Persons Missing or Dead

by Cliff Black

  “He’s really in bad shape then?”

  The deputy hesitated and then answered as though he were half choked. “You wouldn’t believe how bad. Whoever did this is an animal.”

  “Can I see Ricardo if I come there?”

  “I can’t guarantee anything, but come ahead, if you think it will help. Your chances are as good as ours.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Las Cruces.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. Give me your name again.”

  “Hartley, Dave or David. I’m leaving in a few minutes to go to Las Cruces myself. I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon.”

  It was one thirty-five that afternoon when I walked into the hospital. I asked for Deputy David Hartley and was sent upstairs to an intensive care waiting room. There were three people in the room. I recognized Harold Osterbein, the Otero County Recorder. The other two were identified by metal name plates above the left pocket of their uniform shirts: David Hartley and Clarissa Trujillo. I introduced myself to the deputies then sat down by Osterbein.

  “I hope you don't mind my telling the police that you went to see Ricardo,” he said. “I feel like this is all my fault.”

  “You didn’t send anyone else to see Ricardo, did you?”

  “I think you were being followed. I saw it, but I told myself I was being melodramatic, that I’d been watching too much TV.”

  “You must be mistaken,” I said. “I had barely driven in from Old Mexico. Where would I have picked up a tail?”

  “I wouldn’t have noticed, had I not been out by the street. When you drove away, I saw a car pull out a couple of houses down. The driver stared at me as he went by.” Osterbein cleared his throat then continued. “I know it sounds like I’m letting my imagination run wild, but the expression on his face . . . . How can I describe it? It was as though he wondered what I had that was worth stealing. He looked evil, pure evil.”

  “Tell me why you think he was following me.”

  “I saw you turn the corner down the street. He turned the same way. I said to myself, ‘I should call Ricardo and warn him.’ Then I said, ‘This is silly. Ricardo will think I’m out of my mind–and he’ll be angry that I sent anyone to see him.’ In the end I did nothing.”

  “What kind of a car was the man driving?” I asked.

  “It was a big car–an old, white one. I think it was a Cadillac.”

  It had to be Smith. How did he get on my tail? How did he know I was looking for Virginia? I thought of the possibilities for a few minutes, then put a hand on Harold’s knee and said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Harold. If it was the man I think it was, he must have tapped my home telephone. I should have expected something like that.”

  I looked across the room at the deputies and asked, “Did the assailant leave any evidence at the Valenzuela place?”

  Hartley looked at me, glanced at his partner, looked down at the floor, and coughed a couple of times. Finally he said, “I don’t think so, but you’d have to ask the lab guys. I’m afraid what I saw will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.”

  “Did Ricardo put up a fight?”

  “Oh, yes. First it was just the assailant and Ricardo, but then we think Ricardo’s wife came out with a knife. The assailant probably had a club of some kind. We haven’t been able to talk to Ricardo, and his wife was too hysterical to make sense.”

  “Then there’s a chance the assailant was injured?”

  “An excellent chance.”

  “That’s something, then.”

  We all sat there in silence. Clarissa Trujillo hadn’t said a word since I arrived. I had to think she had also been to the crime scene.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Nat at work.

  When she came on the line I said, “Nat, there’s something you need to do immediately. Don’t wait until you get off work. Call the telephone company and tell them our line is tapped. Insist they check it immediately. Take off work if you have to, but make sure it gets done. I’m going to call Ezzy next. He has some pull with the phone company. If you get any static from the phone people, talk to Ezzy.”

  “I’m on it, Dad,” Nat said. “It’s a slow day here. There should be no problem getting off. When are you coming home? Why do you think our phone's tapped?”

  “I'll explain later, and I probably won't be back until tomorrow. I’ll call again tonight.”

  We hung up, and I immediately called the Dolores County Sheriff’s office. The dispatcher said Ezzy had just gone out the door, but she’d catch him.

  After a couple of minutes, I heard the usual. “How, Geronimo. Where are you this time?”

  “Las Cruces, and I have a bulletin for you. I think Smith has been here. He must be on the trail of McLaughlin’s granddaughter. More than that, I think he, or someone working for him, has tapped my phone line. I just called Nat and asked her to have the phone company check it out.”

  “Good work, Geronimo,” Ezzy said with enthusiasm. “This may be the break we’ve needed. Let me handle it from here. I’ll talk to my wife’s brother-in-law.” And he was gone.

  There was about five minutes of awkward silence in the room, until I said to Hartley, “The assailant might have needed medical help. Have you checked hospitals and clinics?”

  “We’ve alerted everyone within a hundred miles. We didn’t try to cover Albuquerque.”

  A nurse stuck her head in, held up two fingers, and said, “Only two. You can have five minutes–no more.”

  I looked at Hartley. He nodded, and he and I followed the nurse to the recovery room. A dark complected man wearing hospital greens spattered with blood met us there.

  “I’m Doctor Patil,” he said, with an accent from the Indian sub-continent. “Find out what you can quickly. He won’t be awake long.”

  Ricardo looked like accident victims drawn in cartoons, not that there was anything funny about it. One arm was in a cast. His head and chest were swathed in bandages. His mouth was swollen and discolored and I could see stubs of broken teeth. There was the usual assortment of tubes and wires monitoring and medicating him. Only one eye was visible, and that was bloodshot and bruised. I had the sense that the sheet drawn up to his chest hid more horrors.

  Hartley wasn't inclined to lead out, so I walked close and said, “I’m sorry, Ricardo. I’m afraid the man who did this followed me to your place.”

  Ricardo’s lips moved, and a tear ran from his un-bandaged eye. I couldn’t hear what he said, so I put an ear near his lips. He whispered, “He hurt Maria. You warned me. I wouldn’t listen.”

  I turned to Hartley, “He said his assailant hurt Maria.”

  “Maria is his wife,” he said and almost choked on the words.

  Ricardo began coughing. The nurse came quickly to his side and held a gauze pad to his mouth. When the coughing stopped, I saw the gauze was bloody. Ricardo sank back against the pillows, and for a moment I thought he was dead, but then he opened his eye and whispered, “Kill him for me. Kill him for Maria.” He stopped, closed his eye, and more tears ran down the side of his face.

  I waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, I said, “The woman you mentioned, Rosa, the one who would know where Virginia is. Was that what he wanted from you?”

  “Si,” he said and gasped.

  “Did you tell him?”

  “He hurt my Maria. Si, I told.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  His lips formed words, but I couldn’t hear. I asked again and put my ear next to his lips. He sobbed and said, “Cuba. Home to Cuba. Madre de Dios.” His body racked with sobs and the tears ran freely. He began coughing again.

  The nurse rushed to him again, and Doctor Patil said, “That’s enough. You must all leave now.”

  I looked at Hartley. He made a gesture with his head and eyes to get out. We did.

  Out in the hallway, I cornered Harold Osterbein. “Ricardo told me there was a woman named Rosa that would know where Virginia Kennedy is. Do you kn
ow who he meant?”

  “She was the nearest thing Virginia had to a mother. Rosa was still with her when she came back with Paul Kennedy.”

  “Was this Rosa from Cuba?”

  “No one ever said so.”

  We all went outside. The deputies got in an official car and drove away. Harold started to leave and then turned back.

  “I feel so responsible. I will gladly kill this James W. Smith if I get the chance.” He turned and almost ran to his car.

  I knew how Osterbein felt. I had been blissfully searching for McLaughlin's granddaughter, knowing there was a chance Smith might also be searching. I had ignored the possibility of putting others in danger. Was McLaughlin's happiness worth it? Would Smith come after me next? What about Nat? Then I wondered if Alfredo had been visited.

  I got out my laptop computer, looked up Alfred Hill’s phone number and called him.

  After five rings, a man’s voice came on, “Hill’s.”

  “Alfredo?”

  “Si.”

  “This is Daniel Corbin, again. Are you where you can talk–about Virginia?”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll need to look in my office.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Smith hadn't followed me into old Mexico. I heard the hollow sound of being on hold for maybe thirty seconds then the phone came alive again.

  “Now, what is it?” He said.

  “Was there a woman named Rosa with Virginia Teresa?”

  “Rosa was Virginia’s maid, her companion, her chaperone. It was from Rosa we had to hide our meetings. I think Rosa knew, though. I think she saw what she wanted to see.”

  “What was Rosa’s last name?”

  “She was just Rosa. I never heard more.”

  “Where was she from?”

  Alfredo said, “Her English was quite good. I would guess she grew up in New Mexico.”

  “Could she be from Cuba?”

  “I don’t think so, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  “One other thing. Has there been anyone else asking questions about Virginia, or Rosa?’

  “No one but yourself. Why?”

  “If anyone does, especially an evil-looking man, driving an old, white Cadillac, be very careful. The man is dangerous. And please call me. Do you have my phone number?”

  “Yes. This evil man. Is there anything else I should know about him? Anything I should do if he comes here?”

  “Shoot him.”

  I called Nat again.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “The phone company is here now. So is a city cop and a guy that looks like FBI.”

  “What have they found?”

  “They’ve found a place where a tap was connected to the line before it goes into the house. Whatever it was is gone already. They’re going to check for fingerprints, but no one looks hopeful. Do you want to talk to any of them?”

  “I guess not. Sounds like you do have it handled. Listen, I’m concerned about you. Maybe you should go to Blanding and stay with the Beckworths until this is over.”

  Nat hesitated before she answered. “I’ll be okay, Dad. I keep my cell phone with me all the time, I always set the alarm system, and I sleep with a gun under my pillow.”

  “Don’t kid around. This is serious,” I said.

  “I’m not kidding. I told you about the gun when I made the Fort Lewis team. I wasn't kidding then, and I'm not kidding now. I carry it in my gym bag, and I sleep with it under my pillow when you’re not here.”

  “Okay, Missy. But please, please be careful. I’ll be home sometime tomorrow. Right now I want to see Ricardo Valenzuela again. Then depending on what I can learn from him, I may come back home or I may drive to Santa Fe. If something changes, I’ll call you. There’s a woman I need to find before Jimmy Smith finds her.”

  “How is this Ricardo?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Be careful, Daddy. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Missy. You be careful.”

  I ran back inside and up stairs to the Intensive Care area. I wanted some clarification on Rosa and Cuba. It seemed to me that people would have known if she was from Cuba. Being of Mexican-Spanish descent was common in New Mexico. Being of Cuban descent was not common. Why would someone from Cuba be working for the Castillos?

  Doctor Patil was coming out of the recovery room as I got there.

  “Can I talk to Ricardo for just one more minute?” I said, gasping for air.

  The doctor stopped, looked over his shoulder, looked back at me, and said, “I'm sorry. Your questioning was too hard on him. It will be at least three weeks before I can approve of more questioning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I didn't know if it was possible to go to Cuba in search of Rosa. And if it was possible, how would I begin? I drove to Santa Fe again. It was a long shot, but seemed the thing to do since I was in the neighborhood. Okay, it's a big neighborhood.

  My second inquiry at Santa Fe wasn't any more productive than the first. In the posh district where the Kennedys had lived it seemed everyone employed a maid. I found no one from Cuba. Most were illegal Mexican immigrants, known locally as wetbacks. Rosa was a common name, and there was a lot of turnover. The home owners paid less attention to their neighbors' servants than they did to the cactus growing in each other’s yards.

  I spent a restless night after my return from New Mexico. I kept wondering if what happened to the Valenzuelas was due to carelessness on my part. I determined to be more alert to a tail in the future.

  In spite of feeling sleep-deprived, I got an early start on Wednesday. The only lead I had was Laura Strassburg’s workplace.

  The sky was overcast and the wind blew ribbons of red dirt along the streets as I drove into Shiprock. I stopped in a gas station and asked directions to the clinic. It was a long, low building made of artificial red stone. Pickups and a few cars were parked around it at random angles. My pickup seemed right at home in the jumble.

  I locked up my truck and went inside. I had to wait maybe five minutes to talk to the Navajo girl at the desk.

  “Hi,” I said when it was my turn. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to anyone who knew Laura Strassburg.”

  “I knew her,” she said, “but not very well. She only worked here a couple of months.”

  “Her body was found in Utah a few days ago. She was probably murdered.”

  The young woman's face paled and her eyes searched every corner of the room. I knew traditional Navajos didn't like speaking of death and especially avoided use of a dead person's name. I hoped it wouldn't make my inquiries difficult.

  “When did it happen?” she asked.

  “Last winter, probably when she didn't show up for work.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Do you know anyone she argued with? Anyone she was afraid of?”

  The young woman looked at me for a few seconds and then said, “Marsha might know.”

  “Marsha?”

  “Marsha Begay. She's the dental hygienist. They worked together.”

  “Where can I find her?” I asked.

  “She is here. I’ll tell her you want to speak to her.”

  I was too antsy to sit down. I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and then a slender, attractive, Navajo woman came out and said, “I’m Marsha.” She held out a hand. When I took it, I felt a tremor and knew she'd heard about Laura.

  Marsha said, “Pearlita told me about the woman who lived in Cortez. Why have you come here?”

  “I’m sorry to bring bad news. I hope someone can tell me about Ms. Strassburg. Was she afraid of anyone? Did she argue with someone? Why did she come to the Four Corners? Anything that will help me find the person who did this.”

  “Let’s go in our break room, Mister–?”

  “Daniel Corbin.” I followed her into a room in back with several tables and some vending machines.

  “I want a Coke,” she said. “What would you like?”


  “Coke’s fine. I’ll buy, if that’s okay with you.”

  “You are my guest here,” she said, “just don’t expect crystal and silver.” She got two cans of Coca Cola from one of the machines, picked up two Styrofoam cups from a stack on a shelf, and came to the table.

  After we tasted our drinks, I asked, “How well did you know Laura?”

  “We talked some. That woman was lonely and unhappy. She needed someone to talk to. I guess I have a sympathetic ear.”

  “Did Ms. Strassburg ever say why she came to the Four Corners?” I asked.

  “Maybe it wasn’t why she came, but I heard her say on the phone that she was trying to find a sister. Does that make sense?”

  “Did she mention a name? Or where this sister lived?”

  “The woman never said her sister’s name. It was only, ‘My sister.’ I think that’s why she was in Cortez, but that woman didn’t find her sister in Cortez. While she worked here, three times she went to Santa Fe on weekends. I don’t think she found her sister there either.”

  This sister thing was confusing. I asked. “Did she say why she wanted to find her sister?”

  “She didn’t need to tell me. I knew. That woman thought if she could find her sister, she could make the bad things in her life go away.”

  “What sort of bad things?”

  “I only know she smoked too many cigarettes. She drank too much beer. There was no peace–no harmony in her life. I told her she needed to have a medicine man do a sing to bring harmony to her world, but she was not of the Dine’. She said it wouldn’t help.”

  I thought that if Laura had anything to do with the death of Mary McLaughlin, or the sale of her child, it would take more than a Navajo sing to bring her peace.

  I asked, “What did you tell her when she said a sing wouldn’t help?”

  “I asked if her church people could help her. She told me she had done very bad things, and no one could help her. Now she is gone. That woman was running from much evil in her past. I think the evil found her before she found her sister.”