by Don Travis
I failed to spot any two-wheelers as I sped into the northern end of town, by which time the mountain road I’d been traveling crossed the I-25 overpass and became the busy State Highway 550. I cruised the main streets without locating a bicyclist, but that didn’t bother me. He likely hadn’t gotten here yet. That thought sent me back to the north end of town, where I ordered more hot coffee from one of the many fast-food places with a view of the road. After a while I decided he’d arrived by another route and started the next part of my planned search. I drove around looking for beer joints. Bernalillo had plenty of those, but I wanted exactly what I’d said… joints, not upscale places. There were plenty of those too, but not many of their patrons rode a lime-green $800 REI Cannondale mountain bike. Only one, as a matter of fact. At a place appropriately called Los Borrachos… the drunkards.
The joint was crowded. I was pretty sure Diego had never seen me, just as I’d never seen him, so I ordered a beer from the bartender—he searched through a variety of Mexican brews before locating a Coors—and looked around for a vacant table. A small one at the far end of the room beckoned. Halfway there, I found myself staring into the handsome brown eyes of Bas Zuniga.
Chapter 14
THE MAN wasn’t Bas Zuniga, of course. In the dim light of the crowded bar, I couldn’t even be certain those eyes were brown, but I was willing to bet they were. He was a bit older and slightly heavier than Zuniga, but he could have been the kid’s doppelganger.
I had stopped dead still upon spotting the man, and my reaction brought him alert. Without pause he slung his beer at me and dashed past as I dodged the heavy mug but caught the splatter of the brew full in the face. By the time I cleared my eyes enough to see, he’d disappeared out the back way. I started to move after him and found myself hemmed in by several rough-looking customers. My false cry of “police business” didn’t earn me much respect but allowed me to plow through the throng.
I burst through the back door with the beer dripping off my face turning cold in the night air. The bicycle was gone, and I had no idea which way the guy fled. Probably through back alleys and remote lanes. He’d go to ground in a ditch or an arroyo somewhere, unless he’d already called someone for help. With that thought in mind, I crawled into the Impala, dried myself off as well as I could, and settled down in the relative warmth of the car to see if anyone showed up.
Someone might have, but I’d never know. Several pickups pulled into the parking lot and discharged people, mostly men in worn Levis and cowboy boots. One Jeep Wagoneer slowed on the street and crept past the bar, but I couldn’t make out the driver. Nonetheless, I wrote down the license plate number to check out later.
I returned home slightly before the joint closed down at 2:00 a.m. The stink of beer clinging to my clothing woke Paul and aroused his suspicions, so I invited him to join me in the shower so I could explain what happened and see if I could arouse anything else. It wasn’t difficult.
LATER THAT morning, Hazel, Charlie, and I huddled at the small conference table in my office, where she told me the property to the north and west of the Lovely Pines was state-owned. In fact, the winery was surrounded on three sides by state or federal land. I couldn’t find any significance in the fact, but it was another detail I’d had to check out.
Next, Hazel informed me that Gonda had already called this morning to ask for me. I’d deal with him later, but right now my team needed to know of last night’s events. When I finished, Charlie took a photograph from a file and slid it over to me.
“Meet Diego C de Baca.”
Had it not been for the uniform the man wore, I would have insisted this was a picture of Bas Zuniga. This was likely a photograph from a few years ago, which would put Diego at just about Bas’s age. Army life had not yet filled out his frame.
“Uncanny,” I said. “This is the guy in the bar last night.”
Hazel took the photo and looked at it. “I’ve never laid eyes on either of them, but I’ve seen snaps of Zuniga. They could be twins.”
“I guess this pretty well settles the question of who the intruder and his stalker are,” I said.
Charlie dug around in his file and handed over another photo. “Diego’s the Lovely Pines ghost, and his motor pool buddy from Iraq is the stalker. Spec-3 James K. Spider Natander is an Army sniper who went rogue and ended up in the division’s motor pool.”
The photo showed a spare, hawkish man with a stiff military spine who cast a cold eye at the camera. Scandinavian blond hair cut short. In other words, a sniper.
Charlie passed over a third photo. “And the guy driving the car that picked up Spider was probably Sgt. Hugo Pastis, the demo expert who got shaky and ended up tinkering with Jeeps and deuce-and-a-halves with the other two.”
Pastis had a more human look to him than his buddy. The brown eyes had a soul behind them. Dark without being swarthy. Stocky.
“Those two are Army AWOLs,” Charlie went on. “Their unit got shipped back to the States, where Diego was discharged. Natander and Pastis deserted shortly after he left.”
“If you’re right, that may explain why C de Baca hid out in the winery. He’s being stalked by the other two,” I said.
“I thought they were thick as thieves,” Hazel said.
I nodded. “You may have just put your finger on the problem. A falling-out among thieves.”
“What do you mean?”
I took out the pocket notebook I carried to jot down short, pithy facts and thoughts so I wouldn’t have to go through transcriptions of my voice recordings and thumbed back until I found what I was looking for. “Back on June 22, I spoke with their company commander, a mustered-out former captain by the name of Donald Delfonso. He hinted at some trouble and a criminal investigation of some sort.”
“I remember transcribing that,” she said. “Something about drinking and assaulting civilians and stolen cultural artifacts.”
“Exactly. What if they managed to get some things out of Iraq…?” I let my voice die away.
Charlie picked up my thought. “And then had a falling-out among themselves. Diego must have ended up with the loot—”
“And hid it at the winery,” Hazel finished for him.
“Without letting the other two know where,” Charlie said.
“If our assumptions are correct, they know where it is all right. They just don’t know how to get to it.”
Charlie thumped the table. “You need to get to Ray Yardley right away. You just solved the state police’s murder for them. Natander and Pastis saw Zuniga and mistook him for Diego in the dark.”
“Possible, but if that’s the case, why kill the kid? They needed him to retrieve the loot.”
“Hell, BJ, these aren’t the most stable people on the side of Sandia Peak. Natander and Pastis got relegated to the motor pool because they were basket cases when it came to their professions. They got in an argument. Diego—or who they thought was Diego—ran, and in the passion of the moment, one or the other shot him down. Or maybe after they discovered their mistake, they killed Zuniga to cover their tracks.”
“Possible,” I repeated. “We’ve made some giant assumptions to reach this point, but I guess there’s enough for us to give the information to the state and the county cops.”
“Don’t forget to call Gonda back,” Hazel reminded me.
“I have to take care of a couple of things, and then I’m driving out to the Pines. I don’t want to talk to him until then. If he calls again, let him know I’m on the way.”
HAZEL FAXED the photos of the three former infantrymen to Yardley and Muñoz before I got them on a conference call. They both listened carefully as I detailed what my investigation turned up so far. They had been traveling down the same road but hadn’t yet seen a photo of Diego C de Baca, which was what possibly tied the intrusion at the winery and the murder together. Before we wrapped up the conversation, I asked Yardley about fingerprints on the wine bottle the intruder had rolled on the floor of the cavern.
“We have a good palm print but not much in the way of fingerprints. Haven’t learned anything from it so far.”
After keeping my part of the bargain with the two cops, I turned to the New Mexico Motor Vehicle Division database available to licensed PIs and found a registration for the Wagoneer I’d spotted last night while checking out the parking lot of Los Borrachos. The vehicle belonged to a Nancy Hummerman, with an address of 3501 Holiday NE in the Heights area of Albuquerque. My cross-reference directory didn’t confirm that address, but I decided to give it a try anyway.
Someone peeked out the window as I parked on the street in front of the redbrick house but stepped back quickly when I turned my gaze in her direction. Whoever it was took her time in answering the doorbell a minute or so later.
The woman who stood on the other side of the screen door was blonde and attractive rather than pretty. In my book, Diego was a lot prettier than she was… but I was getting ahead of myself. Perhaps there was no connection between the two. Even so, my comparison was apt.
“Ma’am, my name’s B. J. Vinson, and I’m looking for Diego C de Baca. Is he here?”
She blinked and paused just a little too long. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Are you certain? I saw his green bike on the porch the other day.”
She blinked twice at that lie. “No, this is my house, and I can assure you no one of that name lives here. And I don’t have a mountain bike. Green or otherwise.”
“Maybe not, but….” I was speaking to a blank front door. When she didn’t respond to another ring, I returned to the Impala and took my time dictating what just happened. The lady was a little too abrupt in her denial. Better yet, she’d correctly identified Diego’s wheels as a mountain bike. At this point, I wanted her as nervous as possible. Then I scribbled a note on the back of one of my cards, saying I knew Diego was in trouble and wanted to help. Understanding that my every movement was scrutinized, I got out of the car and walked back to the porch to wedge the business card between the screen door and the frame.
From the Heights, I headed straight for the Lovely Pines to update my client. I knew from experience he would insist that I put my own spin on the report, and that gave me some heartburn. Spinning was not my business. Collecting was.
There was little doubt that Diego C de Baca was Gonda’s intruder. He was hiding from his two Army buddies and likely intended no harm to either Gonda or his employees. There was nothing in the background checks so far to indicate he was a violent man. The fact I’d not yet learned how to access his hiding place was frustrating but not an essential element of the case, at least in my opinion.
The temptation to take the second step and declare that Gonda’s son was attacked and slain in a case of mistaken identity was strong, yet despite providing this information to the authorities, I wasn’t secure in that belief. The method of death wasn’t consistent with assassination by a military-trained sniper. And there were too many other factors involved, the largest of which was that Bas Zuniga was a potential heir to a very large family inheritance. And if I accepted the mistaken identity scenario, would I be ignoring the possibility that Bas’s son might be in danger?
As I entered the chateau’s lobby, Heléne Benoir greeted me with a broad smile from the chocolatier’s kiosk. We barely had time to greet each other before Ariel Gonda rushed in to grasp my hand, hope hanging all over his face.
“BJ, do you have news for me? Shall we talk in the salon? Should I get Margot?”
“In a moment. But a private word first, okay?”
He led me to the large parlor filled with overstuffed furniture where his groups waited before tastings or wine classes began. At the moment it was deserted.
“Ariel, I believe I know who your intruder is and why he has chosen to honor you with his presence. I also believe I know his intent, which is benevolent, although not without some risk.”
I had his full attention, so I told him what happened after I alerted the household with gunshots and left him and his nephew searching the place while I went looking for a bicycle. This necessitated sharing more than I wanted; nonetheless, I did so, short of showing him the photo of Diego.
Gonda’s brow cleared a bit. “So this young man returned to his boyhood home to escape some unpleasant associates from his past? This certainly relieves my mind, but I must know where he is hiding and how he has access to the wine cellar.”
“Understood. We must also be cognizant that his continued presence presents a bit of a threat because of the two men looking for him. The police are aware of their identities and have photographs of the two.”
“Photographs?”
I opened my folio and extracted the pictures of Natander and Pastis. “Have you seen either of these two men here on the premises?”
Gonda frowned over the photos for a long minute and then glanced up, shaking his head. “To the best of my knowledge, I have never seen either of them. I cannot be positive, of course, because a number of people pass through here daily for our wine tastings. I can pass the photographs around and see if anyone else recognizes them. They are this Diego’s pursuers, I take it.”
I identified the two for him and then passed over the third picture. “How about this man?”
Gonda’s eyes widened as he scanned the photograph. His hand shook. “What? Why, that’s Bas! No… no. Yes. Oh good Lord, no. But it could be him.” He lifted his head and stared into my eyes, the blood draining from his face. His jaw sagged. “Does this mean…?”
He made the connection. Should I leave it alone and continue the investigation on my own?
“Oh my God! They shot my son by mistake!” The words came out in an agonized groan. “Benevolent, you said? That man came back and claimed my son’s life! That is benevolent?” He rose. “Margot. She must know.”
I clutched his sleeve. “Yes, she must, but first we must discuss something else.”
I wasn’t certain how much he was comprehending, but he sank back down on the sofa.
I took a deep breath. “Ariel, is there anything else you aren’t telling me?”
“No!” He dry washed his chin. “I learned my lesson when I failed to confide in you about Bas.” He straightened. “Oh, I see. The resemblance. No, I can assure you this Diego is not another son. I-I have no explanation for why they resemble one another so strongly.”
“Nor have I. One of nature’s tricks, more than likely. But such a strong resemblance raises the easy… and perhaps the logical conclusion that Natander or Pastis shot your son in the mistaken belief he was Diego C de Baca. That certainly could have been the case, especially given the shooting took place in the middle of the night. But I’m having trouble with some aspects of that explanation of the shooting.”
His pale blue eyes focused on me. He was back with me again. “Such as?”
“First, but perhaps the most easily explained anomaly, is that the method of killing isn’t consistent with a military sniper.”
“If they accosted Bas, there was no need for a powerful, noisy weapon.”
“True, but if my theory is right, why would these men kill Bas believing he was the man they were looking for? Something set them on Diego’s trail. Something they wanted from him.”
“Such as the artifacts you mentioned?”
“Exactly. Was Bas carrying anything when he left the winery that night?”
“I wasn’t there, of course, but he did not normally carry anything with him.”
“Did he wear a backpack to and from work?”
Gonda paused to think over my question before shaking his head. “Not normally. And there was no backpack found on him the morning he… died.”
“That argues they would have simply seized him to force him to hand over the artifacts or lead them to them. Had they done that, it wouldn’t have taken long to discover they’d accosted the wrong man.”
Doubt shadowed his features. “We are assuming these are rational men. Perhaps Bas fought back
and they shot him without considering the consequences.”
“Very possible. But in my experience, people who take this much time and trouble and risk to stalk a target are very goal oriented. They wanted whatever Diego took from them more than they wanted Diego. At least, that’s my belief.”
Gonda shook his head, denying my conclusion. “If this was truly a falling-out of thieves, Diego C de Baca might not have the artifacts or whatever it was they stole. Perhaps he was planning on… how do you say it? Oh yes, planning on ratting them out.”
“That too is possible. And it would explain some things. But there are other, more painful explanations,” I said.
“Family considerations, you mean?”
“Yes. And if you wish, we can allow the police to do their job and work up a case against these two former associates. But there is a further consideration, I think.”
Ariel Gonda studied the pattern on the carpet for a full sixty seconds before lifting his eyes to me. “The infant.”
“Exactly. The infant. Except he’d be around two now. Hardly an infant.”
His pain-filled eyes met my gaze. “Spell it out for me, BJ. Please.”
“Had Bas Zuniga lived, he would have likely worked here with you, ultimately becoming an integral part of your organization. The fact that he was your own blood would not only have played a role in his position in the company but also his position within the family. From what I understand, the Gonda family fortune overseas is considerably larger than your investments here. Someone may have wanted to protect those assets from a new, heretofore unknown heir.”
He spread his hands. “But no one knew of the blood ties.”
I held my tongue.
He turned red in the face. “Margot? You mean that Margot knew he was my son.”
“Known for years. Surely she has confidants inside the family. Heléne, for example. I’m sure they share secrets. It’s possible—”