Blood Sweep (26 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

The deep hush of five-thirty in the morning blanketed the morgue. The small room with its twin tables, dual sinks, frosted white cabinets and three computers marching side by side seemed all the more cavelike in the quiet. The flow of technicians and staff had not yet started the day.

The assistant state medical examiner, Dr. Alan Perrone, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for an audience. Sheriff Bobby Torrez relaxed with one hip cocked against the edge of the nearest stainless steel table. Both tables were occupied, the white sheets pulled up to cover the grotesque damage.

Perrone and Torrez looked up as the door opened. Estelle held it for Miles Waddell and Colonel Tomás Naranjo.

“I'm sorry to make you wait,” Estelle said. “The colonel had a short staff meeting via phone that he had to attend to.”

“You gotta keep this morning interesting, I guess.” The physician reached out a hand to the Mexican officer. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Doctor. We could wish for more convivial circumstances.”

“Indeed we could. Miles, I'm sure you have places you'd rather be.”

“You got that right.” Clearly, Miles Waddell did not relish his visit. Estelle guided him toward the tables with a hand on his right elbow.

Perrone extended his hand like a tour guide. “So,” he turned to the sheriff, “Mr. Olveda is on the left, Mr. Steward is right here.” He did not reach out to disturb the sheets. “Both violent, sudden attacks, neither with any sign of scuffle or any attempt at self-defense. That in itself is interesting, given that the victims are two adult males capable of
something
by way of self-defense. You have the times locked in place, so
that's
not a problem or issue. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, this is pretty cut and dried.”

He stepped around the tables and reached out with both hands to pull down the sheet with the same care someone might use to reveal a painting on an easel. Dominic Olveda's pale face was frozen in surprise. With rubber-gloved thumb and forefinger, Dr. Perrone spread the lips of the single knife wound below the sternum.

“This wound is deep and incapacitating,” the physician said. “The autopsy this morning will tell us for sure, but I'd guess the full length of a blade, a single thrust upward slightly, so hard that the handle caused some bruising. Can't tell you about precise angles yet, but we're talking about a violent stab wound to the major epicenter of the body. My theory is that the first wound, this one, gave the killer time to execute the second wound, the deep slash to the throat. The victim most likely wouldn't have been able to struggle. No resistance. Straight-in plunge, then whack. A vicious rake across the throat.”

Waddell made an odd little noise, and Perrone looked up sharply. “You're all right?”

“Yeah.” Waddell's face was pale. “Humans are always a little different from livestock.” He forced a thin smile.

“I sympathize,” Perrone said. “My guess is that Mr. Olveda lived just seconds after the attack. Besides probable damage to the heart itself, both jugular and carotid were completely severed.”

Estelle thumbed pages in her notebook. “It would have been less than two minutes before the deputy reached the scene of the attack, and another minute or so before the body was found a few yards away. No signs of life.”

“Oh, way before that,” Perrone nodded. “From a medical point of view, this attack was meant to kill quickly and efficiently…with a knife, which isn't always as easy as Hollywood would have us believe. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing.” He left the sheet down and turned to the second table.

“In a sense, Mr. Steward's case is the same.” He pulled the sheet down far enough to reveal the gate attendant's shattered head. “What we have here is
one
blow. Just one. No defensive evidence, no follow-up attack. The force of the blow was so great that the aluminum bat itself was dented, and that by itself is incredible. I'm visualizing a full, round-house swing. A line drive, so to speak.”

He bent town and turned the victim's head slightly. “Right on the bridge of the nose, so hard that the force continued inward, destroying the left orbit. We're looking at bone fragments exploded into the brain. Instantaneous unconsciousness, but with no damage to the heart, it would have continued pumping erratically for a minute or so…maybe even several. That explains the copious blood from the face—eyes, ears, mouth.”

He looked at his visitors. “Once again, this isn't the result of a family spat. This isn't a brawl. A single blow, with a weapon of opportunity.” He shrugged. “That in itself is interesting. If the same killer accounted for both victims, then you have someone who strikes hard and fast, with no hesitation.”

Waddell let out a long sigh. “Christ, why Jerry? It couldn't have been just because the killer needed a car, for God's sakes. He wouldn't have come to the apartment just for that. Of all the places the killer
could
go to steal a damn car.”

“Exactly right,” Estelle said. “We'll want to talk with Rick Bueler again today, Miles. He had occasion to see Mr. Steward on a daily basis. If there's some connection between Olveda and Steward's death, that's a place to start.”

“But what's to gain?” Waddell looked at each of the three officers in turn, hands spread out in frustration. “I mean,
Jerry?
What's he ever done to deserve this? I mean, this is
assassination,
for Christ's sakes. I mean, if you just want his car, take it. Why bash the man's brains out over a damn useless rattletrap?”

“He didn't just want the car, sir.”

“You're shitting me. You know who did this, then? And
why
he did it?” He turned to Naranjo. “That's why you're up here?”

“This may be related to events in Mexico,” Naranjo said quietly.

Waddell shook his head in frustration. “I'll have Bueler come in right away.” He started to fish his cell phone out of his pocket. “Although, you know, he's never said anything about any of this to me.”

“Actually, sir, I'd like to meet with him out at the facility. If you would make sure he's available, I'd appreciate it.”

“You got it.”

“Any surprises, let us know,” the sheriff said to Perrone. They were the first words he'd spoken since his arrival at the morgue, and, bemused, Perrone looked at Torrez for a long moment until the sheriff turned to Naranjo. “You'll ride along with the Mexican air unit?”

“Absolutely. They're planning to be in the air at six-thirty from your airport.”

“And you'll be at Waddell's,” Torrez said to Estelle. “Let's do this. Doc, thanks for meetin' with us.” In an uncharacteristic gesture of warmth, the sheriff stuck out his hand to the rancher. “I'm sorry about all this, Miles. We got something going on and we don't have a clue. I'll let you know when we do.”

“You're doing an air search of some sort?”

“Yep. State Police on our side of the border,
Federales
on their side. And I don't bet on the results. Good way to waste some of the taxpayers' jet fuel.”

“Should I go along?” Waddell asked.

“Nope. The undersheriff is workin' your place. We need you there.”

Waddell looked at Estelle. “When?”

“I'm headed that way right now.”

Once outside, Miles Waddell took the opportunity as the sheriff and Colonel Naranjo broke off and headed for Torrez's SUV.

“Did Torrez mean what he said?” Waddell asked. “You guys are in the dark about all this?”

“Not quite,” Estelle replied. “Close, but not quite.”

“Who are we after, then?”

“I'll let you know when I'm sure.”

“But he's Mexican, right? That's gotta be.”

“Safe guess, sir.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“What's your impression of him so far?” Miles Waddell and Estelle watched Rick Beuler's tan Jeep making its dusty way across the mesa-top toward them. The rising sun turned the dust cloud golden. For their rendezvous, Estelle had chosen a mesa promontory, a spit of land like the bow of an enormous ship, on the north rim. They had an unobstructed view of the activity both below and on top of the mesa itself, with little likelihood of interruptions.

“Rick? He's eager. I call him Spook. I never know where the hell he's going to show up,” the developer said. “He doesn't talk much, but that's okay with me.”

“How much time did he spend with Jerry Steward?”

Waddell thumped his elbow on the fender, a small gesture of frustration. “I didn't pay much attention.” His eyebrows wrinkled under the brim of his Stetson. “Should have, I suppose. I'm kinda naive that way. Hire a man, and then trust 'em. That's the way I do business, until circumstances show me otherwise.”

“You told us the other day that Dominic Olveda visited here several times.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, maybe not several, but at least twice. And that's as far as
I
know. Jesus, this is bad. You know, I kind of liked that little guy.” Nodding off across the mesa, Waddell added, “Sometimes I think Olveda was almost as excited about all of this as I am. He even talked about the possibility of what he called a sister site down in Costa Rica.
Big
tourist draw. And you know,” and he turned to look at Estelle, “his ideas involving the airport are not half bad. Doesn't get in
my
way, but provides some expansion of services for the area.” He grunted in disgust. “Or
did.”

Other people were just as enthusiastic about moving operations into Posadas County, Estelle thought. And they weren't as enthusiastic as Miles Waddell about sharing the bounty.

Beuler had parked behind Waddell's truck, and he now approached with quiet deference, as if loath to interrupt the conversation. He wore trainers, jeans, and a white western-style shirt. His dark blue baseball cap sported the United Security Resources logo, but otherwise he looked like someone's assistant track coach, lithe and confident as he approached.

“Rick, this is Posadas Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman,” Waddell said. “I think you two have met.”

“Briefly, a couple of times,” Beuler agreed. “Good to see you up here again.” His handshake was a quick pump, and he regarded Estelle expectantly as he slid his dark glasses up on top of his cap. From handshake distance, Estelle saw that Beuler was older than he first appeared when he dismounted from the truck. Sun crinkles touched the corners of his direct, surfer-blue eyes.

Estelle slipped from her clipboard a photo of Benedicte Mazón that Colonel Naranjo had provided and handed both it and the morgue photo of Miguel Quezada, the murdered hit man, to Beuler. “I'd be particularly interested to know if you've encountered either of these two men here at the facility.”

Beuler took his time examining the images, and he took an extra minute with Quezada's grim portrait. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepened a fraction. “We won't be expecting return visits from him, I assume.”

“No.”
And you can hope not from the other,
she thought.

“Not this one,” Beuler said, handing back Mazón's official Mexican prison portrait. “But this second…he was up here at least once with the developer from Arizona. Mr. Olveda?”

“Other than with Mr. Waddell, did you see them talk to anyone else?”

Beuler hesitated, and Miles Waddell instantly jumped in. “Anything she needs to know, Rick. Anything at all.”

“Mr. Olveda spoke with Jerry Steward, down at the gate. I was across the lot, where the crews were off-loading one of the cable spools for the tram. I saw Mr. Olveda drive in, with this one,” and he nodded at the photo, “riding shotgun. They talked with Jerry for quite a while.” He looked up at Estelle. “I mentioned that to Sheriff Torrez earlier.”

“You didn't hear the conversation between Olveda and Steward?”

“No, ma'am. Every once in a while, Steward would point off toward the northeast. Who knows why.”

“Show me how he did that.” When Beuler hesitated, Estelle added, “I mean how he was standing, how he gestured. Every detail you can remember.”

Beuler frowned, and turned in place. “Like Olveda stood with his hands on his hips, and Steward was like this.” He turned some more and reached out toward the distant bulk of Cat Mesa with his left hand. “Then Steward drew a line, sort of, down south, like he was indicating the prairie over across the road.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“No, but it's in my log. Hang on just a moment.”

As Beuler jogged back toward his truck, Waddell said, “He's an observant young man.”

“I have to wonder how he linked up with USR in the first place.” She knew that United Security Resources, a Colorado firm run by a former college classmate and close friend of hers, hired its staff only after exhaustive interviews and background checks. To be handed a security job as complex, and daily growing, as Waddell's
NightZone,
meant that Rick Beuler was far more than just a pretty face.

“All I know,” Waddell said, “is that he spent a few years in the Merchant Marines.” He shrugged. “Go figure.”

“In the Merchants as what?”

“In logistics and planning, I think.”

Beuler read as he walked the few yards back from his truck. “The last time I saw them here—and it would be that incident I was talking about—was this past Tuesday.” He followed the line of print across with one index finger. “Zero eleven twenty. They left the premises at zero eleven fifty-one.”

“Did you speak with them that day as well?” she asked Waddell.

“Just this past Tuesday morning? Hell, I don't recall the exact time, but maybe.” He looked at Beuler. “Did I?”

“You met with Mr. Olveda up by the tram site from zero ten-thirty to zero eleven-fifteen.”

Waddell smiled broadly. “When did I have my last cup of coffee?” Before Beuler could answer, Waddell reached out and shook him by the shoulder. “Just kidding, my man. Just kidding.”

“When Mr. Olveda spoke with you that day, what did he want to know?” Estelle asked.

“From me?” Waddell's forehead crinkled in concentration. “That visit, let's see.” His face brightened. “We were talking about the tram car's capacity. Two tram cars, actually. One goes up, the other comes down. I told him that the Swiss engineers called for a max load of twenty-eight souls.” He grinned. “Souls. Just like the airlines. Always makes me edgy. Sounds like they're preparing for something.”

“Just that?”

“Pretty much.” Waddell regarded the ground. “He was interested in load details about the train—we talked about that some, too. Basically,” and he linked his hands together, “it sounded like he was thinking about the flow of customers. You know about that resort deal he's planning at the airport. Hell of a link to us, I'm hoping.”

“And all this time Quesada remained in the vehicle?” She took the morgue photo from Beuler. “He didn't talk to you?”

“Nope. In fact, Olveda didn't even introduce him,” Waddell said. “I thought maybe he would, but the guy never got out of the truck. That white rig Olveda was driving.”

“The tram and the train, then. That was the extent of it?”

“Yep. And some about hunting. What the possibilities along those lines were. I told him absolutely not. Not with bikers, birdwatchers, and what have you. The whole shebang will be posted when the time comes.” He smiled broadly. “‘Hunt now, Bobby,' I told the sheriff the other day. He didn't seem to mind, but I'm sure there'll be some pissed hunters when it's all closed off. I said there was the possibility of some special hunts, maybe. Then Olveda wanted to know what the flow of visitors was at this point…preliminary interest, that sort of thing. I told him that Jerry had the official log at the gate, and that he should talk to him about that.”

“And sure enough, he did.”

“Yep. That's what Rick's log says.”

“If you want to talk with Steward, we can call him in. He's late anyway,” Beuler said.

“And going to be later,” Estelle said. “Both Mr. Olveda and Mr. Steward were murdered last night, Mr. Beuler.” She held out Mazón's photo again. “We think this man is linked to the killings.”

“Jerry was killed last night?”

“That's right.”

Beuler's jaw muscles danced as he clenched his teeth. “How?”

“One hit in the face with a baseball bat. While he sat in his living room. Just a few minutes before or after Mr. Olveda was stabbed to death at the Posadas Inn.”

Beuler frowned hard, shaking his head slowly. “Can't imagine that.” He looked up at Estelle. “Steward not being able to defend himself, I mean. Hell, the man owns an arsenal. I know he had at least one weapon in his car. I know he had his concealed carry card, but we had agreed he
wouldn't
carry at the gate when he was meeting the public. And he was always talking about hunting prairie dogs with his AR.”

“I don't think he had time to lift a hand to defend himself,” Estelle said. “He wasn't given that chance.”

“The choppers are part of the search for the killer?” Bueler glanced skyward. “I saw two just a little bit ago, headin' toward the airport.”

“Yes. We think the killer would have headed for the border. But we're not sure. So keep that photo, Mr. Beuler. The man's name is Mazón. If you see him, presume him to be armed and extremely dangerous.”

“He killed this man as well?” He reached for the photo of Quesada.

“We think so. With the man's own gun. So…if you see anything unusual, Mr. Beuler. Anyone you don't know or can't verify. Redouble your security efforts. We don't know what this man is after now, and that makes it doubly difficult. You're working alone?”

“At the moment.”

“Then there will be an officer or two out shortly to assist you. They will have been briefed. More eyes can't hurt.”

“I don't think we need any extra help, ma'am. USR is going to send down another officer or two on Monday.”

“Unfortunately, in this case, next week won't do anyone any good,” Estelle said. “Trust me on that.”