Final Payment

Chapter Twenty-three

Hector Ocate was too tired to appreciate that he was the sole occupant of the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department detention facility-five small cells on the second floor. He practically dove onto the cot in the first cell. His eyes had been closed when he buried his face in the pillow, but when the door clanged shut, he rolled onto his side and his eyes flickered open, staring at the concrete block wall.

Estelle watched him for a moment, then turned away and walked back downstairs.

Dispatcher Gayle Torrez met her at the landing and handed the undersheriff a slip of paper. “That’s the motorcycle,” she said. Estelle glanced at the description of the late Cody Roybal’s 2003 Yamaha dirt bike. Like a myriad of others, there was nothing unique about it-a bright red, high-fendered, knobby-tired machine designed for ramping up rough trails or sand dunes. “I put the information out.”

“Thanks, Gayle. I don’t think anybody is going to find Manolo Tapia motoring down the interstate,” Estelle said. “But we never know. Maybe someone will notice a burly Mexican wearing a Rolex and Bermuda shorts riding a dirt bike.” She could picture the bike headed south now, kicking up sand after vaulting the loose barbed-wire border fence, but she did not understand the point of that risk. Captain Naranjo was right-there was a good reason for not simply dumping the victims’ bodies in the bleak Mexican desert. There was a reason for herding them north, other than the perverse joy taken in watching their excitement and hope evaporate in a moment of panic and desperation.

“I shooed the Uriostes home for a while,” Gayle said. “I told them I didn’t think there was much chance of Hector being released any time soon. I told them I’d call if there was anything they could do. They were going to talk to his parents in Mexico.”

“There’s no chance at all of him going anywhere,” Estelle agreed. “We’ll give him a couple of hours’ sleep and then wake him up. Maybe he’ll remember something that he wants to tell us.”

“And the county manager is waiting in your office.”

“Ah.” It seemed like days or even weeks, rather than hours, since she had chatted comfortably with Leona Spears.

“And…” Gayle started to say, and hunched her shoulders as if in apology. “When the metro TV and newspaper folks call, I didn’t mention that we have Hector in custody, or about the involvement of a local aircraft. Three dead illegals don’t stir the scoop juices much anymore, it seems. It’s right up there with a local mountain bike race in news ignored.”

“Just as well,” Estelle said. “But if we can avoid a circus for just a bit longer, that will help. No one asked about the airplane?”

“I told them that we’re investigating the apparent theft of an airplane. The reaction is always the same-whoopee.”

“Frank’s on it?” The publisher of the Posadas Register would be sitting and sleeping with fingers and toes crossed, hoping that the story didn’t break until his paper came out on Wednesday afternoon.

“Frank’s luck is holding.” Gayle laughed. “He wanted to know if he could take a picture of Hector, and I told him no-unless he happens to catch him when we ship him over to Judge Hobart’s for arraignment tomorrow morning.”

“Happens to.” Estelle smiled. “Be sure to tip him off,” she added. “Sometimes we need Frank as much as he needs us.”

Perhaps hearing their voices, Leona Spears appeared in the hallway outside Estelle’s office. The large woman looked ready for the bush, with khaki trousers, dark green work shirt, and heavy hiking boots. Her long blonde hair was striking in a single, long Heidi braid reaching the small of her back.

“Perfect timing,” Estelle said to the county manager.

“Oh,” Leona said with a theatrical wave of the hand, “my goodness. For what? Are we making progress? You, my dear, look as if you’ve been up all night-which you have. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I’ve spoken with Captain Naranjo,” Estelle said. “We know who the victims are now.” The anticipation on the county manager’s face couldn’t have been more palpable, and she clasped her hands together under her impressive bosom as if preparing to sing an aria. Estelle said, “We think they’re from El Salvador. One of them-the father, I think-was an accountant for an international construction company.”

“Oh my,” Leona said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “An accountant? There’s lots of ways to go wrong there. But what’s that have to do with us, for heaven’s sakes. How are we so lucky?”

“I wish I knew,” Estelle said. “Perhaps we’re just a convenient dumping ground. That’s happened before. And I don’t know anything about the company, other than a name that Captain Naranjo supplied. I was going to ask you about them, but don’t misunderstand. I don’t know if they’re somehow involved, or what. At this point it’s just a name.”

“What’s the company? Do I know them?”

The question was more than idle curiosity. Leona’s twenty-plus years with the New Mexico Highway Department, working in design and contracts, meant that she pretty much knew who was having tea with whom. There were few large construction projects in which the state agencies weren’t involved somehow, however tangentially.

Estelle skimmed the notes she’d taken while talking to Naranjo. “Pemberton, Duquesnes and Cordova. And they’re not Salvadoran…He says that the parent company is headquartered in New Zealand.”

“Yes, they are,” Leona said. “Multinational. Into everything, everywhere. Even once in a while on our shores. Anyone in the construction trades who isn’t just a local contractor knows them, my dear,” Leona said with satisfaction. “That’s if we’re talking the same PDC, and how many can there be? If you want a highway built or mine dug in the middle of the Congo or whatever that little country is called now, you arrange the bid so PDC wins it, believe you me. Or in El Salvador, for that matter. In fact,” she warbled, “I know one instance where they built an ice road-can you imagine that? Up in Alaska by the Arctic Circle somewhere, for one of their subsidiaries. An ice road. Most remarkable.”

“That’s a long way from El Salvador or New Zealand.”

The county manager held up an admonishing finger. “You just ask the former lieutenant governor about them, this PDC company. Remember our border fence highway…that grand master plan that never flew? Chet Hansen was stung by that particular bee.”

“You worked on part of that, as I remember,” Estelle observed. On paper at least, the idea of having a modern multilane highway paralleling the entire Mexican border, from the California coast to the southern tip of Texas, with a fancy and generally ugly security fence running the entire distance, had appealed to those folks who wanted a less porous border-and, Estelle supposed, to those folks who wanted to grow stinking rich on the construction of such a project.

One of many problems with the project was that the actual border-that thin black line on the map-passed through terrain that was hardly conducive to road building. Mountain removal was expensive. And perhaps that was the whole point, Estelle thought. Expensive put the money in the right pockets.

“Don’t remind me that I wasted time on that project,” Leona said. “But I’m sure that Mr. Iron Man wanted a share of those contracts as much as anyone else.”

Estelle laughed. “Mr. Iron Man. I like that.” If it could be biked, run, swum, or climbed for competition, Chet Hansen undertook the challenge.

“You should talk to him, if you catch him. He can tell you more, I’m sure.” Chester Hansen, now two years out of office after a controversy-plagued brief stint as lieutenant governor, was the closest thing to a celebrity visiting Posadas for the race.

“That’s interesting,” Estelle said.

“The operative word,” Leona said. “Interesting. I should look him up and talk to him myself,” she added. “I don’t know what he’s doing now, other than racing, obviously. But whether our former lieutenant governor is in office or not, he’s all in favor of hiring someone like PDC to complete the project in one mammoth push, someone with the contacts for this culvert and that bridge and this fence and that strip of pavement. And I think I agree with him.”

“And put a bike path along the border at the same time,” Estelle said. The former lieutenant governor’s intense interest in all things physical had been in noted contrast with the habits of the governor himself, a dedicated couch potato.

“Well, you ask him about PDC-if you can catch up with him,” Leona said. “There was a goodly contingent who thought the lieutenant governor was looking to line his own pockets with that highway deal. Even when he gave up his company to go into politics-not that that worked out very well, either.”

“Of course they would think the worst,” Estelle said. “That’s the nature of things, not to trust politicians. And that’s part of our problem. It’s just that the politicians we may have to work with are Mexican, rather than our own.” She turned at the approach of an older-model state pickup truck. Bill Gastner eased the vehicle into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot and pulled into the spot reserved for the district judge. “I have to clear the cobwebs. Do you want to ride up on the mesa with me for a while?”

“Mercy, yes. I’d love that,” Leona said. “I was hoping to catch a ride with someone.” She held out her arms theatrically, modeling her clothing. “I’m ready for the wilds!”

“Let me talk to Bill for a minute. Maybe he’ll come along.”

The aging lawman wasn’t in any hurry dismounting from his pickup, and he paused when he saw Estelle approaching.

“Hey,” he greeted. “You had a long night?”

“Unending,” Estelle said. She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I expected to see you out at the site.”

They both knew what she meant, and Gastner shook his head. “Nah. You don’t want more big feet walking over everything. And I sure as hell don’t need any more of that.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Quite a concert, by the way.” He regarded Estelle speculatively. “Talk to the kid yet? You been home?”

“Oh, yes.”

He grinned at her reticence. “Only seven years old, and it’s starting,” he said. “I noticed that Francisco was cozy with the Clarke girl-Rosy and Cameron’s daughter?”

Estelle was impressed, as she frequently was, but not surprised by Bill Gastner’s observations. ‘That’s about exactly right,” she said. “For whatever teenaged reason, Miss Clarke has a grudge against Miss Mears. Maybe Melody is too cute, too talented, too much in love with the world to be sufficiently cool.” Estelle shrugged. “Who knows why. Pitney tried to talk Francisco into some sort of musical practical joke at Melody’s expense. Mijo didn’t bite.”

“I see,” Gastner said. “What was the joke, do you know?”

“She asked Francisco to play the same selection that Melody was to play. Show her up, I suppose. Embarrass her.”

“Jangle her confidence,” Gastner added. “Gotta love ’em, these kids.”

“Well, I was proud of Francisco. He was still up, sitting at the piano, when I got home. Still wound up like a little spring. Still composing in his head.”

“So no one else got any sleep either.” Gastner laughed.

“He wasn’t playing. Just sitting and thinking, apparently.” She tapped her own forehead. “It all goes on up here, anyway. Listen,” she said, and took him by the elbow again with the urgent need to think about something else. “Ride up on the mesa with us?”

“Us? Brunhilde and you, you mean?” He waved at Leona, who waited by the sheriff’s Expedition.

“I was thinking about going around on the back side, over by Jackman’s Wells, to watch them come down off the top.”

Gastner looked at his wristwatch critically. “I really should, but I really can’t, sweetheart. I have an appointment with Herb Torrance coming up here at one. If that doesn’t take too long, maybe I’ll swing up that way after a bit. You eaten anything yet today, by the way?”

“I think so.”

Gastner barked a laugh. “We’ll have to fix that.”

“I’m not sure there’s going to be time, sir. Let me tell you who we have in jail.”

The older man leaned back against his truck, eyebrows arched in surprise. “I pick one night not to stay up all hours, and look what I miss,” he said. “Who?”

She told him quickly about Hector Ocate, Manolo Tapia, and the night flight. Gastner listened without interruption. When she finished, he frowned at her.

“You and Bergin flew the same route in the middle of the night, just to see if it could be done?”

“Well…”

“Yes, well. And you guys landed out there on the unlighted strip?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t just to see if it could be repeated.”

“Remind me to talk some sense into you when we have a spare hour or two.”

“It told us what we needed to know, sir.”

“I’m sure. What’s Bobby have to say about all this?”

“I didn’t ask first, padrino. But as I said, it told us what we needed to know. In point of fact, it led us straight to Hector.”

“And now you have some psycho riding around on a motorbike, who knows where, looking to do who knows what.” He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me-let me guess. Next you’re going to borrow a dirt bike…”

“No, sir. Next I’m going to let my brain rest for a little while. Out in the boonies where the air is clear.”

Gastner laughed again. “Last time you were out in the boonies, it seems to me you found a bunch of rotting bodies. But you suit yourself. I’d ride along, but Herb has fresh coffee and his wife said something about fresh pie.” He held up both hands in surrender. “I can be bribed, you see. If you want to get together later, let me know.” He opened the door of the truck. “If I get any brilliant ideas, I’ll give you a buzz. Enjoy the Tour de Spandex with Brunhilde, there. You’re braver’n me.”

Her cell phone buzzed, and she pulled it off her belt.

“Guzman.”

“They’re all on the track,” Sheriff Bob Torrez said without preamble or greeting. “Last rider went off a couple minutes ago. You do any good with the kid?”

“Some. I’m letting him sleep for a couple of hours. Leona and I are going up by Jackman’s Wells for a little bit. Clear out the cobwebs. Mears is following up with the family. We sent the Uriostes home.”

“Okay. You usin’ my vehicle?”

“That’s affirmative, unless you need it.”

“I got my own. Keep the windows open so that woman doesn’t stink up my truck.” The phone went silent.

“You’re up on the mesa now?” Estelle asked.

“Right about where that kid fell yesterday,” Torrez said.

Yesterday. Yesterday seemed a month ago. “No other incidents yet?”

“Nope. Not yet.” For an instant, the sheriff sounded almost wistful. “Pasquale went by a few minutes ago. He’s pretty quick on that thing.”

The sheriff was watching the riders from a spot less than an hour from the starting line. Ahead of them stretched five or six hours of tough, dangerous country.

“As soon as the last rider goes by, we’re pullin’ out of here,” Torrez added. “I was going to wander on down to Fourteen, right about where they’ll turn into Bender’s Canyon. That ain’t far from the airstrip, and I don’t want a bunch of ’em settin’ up a picnic there. I might take another look, see if we missed anything. Lemme know if you need something. Who’s at the office?”

“Tom Mears will be there for a while.”

“Okay. The county manager got any brilliant ideas?”

The question surprised Estelle, since Leona Spears was generally among the last people on Bob Torrez’s mind. It had taken him months to grudgingly accept that perhaps the county manager actually knew what she was doing, but he was months away from including Leona in any inner circle.

“We’ll see,” she said. “She’s familiar with PDC…That’s something.”

“Huh. Well, lemme know.” The phone went dead as the sheriff switched off. Estelle had walked back to the truck, and Leona looked at her expectantly.

“Bill’s not riding along?” she asked.

Estelle shook her head. “He’s got work to do.”

“You’re sure you don’t just want to go home and get some rest?”

The undersheriff laughed. “That’s exactly what I want to do,” she said.