by Don Travis
A bitter laugh came across the line. “A rational man would. If I failed to pay up, he’d have a ten-million-dollar ranch for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. But I’m not certain Hammond’s rational when it comes to me. We’ve battled over the ducks several times, and I’ve absolutely humiliated him. He’s not accustomed to losing. Who knows, greed might triumph over vengeance, but I’m not about to broach the subject until I know it’s necessary.”
I rooted around in my memory and came up with nothing. “When did you say the race is scheduled?”
“Saturday, August the twenty-third. You’ve got nine days to pull my fat out of the fire, BJ. I’m counting on you.”
“You’ve got more time than that. Even if that’s the default date, you can stall while we do our investigation. By the way, do you know if Hammond and Acosta are acquainted?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Hector attends some of the horse tracks in Florida, although I’ve never seen him at duck races.”
“Do you know of any joint ventures they’ve undertaken as commercial developers?”
“No, but Heck’s got his fingers in as many pies as Hammond does, so it wouldn’t stretch the imagination too far to make that connection. Are you suggesting Hector had my precious kidnapped?”
“I have no proof of that, but as you said, it wouldn’t stretch the imagination too far.”
“That low-down son of a bitch! And now he’s trying to steal the Lazy M.”
“Hold on, now. We don’t know that.”
“No, but it makes sense. I’ll shoot that bastard the next time I lay eyes on him.”
“Wait a minute, Mud.” That name just came out of my mouth, but it seemed in character at the moment. “You can’t let him know we suspect there might be a connection. Don’t put him on his guard.”
“I’ll be sweet as pie. Rhubarb pie.”
“Have you heard the latest news about Acosta? He’s being sued for ten million.”
“Pesos?”
“Dollars, I assume.” When I briefed her on the situation, she jumped to the same conclusion Guerrero had.
“He’s laundering drug money.”
“Maybe. Have you ever suspected him of being in the drug business?”
“They use his ranch to traffic the stuff, but they use ours too, so that doesn’t mean anything. No, if that’s what it is, I suspect he’s just cleaning their money for them.”
“Could be.”
“Just a minute, BJ, I’ve got another call coming in.” After a lengthy pause, she returned. “It’s him. Hector’s calling.”
“Take it, and then call me back. I’m curious about what he wants.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll hook you in on a conference, but don’t say anything. I’m not going to tell him.”
I hit the Mute button to block out any ambient sound and waited. A moment later I heard Millicent speak.
“Heck, how’s Paco?”
“That’s why I’m calling, chiquita. He’s going to be fine. Merely a hairline fracture of the scapula. They’ve bound him up, and he’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but he will recover. Maria and Luis wanted you to know they’re returning to the Lazy M in a couple of days.”
“Tell them to stay as long as they need to.”
“The boy will be fine. He’s up and around and already back in the saddle. This morning he and his father took a short ride out to one of the line shacks where Luis and Maria used to live. We’ve both had worse accidents. The biggest problem Paco has is not physical—it’s romantic. He had to delay his wedding for a few weeks.”
“Wedding? I didn’t know he was getting married. Maria and Luis haven’t said a word. Usually they speak quite openly about their family. And they know we’re fond of Paco.”
Acosta cleared his throat. “They didn’t know about it.”
“What? Why not?”
“You’ll have to ask Paco that. He met Madelena—that’s the young lady—about a year ago, but no one realized they were getting serious until just recently. I only learned of it when he asked if he could take a week off for his honeymoon.”
“Oh dear. Are his parents upset with him?”
“Surprised is more like it. But she’s a likable young lady, and they’ll grow fond of her. That’s what parents do, no?”
“Yes, it’s our lot in life. Madelena, you say?”
“Yes, Madelena Orona, a Palomas girl. I know the family quite well.”
“I see. Please let me know what their plans are. I’d like to send a wedding gift.”
“Of course. I hate to grow crass on the heels of something like that, but have you thought over my offer?”
Millicent’s tone remained casual. “No, not really. As I said, I’m not interested in selling the Lazy M, and if I were, I’d put it on the market.”
“I heard there was some urgency in the matter. The rumor mill, you know.”
“Oh, you must mean the bet I’ve got with someone on a race. I wasn’t aware the news leaked out. And speaking of the rumor mill, I heard you were being sued for ten million dollars. Something about Brazilian emeralds?”
“It’s nothing. The Brazilian has no valid claim. As a matter of fact, the suit has been dropped. There was a death in the Guzman family. One of his sons, I believe. They have the killer, by the way. A mere child of thirteen, if you can believe it. A vendetta between two families, no doubt. At any rate, old man Guzman decided he had more important things to attend to than pursuing frivolous claims against me.”
Chapter 20
MILLICENT’S CONVERSATION with Hector Acosta triggered something in the back of my mind, but I wasn’t certain what it was. After I hung up, I dialed my El Paso contact. James Guerrero was a one-man shop, so when his voice mail informed me he wasn’t in at the moment, I left a brief message.
My desk clock snagged my attention, and I bolted out of my chair. If I didn’t get a move on, I’d be late for lunch with Lt. Gene Enriquez. My old partner at APD and I tried to meet regularly. That kept me abreast of Duke City goings-on and got him a free lunch.
I left my building by the Copper exit, crossed Fifth, and walked past the block-long pedestrian mall that closed Fourth to vehicle traffic. Then I headed north on Third on the latticed-shaded sidewalk along the east edge of Civic Plaza. The intermittent shade was welcome on this sunny August day.
The DoubleTree dominated the 200 block of Marquette NE, rising as a white monolith for fifteen or so stories—I’d never actually counted them. Our usual lunch place for the past few years had been Eulelia’s in the historic old La Posada Hotel on Second and Central, but, alas, Conrad Hilton’s hotel—the first he built outside of Texas—had been sold once again and was closed for repair and renovation.
I arrived first and sat at our table for five minutes before Gene arrived, looking harassed—as usual. He had me by about five years, and if I remembered correctly, his forty-first birthday was coming up pretty fast. I’d have to call Glenda to see what the plans were for the event.
He plopped his stocky five-seven frame down in the chair opposite me and snatched the menu a waitress left. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. You must not have needed me to solve your cases for you.”
“Gene, Gene, Gene. How many times do I have to tell you, confidential investigators don’t solve cases, they merely collect facts and turn them over to clients.”
“Yeah, right. Like we collect facts and turn them over to the DA. If we left it to those bozos to solve cases, we’d all be in deep doo-doo. Let’s order before you start picking my brain. I might not have any left by the time you get through.” He waved an arm in the air, and our waitress materialized.
He ordered a T-bone rare with reduced-fat cottage cheese, asparagus spears, and beets. Either Glenda had him on a diet, or he was taking it easy in order to pig out at whatever birthday shindig the family planned. Or maybe his promotion to lieutenant last year had turned him into a sedentary desk cop fighting the calories harder than ever. I settled for a BLT w
ith baked potato chips. We both had iced tea, his with enough lemon wedges to effectively convert it into lemonade.
As we waited to be served, I filled him in on the situation. Then I listened to his ideas on the case with interest because Gene was a good, intuitive cop. Plus he had roots and family in Mexico. Maybe he had some idea of how things operated down there.
He agreed the Brazilian mine was probably a money-laundering operation and showed no surprise over a kid killing one of the Guzman family. Some of the most vicious gangs in Mexico and the rest of Latin America had taken to recruiting from the growing ranks of orphaned and homeless children.
When our platters arrived, we dug in and shifted to updating one another on our lives. I asked about the family, and he gave me the news on Glenda and his five kids. He asked about Paul. He’d been aware I was gay all during the time we partnered together as detectives. He had no personal problem with it, although he endured a few barbs about riding with a queer. He’d handled it, and after he learned he could trust me, we’d been one of the most effective teams on the force.
GUERRERO CONFIRMED what Gene told me when he called back later. “Oh yeah, BJ, the story’s all over the press down there. And let me tell you, it wasn’t any family feud that got Guzman’s oldest son killed. Someone sent that kid to do a job, and he got it done.”
“That’s hard to believe. It seems risky to use children to commit murder-for-hire. How can anyone trust a youngster not to rat him out when the authorities catch him? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not to you, maybe, but it makes perfect sense to the goons who use them. There’s an explosion of homeless children in places down there, many of them orphans or simply abandoned. Although most of the drugs in the US come up from south of the border, until recently drug use in Mexico itself was manageable. That’s started to change. Some of the youth gangs and cartels are deliberately getting these kids hooked on narcotics so they can use them as mules, runners, spies, even as gunmen. They use them up and throw them away. Orphans are expendable.”
“But don’t the kids give them up when they’re caught? The law of self-survival seems pretty basic to me.”
“Who can they turn in? Just the man who gave them the assignment. And that guy is a low-level hit man who’s probably already on the run. As far as the kid who does the deed is concerned, he’s a minor who won’t do a lot of hard time. Of course, that doesn’t protect him from retribution from the victim’s gang or family, but nobody cares if that happens. That’s an oversimplification, of course, but there’s no question in my mind that’s what happened in Brazil.”
“So Acosta put out the contract?”
“I didn’t say that. Acosta might not even be in the drug business—beyond the laundering. Or he might be on the fringes of it. He may have had no knowledge somebody planned to take care of the Guzman problem in that manner. In fact, it’s possible—barely—that he didn’t even know the Brazilian emerald operation was being used to launder money. A couple of crooked mine executives could have cooked the books so production appeared to pay an adequate return to Acosta and his investors with most of the money going to the drug cartels.”
“Come on, do you really believe that? If Acosta didn’t know, he had to suspect.”
“A lot of people close their eyes to suspicion when there’s money like that involved. Who’s to say what he really knew? At any rate, that’s the argument his lawyers will make if it ever comes to that. Which it won’t.”
“Unbelievable. Have you had any luck connecting Acosta with Kenneth Hammond?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got some feelers out. This killing will make my sources a little more cautious, but eventually someone will tell me what we want to know. If there is anything to know, that is.”
I told him what had happened to Paul and me at the City of Rocks. He said the likelihood of fingering a couple of gangsters shot up in a gunfight was remote, but he agreed to make some inquiries.
After that I got Deputy Nap O’Brien on the line. He hadn’t heard about the Acosta suit and murder, but as I laid it out for him, that elusive thought struggling to break loose in my mind came to the fore.
“You said a woman might have left the impression in the sand out at the City the day Bert got bushwhacked. Do you think it could have been a kid instead?”
“Yeah. Coulda been a big kid. Or a woman. Or a smallish man. But he had to be a pretty good shot. I just don’t know, BJ.”
After that downer, I turned to the computer to check criminal records in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona… and for good measure, Florida. Hector Acosta’s name came up once. An old drunk-and-disorderly misdemeanor case in Las Cruces during his NMSU days. After that, nada.
Why was I so interested in Acosta when all the signs pointed to a ducknapping by a Florida man about to lose a quarter of a million on a bum bird? Because Acosta benefited too. He wanted the Lazy M, or at least he made an offer for it, and the theft of the duck was forcing Millicent to do what she would never have done otherwise—seriously consider his offer.
Chapter 21
BOB COHEN phoned the next morning to inform me he turned up a connection between Kenneth Hammond and Hector Acosta. A search of the Florida Associated General Contractors’ trade journals and the local newspapers revealed four articles linking the two developers at a meeting of general contractors and investors held in Miami the previous spring. The stories contained photographs of some of the principal players, among which were Acosta and Hammond. Three newspapers—the Miami Herald, the Daily Business Review, and Diario Las Américas—covered the meeting, and two of them mentioned a collaboration between the two men on some commercial developments in Little Havana.
“From what I can find out,” Cohen said, “they’ve known each other for years. One of the articles refers to them going deep-sea fishing together sometime back.”
“Anything about mutual racing interests?”
“Nothing in the articles, but they’re both known as horse racing enthusiasts. Hammond’s duck racing is well-known down here, but there’s no mention of Acosta as a duck man. However, he could be backing Kenny’s play.”
“So Acosta might even have a piece of Millicent’s bet.”
“There’s no evidence of that, but a cop acquaintance of mine has some leverage on a man in Kenny’s office. He’s pretty low-level, but he might know something.”
“Chase it down, will you?”
I took my tape of the conversation to Hazel for transcribing and then tried to get Manny Montoya on the phone. He was out, but the state police dispatcher agreed to run him down and deliver my message. He called back within half an hour.
I asked if he’d made any progress on the Liver Lips Martinson murder. “You have declared it murder, haven’t you?”
“Homicide by vehicle. We got another sighting of the ’96 Firebird, but it disappeared again. I have everyone at all the border stations within a hundred miles keeping a close look out for it, but I’m willing to bet it’s still on this side of the line.”
“Anything turn up on the radar screen about Liver Lips himself?” I asked. “Like for instance, what he was doing up in Albuquerque where I ran into him? He didn’t come all the way up here to get his scratched arms treated. Maybe he delivered the duck to someone in Albuquerque.”
“I don’t think so. I traced his movements backwards. He’d dropped somebody off in Barelas.” Barelas south of downtown Albuquerque was once called the barrio.
“Do you know who?”
“No, but I know where. The Six Pack. You know it?”
“Yeah, I know that dive from my APD days. The sheriff’s office had to take a run out to the roadhouse at least twice a week. But that’s not in Barelas. The Six Pack’s out on the old Belen highway.”
“From what I hear, they should have shut it down,” he said.
“They did, more than once. But the owner had good connections up in Santa Fe.”
Ramon Ruiz Parnewski had managed to hang on to the liquor licen
se every time the county shut him down because he leased the bar to some relative. When things died down, he installed another son or nephew or cousin as the owner and opened up under the same name. He’d been playing that game since the sixties.
According to Manny, Liver Lips had given someone a ride up to the old man’s house, which was in Barelas. The description of the passenger proved worthless, and nobody admitted to having an out-of-town visitor within the last few weeks.
“You read anything into that?” I asked.
“Hell, no. They wouldn’t tell me if it was the parish priest coming up to baptize somebody’s baby.”
“So Liver could have been hauling an illegal alien or making a drug delivery or turning over the duck. Or all three, for that matter. The bird could have been in a coop in the bed of the truck.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
Manny found where Liver stopped for gas and a bite to eat. The owner of the truck stop saw him pick up a hitchhiker as he left and recognized the man climbing into the back of the pickup as a local by the names of Sills. Manny interviewed him. Sills claimed the truck bed was empty except for a toolbox. He said the passenger up front with Liver was Mexican. At least he heard them speaking Spanish.
“Do you know where Liver picked up his passenger?” I asked.
“Apparently at his house in Deming. Neighbors told us a young couple came to his front door two days before his death.”
“A couple? A man and a woman?”
“Yes, and we figure one of them was the passenger he delivered. Other witnesses at the truck stop confirmed there were only two men in the truck, so they apparently dropped the female somewhere.”
“Or she never left with them. Do you have a description of her?”
“Yeah. Mexican with long hair. Long black hair. One kid we talked to said she was muy linda.”
“Very pretty, huh? He have any comment about her curves?”