Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Helen. “Get to work.”

  Helen could not have put it more concisely. Sheriff Hanks decided it was time to pay another visit to Felipe Madrigal. Felipe Madrigal was a lonely man. He had hardly anyone to talk to since his wife and daughter had died. The sheriff knew in his heart that Felipe wasn’t a bad guy, certainly wasn’t the bad guy behind this. Perhaps he was just a guy who had got caught up in something over which he had no control.

  The sheriff made the quick walk to Felipe’s cell in the Graham County jail. The two briefly talked baseball. Quickly the subject turned to trucks and cars. Felipe loosened up a bit when the sheriff slipped him a cigarette. The former truck driver began talking about how he could rebuild an engine from the ground up in three days. Talking about pride in his mechanical abilities seemed to make Felipe a changed man. The more Felipe spoke the more Zeb realized that he was talking to a mechanical expert, at least when it came to engines. Then, like a lightning bolt it struck the sheriff. Felipe Madrigal was a liar.

  “Felipe, have you been telling me the truth?”

  Sheriff Hanks tried playing the old good cop routine.

  “Sí, Señor Sheriff. I never tell lie.”

  “Are you a good mechanic?” asked the sheriff.

  “Sí, sí, the best. I can fix anything on engine.”

  Sheriff Hanks left the cell, returned to his office and came back with the tape recording of Felipe Madrigal calling in and asking to be arrested. Sheriff Hanks played it for his prisoner. Felipe said nothing. The sheriff waited. His prisoner said nothing.

  “Felipe, you said your truck was broken.”

  “Sí, sí, it was broken.”

  “Why didn’t you fix it?”

  “I don’t have no spare tire,” said Felipe sheepishly.

  “That’s it?” asked Sheriff Hanks. “No spare tire?”

  “Sí.”

  Felipe suddenly looked like a treed polecat. He began to look around the cell as if seeking a place to hide from the sheriff’s questions.

  “The flat tires were the only reason your truck didn’t work?”

  Felipe Madrigal held steadfastly to his lie.

  “I’m no mechanic, but I noticed the distributor cap was missing and the lead wires had been yanked off. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  Felipe was a cornered mouse. He had lied. Sheriff Hanks could read the falsity of it in the man’s words, the sound of his voice and the expression on his face.

  “I don’t have no spare parts in my truck or in the house.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Felipe.”

  Felipe was visibly shaken and sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  “I tell you the truth. Only the truth. That is what I tell you, the truth.”

  Sheriff Hanks stood next to his seated prisoner. He inhaled, expanding all six and half feet of his height and two hundred forty pounds of his weight. Felipe cowered. The look on the sheriff’s face made Felipe wonder if the sheriff was going to strike him. Felipe slid to the back of his bed protectively. Sheriff Hanks paced back and forth menacingly. He knew Felipe Madrigal was lying to him. How could he get him to tell the truth?

  “Why didn’t you have spare parts? You know your way around an engine. Why wouldn’t you have a spare tire or two, everyone does.”

  Felipe shrugged nervously. “I don’t know. I don’t have no extra distributor cap. I had spare tires. I thought I did but when I look they were gone, stolen.”

  Felipe’s lies were getting larger. Not having a distributor cap was one thing, but not noticing the theft of spare tires was quite another, especially to a man who had so much time on his hands. Sheriff Hanks tried to bluff Felipe.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said the sheriff. “I’ll call my deputy on the two-way radio and have her take another look around. Maybe she can find the distributor cap?”

  The prisoner nodded sheepishly, like a child caught in a lie. Sheriff Hanks made the call to his deputy.

  “Deputy Steele,” said Sheriff Hanks. “What have you got for me? Did you find Mr. Madrigal’s religious items?”

  “Yes, I did. They were right where he said they were, but I found something else too.”

  “What have you got?” asked the sheriff.

  “I sat down in his chair to tie my shoe. When I sat down, some loose change fell out of my pocket. I reached in behind the cushions to grab it.”

  Sheriff Hanks, thinking of his own easy chair, imagined what sort of junk might have fallen down there over the years since Felipe’s wife had died.

  “There was quite a collection of miscellaneous debris stuffed under there, matches, half-smoked cigarettes and some hard candy with lint stuck all over it.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There was something else--something that is very important.”

  “What is it, Deputy?”

  “A handwritten note.”

  “Read it to me.”

  It took exactly five words for the sheriff to know exactly what it was. He had listened to those exact words a hundred times before. Felipe Madrigal had written out the bomb threat. He had been reading it when he called it in. That was why the tone of his voice on the tape had sounded so unnatural. Why hadn’t he figured that out before? Now as Deputy Steele read the threat, it was all very obvious.

  “It’s the bomb threat, verbatim” said Deputy Steele.

  “Get that note to me ASAP,” said the sheriff.

  “Yes, sir, and Sheriff? Now that I take a look at Felipe’s handwriting closely...for an old man, who probably wasn’t schooled in English, he has excellent handwriting. It is as neat as a pin. It’s better than either yours or mine. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Goodbye.”

  Sheriff Hanks opened the Madrigal file and turned to the old man’s handwritten admission of guilt.

  Felipe Madrigal’s handwriting was barely legible.

  28

  Ángel opened his eyes; instantly he squeezed them shut again. Certain he had awakened in the middle of a perfect dream, Ángel made a vain attempt to fool the sandman and slip back into the sweet fantasy. It was for naught. He was awake.

  Slowly Ángel reopened his eyes, fearful of returning to the reality he knew awaited him. Ángel touched his face and rubbed his eyes, looking around the spacious bedroom. To his right, a large picture window overlooked the river. The huge bed he lay on was soft, crisp and clean. He sat up and swung his feet onto the plush carpet nearly kicking over a half full bottle of tequila. Disoriented, his eyes darted around the room a second time. He pinched himself to make certain he wasn’t dreaming. Maybe he had died. Maybe this was heaven. His pounding headache told him otherwise. Where was he? How did he get here? A rustling noise in the next room drew his attention. Quietly he opened the door and peeked through. At the kitchen table he saw the shadow of a large man cleaning a gun.

  “You trying to sneak up on me, amigo?”

  The gruff voice was Jimmie Joe’s. In fits and starts memories came slowly drifting in. He and Jimmie Joe had broken into a rich man’s house. They had spent the night drinking, laughing and playing music.

  Jimmie Joe turned to Ángel.

  “Did you get your beauty rest, muchacha? I don’t think it worked. You are just as ugly as you were yesterday.”

  Ángel pressed his thumbs against his eyeballs. The previous night came back to him, the drinking, the partying, even stumbling into the fancy bed pretending he was kissing his darling Juanita.

  “Coffee with a double shot of tequila, amigo? It’ll kick those nasty demons out of your head.”

  “Sure, Jimmie Joe.”

  The big man pointed with his chin to a coffeepot on the counter. Ángel grabbed a cup and pulled a chair to the kitchen table. A recent copy of the Eastern Arizona Courier was spread out on the table. On the paper were the five handguns Jimmie Joe had heisted on his recent venture into Safford. Next to the guns were cleaning push rods, brass bore brushes, solvents, lubricants and patches. Som
e of the weapons were broken down into parts for cleaning. Others had already been meticulously taken care of. The big man worked slowly, using the contents of the Otis Elite gun cleaning kit to make certain each of the weapons was perfectly clean and in superior working order.

  Ángel sipped his liquored up coffee. Even with missing fingers, the big man deftly manipulated the guns. Ángel’s eyes fell on the scar tissue around the missing finger stubs. The grotesquely misshapen hand was a perfect match for the ugly face. Ángel thought back to the story he had heard in prison of how Jimmie Joe lost his fingers and gained his nickname, Diablo Blanco. Only at this moment, for some strange reason, Ángel wondered whether it was true. Had Jimmie Joe Walker chopped three of his own fingers off with a single swing of an ax? Had he taken the three fingers and cooked and eaten them as some people said? Had he done such a thing to destroy his fingerprints? Only a crazy man or the devil himself would do such a thing. When other men would ask him why he would do such a thing, he would only let out a diabolical laugh and brag that the devil had taken possession of his soul.

  “The big day is about to arrive. Are you ready to become a rich man, Ángel?”

  Ángel looked at his surroundings. He liked what he saw. He was ready to have the big money that would change his life. He lusted after the cash that would allow him and Juanita to raise a family on the beach in Mexico. He thought about the rush of the surf lapping against the beach. The time had come. Now Jimmie Joe would tell him what the plan was and when it would happen. Ángel looked at his partner who was staring down the open chambers of a .38 caliber pistol.

  “One million dollars each. That’s what you promised. Right?” asked Ángel.

  “Maybe even more,” replied Jimmie Joe. “A million dollars is big money, the kind of cash that could take care of a man for the rest of his life.”

  Holding the gun in his right hand the big man spread out newspaper with the clawlike stub on his left hand and pointed at two stories he had circled repeatedly with a red pen.

  “Read this story.”

  Ángel picked up a .38 that was covering the article and set it off to the side.

  MORENCI COPPER MINING DAYS BEGIN ON SATURDAY

  The 53RD annual Copper Days Festival is set to begin on Saturday, October 25. This year the event marks the longest continuously running local event in southern Arizona. The Festival kicks off with the Annual Copper Days Parade featuring ten area marching bands, over eighty floats, and a half dozen beauty queens including the World’s Best Rodeo Gal, Bobbie Jo Crenshaw, from right here in Safford. Starting Saturday afternoon and continuing on into Sunday, the Rodeo and Roping Events expect to draw over five thousand people. Cash prizes in excess of $150,000 will be awarded.

  Jimmie Joe had underlined the $150,000 twice.

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars in prize money and five thousand people paying five bucks a head to get in the door and that’s just for starters. Ángel, my partner, read this one.”

  Ángel’s eyes darted to the second circled article.

  PROFIT SHARING ANNOUNCED

  The Morenci Copper Mine today announced annual bonuses for all hourly employees will set a record this year. Over $2,500 will be given to each employee in conjunction with Copper Mining Days. The Credit Union will be open both Saturday and Sunday so union members can cash their checks.

  Ángel set his coffee cup down. His hand began to tremble. Now it all made sense. Hiding out in the middle of nowhere for the last few weeks, driving the back roads, Jimmie Joe’s gun theft, scouting out the town of Morenci. If Ángel had known they were going to rob a credit union with guns, he would have run off with Juanita. If he had seen his grandfather, he would have been too ashamed to do such a thing. He now understood why Jimmie Joe had insisted he stay away from Juanita and his grandfather.

  “There are over one thousand five hundred employees at that mine up there. Figure it out,” said Jimmie Joe.

  Ángel couldn’t do the math in his head.

  “I don’t know. How much is that?”

  “Almost four million in bonus money alone. Even if half of those men pick up their checks on Saturday, there will be close to two million bucks, plus the prize money of a hundred fifty thousand, the gate admission of twenty five grand and there’s always the popcorn and peanut money. The way I got it figured the absolute worst we could do is a cool million each. What do you think about that?”

  Ángel’s trembling fingers began to shake. He held one hand down with the other. They could never pull off such a big job. It was crazy to even think about the two of them doing it. The local police and the sheriff’s department would be keeping an eye on things along with the armed security that would surely be guarding the money. The town would be packed with visitors.

  “It’s an awful lot of money. I don’t see how we can do it. I’ve been in that building. It’s like a fort,” said Ángel. “We could get shot by the guards before we ever see the money. It’s a crazy idea.”

  “Here, have a cigarette and quit worrying. I’ve got the whole job all planned out, from soup to nuts.”

  Ángel took a cigarette from the open pack. He inhaled deeply. The tobacco had a soothing effect. He began to think more clearly.

  The big man silently cleaned the gun barrel of the .38, sliding with cautious precision the clean white patch through the shaft of the weapon with a push rod. Ángel nervously smoked one cigarette after another. He put the idea of getting shot as far out of his mind as possible. With over four million dollars in cash at the credit union, the guards would certainly be heavily armed. He did not want to die before he held Juanita in his arms. But he did want to be rich.

  “When?” asked Ángel.

  “Tomorrow,” said Jimmie Joe. “Saturday night...round midnight.”

  Ángel had celebrated Copper Days in the past by drinking late into the night. If this year was like every other, the partying would rise to fever pitch by eleven p.m. The bars stayed open until two or three and the street dance kept going until the police shut it down.

  “But Jimmie Joe, the streets are going to be packed with people. Someone will see us. Shouldn’t we pick a better time?”

  Jimmie Joe grabbed the smallest of the guns, the .22. He had already cleaned it. He knew it was the perfect gun to be used up close and personal. It was the perfect gun for an assassination. Jimmie Joe was thinking one of the guards might wander upon them and a quick shot to the head would kill him. It was unlikely Ángel would actually shoot to kill, but if his life was in danger, it was best to be prepared. Handing it to Ángel he simply said, “Here, just in case you need to shoot someone.”

  Ángel held the .22 in his hands. “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

  “Not even to protect your partner?” asked Jimmie Joe with a malicious grin.

  Ángel stared blankly at Jimmie Joe. “Well, I won’t kill anybody.”

  The big man pointed the empty .38 at Ángel and slowly squeezed the trigger over and over again.

  “Bang...bang...bang...bang...bang and fucking bang! You will if I tell you to, muchacha. Amigo, you are nothing short of a fucking idiot. A crowd is perfect, you dumb asshole. We can use them to our advantage,” said Jimmie Joe. “The more people out on the streets the merrier.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Ángel.

  A ray of sunlight sneaked through the open window. It glinted off the freshly polished gun barrel. A zinging ray of sparkling light darted past the corner of Ángel’s eye and landed on a statue of Jesus. Ángel was certain it was a sign from God.

  “Do you think for one freaking minute some security guard is going to fire willy-nilly into a crowd? They would have to be nuts. Besides, the way I have it figured we will be in and out in less than twenty minutes. No one will be the wiser until they re-open the credit union the next morning.”

  It was early in the day to drink heavily, even for Ángel, but his boozing reflex sent his hand reaching for the bottle. Tomorrow might be the last day of his life.
His head throbbed. His heart ached for Juanita. He thought of his grandfather. A rush of fear sent the little hairs on his arms straight up. His father had died in a car accident outside of Morenci. His grandfather had mangled his foot while working at the Copper Mine in Morenci. The town had cursed the men of his family. Would the bad luck streak run like a dagger through his heart as well? He grabbed the half-empty bottle of tequila.

  “A shot of courage for my little brother?” asked Jimmie Joe.

  Ángel started to pour more liquor into his coffee but stopped short and downed a slug straight from the bottle. The first swallow of the day burned like fire. A second swig cut the scum from his teeth. Once again confidence and ease began to ripple through his veins.

  29

  “What’s the plan, Jimmie Joe? How are we going to get in? How are we going to get out?”

  Jimmie Joe wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel and tossed it carelessly into a corner.

  “I thought you’d never ask. Take a seat in the living room. I’ll show you.”

  The Diablo Blanco disappeared into a bedroom. He returned with a notebook, the kind Ángel had used in school. He laid it out on the coffee table and opened it. The first page was a detailed sketch of the top of the credit union building. The next page was a map of the ventilation shaft leading to the vault that held the safe, a safe that for the last five years had a broken lock. Above the vault was a small grate with a notation indicating it was twenty inches by sixteen inches. Page three had the floor plan of the inside of the credit union. Large black X’s marked the spots where armed guards would be posted.

  “Where did you get all of this information?” asked Ángel. “No one except people who work inside that building knows about this stuff.”

  “Let’s just say I had some inside dope,” replied Jimmie Joe. “I got a little birdie to sing for me.”

  The Diablo Blanco’s sinister howl made Ángel cringe. People who knew the inside secrets of a bank didn’t give out that sort of information unless someone had a gun pointed at them. And some people, like his grandfather, the proud Felipe Madrigal, would take a bullet in the head before giving up such information. Ángel’s heart stopped.