Blood Sweep (17 page)

“Colonel, it's good to hear from you.” She turned to her husband and mouthed “Mexico,” then walked over toward the window. Each time she heard the Mexican policeman's calm voice, her pulse hammered with anxiety. “I'm still at the hospital with
Padrino.
He's out of surgery, doing well, and the best news is that his oldest son Joel is here. I don't believe you've ever met him.”

“That is good to hear. You are correct…I have never met the son. But I know that they have not been on the best of terms.”

“That's true.” Estelle wondered what little tendril had brought that bit of Gastner's family history to Naranjo's attention.

“And I have some news for you.” Naranjo's said with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Does the name Hector Tamburro mean anything to you?”

Estelle frowned hard, blocking out the quiet conversation behind her. “Tamburro…” She spelled it aloud.

“That is correct.”

“Then no. I don't think so.”

“It would appear that is the name, the alias, if you will, used by this man Benedicte Mazón, from time to time. No one in the prison where he was incarcerated,” and Naranjo added an elegant emphasis to the five syllables, “knew him by this name. By Mazón. To them, he was—is—Hector Tamburro.”

“This man who claims to be an uncle of mine—he was in prison?” Like small pebbles that begin an avalanche, the incidents in Mexico gathered while she stood helpless, out of reach. She turned slightly and watched Joel Gastner as he chatted with her husband.
Padrino's
son had a jet that could whisk her to Mazatlán in two hours—the drive to the airport on the mesa outside Las Cruces would take nearly half as long as the flight deep into Mexico. Tomás Naranjo would clear the way through Mexican customs, he would have a car waiting. She realized he was speaking, his soft voice intruding on her thoughts.

“…it would appear so. Until a few months ago, in any case. We have only just established that Mazón and Tamburro are one and the same. Sometimes, the intelligence efficiency of these…
families…
is far superior to ours. The people we pursue set the rules, or so it sometimes seems.”

“He escaped?”

“No. He was released. Let me ask you something.” He cleared his throat, and Estelle heard the snap of something that sounded like a cigarette lighter. “You have no recollection of a
Tamburro
from the early years—or a Mazón, for that matter? I mean, of course, when you were a child. Or perhaps Teresa spoke of him.”

“Tomás, I have no recollection of
any
uncles, except Reuben, who was a
great
uncle…Teresa's uncle.” She shook her head in desperation. “And Teresa
isn't
my mother, as both you and I know. But I never heard who my parents were, and if she knows, she chooses to keep the information to herself, for whatever reason. For all purposes dear to me, Teresa is my mother, in all respects except the biological act that created me. I am satisfied with that.”

Naranjo sighed. “Well, no matter. We may never know, or we may know shortly.” Estelle wished she could adopt the calm, philosophical air of the Mexican policeman. “In any case,” Naranjo continued, “the police in Mazatlán have gathered information that clearly this
Tamburro
, this Mazón, was directly involved in the death of the two men near the Teatro Angela Peralta
.”

“
He
killed them?”

“That would appear to be the case.”

“I want my son out of there.”

“I understand your concern,” Naranjo said, his voice now little more than a whisper. “But I would not advise you making a precipitous journey to Mazatlán at this time. As it happens, I am but moments away from that city myself, and I assure you it will give me great pleasure to contribute to the security surrounding your son. He is, after all, not only an international treasure now. He is the son of an old and dear friend.”

“I prefer to think of him only as my son, Tomás.”

“Of course. Of course. But let me share with you one other item of information.”

“Sometimes I wish you were from New Jersey or some place like that, Tomás, so you would just blurt out exactly what you have to say.”

He chuckled. “I apologize, my friend. Sometimes…” He stopped abruptly. “There is information that Señor Tamburro, or Mazón, has now fled the country.”

“Fled to where?”
Let it be Argentina, or the Antarctic. South. Far, far south.

“North, we are told.”

“You don't mean just generally
north,
do you. Are you telling me that he's headed here?”

“I am afraid so. That is what our sources think. He does not work alone, you see. For a man who has spent so much of his life in prison, he has connections that are most impressive. Maybe his prison experience is exactly
why
he does have those very connections.”

“Why…”

“I don't know, my friend. But it would be prudent to remain watchful.”

“I want my son out of Mexico, Tomás.”

“Will you give me just a couple of hours? I have the word of colleagues in Mazatlán that all is well. In just moments, I will check for myself, and be in contact with you. Can you wait that long?” When Estelle didn't answer, he added, “I would hate to think that we are not capable of providing adequate security for such an important event.”

“When will you see him, exactly?”

She once more looked down the hall, and saw that Joel was following Dr. Cushman and two nurses into Bill Gastner's room. Her husband was lingering in the hall, watching her. Estelle caught his eye and held up a hand. “Two hours, you say?”

“Yes,” Naranjo replied. “No more.”

“I will be making preparations to arrive there myself. I have access to a plane that will make the trip in no more than that.” Even as she said it, she had second thoughts. Joel had not visited after all these years to provide air-taxi service.

“I would treasure seeing you again,” Naranjo said smoothly. “But may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I haven't spoken with the sheriff about this matter. The sheriff should be apprised.”

“Of course he should.”

“Of every detail, my friend. There could be so many complications in times like these. Have you spoken with him recently?”

“No,” Estelle replied, and her answer prompted a pang of conscience. Bill Gastner's surgery and her son's Mexican adventures—she hoped they were only that—had monopolized her thoughts, with Posadas County left to fend for itself. More doubts joined the chorus. It had been so easy to imagine Joel Gastner's agreeing to fly his handsome corporate jet to Mazatlán at an instant's notice. How convenient. How simple to ask. And Joel would probably consent, possibly without giving it a second thought. And what then?

Instead of being at his father's bedside, with the possibility of a heartwarming reconciliation, Joel and his crew would sit at the airport in Mazatlán for who knew how long, while she played out the scenario of the worried mother. And she wouldn't be allowed to play much more than that, for Mexico didn't embrace armed cops arriving from across the border, interfering with what the Mexicans themselves could handle with aplomb. Colonel Naranjo had said so himself, in so many gentle, tactful words.

She palmed her cell phone and pushed the button. Sure enough, in a moment her eldest son's voice answered, and she detected a note of impatience in his tone after the caller I.D. flashed its message.

“Yeah
, Mamá
.” In the background, she could hear voices and a single flute running scales and arpeggios—Mateo Atencio, she assumed.

She felt as if she had barged into the concert itself. “
Hijo,
do you remember a Mexican policeman named Tomás Naranjo?”

“Sure. I mean, I remember you talking about him a lot. I think I met him once when I was little. I remember I was impressed with his uniform.”

“Well, even more so now,” Estelle said. “He's a colonel. Anyway, he's headed your way. He should be at the theater in about two hours.”

“Cripes,
Mamá
, we won't have room for an audience.” He laughed. “There are so many cops around now that it's funny. Can you believe that they swept my piano
twice?
Who's going to put a bomb in the Steinway, for God's sakes?”

“Well, stay amused,
Hijo.
That's part of the price of being who you are.”

“
Aye.”

“Oh,
sí, aye.
When Tomás gets there, I want you to trust him. Do exactly what he says. Okay?”

“Sure. But me and Mateo are going to break out of here and go downtown in a few minutes, pick up some chicks, and do the local bars and stuff.”

“Stop it,
Hijo.”

He laughed loudly, and several voices babbled in the background. “It's my mom,” he said without bothering to cover the mouthpiece. “She's worried.” Directing his conversation once more to her, he added, “
Mamá
, I'm fine, Mateo's fine, the concerts are going to be fine, and we'll be careful, all right?” This time he covered the receiver, but she could still hear his voice. “
Mi mamá, Dona angustias.”

“Yes, I'm a worrywart,” she replied. “Call often,
Hijo.”

“Sure. How's
Padrino
getting along?”

“Remarkably well.” She wanted to settle into a long, warm conversation with her son, but she settled for, “We'll see you soon,
Mihijo.”

Chapter Twenty-one

“How many miles is that?” Lieutenant Mark Adams asked. He stepped to the very edge of the rim rock, able to look down at the activity in the parking complex and the crews working on the base station and first tower of the tramway. Sure of his footing, he looked out once more toward the northeastern horizon, toward where Torrez had been hunting.

“That ridge along the county road, and then to the other side,” Torrez replied. “I was parked just about where that dump truck is comin' up on…right
there.”

Adams scanned the prairie with his binoculars. “So two or three miles from here.”

“'Bout that.”

The state officer fell silent for a moment. “Lots of places the shooter could have gone,” he said.

“Taber found the Jeep tracks on down the road about a quarter mile.” The sheriff swept his arm in an arc. “Parked over there where they're storin' those culverts. He parked right there, then cut around the south end of the ridge.”

“How the
hell
could he have known where you were, though?”

“Don't see how. But that's what he did. He hiked around and then found his spot. Saw me out there, somehow. If you look back up the county road, there really ain't no place to go
west
of the road without gettin' tangled up with all the construction. So east makes sense. He guessed good.”

“'He guessed good.'” Adams sounded unconvinced. “A man with a powerful set of binocs could have watched the whole thing from right here, Bobby. Played spotter. But then the logistics of calling in the rifle man at just the right time? Nah.” He cocked his head. “Of course, anything could have been going on, and old numb-nuts down at the gate wouldn't have seen a thing.” He turned at the sound of a vehicle. “It's himself.”

Miles Waddell's diesel one-ton pickup idled to a stop behind Adams' state SUV. Riding with Waddell was the security chief, Rick Bueler. Carl Bendix, the contractor whom Torrez had talked to the day before, was wedged in the backseat. Bueler, small and lithe, slipped out and deferentially held the rear door as Bendix worked his bulk out. Waddell, neat as always in his pressed shirt and spotless jeans accented by his trademark purple scarf, unconsciously patted the front of the truck as he walked around it.

“Mornin', gents,” he called affably. “I had a brilliant idea.”

“You have plenty of those,” Adams said.

“No, really.” Waddell extended a hand to Sheriff Torrez. “You're lookin' good today, my friend. And Lieutenant.” He released Torrez's hand and clasped Adams'. “Is this a new strategy in election politics now? You guys roaming around together? You have impromptu debates going, or what?” He waved at his companions. “You both know Rick Bueler, here? He's down from Colorado, doing a stint as my security chief until he finds us the best man for the permanent position. And Carl Bendix here is head man with Stout Construction Logistics.” Waddell waited a few seconds while the round of handshaking finished. “Carl is the man who's going to make sure the tramway is the smoothest ride in the hemisphere.” He twisted at the waist and looked down hill toward the activity.

“No, really,” he said again to remind the men of his brilliant idea. “We got old Jerry Steward down below minding the gate. Now here you two are. We could have an impromptu press conference with the three of you sheriff candidates—a mini-debate.” He glanced at his watch. “First time in the history of Posadas County such has ever happened! See, I got Frank Dayan comin' out in a few minutes. Watts Helicopter Service is setting the first section of the tramway tower today if the wind doesn't pick up, and Frank wants pictures.” Waddell's development at first had been an effortless bonanza for Dayan's
Posadas Register,
but the publisher's efforts at journalism had doubled and redoubled as the competitive pressure from larger media sources increased.

“You're so thoughtful, Miles,” the State Police lieutenant said with exaggerated courtesy. “Fortunately, I have to be in Deming in a few minutes.” He reached out a hand toward Torrez. “I'm sure the sheriff here will be happy to talk to Frank and Jerry both, though.”

“
That's
gonna happen,” Torrez muttered.

“Mr. Campaigner,” Waddell laughed. “Carl tells me you had some luck out east with the antelope.”

“Yep. One little guy.”

Waddell turned and surveyed the laser-flat mesa top. “I think it's interesting. We still get 'em up here on top once in a while. Hell of a climb. I think they come up on the east side where there's some cuts in the rock. I never knew pronghorns favored that rugged country, but maybe they know something we don't.”

Torrez thrust his hands in his back pockets. “Do you know a guy named Dominic Olveda?”

Waddell frowned, the sudden change of subject forcing him to take a moment to find the new mental tracks. “Sure I know him. Well, actually…” he waved a hand in dismissal in the general direction of Posadas, twenty-five miles off to the north-east…“he's the one who wants to develop the village's land at the airport, so he's over the horizon as far as I'm concerned. But look,” and he included all the other men in his gesture, “this is how I see it.” He patted the knot of his kerchief into perfect position. “The more we all work together, the better it's going to be for
everybody
in the long run. A hotel at the airport makes damn good sense to me. In fact, I don't see any reason why the train couldn't include that development as an official stop. I mean, how neat is that?”

“Hot stuff,” Adams said. Bob Torrez remained silent, still scanning the country below.

“Olveda wants to do car rentals, and that's a good thing, since I
don't,”
Miles Waddell said. “He's going to provide additional facilities for air traffic, and that'll benefit Jim Bergin. And see, that's something I can't do, short of building a whole new airport out here somewhere, which isn't going to happen. But see, you can't ignore air traffic when you're working out visitation figures. So the facility at the airport makes great sense, no matter who owns it. Everybody wins.”

He smiled at the sheriff. “Now I know there are
some
folks who would rather see the country stay undeveloped, am I right? And I'm in sympathy with that. You can see here, I'm limiting what I'm doing to this mesa top and a small area down below. That's it. No housing, no malls, an absolute bare minimum of lights. This is an attraction that is a destination in itself. And it'll be so damned dark, you won't even know it's here come nighttime. Olveda's plan just tags on to that. He'll make it easier for tourists who use air travel.” He held up both hands, palm up. “Win, win.” If he was fishing for a comment pro or con from Robert Torrez, he didn't get it.

“I saw him on the road yesterday.” Torrez pointed at the county road down below with a jerk of the chin. “Has he come out here a lot?”

“Once or twice,” Waddle nodded. “I toured him around both down below and up here. The day before yesterday, he spent about three hours with Jerry, seeing the sights. I was in Albuquerque.”

“All this stuff Olveda plans…it seems like considerable risk,” Adams said. “Lots of money in, without much of a guarantee of money out. You have a head start on him, but I guess the same could be said of this place.”

“Sure,” Waddell said easily. “That's the way of these things. But I look at it this way.” He turned and encompassed the mesa top with both arms. “I have something here that no one else
in the world
has. No one.” He pointed to the southwest, toward the area designated for the California university's radio telescope project that had already tied in with Waddell's vision. “Where else are the aficionados going to see something like the big dish? Visitors can sit in comfort and listen to deep space microwave background noise to their heart's content.”

“Keeps folks like Steward employed,” Adams laughed.

Waddell raised his eyebrows. “I hope it does more than that. And you know, he's done a good job for me. Turns out he has a useful talent.” He glanced sideways at Bueler. “He's a statistician of some merit. I keep laying more on him in that regard. When some tourist wants to take a bird walk and asks if we have bifurcated needle-nosed cactus warblers, I want our bird pamphlet to report accurately—how many seen, where seen, and so forth. Ditto for coyotes, antelope, comets, you name it.”

“Illegal aliens,” Adams jokingly added.

“Well, that too. Steward is good at keeping track of stuff. Isn't he, Rick?” Bueler, whose personality didn't just bubble to the surface, nodded without much enthusiasm.

“You've probably heard we're investigating a homicide in town,” Adams offered, and Torrez grimaced. He hadn't planned on mentioning the hunting incident, or his talk with Olveda, and most certainly not the homicide of the Jeep driver. There were too many loose ends to be snarled by lots of loose lips.

Undeterred, Adams added, “A fellow named Miguel Quesada, probably from Arizona by way of south of the border. Execution-style, over on that little piece of property just south of the interstate. If you hear anything you think we ought to know, we'll want to hear it.”

“Miguel who?”

“Quesada.” Adams spelled it for him.

Waddell's eyebrows drifted up. “Ah.”

“Miguel Quesada,” Adams prompted again.

“You know, that might have been the guy who was with Olveda a day or so ago. He never said a word…in fact, I'm not sure the guy even spoke English. When Olveda introduced him to me, he just nodded. I remember that.”

“What'd he look like?” Torrez asked.

Waddell studied the ground. “Burly guy. Thick black hair with more pomade than I use in a year. I don't remember what he was wearing, except it was dark-colored.” He shrugged. “That's as close as I can get.” Waddell shook his head. “Our little town doesn't need anything like that,” he said. “When you say ‘execution-style,' what do you mean?”

Adams put his index finger under his own chin, cocked and released his thumb.

“Ugg. But what's the connection with out here?”

“I didn't say there was one,” the state officer replied.

“No, but why else would you mention it to me, or be nosing around my doorstep?”

Torrez took a deep breath. He liked the State Police lieutenant most of the time, although the sheriff was acutely aware that he himself lacked the glad-handing skills Adams so effortlessly employed. But his philosophy of law enforcement public relations procedures differed radically. He had no trouble embracing the “need to know” rule. He knew others found him beyond taciturn, beyond tight-lipped. That, Sheriff Torrez had told his wife, Gayle, on more than one occasion, was their problem, not his.

Now a little irritated that Lieutenant Adams had so effortlessly gushed information to Waddell, Bueler, and Bendix, the sheriff chopped the conversation off. He didn't want the conversation to drift on to the next logical target—the single shot fired at him while hunting on Waddell's land.

“If you hear something you think we should know, holler,” he said.

“Kind of a coincidence,” Waddell added.

“What is?”

“Mr. Olveda is in town, talking up his projects.
He's
representing interests from down south. And then this Quesada fellow…
he's
evidently an associate of Olveda's, they're kickin' around together…we know what Olveda wants, or at least we think we do, but who the hell knows about Quesada. Maybe he's just a sidekick.”

“One thing.” Torrez's heavy-lidded eyes regarded Waddell evenly as he considered what he wanted to say. “You have lots of publicity out there now.” He ticked off fingers. “You got newspaper. Radio. TV. Probably Internet…who knows. Lots of interest.”

“All true,” Waddell nodded. “And it's all workin' for me so far.”

“So far.” Torrez hesitated, and Adams jumped into the breach. He held up both hands, making a beckoning motion with all ten fingers.

“It's like attracting a bunch of Africanized bees from down south,” he said. “You're attracting interests from south of the border, and I'm not saying that's a bad thing. If I were to guess, I'd have to say that it would be foolish to put roadblocks up to prevent international tourism.” He reciprocated Waddell's nod. “But my suspicion is that you're getting more than that. Olveda represents international investments. I mean, you should have seen his presentation to the county commission. What he's planning?” Adams flashed a smile. “He's got as much backing as you do. But—we need to know who the hell this Quesada is…was…and who the hell he represents.”

When Waddell didn't respond, Adams added, “Who's got vested interests in what. And where the money's coming from.”

“What's Olveda say? I assume you've talked to him, now. About Quesada.”

“That's comin'. He don't need to know we was up here, askin' about him,” Torrez said.

“Well, in the ‘for what it's worth department,' nobody has invested in this project other than me,” Waddell said. “And the group from California with the big radio scope.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Not that I haven't been asked, mind you.”

“By who?” Torrez's question was blunt and Waddell took his time.

“Nothing serious. A couple of industrial firms were thinking of pursuing relocation to this property. I said no, even though the funds were solid.”

“Miles, we're not talking about money on the table to help you build all this,” Adams said. “We're talkin' about other people with other plans. Whoever Olveda and Quesada represent.”

“The Development International group?”

“Maybe that. If you don't think they represent big money, big
international
money, then you're more naive than I thought,” Adams said easily. He reached out a hand, ushering Waddell to one side. “Excuse us, gents.” He beckoned to Torrez. He led them eastward until they were fifty yards from the trucks and the other two men.