by Don Travis
“Are you satisfied there was a relationship?”
He glanced over at me. “A $250,000 one, at least.”
“Both of them admit they knew they’d inherit, but they’d have to move fast to take a hundred-grand leap on the Rio Puerco thing.”
What tipped Wick off that Paul was on the move and prompted him to set someone on my lover’s trail? Paul left Sarah and Spencer no more than half an hour earlier. Had one of them contacted Wick? If so, why?
That one wasn’t too hard. If I were contemplating putting $100,000 into a project and someone came around asking awkward questions, I’d want to know what was going on. One or both of them might have called the guy who was proposing to take their money. Still… half an hour was not much time to organize a shadow.
The other thing niggling around in my mind was the subscription list I’d copied from Wick’s files. If Sarah and Spencer didn’t commit to invest until after Belhaven’s death, the list had been updated recently. If that were so, why wasn’t the Seidel Trust deleted instead of just being crossed out? Maybe I was wrong; it didn’t represent Thelma Rider.
No. I was willing to bet a beer I was right about the trusts. They were Rider and Herrera coming along for the ride to launder some of their stolen money. So Paul’s comment must be on track. Wick thought he could manipulate himself into Thelma Rider’s trust but failed. He was still working to salvage the Forge trust. Only thing that made sense.
A WEEK later Paul was fit to be tied as I drove him to his doctor’s office where he was relieved of the restricting bandage and cautioned to treat his wounded wing gingerly. Fed up with the invalid stuff, he claimed he had things to do, like finding the guy who’d destroyed his cherished Charger. Once out of the doctor’s office, I drove him to the Dodge dealership on East Lomas where he negotiated for a black Charger almost identical to the one totaled in the wreck but a couple of years newer, a 2009. He handled the transaction like a pro.
APD HAD made no progress on locating the individual who stole the Caravan and plowed into Paul’s car. Not surprising. For years Albuquerque occupied the top spot on the list of metropolitan areas experiencing high rates of car thefts. I made no effort to solve it because I was convinced I already had the fellow who ordered the attack in my sights. And he would pay. My problem at the moment was that Paul, who assessed the situation the same way I did, was more inclined toward direct retaliation.
The morning after Paul got his wheels again, I sat in my Fifth and Tijeras Street office and watched through the north-facing window as New Mexico’s monsoon performed one last act before dying by drenching downtown. This year’s La Niña squeezed us dry the first part of the year with something under an inch of rainfall. The second half was proving a bit better but nothing to brag about.
Turning back to my desk to consider the Voxlightner problem, my next task was to take a harder look at the disappearance of Barron Voxlightner and Dr. Walther Stabler. Hazel found no trace of the men in several searches around the globe via the internet. She was one of the best, and few men can simply vanish from one place and live for years in another without leaving some sort of trail. It can be done, of course. Spooks do it all the time, but they have a network protecting them. Barron and Walther didn’t have that advantage.
This led me back to Dorothy Voxlightner’s conclusion that Barron was really dead. Okay, let’s accept that for the moment. It was difficult to hide a body so it wouldn’t be found. Albuquerque’s west mesa is a popular disposal ground, but inevitably someone stumbles across a corpse. In 2009—merely two short years ago—a woman walking her dog came across some bones, uncovering what was now known as Albuquerque’s West Mesa murders. The official conclusion was the eleven women and one child buried there were the victims of an as-yet-unknown serial killer.
As a result of all this cogitating, I dug into the old FBI and police files from the 2004 investigation… and discovered a discrepancy. The FBI files claimed both Barron’s and Walther’s vehicles were gone from VPMR’s rented offices at 3300 Lomas the evening of March 15, 2004. That building was now Wick Pillsner’s office. However the police report indicated Walther Stabler’s Crown Victoria was still there until the morning of Tuesday the sixteenth. Even so the investigating detectives could locate no one who saw it being driven away that morning.
If the police investigation was to be believed, Barron and Walther did not disappear simultaneously. Barron departed first. Interesting. Stabler, without question, was one of the original conspirators. Barron was mostly tainted simply by his disappearance. This led me to speculate how things would go down if Wick and Walther decided to get rid of Barron. How would they dispose of the body? Simple. Put it in Barron’s own vehicle and drive it to a dump site. But this would have left them with a vehicle to dispose of. Easy enough to leave it on a dimly lighted street with the keys in the ignition. It would disappear all right, but would it do so quickly enough? Too big a risk. Besides, according to APD the second vehicle, Stabler’s car, sat in the lot on Lomas all night long.
And if Walther Stabler elected to disappear after he and Wick had killed Barron, he wouldn’t do it in his own vehicle. He’d beg, buy, or steal another to reach a metropolitan area big enough for him to disappear. So they needed to get rid of two vehicles.
This led me down another path. Given Wick’s penchant for closing doors behind him, why would he leave Stabler alive to potentially testify against him one day? So maybe there were two bodies, as well as two cars.
Why was I convinced Wick was a part of this? Aside from evidence of his collusion in the Georgia Street part of the scam, it probably took two men to pull off the murder of Barron Voxlightner—who’d not been a small man—and the cover-up afterward. Newspaper photos at the time showed Walther Stabler as short and thin.
I glanced at the police report again and picked up the telephone. I knew the investigator who’d written the report. He was still on active duty with the APD but was out on a call. The receptionist promised to have him return my call as soon as possible.
Detective Dale Fuentes sounded just like he did half a dozen years ago when I’d spoken to him last. After bringing one another up to date on our lives, I turned to the investigation.
“Dale, I’m looking at your report on the Voxlightner scam that says you saw Dr. Walther Stabler’s Crown Victoria in the company’s parking lot as late as Tuesday the sixteenth. You remember that?”
“Do you remember what you had for breakfast a week ago? But I got notes I can dig out and refresh my memory. You want me to do it?”
“You bet. Now… maybe?”
“Nah,” the old cop said. “Gotta look them up and study them a bit. Tell me again what you’re looking for.”
I went over the discrepancy between the FBI and APD files regarding when Stabler’s car was last seen. He promised to call back before the day was over.
An hour later Fuentes kept his word. “Got it, BJ. And I’m beginning to remember a few things. Good to know the old noodle’s not gone soggy.”
“What I need to know is when Stabler’s car was last seen.”
“Okay.” I heard him shuffling through pages and talking to himself. Nope. Not there. The fifteenth… sixteenth… “Here it is. A witness saw Stabler’s Crown Vic in the lot at zero-three-zero on the sixteenth.”
“At half past midnight?” I asked.
“You got it.”
“Was it seen in the lot later than that by anyone?”
“I found a note saying I checked the lot around two, and the car was gone.”
I suppressed an expletive and thanked him for his help. Christ! I’d almost gone off the track because of a carelessly written report. Fuentes wrote the exact time in his notes, but it showed up in his report as “the morning of the sixteenth.” I consulted my notes and confirmed what I remembered. Wick clearly and unequivocally told me he had stopped by the VPMR office around eight o’clock the night Voxlightner and Stabler disappeared. He’d said the lights were on, but there were n
o cars in the lot. “Wick, you’re a liar,” I muttered aloud.
In a way this made things simpler. It made sense that Wick closed two doors behind him. And he probably knew where Stabler’s share of the loot was and how to access it. Now to the logistics.
In my mind’s eye I saw Wick enter the office where Barron and Walther pored over the company’s books. I saw anger build, accusations fly. With Barron’s indignation focused on Walther, it would be easy for Wick to walk up behind the unsuspecting man and disable or kill him. Wick would have loaded Barron into Voxlightner’s own vehicle, a 2004 Chevrolet Blazer, and started for the dump site. Stabler probably cleaned up the office—if the deed was done there—and followed along behind to bring Wick back to the office. This accounted for his car being seen in the parking lot at a later time.
Hmm. Another problem. Nobody reported seeing Wick’s car in the same parking lot. That meant it was stowed somewhere else temporarily. There was a popular eating and drinking place an easy walk away, a likely place. This alone indicated premeditation.
Had Wick permitted Stabler to leave the dump site alive? Everything that happened since suggested not. Stabler disappeared as thoroughly as Barron. I could see Wick killing his unsuspecting coconspirator and driving back to the office in Stabler’s car. Except… what did he do with the Crown Vic?
If those men drove two vehicles to some remote site but neither of the cars came back, how did Wick get to his own car? He had to have some method of transportation. Another conspirator? Unlikely. He was slamming doors behind him, not opening new ones. So how did he get back to town? And where was the dump site?
PAUL WAS pumped enough from getting a new car to let Pedro come out and play that night. And play he did. He and his master seemingly forgot the doctor’s admonition to take it easy for a while and really let loose. At the end of it, I was as sated as any guest at a drunken, libertine feast. I couldn’t take a minute more of the man I treasured most in this world yet craved him at the same time.
The next morning Paul seemed recovered while my legs still shook if I put a foot down wrong. We sat in the breakfast nook eating his delicious chili omelets… this time laced with red not green. And if you have to ask red or green what, then you aren’t a New Mexican.
“Wonder how the insurance investigator’s doing?” he asked out of the blue.
“What insurance investigator?”
Paul managed to look sheepish and sexy at the same time. “Uh-oh. Did I forget to mention a Tri State insurance investigator talked to Roy Guerra the other day?”
“You did. Paul, we’ve got to keep one another up to date on things. And I thought you were making written reports like the rest of us.”
His cheeks darkened. “Guess getting banged up and buying a new car got in my way. I’m behind on my reports. But yeah. Last week this Dallas insurance guy came knocking on Roy’s door. Checking out Pierce’s hefty policies.”
“The ones naming Harris and Melanie as beneficiaries?”
“Two and a half mil each for his son and daughter. And two more for Thackerson and Spears—”
“Whoa. Thackerson and Spears get insurance money in addition to their inheritance?” I exclaimed. “How much?”
“A mil each. And with double indemnity….”
“Each gets twice the amount. That’s serious money.” My turn to be embarrassed. I would eventually have dug deeper into life insurance, but I should have done it sooner. “We knew about the policies benefiting Harris and Melanie. The other two are a surprise. Did the beneficiaries know about the policies?”
“The insurance guy didn’t know, so Roy made inquiries. Son and daughter said yes. Girlfriend and boyfriend said no.”
“The insurance guy, as you call him, is someone worth getting to know. What’s his name?”
Paul shrugged. “Dunno. But I’ll find out and set up a meeting, okay?”
“Good. As soon as possible.”
I spent my day fruitlessly trying to figure out where Wick Pillsner dumped one or two bodies and got back home. Gene ran the vehicle identification numbers for Barron’s Blazer and Walther’s Crown Victoria through the national register again. Nothing. That didn’t mean a lot. Stolen vehicles often carried phony VINs. Still, neither car surfaced again.
Paul spent his time running down the Tri State insurance investigator and arranging an appointment in my downtown offices the next day at 9:00 a.m.
Paul and I got up earlier than usual that morning because I’d been neglecting to swim lately, and that was the only way I kept my leg from growing stiff. The wound in my right thigh from Thornton Hsu’s .38 revolver was never going to forgive me for being careless enough to let the suspected killer get the drop on me.
We arrived at Fifth and Tijeras NW with me walking better but dragging a little from the early morning exercise to find a small black man with a bristle-brush haircut waiting in my inner office. My companion introduced me to Nathan Tibedeau of Tri State Life Insurance.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Vinson,” he acknowledged my greeting in a soft voice.
Nate Tibedeau confirmed the insurance policy essentials as Paul had related them. The policy naming Harrison Belhaven as beneficiary dated from twenty years back and was paid by Esther Caulkins Belhaven until her death in 2006, when John Pierce Belhaven assumed the payments. The one paying Melanie Belhaven Harper was similar except it was taken out sixteen years ago.
The policies favoring Spears and Thackerson dated back only two and three years, respectively. Tibedeau’s contribution to the discussion was limited to some procedural details, affirming it was not mandatory a beneficiary be notified of his or her interest in a policy. He also noted life proceeds paid directly to individual beneficiaries are generally exempt from income taxes.
By the end of the meeting, Paul and I had imparted much more information than we received. Even so the session was necessary.
Chapter 17
THE NEXT morning Gene and I met for coffee at a Starbucks in the North Valley where I recited my theory that Wick killed both Barron Voxlightner and Walther Stabler and stashed them and their cars somewhere. He heard me out before commenting.
“Makes for a good story. It makes a lot of sense too, but there isn’t a shred of evidence supporting your supposition.” He paused for a sip of espresso. “Although it sure would answer a big question. How in the hell do two men disappear without leaving a trace? I know it happens, but not as much as you’d think. Most of those who are never found are just what you’re supposing. Dead. And both of these guys had baggage. Baggage called money. In a way money makes disappearing a lot easier, but as much cash as these two moved around, they should have left a trace.”
After examining the theory for half an hour, we agreed to check for rental cars or cabs to see if we could pick up a trace of the two. Neither of us was hopeful. Seven years was a long time to keep such records. In turn I agreed Paul and I would use our weekend to check out Wick’s cabin in the Jemez Mountains. It was remote enough to warrant a look for a hidey-hole big enough to contain two cars and two skeletons. The feds searched it years ago, but the place was worth another check.
Paul was game since he couldn’t swim, play tennis, or golf for a couple more weeks because of his bum shoulder. I dug out directions to the place from the files, changed to cargo shorts for comfortable driving, and we headed for the mountains. Even though we might encounter some rough territory, Paul wanted to try out his Charger, reasoning that because there was no record of Wick owning a four-wheel drive vehicle, Paul’s bomb was up to the task.
We took the old road north to Bernalillo, caught US Route 550 at the north end of town, and turned west. It always amazed me this little town had a traffic problem at least as bad as Albuquerque’s, a metropolitan area at least twenty times larger. Nonetheless we eventually broke free of civilization and scooted west toward an even smaller place. After crossing a salt encrusted arroyo called the Rio Salado—in which I had never seen water—we entered San Ysidro. As a
lifelong history buff, I knew this village of fewer than 500 souls had been established as a farming community in 1699 when a fellow called Juan Trujillo put down his roots and named his home after Saint Isidore the Farmer. Two years ago a movie starring Helen Mirren and Joe Pesci called Love Ranch was filmed outside the town.
At the north end of the village, we turned right onto State Road 4 and traveled up a broad valley said to have been inhabited by man for the last 4,500 years. This route eventually led us through Jemez Pueblo where native people gathered following the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. Also known as Popé’s Rebellion, the uprising of several indigenous Pueblos drove the Spanish out of New Mexico. Twelve years later the Spaniards returned to reoccupy the territory.
Beyond that lay the red-rock country of Jemez Springs with its two Roman Catholic retreats, the Congregation of the Servants of the Paraclete and the Handmaids of the Precious Blood. In my youth my parents occasionally took family excursions to this country and allowed me to ride the natural falls at Soda Dam into the pooled waters of Jemez Creek. Somewhere past the jutting promontory known as Battleship Rock lay my favorite place on earth: the vast grasslands and volcanic domes of Valles Caldera. Just two months earlier the Las Conchas wildfire—caused by a tree falling on a powerline—devoured 150,000 acres, threatening the Los Alamos Lab, two pueblos in the area, and Valles Grande, itself.
Almost immediately past Battleship, we followed the dictates of our map, turned onto a forest road, and headed into the mountains. Long before we reached the cabin, I was convinced we were whistling Dixie. The drive along the paved highways hadn’t taken too long, but this portion along a tortuous unimproved road—although not difficult—was slow going because of its winding course. By the time we reached the cabin, we would have been on the road at least three hours, and reports indicated Wick was in his downtown office early on the morning of March 16, the day after the two men disappeared. Nonetheless we persevered until we broke out into a small clearing and spotted the house—it was more than a cabin—pictured in the files. The place was closed up tight. The Pillsner family wasn’t in residence this weekend.