“I don’t care what’s important to him, Colonel.”
Naranjo shrugged. “No, but it helps to explain his motivation.”
“Of course he knows you’re here?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And he’s just sitting in that little cottage and waiting to be arrested? Or shot?”
“He is not waiting for me,” Naranjo said patiently. “It is you with whom he wishes to meet.”
“Why have you granted the courtesy? He’s there—arrest him. Or is it not so simple?”
“Indeed not. I have no desire to visit this confrontation on such a gentle and innocent family.” He drew himself up, taking a deep breath that savored the dry, clean air. “This place,” he said, and then he looked at Estelle with raised eyebrows. “You feel the peace here, no?”
“Colonel, I talked with this man at the hospital in Las Cruces, and I arrested him there. He had his chance to say whatever he wished to me at that time. And then he escaped from the Posadas lockup and killed two more people. That’s what interests me.”
“And yet you came here today. You could have just let us take him…” Naranjo shrugged as if the outcome of that was a foregone conclusion.
Estelle fell silent. And why should I care about this man? she thought. What do I want to know?
“Would you speak with Señor Guerrero? He is an old man, and none of this is easy for him.”
“He’s had thirty years to tell his story. I was in Tres Santos at least half a hundred times during those years. What I want is Benedicte Mazón safely in custody, and me back across the border where I belong.” Estelle’s words rang more harshly than she might have liked. “I want my son out of Mazatlán, out of harm’s way.” She knew perfectly well the Mexican notion of familia. The world could stop until this issue was resolved. Naranjo lifted a hand, begging for patience.
“I would take it as a personal favor if you would at least speak with don Guerrero.” A smile touched his generous lips, and Estelle admitted his undeniable attraction.
“I have spoken with him on the telephone. But you puzzle me, Tomás.” She saw an eyebrow lift slightly at her use of his given name. “You have a fugitive cornered, and I assume you’ve surrounded him with adequate resources to force the surrender of a modest army.” She looked pointedly at the ridge behind them where the truck was still parked. “Yet here we sit.”
“Why did you come to Mexico?” Naranjo asked gently.
“I came because Señor Dias asked me to—as did don Guerrero. There is a possible link between Mazón and three deaths in our county, but that is a matter for the bureaucrats who arrange extradition papers. And there is a link somehow between all of that and the incident outside the theater in Mazatlán. I am curious, of course.”
“You could have simply waited for me to forward the police report—the apprehension report—to you, and then waited for the extradition process to take its course.” Naranjo eyed her, eyes appraising.
“If ever.”
Naranjo nodded. “There is always that.”
“I admit to a deep curiosity, Tomás. If this man is who he claims to be, then he is the last surviving member of my parents’ generation. I never knew what happened to my mother and father. I have never known their names. I didn’t even know I was adopted until I was sixteen, and even then, it was enough to know that the church had had custody of me until Teresa took me in.” She shrugged. “So…on that score, there isn’t going to be some sudden epiphany here that is going to change my life.”
“And your son?”
“My sons,” Estelle corrected. “One is as remarkable as the other. If Mazón did something to protect Francisco while the young man was in Mazatlán, I’m grateful.” She held up an index finger. “But no more so than if a young city patrolman happened on the two thugs in the alley outside the theater and managed to subdue them before they had the chance to act. I am grateful. Period. Punto.”
“Of course. But your son occupies the world’s stage at the moment. So to speak. His fame crosses borders.”
“Yes, it does. And now it seems highly likely that there is some link between the plan to kidnap the boys and whatever the objective was in Posadas—Mazón apparently chose to terminate both operations in one sweep. That’s the way it looks right now. I need to find the answers to that. I’d be interested to find out who he works for.”
She regarded Naranjo with interest, wondering how much he was holding back. “You know, the assassin who took a foolish shot at our sheriff? I really don’t care if he—whoever he turns out to be—stepped in front of a truck, or had his brains blown out by Benedicte Mazón. He took a rifle shot at our sheriff, and fortunately missed. I could be cynical and say that by dying, Quesada saved us a lot of work and expense and makes the world a better place. Ditto the two brothers in the Mazatlán alley. They have been neatly removed. But I don’t know about Señor Dominic Olveda. When he was murdered, he was deep in a meeting with a handful of our county’s best and brightest. If Mazón killed him, I want to know the reasons. And Jerry Steward was a harmless guy who I’d guess got caught up in something a whole lot bigger than he was. I want to know what…before it grows.”
She stopped, almost embarrassed by her gushing. “So tell me what you know, Colonel.”
“We know that three men were in prison together. This man who calls himself your uncle. The two Ortega brothers. A fourth, this Miguel Quesada, was released from a facility in Chihuahua after he made something of a deal with officials, one that included his deportation to Costa Rica. My suspicion that he could not be trusted proved correct. Instead of meeting with the people who had originally employed him, within days he had made contact with Olveda in Chihuahua. Your uncle and the Ortegas were released within a week of each other from a prison…in Chihuahua. Interesting coincidence, no?” Naranjo took a deep breath and settled on the end of a wrought-iron bench near the fountain. “It is not difficult to imagine what might have passed between Mazón and the two young men—the Ortega brothers, even Quesada, while in prison. Stories about your son’s performances, Mazón’s prideful boasting. But the other two?” He shrugged. “We are as interested in establishing that as you are.”
“What do you know about Dominic Olveda? He had presented himself to the Posadas folks as a developer from Arizona, interested in linking with the astronomy project, or at least benefiting from it.”
Naranjo leaned forward and clasped his hands, staring at the stonework of the fountain. “Señor Olveda—an interesting man. He has no criminal record. Not a word, not even the slightest insinuation. Yet we know that he is linked with some very interesting names…very powerful people who seek ways to invest a considerable flow of money.” He turned and regarded Estelle. “But not Mexican money, we have come to learn. He has made no secret that he is based in Costa Rica. Quesada as well.”
“And the Ortega brothers as well.”
“Most likely. They are small fish, most difficult to track their movements. And now this man who calls himself your uncle. He is Mexican, of course, and that is curious, is it not? That he should develop ties to Costa Rican interests. Or feeling the need to disrupt them.”
“He’s accomplished that, certainly.”
“It appears that with all his efforts, and not an inconsiderable investment, your rancher Mr. Waddell has made something of a tempting target on that mesa of his.”
“Olveda was after that, you think?”
“No, not Waddell’s development itself. But,” and Naranjo drew a large circle in the air, “the periphery. For some of these people with whom Olveda was associated—Posadas is a most tempting beachhead for them, so to speak. What could be more convenient, just at the border. A luxury hotel and conference center, an improved airport away from the urban hustle and bustle.” He smiled without much humor. “You must realize that there are these people who wish to establish a firm foothold in your country for their businesses. Sometimes the normal channels are laborious.”
“Bu
t why the attempt on Torrez?”
Naranjo hesitated at the abrupt change of subject. “I can only tell you what I think.”
“And that is?”
Naranjo’s brow furrowed. “You see, this Robert Torrez is something of an enigma. So intensely private in some inconvenient ways.” He held up both hands. “Yet here he is, related to half the indigenous population of your county. What can transpire without him knowing all the details?” Naranjo shrugged. “In Mexico, he would be a rich man. But,” and he shrugged again, “it appears that he is impervious to influence.” He said the word as if it had a bitter taste. “You see, I know for a fact that there are people on both sides who wish that he was on their payroll. But…” he held up both hands in surrender “…do not think that Olveda’s group does not do its homework. In this case, I think it might be the old story. If he is not with them, then he is against them.”
Naranjo clapped his hands gently. “He could be a very rich man. And you know, the same applies to you, agente.” He rested a hand over his heart. “Fortunately, for those of us trying to keep our little corner of the world on an even keel where the law really means something…fortunately we can depend on you. If you say, ‘this is so,’ then we know it is so. The same is true of this Robert Torrez.”
Estelle made an impatient face. “So the upshot of all this is that if Bobby can’t be bought, then it would benefit someone to have him removed. Is that what you’re saying?”
Naranjo’s nod was slow and thoughtful. “Someone more conveniently pliant.”
“If he doesn’t win the election?”
“He will win,” Naranjo said with finality. “And as much as I respect him, I firmly believe that the lieutenant is not a factor. He owns a rental house in Posadas, but he does not live in your county. People know that, and resent it.” He shrugged. “I would be surprised to see him win a tenth of the vote. Maybe not that much.”
“Lieutenant Adams would be surprised to hear that,” Estelle said.
“I’m sure. I do not think that the lieutenant, as good a man as he might be, could have even beaten Jerry Steward. A man, incidentally, who was not adverse to various opportunities that might have come his way. You say that he and Olveda had the opportunity to meet at least once—it was not just to discuss the weather, let me assure you.”
Estelle looked off to the south where, just beyond yet another twist in the Plegado, Juan Guerrero’s little farm nestled.
“Mazón knew all this. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Naranjo held up both hands. “What he knows? I would say, how could he not know? Thieves around a campfire, plotting and planning…we know how that goes. And then, the notion that there is some instant money to be made by ransoming your son—and that only comes about when the first scam seeking money from your mother goes awry? I think that Mazón’s affection for your son—his enormous pride in him—forced his hand. He refused to see Francisco put at risk, and did what he had to do.” The colonel shrugged expressively. “And you know, just between you and me, for that I say, ‘bless him.’ There needs to be no other reason to give you the opportunity to speak with this man.”
“But he didn’t stop with those two,” Estelle said. “He decided to go after Olveda and the others as well.”
“It would appear so. We think he was ordered to do so by Mexican acquaintances that saw a most convenient opportunity to remove the competition. Mazón perceived a threat to you and your family, perhaps, as Olveda and his interests gained a foothold in Posadas County. This Mazón—if not your guardian angel, at least he takes the direct approach. A clean sweep. The brothers in Mazatlán, the assassin sent to remove your sheriff, and then the man who has come to Posadas to build a power base. And for good measure, the American who is more than willing to work with him.” Naranjo made a scything motion with his hand. “A workman-like job of it.” He smiled, and Estelle thought she saw some satisfaction in the expression.
“You know,” he continued, “we might debate for years who is to benefit from the work of Señor Mazón. If I were among the group that had contracted with Dominic Olveda to make connections with Posadas County, I would certainly hesitate now with my investment.”
He watched the range of emotions on Estelle’s dark face, then reached out and touched her shoulder as if brushing away an insect. “Your uncle, if that’s who he is, has done what he can to protect you and yours. He does not want you caught in the middle.”
“If that’s the case.”
Naranjo tipped his head in surprise. “You’ve seen the photograph of Mazón’s cell.”
“Yes.”
“It would be hard to examine that and not be assured as to his motives.”
“You sound sympathetic.”
The colonel shrugged. “How can we not be? I think you underestimate the number of people—no doubt on both sides of the border and around the world—who cherish the young Maestro and his family. The Maestro and his family.” He hesitated when it appeared that Estelle was about to speak, and when she did not, added, “And now Mr. Waddell has elected to bring the world to Posadas in yet another way, and the bait, as it were, is most difficult to pass up. The predators are circling, and I’m afraid will always be doing so.” He looked down at the ground and chuckled. “You know, the thought has occurred to me more than once in the past few days that Mr. Waddell must surely miss the wise counsel of your padrino. I know they were close.”
“We all miss his counsel,” Estelle said. “But he will heal and be better than new.”
Naranjo ducked his head in agreement. “We all hope so. Now…” and he squared his shoulders abruptly. “Your uncle…you will speak with him?”
“Yes.”
He nodded sharply at her instant response. “Let me make a bargain with you. I do not wish to put Señor Guerrero or you or anyone else from this place of serenity, in harm’s way. I do not wish for you to sit down with Benedicte Mazón while the entire area is surrounded by troops pointing machine guns at you. The bargain is this…whatever you decide is the right path, then,” and he hunched his shoulders, “then that is what will happen.” He rested his hand on Estelle’s shoulder once more, a gesture of such warmth that she did not shake it off.
“I have no jurisdiction down here,” she said. “No authority of any kind. Those are not decisions that I can make.” Regardless of who decided what, she knew what lay in store for Benedicte Mazón as far as Mexican authorities were concerned. Naranjo had no reason to protect the man—except as a personal favor to her.
“I give you that authority, agente,” he said. “Even though I am in no position myself to do so.” He smiled ruefully, then his face grew serious. “Even if Benedicte Mazón should walk away today, do not think that the people who supported the efforts of the late Señor Olveda will be content to let this man walk free. Sad to say, if he slips through our fingers, he will not slip through theirs. They do not take such interference lightly.” Estelle remained silent.
“In my world,” Naranjo continued, “this man is guilty of assuming the role of judge, jury, and executioner. That is against the law on both sides of the border. He could have gone to the authorities with what he knew, but he choose another route.” Again the expressive shrug. “That ties our hands.”
Naranjo brushed aside his light jacket and drew a large handgun from the small of his back. “Because the world is unpredictable,” he said, and extended the Beretta to Estelle butt first.
“I don’t need that. Mazón is no threat to me. Neither is Guerrero.”
“Just to humor me,” Naranjo said. “For the unexpected snake lying across the path.” He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes. And I would surely hate to have our mutual and determined friend Robert Torrez hunting me, should something happen to you. The border does not exist for this sheriff of yours, as you well know.” He reached to another spot on his belt and removed the small handheld radio. “And this, please. The proper channel is already selected. Just push to talk, and there I will be.”<
br />
“With troops and their machine guns,” Estelle said wryly.
“Just so. I’m afraid Señor Mazón’s time is limited.”
She heaved a heavy sigh, feeling as if she were rooted in place.
“He cannot be allowed to go free,” Naranjo said quietly. “In addition to what he has done, there is information surely available. The people he knows, the contacts made. He has managed to manipulate powerful interests in two countries. That information will be valuable to us.” He reached out to Estelle’s shoulder again. “And to you, as well. Señor Olveda surely did not operate in a vacuum. There will be others, I have no doubt, who will pursue his efforts.”
For a long moment, Estelle didn’t answer. “I understand that,” she said finally. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
A smile traced Naranjo’s lips as he hefted his own radio. He partially turned his back to Estelle and spoke rapidly. The truck remained parked on the ridge, and as she surveyed the valley, she saw nothing to indicate a police presence—although they were surely there.
“Whenever you wish.” Naranjo lowered the radio. He nodded at the white Charger. “Most distinctive. We will have no trouble keeping you in sight.”
“It’s a good day for a walk,” Estelle said.
“Even easier. Take your time.” He drew a circle in the air. “Take your time and close this.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
After leaving the colonel standing beside the Diaz fountain, she did not visit the woodcarver’s home—even though a noisy, affectionate reunion would be welcome. Instead, she followed the narrow trail toward her mother’s cottage on a river bench high enough above the Plegado that flooding had never threatened it. Despite lingering periods of drought, the galleria was still thick, almost rank, the heavy-limbed cottonwoods and walnuts noisy with the swarms of insects and the birds that chased them.
Blood Sweep Page 28