. We will do what we can.”

“We appreciate that.” Estelle harbored no illusions about the efficiency of efforts-on either side of the border, for that matter. She wondered what Naranjo’s orders actually had been, but had the courtesy not to ask.

Walking back to the conference room, she was reminded by the quiet ambience of the Public Safety Building of how tired she really was. Hector Ocate would be just about comatose, unable to think clearly, even with the sugar jog from the donuts. More important, he would be too tired to guard his answers.

When she pushed open the door, the young man sat with his head down on the table, and she could tell by the slump of his body that he was asleep. The donuts had not been enough of a boost.

She nodded at Mitchell and he reached across and shook the boy by the shoulder. His head rose slowly and he tried to blink, but his eyelids sagged to half-mast.

“Hector, listen to me,” Estelle said. “We have to know where your uncle is. You must tell us. That is the only way that we can protect you and your family.”

“Please,” the boy murmured. “I do not know.”

“He did not walk away at the airport, did he?”

“But of course he…”

“Please, joven.” She let the heavy sarcasm hang for an instant. “We are not stupid. The airport is seven miles from town. What’s he going to do, walk cross-country? Hitchhike?” She saw the look of confusion on his face, and she held out her thumb for explanation. “I don’t think so.”

“He…”

“You said that you put the plane away, and as if by magic, your uncle disappeared. That’s what you want us to believe. But that’s not what happened.” The questions swirled in her own tired brain, and she turned quickly toward Eddie Mitchell. The captain had been waiting silently, and now raised an eyebrow in question. Estelle nodded toward the conference room door.

Out in the hallway, she lowered her voice to little more than a whisper.

“We need to check Reynaldo Estrada’s place,” she said. “I should have thought about that sooner. It’s perfect. An empty house, and handy transportation whenever Tapia needs it.”

“You think so?” Mitchell said. “The Uriostes next door wouldn’t notice the truck being used?” He shrugged philosophically. “Of course, they didn’t notice when Hector used it. Why change?”

“We need to ask them,” she said. “But at night? Maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. With curtains drawn, the television on, why would they? And,” Estelle added with a weary shake of the head, “would they care if they did notice?”

“Well, it isn’t night now,” Mitchell said. His eyes narrowed. “Trouble is, the trail’s most likely stone cold, Estelle. They flew back here when, Wednesday early in the morning? That’s more than seventy-two hours ago. Why would Tapia be lounging around? What would he be waiting for?”

“It doesn’t make sense that he would,” Estelle said. “He’s got work to do. That’s what Hector claims. Maybe up north. But it’ll fill in a square if we can find traces…if we know Manolo Tapia stayed in that house for a bit. Even one night. That’s another little piece to all of this.”

“Well, we need some clear thinkers,” Mitchell said. “If there’s any chance at all that Tapia is in that house, I don’t want somebody who is half asleep busting in on him.” He looked at his watch. “Let me round up some good hands, and we’ll go check the place out.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tom Mears said, but the captain shook his head. The sergeant had appeared out of the patrol office, a cup of coffee in hand.

“We need you here with the kid,” he said, and turned to Estelle. “You’re going to talk with the family again?”

“I’ll call them in now,” she said.

“We don’t want to wait for that. I’ll get things moving out at Estrada’s. Give me a call if you find out anything I need to know.” Mitchell paused. “A couple things don’t jibe. The kid says that Tapia mentioned Albuquerque? If that’s the case, he’s long gone. Somehow, he got himself a set of wheels, or hitched, or caught the bus out of Deming. Any of that’s possible. But if he didn’t do that…what’s the point of him staying around here? That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.”

“We’re missing something,” Estelle replied. “It’s as simple as that.”