The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  “Yeah. Little disappointed there. Said she shoulda taken better care of herself. Carrying too much weight around the middle.”

  “Like she was pregnant, maybe?”

  “Who knows? Our informant’s a fourteen-year-old kid with hormones on steroids.”

  I told Manny about the closemouthed woman who answered Liver’s door the morning after his death. He promised to look into it more deeply.

  AT A standstill for the moment, I looked for another case to help me work off some nervous energy. The job Hazel handed me was one I didn’t want but probably deserved because I’d been the one to accept it.

  Chance LeGrande, or Chancy as he preferred to be called, qualified as a chump. Worse, he was a jerk and had been for all the years I’d known him. After his father left him twenty or so million dollars, Chancy bought a 2007 Bentley Azure soft-top convertible simply because no one else he knew drove one. He liked to imagine the lower classes oohing and ahhing as he drove down the road like the second coming in the elegant car—or the motorcar, as he called it when he put on airs. That wasn’t just my opinion; it was shared by most of our mutual friends. As soon as his pricey play-pretty went up in smoke—so to speak—he crawled all over APD to find his stolen vehicle. When he felt they weren’t responding appropriately, he turned to me for help.

  I tried to tell him APD had better resources than I did, but he refused to listen. He claimed to know who took the car, and he just wanted me to go get it back for him. Well, he didn’t exactly know who stole it, but he’d narrowed it down to two people: his ex-wife, Shelley, a pistol in her own right, and his ex-boyfriend, Armando, both of whom he had chased off with his outrageous—read sexual—demands. Again, not just my opinion.

  I did a quick search of the records at MVD and NICB, the National Insurance Crime Bureau, looking for title transfers of the Bentley’s VIN. Wasted effort, of course. Anyone stealing a three-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar automobile would at least falsify vehicle identification numbers and license plates, but it was a place to start. The car was probably across the border by now. Well, maybe not. People would remember a flashy Bentley showing up at some point of entry.

  The convertible had been taken from the big circular driveway in front of Chancy’s west side “estate house.” More of his elitist attitude, and here I’d thought LeGrande was French, not class-conscious English. The theft occurred sometime after he took a cab to the airport to fly to Taos for an art studio opening. Apparently he didn’t want to leave the car in a public lot but hadn’t put it in one of the estate’s three attached garages because he thought it gave the house—a scaled-down castle—class. He figured because the elaborate wrought iron gates were closed and locked, the car was safe. Anyway, the vehicle had simply vanished. Nobody in the neighborhood noticed the luxury automobile driving down the road.

  I got in the Impala and drove over to Rio Grande Boulevard and started ringing doorbells and pounding on doors. Occasionally at one of the fancier places—those like Chancy’s—I had to speak to someone through a box on a locked gate. The residents of Rio Grande Boulevard considered themselves the cream of the elite, and not too many of them were inclined to invite a confidential investigator in for a cup of tea and a quiet talk. But my poking around revealed that a family had been moving into a large home a quarter of a mile down the road. Consequently there had been moving vans in the vicinity the morning of the theft. Now a household of that size might require two such vans, but midway through the afternoon, it dawned on me that I was hearing a description of three different vans. After that it didn’t take much time to come to the conclusion that despite Chancy’s locked gates, the thieves had simply loaded the Bentley into a van and driven away. I asked Hazel to check with local moving companies and truck rental outlets.

  Any physical evidence, such as tire tracks, had long ago been windswept and driven over, but this scenario argued someone close to Chancy had engineered the theft. Someone who knew he would be out of town at that particular time. Perhaps he was right. It might be one of his exes.

  Shelley proved difficult to find, but it was relatively easy to locate Armando Alderete. A couple of calls to gay friends who kept up-to-date on the lavender handkerchief scene in town sent me straight to his mother’s home in Los Lunas, south of Albuquerque. She ordered her son outside to talk to me, by which I concluded everyone tended to walk all over the guy. I contemplated using the opposite approach, cajoling him a little, until I saw the protruding lower lip. The sight of a forty-year-old man sulking like a teenager convinced me bulldozing was the way to go.

  He studied the card I had given his mother. “What do you want with me?” His high, thin voice set my nerves on edge. The puffy flesh beneath the smooth skin of his face and the saddest eyes I’d ever seen on a human reminded me of a hound dog begging a treat.

  “What I want is Mr. LeGrande’s motorcar.” I might as well put on airs myself. “And I don’t want to spend all day finding it either.”

  “I don’t….” He swallowed. “I don’t have it. What would I do with a car like that?”

  “I don’t know what you would do with it, and I don’t give a damn. He knows you took the car, and he hired me to get it back. Any damage to it, I’m to take out of your hide.”

  “You can’t…. Uh, I want a lawyer.”

  “Hey, bonehead, I’m not the cops. They might get you a lawyer, but I sure as hell won’t. If you didn’t take the Bentley, you know who did. Either way, I want the car back.”

  “I didn’t! I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “I just met your mother. She doesn’t have a grave.”

  “Well, you know what I mean. Maybe that bitch Shelley took it. That would be just like her.”

  I resorted to trickery… all right, a lie. “You know, that’s exactly what she said. ‘That bitch Armando took it.’”

  “You talked to Shelley? And she blamed me? I wouldn’t know how to do something like that. And what would I do with a car that everybody on the street stops to stare at?”

  “Even at ten cents on the dollar, that Bentley would bring you thirty-five thousand. Now that your free ride with Chancy is over, thirty-five would help cover your expenses while you look for another sugar daddy.”

  Armando’s eyes took on a wild look, and he repeated himself. “I wouldn’t know how!”

  “No, but Shelley would, wouldn’t she? All you did was help her, right? If that’s true, helping me recover the car will go a long way in buying you some consideration from the district attorney.”

  The sad doggy eyes went crazy. “District attorney? I don’t want anything to do with the district attorney. Or… or the cops either. They were mean to me when they asked me questions before. Just trying to get Chancy’s goat. You know, to scare him. Payback for the way he treated us. Oh God,” he moaned.

  Shelley, she of the iron will and vengeful nature, shouldn’t have chosen such a weakling as a collaborator. Within an hour, Armando confessed everything to the detectives working the case down at APD. All he’d done was give her a set of keys he’d made while still in Chancy’s good graces and let her know when her former husband planned on flying to Taos. She took care of the rest.

  The cops located her at her sister’s house in Madison, Wisconsin. By the next morning, they had found the Bentley in a rented self-storage unit in Albuquerque. Hazel added something extra to the bill for recovering the vehicle undamaged. Of course, the police would have eventually taken the same route I did and found the car, but Chancy didn’t need to know that.

  I took the rest of the day off and dropped by the country club pool, hoping Paul would show up even though I knew he had a late class. He didn’t, so I did the therapy I’d been ignoring lately. I hit the water and wore myself out swimming.

  Chapter 22

  BOB COHEN checked in early the following morning with news he had talked to a junior accountant in Hammond’s office named Jackman. This was the man Cohen’s contact had on a leash. He seemed privy to at least so
me of the developer’s personal affairs. He knew, for example, his boss had put together a group to fund the bet with Millicent but didn’t have names. He’d reluctantly promised Cohen to see if he could learn more details.

  A call to the Lazy M Ranch went to voice mail, so I left a message. Apparently Maria and Luis had not yet returned. It had been two days since I eavesdropped on Millicent’s conversation with Acosta, and he’d said there would be a delay before the pair came home.

  Despite a workout in the pool yesterday afternoon, my right leg felt stiff. Would that old bullet wound ever give up and leave me alone? Probably not. After telling Hazel where I’d be, I headed to the North Valley Country Club without much enthusiasm. Swimming, once a pleasure, was now simply a chore unless Paul sat in the lifeguard’s chair. Today someone else occupied it. But on the bright side, Paul’s summer classes were almost over, and we planned on getting away for a few days after finals.

  I hit the water and gradually got into the swing of the thing. My muscles loosened, and my mind went into neutral as I concentrated on each stroke, each kick. Tired but feeling pretty good after a quick shower, I made a round of the clubhouse. The card room was semibusy, as it usually was, but few other members had made an appearance this early in the morning except for golfers already on the course. I headed back downtown to the office.

  Hazel had James Guerrero on the line when I walked through the door. The El Paso investigator confirmed the information Cohen gave me earlier. He’d verified most of the details with a separate source and added the fact that Hammond, Acosta, and a few others were partners in a large Veracruz shopping center called Plaza Rayo, or Lightning Square. James had also picked up rumors of trouble in paradise. Gossip hinted at some sort of strain—if not downright rift—between the Florida developer and the Mexican rancher, but no one knew the cause or how deep it ran.

  He had heard snatches of talk about the shootout at the City of Rocks. Wild tales claimed ten smugglers from a northern Mexico cartel were killed, or perhaps fifteen US Border Patrol agents. At any rate, all the yarns were bloody. Hector Acosta was kicking up sand because his ranch had been used as the launching point of the supposed raid. When I asked what that meant, James replied, “Nothing.”

  He also told me the kid who killed the Guzman son in Brazil had been thrown into a crowded adult prison, where guards found him two days later with his throat slit. That, James claimed, ended that. The authorities would never identify those responsible for the murder. When I asked if he knew a good investigator in the Palomas area who could poke around in Acosta’s affairs, he expressed doubt. Acosta was too powerful for locals to mess with. Nonetheless, he agreed to keep his ears open.

  Hazel occupied the next couple of hours going over a number of administrative issues. Last year I had finally convinced her to add her signature to the firm’s general business account, but she occasionally asked me to sign checks to keep my finger on the pulse. I did it solely to placate her. She was far more careful with the company’s money than I was.

  Millicent returned my call shortly after lunch, sounding tired. No doubt she felt the absence of her domestic pair. All the duck-farming chores now rested solely on her back because she trusted no one with them except Luis. Not to mention cleaning and cooking for the ranch. Apparently the ranch had no bunkhouse cook, although Linus was a decent hand with cowboy fare. She heard my report without comment. When I finished, she asked what it all meant.

  “It means your childhood friend Heck Acosta could have been responsible for stealing your prize duck. Actually, that makes sense for two reasons. He might have felt the need to support his business partner—Hammond—by buying part of his bet with you. If so, he certainly didn’t want to lose his money. Did you ever discuss the Hammond situation with Acosta? For instance, did he know you’d discovered the fraud?”

  “Switching his racer, you mean? No, I never discussed that with anyone. Not even Bert. You said there were two reasons. What is the other? Oh, I see, the ranch. Heck wants the Lazy M, and a quarter-of-a-million-dollar loss makes me vulnerable.”

  “Exactly. He benefits more than Hammond does.”

  “Not if you put Hammond’s ego into the equation, but I see what you mean. Heck benefits doubly.”

  “That’s the way I read it.”

  “Do you think they were in cahoots on the theft?”

  “No idea, but it really doesn’t matter.”

  “If the rumors are true, do you have any idea what the trouble between Heck and Hammond is?”

  “None at all. It could be nothing more than gossip. James Guerrero’s trying to find out, although he admits it’s a long shot.”

  “Can I call you back, BJ? I’ve got to think this over.”

  “Sure. I’ll be here the rest of the day. If not, Hazel will know where to find me.”

  I had not heard from Millicent by the time we closed the office for the day, but she had my cell number if she needed to reach me.

  I MET Paul at Applebee’s on San Mateo and Academy at six. Before he left this morning, he’d expressed a desire for one of their chimichangas—a fried flour tortilla filled with cheese, shredded beef, carne adobada, and served with guacamole, sour cream, and salsa. After we were seated at one of the tables along the windows at the front of the restaurant, he ordered a “thingamajig,” which is supposed to be an approximate translation of chimichanga. I dithered over the menu before ordering the same. Then we sat quietly and contentedly until the waiter brought our mugs of beer.

  Paul took a deep sip and leaned back as he set the heavy glass on the table. “Well, it’s all over on Friday.”

  “Great. Did you ask about getting some time off at work?” I asked.

  “I’ve got two weeks of vacation time coming, but they asked me to take only half of it.” He shrugged. “I said okay. We’ll save the rest for the holidays.” He grinned. “How much time is Hazel going to let you have?” He must have read something in my face because he frowned. “You haven’t told her you’re taking some time off, have you?”

  “Well, not exactly. But that’s the beauty of being the boss. I don’t have to clear it with anyone.”

  “This is Hazel we’re talking about, you know. You might own the joint, but she believes she runs it.”

  “And she does. Don’t worry, I’ll clear the decks.”

  The waiter delivered our order, and for the next few minutes, we devoted ourselves to eating, cleaning greasy lips and fingertips, and then smearing them all over again. The chimichangas were an excellent choice.

  MILLICENT DIDN’T call until Friday morning. “I’m sorry to be so long getting back to you, but it’s been hectic around here without Maria and Luis. They’re coming back tomorrow. Heck is flying them in. He says he has something he wants to talk to me about.”

  “Get ready for some more pressure to sell. Who knows, maybe he’ll up his offer to a reasonable level.”

  “Maybe, but I’d like you to be here, BJ.”

  “You need a lawyer for that discussion, not an investigator.”

  “Maybe, but I’d feel more comfortable with you here. You have some insight into the situation a lawyer doesn’t.”

  “I don’t know, Millicent. I have other plans.”

  “Please, BJ. I need you.”

  Painfully aware I was committed to Paul, I hedged. “Let me see what I can do. But no promises.”

  Before making any decisions, I reached Bob Cohen to see if he’d heard of any breach between Hammond and Acosta. He hadn’t, but he got Hammond’s accountant on the line with us. At first, Jackman was reluctant to speak with a stranger on the telephone, but under Cohen’s patient prodding, he gradually loosened up, confirming he had been present when Hammond took a call from Acosta. By the time the conversation ended, the Florida developer had been extremely upset. The accountant had caught references to “the bet.” Probably Millicent’s bet.

  “Did you get the feeling Acosta backed out of covering his part?” I asked.

  “I
t sounded more like Kenny wanted Acosta to back off, and Acosta refused.”

  That made sense. By now the whole duck-racing world knew Quacky Quack the Second was missing. Regardless of who took her or why, the bet was now a cinch. Either man would benefit from a larger share of the wager. The accountant could add nothing further.

  I procrastinated in reaching Paul until well after his last class but was spared trying to run him down when I heard his voice in the outer office. I stepped to the doorway in time to see him give my secretary a bear hug.

  Hazel made no secret she wasn’t fond of my gay lifestyle—no, that wasn’t quite right. She had come around to ambivalence by now—but she held a genuine fondness for Paul. He was younger than I was, so if anyone “corrupted” anybody, I was the bad guy in her eyes. Of course, she had liked Del too, until he betrayed me while I was laid up with a gunshot wound.

  She held him at arm’s length. “You’re too thin. You’re not eating enough.”

  “Swimmers are supposed to be thin. You ever see a chubby swimmer?”

  “Lots of them. Just take a look at any municipal pool.”

  “I’m talking about swimmers, you know, racers.”

  “Whatever. Are you eating enough?”

  “Enough for both of us. I just burn it off.”

  “I worry about men who live alone… uh, about bachelors. They don’t take care of themselves properly.”

  Paul’s laugh was pure silver. “We need a woman for that, huh?”

  Hazel sniffed. “Well, some of you do. What brings you here, anyway? We don’t see much of you in the office.”

  “Just finished finals for my summer classes, and I thought I’d see what Vince is doing.”

  “I’m standing here watching the two of you,” I said.

  “Hi. Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just wanted to know what I should get prepared for. You still wanna head for Los Alamos and play a couple of rounds on the municipal course?”