Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  The Diablo Blanco had gone to his grandfather’s house to let him know his Ángel was okay. Ángel’s heart sank even further as he remembered one lonesome night in the jail cell when he was thinking about his family. He had talked to Jimmie Joe about his grandfather. He had confided everything about his grandfather’s truck driving days for the mines, his foot injury and how the mining company gave him a job as a security guard at the credit union in Morenci.

  “My grandfather would never betray the mining company. He would never do that. He loved his job at the mines. He would never give you all this information.”

  “Take it easy. He didn’t do it for me, my little muchacha. He did it for you,” said Jimmie Joe. “He just wanted to make sure your life was going--somewhere. Let me put it another way. He was looking out for your future...as well as his own.”

  The Diablo Blanco’s remark confused Ángel. The scheming laughter didn’t. Unless Jimmie Joe had threatened his grandfather he would never have given him any information. Ángel was afraid to ask the details. He shuddered at the thought of what Jimmie Joe might have done to Felipe. Another shot of tequila flowed down his gullet.

  “Don’t worry about your grandfather. He’s a righteous dude. He did his job. It’s time you started thinking like a rich man.”

  Jimmie Joe opened a street map of Morenci and laid it next to the floor plan of the credit union.

  “It’s a simple plan, one even you can follow, my little muchacha,” chided Jimmie Joe.

  Ángel’s heart beat faster with every word. He would drive the big truck into town and park in the alley behind the credit union building. Jimmie Joe would hop out and scout the alley while Ángel waited in the truck with the guns. When he was certain it was clear, Jimmie Joe would return to the truck, put on the flak jacket and slip the four handguns into the pair of double holsters he would be wearing.

  “You can carry your .22 in your pants along with your knives. You though I didn’t know about that shiv you carry in your boot? And that little pouch in the back of your pants? You think you could hide that from Jimmie Joe’s eyes?”

  Ángel knew now that nothing could be hidden from the White Devil. He had eyes in the back of his head.

  “At the other end of the alley is a fire escape,” continued Jimmie Joe. “It goes up to the top of the building. The roof slants toward the alley, away from the street. We can move along the top of the buildings without being seen. Once we’re up there we have to go across six buildings before we get to the credit union.”

  Jimmie Joe flipped a page in his notebook to a detailed drawing of the roof of the credit union. Dead center was a large air conditioning unit. Next to it was an air exchange vent. It led directly to the vault.

  “We could go in through the air vent…if we have to. But there is a better way,” said Jimmie Joe. The big man tapped the drawing with his deformed hand. “Next to the air vent is a trap door. “It leads to the top floor of the building. It’s old and weak. I plan on yanking it open with my hands.”

  Jimmie Joe smiled and winked as he flexed his big, tattooed muscles for Ángel.

  “Why do you think I spent so much time lifting weights in the slammer?”

  Ángel nodded remembering him lifting big weights in the prison yard.

  “But just in case it’s padlocked from the inside, we’ll take a crow bar with us. You can carry that. When we get inside--”Jimmie Joe’s voice became calmer the more excited he got. “--when we get inside, we go right down the stairs and, BINGO, we are directly over the top of the vault.”

  “How do we get in?”

  Jimmie Joe turned another page.

  “Here.” His mutilated hand once again tapped the page. “In the crawl space between the vault and the ceiling is the air duct that leads into the vault. It’s sixteen by twenty inches, just like the one inside the vault. We can cut it open with metal shears. My little friend, you are going to crawl through the duct, kick off the grate and get the money.”

  Ángel would put the money into two laundry bags and push them back up through the vent to Jimmie Joe. The escape route would be the reverse of the way in.

  “Do you think I can get into a space that small?” asked Ángel.

  “If you can’t, we’re doing this for nothing. I’ll bring a can of grease along, just in case.”

  “If we aren’t going into the bank where the guards are, how come we need so much fire power?”

  “Better safe than sorry, amigo. I’d just as soon creep in like a gato and sneak out like a thief in the night. But you never know who or what might screw up. That includes you.”

  What was the Diablo Blanco thinking? That Ángel was going to double cross him? Why would he? They were partners in this deal. They would both be rich when it was over. There was more than enough money for both of them to live the rich man’s life until the day they died--a day he hoped wouldn’t come soon.

  30

  With Deputy Steele at his side Sheriff Hanks replayed the tape recording for the umpteenth time. This time, however, it was different. This time Zeb held in his hand the note Kate had found in Felipe Madrigal’s chair. When he was certain of his next step, they made the short walk to his prisoner’s cell. Felipe Madrigal, head in hands apparently lost in thought, did not hear them approach.

  “Mr. Madrigal, I need to ask you a few questions,” said Sheriff Hanks.

  Felipe kept his eyes averted, his lips remained sealed. Zeb handed Kate the note she had found in Felipe’s chair. She handed it to Felipe. The prisoner took the piece of paper in his hand without looking up.

  “Have you ever seen this note before?” Sheriff Hanks’ voice was firm, direct.

  The old man could not escape the question. His weary eyes, bloodshot from the fatigue that accompanies uneasy sleep in strange surroundings, slid the paper into focus. His aged hands clung tenuously to the note as though it might explode. He shook slightly. His voice was a stutter.

  “I d-don’t know. Maybe.”

  Sheriff Hanks gritted his teeth. It was as close as Felipe Madrigal had come to admitting anything other than making the phone calls. The sheriff knew this note was the key to getting him to talk. He chose his words cautiously.

  “Deputy Steele found it at your house when she went to get your rosary and your Bible. Maybe it’s a sign from the Holy Mother. Maybe the Blessed Virgin wants you to talk to us?”

  Deputy Steele nodded in agreement. Felipe returned the piece of paper.

  “I would like to make confession,” mumbled Felipe.

  “Of course,” said the sheriff.

  “That would be good for you,” added Kate.

  “I see a priest?”

  Both Kate and Zeb were taken aback by the request for a priest.

  “Are you sure there isn’t something you would like to tell me first?” asked Zeb.

  The old man closed his eyes and shook his head. He would only talk to the priest.

  A call to Father Ortiz brought no immediate solution. The priest apologized for his busy schedule. He had a wedding service, a church service at the Desert Rose Nursing Home, and he had to hear confessions. Saturday, he said, was even busier than Sunday for a priest. He could be there by twelve-thirty on Sunday, earlier only if someone was dying and needed Extreme Unction. The law would have to wait for the Lord.

  Zeb reminded himself to be patient. Seeking to change the ways of the Lord would only create anxiety. Justice moved at its own speed. Yet, his entire investigation of the bombing would move forward so much more easily if Felipe would just talk.

  “Deputy Steele, I need to clear my head a little. I believe a cup of tea over at the Town Talk might just do the trick.”

  “Sounds good. Bring me back a cup of Doreen’s best coffee, would you?”

  “You got it.”

  Zeb headed out the door to the Town Talk.

  Kate remained at the office. She wracked her brain, thinking of how to break through Felipe Madrigal’s stubbornness. Her musing was interrupted by the
ringing of her direct phone line. It was Eskadi reminding her of their date.

  “Have you ever been to the cowboy rodeo?” he asked.

  “I’ve never been to a rodeo, not even once,” replied Kate. “But if it’s as good as you claim, I can hardly wait.”

  “It really is a lot of fun. Let’s get there early. Some of the reservation boys are riding the big broncos. I don’t want to miss that. There’s a street dance afterward. Geronimo’s Cadillac, the only all Apache rock and roll band on the planet, is going to be playing some good ol’ rock and roll.”

  For the first time in weeks Eskadi carried genuine excitement in his voice. His tone was beautiful compared to the anger and jealousy he had been exuding lately.

  Eskadi gave her a rundown of the events. His animation rose as he described bareback riding, bucking broncos and calf roping. It came to a fever pitch when he went off on a tirade about the history of rodeo clowns, their importance to the rodeo and how they had originally been a part of the sacred Indian culture. He even jokingly hypothesized the whole idea of rodeo clowns was yet another idea co-opted by the cowboy White man from the Native Americans. When he laughed at the silliness of his own statement, Kate felt maybe Eskadi was once again becoming the man she had fallen in love with.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” said Eskadi. “You know that tape you had me listen to? The one with the bomb threats?”

  “Yes. We’ve got the man who made the calls in jail.”

  “Everyone knows that,” said Eskadi. “That old Mexican, Felipe Madrigal. The old men up here on the reservation who worked with him down at the Morenci Copper Mine say he was the best guy they ever worked with. He would hang out with the Natives because the Whites didn’t like him anymore than they liked the Mestizos or Mexicans. They would eat lunch together every day. Felipe’s wife, who was both Mescalero Apache and Mexican, was a great cook, and she made food for some of the guys who weren’t married. Old man Madrigal even learned some Apache language. He would tell a story in Spanish, and they would tell him the same story in Apache. Telling all those stories in two languages and listening to his wife’s accent is how he got the Apache accent in his voice. He even claims he has a little Mescalero Apache blood in his veins. I believe him, even if it is only because he married into it.”

  “Did they say anything else about him?”

  “Not much else except he was a better mechanic than any of the White guys. Oh, there was on other thing. He used to bring his grandson, a little pipsqueak of a kid, with him in the truck. When that kid wasn’t even ten years old, the old man used to let him drive that big truck all by himself. I guess that little squirt was a hell of a good driver.”

  Eskadi promised to pick her up by five o’clock. Kate hung up the phone.

  By the time Kate got done with her paperwork it was three o’clock and Zeb was back in the office. He handed her the cup of coffee she had requested.

  “Before everyone heads off to the rodeo, did you learn anything new on your rounds today?” he asked.

  “I got four more complaints about fast drivers. Some fella in a big truck has been going like a bat out of hell…pardon my language…out that way. But I didn’t see any speeders all afternoon. I sometimes think those ranchers out there complain just to have something to talk about or somebody to talk to.”

  “I imagine some of those folks go for weeks without talking to anyone new,” he added.

  “You know them better than I do,” said Kate. “And then there was one old couple who said a young Mexican kid came to their door asking for water for his car’s radiator. The car was parked down the road a piece so they couldn’t say for sure if it was a Vega, but it was yellow. The wife thought she might have seen a second person sitting in the car, but she couldn’t be sure because the kid came to the door by himself.”

  “I’d sure like to find the kid driving that yellow Vega and figure out what that is all about.”

  “We will,” said Kate. “What was the word over at the diner?”

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of the Town Talk. Every time I stopped to talk to somebody all they wanted to talk about was the rodeo. By the time I get cleaned up and Doreen and I get up there, it will be five or six. The rodeo starts at two. I would hate to miss three or four hours of it. It’s Doreen’s first time at the rodeo with me.”

  Kate was glad to see a little less stress on the sheriff’s face.

  “It goes on until nine or ten,” said Kate. “In fact Eskadi told me most of the best events are after five o’clock.”

  “I guess you’re right. I sure don’t want Doreen to miss it when they let the bulls out to chase the clowns. I know she will just love that.”

  “I would say it sounds more like you who doesn’t want to miss it, Zeb.” said Deputy Steele.

  The sheriff chuckled. She was right. Ever since he was a little kid the bulls chasing the rodeo clowns around the arena had been his favorite part of the rodeo.

  “Eskadi told me the clown show was at seven-thirty,” Kate continued. “He says that’s the best part.”

  “It is a heckuva lot of fun,” replied Zeb. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “You too, Sheriff. Relax. Have a little fun. Not much bad can happen at a rodeo.”

  31

  “Pull in that alley over there,” ordered Jimmie Joe.

  Ángel took a right, then a left and pulled the pickup truck into the alleyway that ran behind the Morenci Credit Union. Both men, on high alert, kept an eye out for anything unusual. For the most part the small road was full of cars and trucks. Anyone looking for a parking spot at this hour would be looking elsewhere. These prime spots would have been taken hours ago. Ángel glanced at his watch. It was twenty two minutes past midnight. So far everything was right on schedule.

  “Luck is with us, amigo,” said Jimmie Joe. “Look.”

  Using his ugly, deformed hand Jimmie Joe pointed out a small drive to a loading dock. It was posted with a no parking sign. It couldn’t have been more perfect for their needs. It was an easy in and out. There was no way someone could accidentally block them in. Even more than that they could back in and use the back of the pickup to grab onto the fire escape ladder. From there they could easily reach the rooftop of the buildings. Ángel maneuvered the truck into the small driveway, put it into park and shut it off. He double checked to see if the second set of keys he had made were under the mat. It was a precaution his grandfather had taught him in case he lost his keys. Without a word Jimmie Joe hopped out of the truck and did a quick reconnaissance of the alley. He briefly checked each car and truck to make sure someone wasn’t passed out drunk in it or sitting and waiting for someone. It took less than five minutes to check everything out. In the meantime Ángel double checked the gear. Jimmie Joe’s flak jacket, double holsters and handguns were where he had stashed them. The crow bar was under the seat, easy to grab. Ángel checked the access. Under his feet were two canvas bags to carry the loot. Last, he reached into the pouch in his pants where his trusty .22 was ready for action. Oddly, the little peashooter as Jimmie Joe called it, gave him the most comfort.

  “We’re all set to go. You ready?”

  All Ángel could think about was the money, Juanita and the beach in Mexico. Jimmie Joe shook him by the shoulder.

  “Pay attention, amigo. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Don’t you dare fucking blow this for me.”

  Ángel snapped to attention. He grabbed the canvas bags and the crow bar. “Don’t worry about me, Jimmie Joe. I am ready to be a rich man.”

  The ugly hand pointed to the fire escape ladder. “Señorita first.” Ángel shot Jimmie Joe an angry look. “It’s only a joke,” said Jimmie Joe. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch now. We’ve got serious business to attend to.”

  Ángel scooted up the fire escape ladder with Jimmie Joe close on his heels. Little did Ángel know that Jimmie Joe wanted him to go first in case there was a guard on the roof. If that were the cas,e Ángel would take the bu
llet. The music from the street dance was suddenly louder on the angled roof top. Ángel glanced across the tops of the buildings to make sure no one had decided to watch the street party or listen to the music from up there. It was clear.

  “Move it. Rápido.”

  Ángel scooted low on the roof top. Jimmie Joe also kept low. Ángel knew precisely when they were on top of the credit union. It looked exactly as Jimmie Joe had drawn it out in his notebook. At the center of the building was the air conditioning unit. Next to it was the grate-covered air exchange vent that led directly to the vault. Next to that was the trap door, their first choice of entry. Jimmie Joe jammed the crow bar hard into the edge of the trap door. It banged hard against cement. Someone had sealed it off from the inside. A couple of hard whacks and a few curse words later it became obvious that entering by the trap door was not going to happen. Ángel remembered all the times Jimmie Joe spent lifting weights in the prison yard. He would need dynamite instead of brute strength to get through the trap door.

  “Plan B. You go in through the vent,” said Jimmie Joe reaching inside his vest and grabbing a can of WD-40. “Strip to your undies and close your eyes.”

  “No,” said Ángel. “I can make it through there without that stuff on me.”

  Jimmie Joe hesitated, stunned momentarily by Ángel’s defiance. He looked at the opening, at Ángel. He smiled.

  “You are a fucking crazy fuck. I like that. Okay, go on, but you had better squeeze your skinny ass through there without any trouble.”

  In the street below, Geronimo’s Cadillac was playing a tribute to Paul Revere and the Raiders. The song Kicks came through the air. The words kicks just keep getting harder to find caused Jimmie Joe to chuckle and comment, “Ain’t that the truth?” Ángel didn’t know what the crazy devil was even talking about.