Scavengers pc-10

by Steven F Havill

  “Alto ahí! Policía!” Estelle shouted. Isidro surely had sensed something wrong from the moment he had discovered the car locked-but still the barked command took him by surprise. Instinctively, he turned and in doing so tripped and fell hard. The duffle bag acted as a cushion, and he scrambled to his knees, the pistol seeking a target. Estelle crouched behind the fender of the car, Beretta extended across the wide yellow hood. Isidro was less than thirty yards away-an easy shot.

  “No te muevas, Isidro,” she said. Isidro didn’t move, but not because of her command. He stared hard, searching for a target. He saw Estelle behind the car just as she shouted, “There’s nowhere you can go, Isidro.” She switched to English. “Drop the weapons.”

  An expression of incredulity spread across his face as he contemplated his chances with this slight, soft-voiced woman who now crouched behind his abandoned car. He could see the black automatic, could see that she held it steady and sure. The light played on the heavy, fresh scar that marred the corner of his left eye.

  “And who are you?” he asked in lightly accented English.

  “Drop the weapons, Isidro,” Estelle repeated.

  She saw his eyes flick to right and at the same time heard the faint shuffle of feet behind her. Tomas Naranjo had sidled to a position just inside the garden gate. The black muzzle of the shotgun protruded.

  Estelle turned her head just enough that she could talk to Naranjo without taking her eyes off Isidro. “I want him alive, Tomás,” she said quietly.

  Isidro mouthed a curse and dove off to his left toward a stout clump of saltbush, leaving the duffle bag behind. Estelle snapped off two quick rounds, keeping her aim low, before the right windshield pillar interfered. Dust kicked behind Isidro’s feet but the second round connected. It looked as if someone had jerked a rug out from under the fleeing man. He tumbled, his form nothing but a shadow behind the scrubby bush.

  Fifty yards separated him from a gentle rise in the prairie. Behind her, Estelle heard the howl of a car racing into the village, its sound muffled by the buildings. In a moment, Tom Pasquale’s Bronco appeared, shoveling dust and gravel with its front bumper as it careened around the east end of Paulita Saenz’s home and dove across a sharp dip.

  Isidro Madrid didn’t wait to negotiate. He appeared from behind the saltbush, the automatic in his hand roaring. A slug whanged off the top of the station wagon, another chewed into the adobe to the left of Naranjo, and a third kicked sand in front of Pasquale’s Bronco as it slid sideways to a stop.

  So loud that it made her ears ring, Naranjo’s shotgun bellowed, and Estelle saw the pattern of buckshot blow gravel to the left of Madrid’s flying feet. He dodged sideways, legs pumping like a hotly pursued wide receiver. As he ran, he pumped rounds indiscriminately behind him.

  Estelle took a deep breath and clenched the Beretta with both hands. She pulled the trigger at the same time that Naranjo blasted another round from the shotgun. Isidro Madrid was in midturn, trying to avoid a cluster of acacia. Instead he crashed into the stout shrub. Estelle saw the rifle fly from his grip.

  Pasquale, gun drawn, sprinted toward Madrid. The man pushed himself to his feet, the automatic digging into the gravel and sand as he did so. Holding his automatic with both hands, Pasquale advanced on Madrid.

  “Drop it,” the deputy barked. Madrid turned and looked south. The cut border fence was less than fifty yards away. His left pant leg above the knee was blood-soaked, and his right foot refused to bear his weight. He turned back to Pasquale, and then watched as Estelle advanced toward him.

  “Todo se ha acabado. Isidro,” she said. “It’s finished.”

  So sudden was his movement that both Pasquale and Estelle came within an ounce of squeezing the trigger. Isidro Madrid dropped the automatic, but at the same time collapsed backward to land on his rump, legs awkwardly folded under him. He supported himself on his right elbow and closed his eyes, swaying in pain. He opened them only when Estelle’s shadow fell across his face.

  She looked down at him, and found herself considering that a good swift kick would roll him into a small cholla cactus less than a foot behind him.

  “No, you don’t want to do that,” Pasquale said. He stepped around Estelle and in a moment had handcuffed Isidro Madrid’s hands behind his back. He pulled the handheld radio off his belt and keyed the mike.

  “We’re secure down here,” he said. “Requesting an ambulance for Mr. Madrid.”

  “Ten-four,” Torrez’s voice said.

  “I don’t want to do what?” Estelle said to Pasquale. She watched impassively as the deputy quickly frisked Madrid, then sliced the blood-soaked trouser leg away from the man’s thigh. One of the shotgun pellets had raked a furrow four inches long, a nasty quarter-inch deep track that bled profusely.

  “My foot,” Isidro said through gritted teeth.

  “Hurts, huh,” Pasquale said. He secured Madrid’s ankles with nylon ties, then looked at the neat bullet hole through the fancy leather around the heel of Madrid’s right foot. On the other side, the hole was considerably larger. “You’re not bleedin’ to death, so we’ll let the EMTs deal with that.”

  He straightened up and grinned at Estelle. “I could see it in your face, Mrs. Guzman.” He reached out and touched the cholla gently with the toe of his boot. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it.” He pulled a small card out of his pocket. “Isidro, I’m going to read you your rights.” Madrid mouthed an obscenity and Pasquale shrugged. “Well, all right, then. You don’t need to hear it. We can drag your carcass about fifty yards south, and Captain Naranjo can read you your rights in Mexico. How about that?”

  Naranjo limped his way over, the shotgun cradled under his arm. He regarded Isidro with distaste. “I would consider that a favor for which I would be long in your debt, officer.”

  “You can’t do that,” Isidro Madrid said.

  “We can’t?” Pasquale said, and then shrugged. “Well, then, shut up and listen.” As he read the Miranda statement, first in English and then in Spanish, Estelle walked over to where Isidro Madrid had dropped the rifle.

  She lifted it carefully by the wooden stock. The scope was loose, perhaps jarred in the fall. The gun’s caliber, 44 Remington Magnum, was stamped on the barrel. She turned the gun over and looked at the hammer. Sure enough, it was tucked under the body of the scope difficult to reach. The small part that would have made it easier to use was tucked in an evidence bag in Posadas.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Do you have a minute?”

  Estelle looked up to see Sheriff Robert Torrez standing in the door of her office. With the clock ticking at double speed before Benny Madrid’s arraignment that afternoon in District Judge Lester Hobart’s court, a sea of paperwork still needed to be processed and a dozen phone calls returned-including one to a federal prosecutor in Las Cruces who’d taken an interest in the border-crossing exploits of the Madrid brothers. Whether he was going to queue up with Mexican authorities to wait his turn was still open to question.

  “No, but that’s okay,” Estelle replied. She saw the dark circles under Bob Torrez’s eyes, but knew that his fatigue was nowhere near as consuming as his disappointment at missing the final chase. Isidro Madrid had simply run the wrong way, and the sheriff had been left to protect Lucy and Wally Madrid from their duct-taped, cuffed, and hobbled son in the bathroom. “Your office?”

  Torrez nodded. “You need a break anyway,” he said.

  She patted him on the arm as she slipped past him. “I need a break, Bobby? You look like you qualify for the walking dead yourself.”

  “Tomorrow at this time, we’ll all be wondering what to do with ourselves to stay busy,” he said. “What’s the word on Isidro, by the way? Did Francis know yet?”

  The moment that the Posadas EMTs had sliced off Isidro Madrid’s fancy running shoe and released the sea of blood and gore, it was obvious that it would take more than a Band-Aid before Isidro would be able to limp into his court arraignment.

&nb
sp; “He’s working with Brownell, the orthopedic surgeon from Deming,” Estelle said. “The general consensus is that Isidro’s heel bone is never going to be as good as new. ‘Dusted it’ is the way Francis described it.”

  “Good shot, then. You should have aimed a bit higher, though. Saved us all a lot of work.”

  “The thought crossed my mind.” She followed him to the cubbyhole down the hall that he called his office. She was surprised to see Tom Pasquale sitting like a schoolboy waiting for the principal. Torrez motioned Estelle to the remaining chair and closed the door. The small office was stuffy, smelling of old leather and aftershave.

  “Did you have a chance to read this yet?” Torrez picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to Estelle.

  “Yes, I did.” She leafed through Eurelio Saenz’s deposition, four pages of single-spaced typing. Deputy Jackie Taber had been thorough, guiding the young man through the narrative, from the moment he had made the foolish decision to sell the.44 magnum carbine to his second cousins. Maybe the long, sorry tale had helped to keep his mind off the fire of the cactus thorns and the battering of his ribs. “The azote loosened his tongue, at least.”

  “Maybe that’s what we should try on Isidro,” Torrez said.

  “Believe me, that thought crossed my mind, too.”

  Torrez laughed. “That’s what Tom tells me.”

  “He’s right.”

  Torrez hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Benny’s a good singer, though,” the sheriff said with satisfaction. “He’s telling us what we need to know. I think he hopes the DA is going to cut him a deal if he sings loud enough.”

  “He’s dreaming.”

  “True. But…” He stopped and held up his hands. “The little bastard can always hope. He says that he stayed in the taberna when Isidro took Rafael and Lolo out to test drive the old pickup truck. Isidro and Benny had convinced Eurelio to sell the truck to the boys, do you believe that? Benny says he never went along for the test ride. He says that both he and Eurelio stayed in the bar, and that when Isidro came back, he told him that Rafael and Lolo didn’t want the truck after all, and that they’d hooked a ride home with someone else.” Torrez puffed out his cheeks. “And Benny believed him when Isidro said he slipped jumping out of the back of the truck and cracked his head on the bed rack. Next he’s probably going to tell us that he slept through the whole thing with Eurelio out there on the desert.”

  “It would be tough to sleep through something like that,” Estelle said.

  “For sure. Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about…remember I mentioned some time or other that Tom had some interesting information about the Popes?”

  Estelle’s eyebrows lifted with curiosity. She had no recollection of that particular conversation in the great flood of events during the past few hours. The fire at Eleanor Pope’s seemed a year in the past.

  Torrez took that as agreement and said, “You remember in the hospital I said that I had some interesting news for you that was going to make you want to arrest somebody?”

  Estelle nodded. “Yes.”

  “Collins is working on the insurance deal involving the Popes.” He turned to Pasquale. “Tell Estelle what you told me, Tomás.”

  Pasquale cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his chair. He hadn’t spoken a word since Estelle and the sheriff had walked into the office-something of an accomplishment for him, Estelle reflected. In fact, he had studiously avoided opening his mouth, trying to blend in with the institutional green of the painted heater duct behind him. “Well, my motorcycle, you know?” he said, beginning in midthought.

  “Your motorcycle?”

  He cleared his throat again and leaned forward, forearms on the padded winds of the chair. “Yeah. You know, that big bike I bought from Tom Mears. When I first got it, I had a bank loan on it for a few months, and in order to do that, the bank required collision insurance.” He held his hands out, palms up. “That was costing me an arm and a leg. So”-he looked embarrassed-“I borrowed a thousand bucks from Linda so I could pay off the loan. That way, I could drop the collision. Anyway, that’s what I did.”

  He straightened in his seat and took a deep breath. “Then I happened to run into George Enriquez, and he said that he could cut me a pretty good liability policy for the bike that would save me some money. That he had an insurance company in his pool that gave bikers who qualified pretty good rates.”

  “Bikers who qualified,” Estelle echoed.

  “That means you have to own a bike,” Torrez quipped, and Pasquale looked even more uncomfortable.

  “And so that’s what you did? You went with him? You dropped your collision with…”

  “Arizona Mutual. Yeah, I dropped the whole thing with them and went with this company that Enriquez suggested.”

  “That was NMI?”

  “No. Some other company in his pool, he said. I guess I didn’t pay much attention. Anyways, Collins was lookin’ through what he could find of the Popes’ financial papers and couldn’t find anything on insurance. The Popes had their cars insured with Enriquez. He found the insurance cards in the glove box of Eleanor’s car. When they went through her checkbook, they found a check for a payment dated about three months ago. But they apparently didn’t have home owner’s insurance.”

  “What’s this have to do with your motorcycle, Thomas?” Estelle asked.

  “Well, see-” He hesitated. “Linda talked with Mrs. Pope not too long ago, down at the insurance office. She remembers Mrs. Pope commenting about how everything is going up, including her home owner’s. But it turns out that Mrs. Pope didn’t have home owner’s with his agency,” Pasquale said, as if that cleared things up.

  Estelle frowned. “So what are you telling me?”

  Pasquale shifted again. “Well, I don’t have any paperwork that shows I have insurance with Enriquez, either. I mean, I got a proof of insurance card for the bike. Enriquez’s secretary typed that out right there in the office when I took out the policy. Enriquez gave me a statement sheet that showed my payments, and said I’d be getting the regular policy from the company in a couple of weeks.”

  “And did you?”

  The deputy shook his head. “Never got one. Nope.”

  “Did you check with Enriquez about where your policy might be?”

  “No.” Pasquale examined the nail of his left index finger. “It wasn’t something that I was too concerned about.”

  “So where is all this leading?” Estelle said. She glanced up at the clock above the file cabinet. What she wanted more than anything else was a nap about 36 hours long.

  “Well, I got to thinking,” Pasquale said, and Estelle saw Robert Torrez’s boot shift as the sheriff toyed with interjecting something. He let Pasquale continue. “What would be the point of burning down your own home if you didn’t stand to collect some insurance? Denton Pope was sure up to something, but what did he stand to gain if there wasn’t insurance? I mean, what was the point?”

  “Murder comes to mind,” Estelle said.

  “Maybe he was tired of life with mother,” Torrez added. “If he was trying for a tricky homicide, he succeeded. Or suicide, in this instance.”

  Estelle sat silently, looking at Pasquale. But it was clear that the gush of words had subsided. “Why don’t you just call up Enriquez and say, ‘Hey look, George, I need a copy of my motorcycle insurance policy. I’ll be over this afternoon to pick it up.’ Wouldn’t that be the simplest thing to do?”

  “I was going to do that,” Pasquale said hastily. “I just got to thinking, is all. Like about the check.”

  Estelle sighed and glanced at Torrez. “The check?”

  “Well, when I got the policy, I asked for comprehensive coverage as well as liability, and Enriquez said it was expensive, but he’d see what he could do. He called me in a day or so and said that he’d been able to add it to my policy-”

  “Which you don’t have.”

  “Right. And I was glad I went ah
ead and bought it, ’cause remember that wind storm we had in early January? That wasn’t more than a week after I took out the policy. The wind took a limb off the elm tree in our front yard and that blew into my bike and bent the gas tank. I called Enriquez to see if my comprehensive covered it, and he had a check out to me that afternoon. A hundred and seventy bucks.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Well, no. I thought it was pretty cool. But when I’m thinking about it here recently, I remembered that it was a personal check. Not from the insurance company. Not from Enriquez’s company. It was one of his own personal checks. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was just glad to get the money, you know.”

  “George Enriquez paid you with a personal check? On an insurance claim?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t suppose that you kept a copy of that check?”

  Pasquale made a face. “Ah, no. I didn’t. I cashed it, and that was that.”

  “Rates go up?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did your insurance rates go up after that?” Estelle couldn’t repress a smile.

  Pasquale hesitated. “Well, I guess they did, a little. Enriquez sent me a new schedule. But don’t they always?”

  Estelle rubbed her face wearily. “Ay.”

  “What are you thinking?” Torrez asked.

  She sat for a long moment with her eyes closed, head bowed.

  “Thomas, when you make your monthly insurance payments, how do you do it? Where do you send the check?”

  “To Enriquez’s office.”

  Estelle looked at him without lifting her head. “Where’s the bill come from?”

  Pasquale looked puzzled. “The bill?”

  “The bill, Thomas. La cuenta. Someone has to bill you.”

  “Well, that’s another thing, see. He told me that with the kind of no-frills policy that he wrote me, the paperwork would be faster if I just paid his office. So I do.”

  “Once every six months, or what?” Estelle knew what the young deputy was going to say before he opened his mouth.