Tularosa - Michael McGarrity

by Michael McGarrity

  "Restless?" Meehan asked, turning toward her.

  His thoughts were on Benton. The phone call was way overdue. Each minute added to the chance of discovery. He needed to move on.

  "Bored," Sara replied. Her class ring was almost over the knuckle of her finger. She kept pressing against it with her thumb.

  "You've been very patient. I appreciate that." He came around the chair and stood directly in front of her, his groin inches from her face. She pulled back her head and closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her again. He stroked her face with the back of his hand.

  "It's time to go," he announced.

  "I'm fine right where I am," Sara snapped. The ring came off her finger, and she palmed it.

  "Why are you always so bitchy?" Meehan inquired, as he slipped on the latex gloves.

  "Nothing seems to please you." He untied the rope from around the chair and pulled her to him so she could feel his erection. She tensed up nicely. He released her, turned on a table lamp, and put the chair back in its original position.

  Meehan didn't notice the credit card receipt on the cushion; he was busy rubbing the chair's indentations from the carpet with the heel of his shoe. Satisfied, he turned off the lamp, grabbed her around the waist, and dragged her out of the house.

  At the Cherokee, he bent her facedown over the hood and fished the car keys from her pocket. She dug her heels in the gravel as he yanked her to the passenger door. When he reached to open it, Sara dropped the ring. Meehan pushed her inside the Jeep, walked to the driver's side, and got behind the wheel. Two clues, she thought gratefully. Enough to raise suspicion, if found. Much better than nothing. The night was warm and still. A million stars sparkled in a clear sky. Meehan smiled affectionately at her as he started the engine and drove away. She smiled back through thin lips, wondering if she would get a chance to kill the bastard.

  ***

  Kerney made it back to Las Cruces in just over a half hour, driving at top speed. At a gas station off the interstate the attendant kept a wary eye on him. Dried blood covered his suit jacket, shirt, and face, his right eye was half closed, his lip was puffy, and his pants were crusted with dirt. Kerney smiled at the kid as he dialed Sara's number at the pay phone. The kid probably figured him for an ax murderer, he thought. The message on Sara's answering machine gave him Fred Utiey's number to call. He hung up in exasperation and dialed the number. He let it ring for a long time before disconnecting. He had a peevish thought that maybe Sara and Utiey didn't want to be disturbed; if that was true, he had become a one-night stand for the first time in many years.

  Business is business, he decided, looking up Utiey's address in the phone book. If he interrupted something, so be it. The attendant seemed ready to dive under the counter when Kerney approached him and asked directions to Utiey's house. He stammered a lot but finally gave Kerney the information he needed. Kerney left a ten-dollar tip on the counter.

  Utiey lived in a trendy rural subdivision in the foothills outside the city limits. Scrub-covered, waterless hills good only for rabbit hunting now had hundred-thousand-dollar homes tucked into knolls, banked against outcroppings, and standing monolithic on scoured plots. City lights winked in the valley below, fading into darkness where the rich bottomland and the irrigated farms near the river met the urban sprawl.

  Utiey's house, some distance from the others, was dark when Kerney arrived. Only one car was in the driveway, a Japanese sport coupe. The thought that Sara had gone home pleased him. Ringing the doorbell brought no response. Maybe they were out somewhere in Sara's Jeep. He went back to the truck, got a flashlight, and inspected the coupe. It had a civilian employee pass to the missile range on the bumper and was unlocked. He found Utiey's registration in the glove box. He swept the driveway with the beam of the flashlight. Two grooves in the gravel, deep and closely spaced marks, caught his attention. There was a glitter of gold in the gravel. Kerney picked it up. It was a West Point ring with Sara's initials engraved inside the band. He got his pistol from the truck and tried the front door. It was locked. At the side of the house was a high wall with a locked, wooden gate. He climbed the wall and walked around the house to a covered patio. Charcoal in the barbecue pit was still warm. He stood to one side of a sliding patio door and gave it a push. The door slid open. He made a quick scan, saw nothing, and stepped into a large combination kitchen and dining area. He moved quietly to the living room. He saw a body, dropped to a prone position, and killed the flashlight. There were no sounds in the house, but he waited several minutes before shining the flashlight at the body again.

  It was Fred Utiey and he was very dead. Kerney did a fast room search of the house before returning to the living room and turning on the lights. From the color of his skin, Utiey hadn't been dead for very long. For some reason a chair had been moved in front of Utiey's body and then replaced in its original position. The carpet fibers had been partially fluffed up to erase the imprint of chair legs. There were slight signs of abrasions on the wood finish, and a wadded-up piece of paper on the cushion. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a gasoline credit card receipt charged to Sara's account. Utiey's death was no suicide, and Sara had been here, tied up, and then taken forcibly away from house. She was alive when she left but could be dead and lying in a ditch by now. His pulse quickened. He used the telephone in the bedroom to call Andy Baca.

  ***

  The doctor at Fort Bliss looked Eddie up and down and asked him suspiciously where in the hell he had been. Eddie told him Juarez, and the doctor made him strip and wash with a disinfectant while he called to verify that Eddie was really an investigator assigned to White Sands Missile Range. Flat on his stomach, covered with a hospital gown, Eddie watched while the doctor worked on him. The nerve blocker dulled the pain but not enough to keep the surgery from hurting. After Eddie was sewed up, the doctor bandaged his arm while a haggard-looking nurse gave him a tetanus shot and a sheet of written instructions on how to care for his wound. Eddie had left his personal car at Fort Bliss after dropping Isabel and the baby at the bus station, and an MP sent to fetch his travel bag stood by the door watching him dress, holding Eddie's gear.

  "You want me to take you to your car?" the MP asked.

  "Not yet," Eddie said, reclaiming his handgun, wallet, and badge case from the bag. He stuck the bolstered weapon into his belt, put the wallet and case in his back pockets, and motioned for the MP to follow him. Outside the hospital, Eddie searched Benton's car while the MP waited. It didn't take long to find out where Benton had stayed in El Paso. The ashtray contained a room key and a bunch of motel receipts.

  A workout bag in the backseat held a smelly sweat suit, a towel, a jockstrap, and a very choice 9mm handgun, with three extra clips. Eddie turned the gun and clips over to the MP and asked him to have the vehicle impounded and the weapon checked. The MP called for a tow truck and gave him a ride to his car. The motel, in a barrio bordering an industrial section of the city, was a fleabag. A row of smokestacks from a nearby smelter dwarfed the houses and the businesses along the strip. Three hookers waved to him as he drove into the parking lot.

  Eddie let himself into Benton's room. It was a box with a bathroom and closet jutting out of one corner. It smelled of years of cigarettes and cheap booze. He started his search and quickly found out that Benton liked guns. Under the pillow on the bed was a Colt38 revolver, and in the bathroom a toiletry kit contained a.22 Saturday-night special. The single dresser held a Gideon Bible and nothing else. Benton kept his clothes in two large canvas duffel bags, clean clothes in one and dirty clothes in the other. He probably didn't like the cockroaches getting into his wearing apparel, Eddie thought, as he watched one dart out of the wastebasket. The only thing in the trash can was a greasy brown paper bag containing food wrappers and a cash register receipt from the Caballito Bar.

  He took another tour through the room before leaving and found a laptop computer and printer in a carrying case on the floor by a phone jack. Next door a hooker cooed an
d moaned in time with the squeaking bedsprings. He grabbed the computer case, locked the room, and stood in the parking lot. Just down the street, on the opposite corner, the neon outline of a rearing pony flashed on and off above the entrance to a bar. Eddie smiled to himself, put the computer in his car, and walked to the Caballito Bar. The bar, filled with workers from the factories, bustled with activity. Eddie found room at the bar and ordered a cerveza. When the bartender brought it, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill and asked if he knew a gringo named Benton.

  The bartender, a man with a hook nose and dark circles under his eyes, took the bill, made change, and said he didn't know anybody by that name. He walked away to serve another customer before Eddie could ask another question. The wall over the bar held a velveteen painting of a conquistador and another painting of a senorita wearing a lace mantilla.

  A hand-printed lunch menu was tacked between the two pictures. Eddie called the bartender back and asked if a gringo had been coming in recently to buy take-out lunches.

  "Oh, that guy," the bartender answered, taking another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's hand, plus the eighteen dollars in change on the counter. He stuffed the money into a tip jar and lowered his voice.

  "I don't know his name." The Freddy Fender song on the jukebox ended and the bartender stopped talking. A man at the pool table dropped more quarters in the slot and started punching buttons. The music blared; a mariachi song. Two female shift workers at the end of the bar started singing along.

  "If it's the guy I'm thinking about," the bartender continued, "he comes in to buy take-out. Always orders a hamburger and fries. He doesn't like Mexican food." Eddie described Benton to the bartender.

  "That's him." The bartender walked away to fill an order. Along the rear wall, a small audience watched the pool game. Behind them was a mural of wild mustangs galloping across a mesa. When the bartender finished pouring drinks, Eddie motioned for him to come back.

  "Did you ever see this guy on the streets?" Eddie inquired. The bartender plucked another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's fingers.

  "Once. I saw him over by the self-storage units."

  "Where is that?"

  "Down by the factories. You can't miss it."

  "What was he doing when you saw him?" Eddie asked. The bartender smiled.

  "He was driving through the gate. Probably checking on his property. Everybody who rents space there keeps a close eye on their merchandise. The city can tear down Smeltertown, but they can't stop the contrabandistas." Eddie thanked the man, finished his beer, and went to

  the telephone next to the jukebox. It was time to call Kerney.

  Andy Baca watched his officers work. They had cordoned off the driveway and brought in high intensity lights to help with evidence collection. An officer photographed the heel marks and tire imprints, while another searched Utiey's car. Inside, the crime scene unit lifted prints, vacuumed rugs for fibers and trace evidence, and photographed the body. On the patio a deputy sifted through the ashes in the barbecue pit.

  Kerney was inside with Andy's captain of detectives, giving a statement. The medical examiner arrived with two paramedics in a county ambulance and started unloading a gurney. The sound of another motor came up the road. The driver parked behind a patrol unit, got out, and walked over to him. Andy nodded when Major Curry drew near.

  "Tom," he said.

  "Thanks for coming."

  "No problem," Curry replied.

  "Are you sure this cop of yours has his story straight?"

  "I believe him," Andy replied, "and the evidence backs him up."

  "He thinks Sara was abducted?"

  "It looks that way. I've got a statewide APB out on her vehicle, plus El Paso and west Texas. Kerney's worried that she may have been taken somewhere and killed."

  "Jesus," Tom Curry snorted.

  "I've got a patrol covering her quarters in case she turns up. Do we have a suspect?"

  "No, but another wise guy surfaced in Juarez," Andy said.

  "Who is it?"

  "Kerney didn't tell me, but he's probably on ice in the Juarez morgue."

  "Did Kerney take him out?"

  "No, one of your people did. A Corporal Eddie Tapia. Kerney says the corporal saved his life."

  "Where is Tapia?" Curry asked.

  "In El Paso. He took a knife cut on his arm. Nothing serious. He's probably finished getting sewed up and is backtracking on the perp."

  "Where's Kerney?" Andy nodded at the front door as Kerney stepped outside the house.

  "Be gentle, Tom," he advised. "The man has had a shitty night, and his attitude stinks right now."

  Curry watched Kerney limp down the walk to a pickup truck and open the door. His suit was dirty and spattered with dried blood. Curry and Andy walked to him.

  "You're Curry?" Kerney asked, looking at the uniform and the insignia of rank. He opened his bag, searched for a clean shirt, and pulled one out.

  "I am."

  "Good. I need to talk to you. Eddie Tapia just called. He found where Benton was staying, and he has a lead on a rented storage unit. I'm going down to hook up with him."

  "Greg Benton?" Curry asked.

  "That's right." He slipped out of the suit jacket, undid the tie, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped it off. The scar on Kerney's stomachwas nasty, as bad as any combat wound Curry had seen. Kerney threw the dirty clothes into the cab of the truck and put on the fresh shirt.

  "You know who he is?"

  "I know who he's supposed to be," Curry replied.

  "Is he CIA? Defense Intelligence? NSA?" Kerney asked, stuffing his shirttail into his pants.

  "I don't know," Curry answered.

  "He belongs to somebody," Kerney said.

  "Check it out."

  "Of course. Are you assuming Utiey was part of it?" Kerney got in the truck and slammed the door.

  "He had to be." He smiled at Andy. "I'll be in touch."

  "Let me send somebody with you," Andy pleaded.

  "I can handle it," Kerney retorted. He drove away.

  "I need to make a phone call to Washington," Curry said, frowning at the receding taillights.

  "Be my guest," Andy replied.

  ***

  De Leon meeting with Francisco Posada was short and to the point. Posada promised him all the required facts about Kevin Kerney, and he would see what could be learned about Eddie the jorobado. Most certainly Don Enrique would know by morning where Kerney lived, so he could be found and killed quickly. Carlos was due to return with a progress report on the search. De Leon waited patiently at his table, watching the action on the floor. Luisa, his diversion for the weekend, still occupied her time gambling with his money at the monte tables. He looked forward to his weekend with her. She hoped for marriage and eagerly demonstrated her talents, but he saw no future in marrying any woman. Eventually, all of them grew tiresome. Dominguez

  waddled in through the back door, looking very pleased with himself. His belly heaved in exertion as he stopped in front of De Leon "Senor?" He was out of breath.

  "What is it, Dominguez?" De Leon replied. Dominguez opened his hand.

  "I thought you might like to have this." He held out a wallet.

  "I took it from the dead man."

  "Put it on the table," De Leon said, without interest. Dominguez did as he was told.

  "Senor?"

  "What is it now, Dominguez?" De Leon said testily.

  Mother Mary help me if I ever need a real policeman, De Leon thought to himself. Dominguez unbuttoned his shirt pocket, took out a plastic card and a key, and handed them to De Leon

  "I also found these on the body." De Leon indifference faded as he looked at the card. It was a keyless entry card to a storage compound in El Paso. He turned over the metal locker key. A number was stamped on it. De Leon smiled.

  "How much money was in the wallet?" Dominguez's grin faded.

  "Four hundred dollars, patron," Dominguez admitted.

  "Is it securely in your pocke
t?"

  "Yes, Don Enrique."

  "I will double it. You have done me a service." Dominguez's grin returned, filled with gratitude.

  "I am glad you are pleased."

  "I am. Now go and wait for Carlos. Send him to me as soon as he arrives."

  Dominguez left, almost running. De Leon turned the card over in his hand. Truly, could it be so easy? Was he holding the key to a fortune that did not have to be bought and paid for? When Carlos arrived he would be sent to investigate. Perhaps Eddie, the charlatan jorobado, had brought him luck after all. If true, it would make an amusing story; one he would enjoy telling. De Leon laugh was loud enough to make some nearby customers pause and look in his direction.

  ***

  Benton's car was not in the motel parking lot, and there was no response when Meehan knocked at the door of the room. Sara was on the floor of the backseat of the Cherokee, gagged and covered with a blanket. The heavy traffic of hookers with their customers made sticking around unwise. Meehan decided to cross the border into Mexico, tuck Sara safely away, and come back to look for Benton. Meehan bypassed the direct route to Juarez and crossed the border at Santa Teresa. The road to Casas Grandes, a dirt washboard that intersected a main highway, was lightly traveled. He turned east toward Juarez before reaching the highway, staying on farm roads and skirting the few little settlements south of the city. To the north, the runway lights of the Juarez airport came into view, shimmering in geometric rows. When he was parallel to the Rio Grande, Meehan cut over to a paved highway that passed through several small villages. He turned off at two barren ridges that loomed up to a plateau above the river bottom. The road dwindled to a set of ruts in the dirt and dropped suddenly toward the river. His headlights lit up crumbling walls, old foundations, and deteriorated stone fences. Across the river, low-lying west Texas mountains showed a wrinkled, windswept face to the night sky. The ruins of the hacienda, protected in a hollow against the ridge, surveyed a narrow strip of bosque at the banks of the Rio Grande.