Final Payment

Chapter Four

Cabo primero Emilio Rojas of the district Judiciales, speaking in the clipped, certain tones of command, informed the undersheriff from across the border that Capitán Tomás Naranjo was not available. The capitán was busy, doing what only the capitán knew, the corporal said.

The border between the United States and Mexico was far more than barbed wire and empty desert, Estelle knew. A great bureaucratic gulf existed, a fundamental difference in approach-to life, to language, and certainly to law enforcement.

She lowered her voice another notch and slipped into the Spanish of her childhood in Tres Santos, speaking differentially, and still making it clear that she was imparting a confidence intended for Rojas’ ears only. “Agente,” she said, “I’m sending a series of photographs via e-mail. It is important that el capitán sees them as soon as possible.” She almost added, “within the hour,” but knew that Agente Rojas wouldn’t accept any form of ultimatum from a female. An hour was impossible anyway, if Naranjo was out in the hinterlands riding one of his favorite horses-his preferred prescription for blowing out the cobwebs of the bureaucracy in which he worked.

“Ah,” Rojas said in English. “Photographs of what, Sheriff Guzman?”

Before Estelle could elaborate, the phone clicked sharply, and the corporal’s stonewall was removed, replaced by a voice so soft and genteel that Estelle had to press the phone tightly to her ear, covering the other with her hand, in order to hear.

“Estelle, how are you?” Captain Tomás Naranjo asked, speaking in faultless English. “I apologize for interrupting, but mention of your name always demands my complete attention.”

“Good morning, mi capitán,” Estelle said with polite deference. “I hope my call finds you well. And Bianca as well.”

“To be sure. What a pleasure to hear from you. It has been too long, you know.”

“Yes, it has. I’m calling to ask for your agency’s assistance.”

“Name it, señora.” His seductive avoidance of title wasn’t lost on Estelle. She had learned over the years to treat Tomás Naranjo with professional distance, being careful not to open unintended doors.

“I’m sending you an attachment…a series of photographs. We have had an incident that is most puzzling, and I need your help.”

“I see.” He sounded almost disappointed.

She turned to watch her computer screen. “The first three are morgue photos. The victims came into the country by air-we think. In all likelihood, the plane landed at a private airstrip west of Posadas, and the victims were shot there, apparently by someone else also riding on the airplane. No signs of confrontation or struggle.”

“You’re referring to the gas company’s modest runway west of your town?” Naranjo said, once again demonstrating his complete command of the geography on both sides of the border.

“Exactly,” Estelle replied. “Off the west end, half a mile from the county road. There was no identification of any kind found on any of the bodies. The clothing is of quality, but there isn’t any labeling that tells us much.”

“Everything is made everywhere these days,” Naranjo said. “What tells you that they came from Mexico?”

“A hunch. But we’re putting the photos through NCIC to hit everyone.”

“Ah. Well.” And he chuckled softly. “Hunches are important. You have learned to pay attention to those in the past, no?”

“It’s just that nothing else makes any more sense. The three victims appear to be Hispanic, perhaps even Indian or mestizo. They are not laborers. And the killing was execution style. One neat shot in the head for each.”

“Tell me more,” Naranjo said.

“Well, I wish I could. It’s this simple-we have three victims, dead of gunshot. We think they came here by airplane-from where is just a guess.”

“And that’s the sum total?”

“Nearly so. The murder weapon was a 9mm. We’re fairly sure that the killer stood in one spot, like shooting in a gallery. Even in daylight, that’s a stunt. If this happened at night, it’s even more so.”

“But you don’t know when it happened.”

“No, we don’t. And there’s this little tidbit. Sheriff Torrez thinks that they might have been wearing belts, but that those belts were removed. Why or when we don’t know.”

“So interesting. Could it have been robbery, perhaps? Were they wearing money belts, and somehow, someone got wind of that?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“And of course, we have no witnesses,” Naranjo said. “Otherwise we might not be talking at this moment. What did the people at the saloon have to say? Airplanes, shooting…someone must have heard something.”

“One of the deputies will follow through with that. In the meantime, I wanted you to see the faces.”

There was a pause, and Estelle could hear the clatter of a keyboard in the background. “Ah, I have mail,” Naranjo murmured. Estelle waited while the officer opened the photo attachment. “I see,” Naranjo said. “An interesting gallery. It would certainly appear to be a family, more or less.”

“That may be the case.”

“I will see what I can do, but of course, I would prefer to have more to go on.”

“Unfortunately…”

“I understand your position,” Naranjo said. “But what of the airplane? You said there was evidence that an airplane was involved.”

“We have tire tracks. The wheelbase indicates that they’re made by a single-engine, most likely.”

“But I am confused. How is the airplane tied to the incident? Did you tell me already?”

“An assumption,” Estelle said. “There are no vehicle tracks other than the airplane’s. There’s no trail across the prairie from the state highway to the south.”

“That’s in the neighborhood of a mile, as I remember.”

“Exactly so. The sheriff could find no evidence of a trail.”

“If he could not, then no one can,” Naranjo said. “So…by plane. A plane comes and goes. Someone must have seen it.”

“Maybe.”

Naranjo drew in a great sigh, and Estelle could hear the rustle of papers. “I assume that time is of the essence? What was the time of death? Have we established that?”

“Not yet. It appears to be days. Perhaps two or three.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, sir.”

“And how were the bodies found? That is a remote area…and it’s gated off, as I recall.”

“The sheriff found them. We’re having a bike race here this weekend, and he was down in that area making sure the route to Bender’s Canyon Trail was marked. He saw a couple of coyotes playing, and started watching them through binoculars. What they were playing with drew his attention.”

“Ah. If you are right-that the victims flew in across the border-I wonder why all the complications to accomplish that. And the risk of unwanted attention. Three bodies dumped in a deserted canyon somewhere in our Mexican wilderness would certainly go unnoticed long enough for those coyotes to clean up the remains, disappearing never to be seen again. But in your backyard? It would seem from all this that the killer is more likely to be in your neighborhood than mine. And the victims as well.”

“That may be. I’m trying to cover every avenue, sir. You know so many people from such a wide area, it made sense to call you immediately.”

“I appreciate that,” Naranjo said, and he leaned on each syllable as if he truly enjoyed the sound of the word. “I will make enquiries, Estelle. You have no names, I am to understand.”

“They carried no ID.”

“And no other detail beyond what you have told me.”

“None. Not yet, anyway.”

“And the erstwhile Border Patrol…they have nothing? Nothing on radar, no visuals?”

“Not yet.”

“How does the saying go…don’t hold your breath? You know,” Naranjo said with resignation, “I believe that our border is considerably more…how could we say…porous than we like to believe. Human ingenuity and resourcefulness being what they are.”

“Perhaps we can talk later today, then,” Estelle said, seeking a polite way to cut the conversation short.

“I look forward to that. How’s your wonderful mother?”

“She’s fine.”

“And that talented and fortunate husband of yours?”

“Also fine. Too busy, but fine.”

“Yes,” Naranjo said quietly. “We are all too busy. You must come down for lunch sometime,” and then he promptly added, “the both of you.”

“We would enjoy that.” She glanced at her watch impatiently, but the captain needed no reminders that time could be of the essence.

“I have both your cell phone and office numbers. I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Estelle rang off, pleased that she had been able to reach Naranjo on the first try, and disappointed that he hadn’t said, Of course I know these people. But Mexico was twice the size of New Mexico and Texas combined, and there was no more reason for Naranjo to hit on a random face from a city across the country than for Estelle to know someone mentioned at random from Dallas or Houston.

Homicides were often untidy affairs, exploding in the heat of the moment, with witnesses and weapons and motives. More often than not, the victim was a family member or friend. More often than not, alcohol was the catalyst. But not this time. The bodies found at the airstrip reminded Estelle of a precise, calculated mob hit. A large piece of the nagging puzzle remained Posadas County itself-location, location, location.