Final Payment

by Steven F Havill

  “No, ma’am,” the deputy said. She glanced at her watch. “The first riders were off at a little after nine. They’ll all be on the course in about an hour.”

  “That’ll keep everyone occupied,” Estelle said. “Give us some peace and quiet.” She indicated a chair, and Gordon Urioste sat down, hands clasped nervously over his gut as he leaned forward in the chair. Two doors down the hall, his wife would be sitting on a steel folding chair in the sheriff’s office, comforted by the blank walls, government-gray office furnishings, and the unsmiling sheriff. Across the hall in the spacious conference room, Hector Ocate would not know that his host family was in the building. It would be interesting, Estelle thought, to see how the three stories puzzled together.

  Her phone rang before she could close the door, and Gordon Urioste nodded as she excused herself. “We’re in Grand Central Station at the moment,” she said.

  Out in the hall, she walked toward the rear exit of the building, out of earshot of any other room.

  “Guzman.”

  “Ah, I am so glad I reached you, señora,” Captain Tomás Naranjo said. “Is this a good moment? It is terribly early.”

  “It’s a fine moment,” Estelle replied. “It’s good to hear from you.”

  “We have a name,” Captain Tomás Naranjo’s quiet voice said. Estelle had not been expecting to hear from the Judiciales so quickly, and she was stunned into silence. “A colleague of mine in Acapulco knows Rudolfo Villanueva—and his stepson, for that matter. Señor Villanueva is in, how do we say, the transportation business. People who need to travel discreetly from here to there—all entirely legal, I should think.”

  Or with the right people’s palms greased, Estelle thought. “A charter business, then.”

  “Exactly. Nothing like what I’m hearing from you, however. That would be a new thing. But his relationship with the boy—Hector, is it? His relationship with this boy is obscure. It appears that stepfather is courtesy. He and the boy’s mother are not married, you see.”

  “Really.”

  “But that aside, until now, at least, Señor Villanueva has been careful that his business is entirely legitimate and documented. But I must say, the friend standing beside the boy in the photograph…that would be a different matter. That was most interesting to receive that. I took the liberty of forwarding it to my colleagues, and they are most intrigued. His name is Manolo Tapia—and his relationship to the boy’s mother is somewhat in question. Perhaps he is a brother…”

  “That would make him Hector’s uncle, then.”

  “Yes. It appears that Señor Tapia goes by several names, you see, depending on the circumstances. But we have reason to believe that is his name at the moment.”

  “And his significance?”

  “Well, his significance,” and Naranjo drew out the word, relishing each syllable, “is that of all the people with whom we would most like to speak about various…matters…Señor Manolo Tapia is certainly near the top of the list.”

  “Which matters might those be, Tomás?” Estelle asked.

  “Ah. Just so. There is considerable evidence building that Señor Tapia may be involved in various solutions that his colleagues require.”

  “Tomás, please,” Estelle said.

  “Ah. Lo siento. You have become so American, Señora Guzman.” He chuckled. “How can I say it? We have cause to believe that this man is responsible for a number of deaths, particularly in Oaxaca and Chiapas. Perhaps other activities in Guatemala and El Salvador as well. There are almost certainly others about which we are not aware.”

  “He’s an assassin?”

  “That might be accurate. Something of the sort,” Naranjo said, as if loath to actually use the word. “I am surprised to hear that he is now in the United States. That is not his…turf? Do we say that?”

  “It appears to be his turf now,” Estelle said.

  “Yes, it would,” the captain said. “I may have something on the three victims before long.”

  “Guillermo is a name,” Estelle prompted. “The boy says the older man’s name was Guillermo.”

  “Ah. I will forward that. There is word on that in some channels. But I am most puzzled. I can’t imagine why Tapia would run the risk, the considerable risk, of flying with his victims to the United States. It makes something of a statement, of course. But…” He paused. “My guess is that other business calls him north. That is most unusual for this man, I should think. Most unusual. Find out his business, and you may well find him. That is what my colleagues say. Of course,” and he laughed gently, “my colleagues have not been so fortunate in their own efforts. They are very interested.”

  “The boy has to be the link,” Estelle said.

  “I should think so.”

  “You’ll get back to me if you hear anything else?”

  “Most assuredly. And you must call us, should you hear anything further.”

  Estelle rang off and sat for a moment, staring at the phone. The killer is Hector’s uncle. That explained the boy’s confused efforts to protect the identity of the third man in the photo. And a favorite uncle, too…at least that’s what the fold in the picture indicated.

  If the three Salvadorans were fleeing north with money that wasn’t theirs, she could imagine a man such as Tapia hired to resolve the problem. Traveling quickly, with contacts throughout the country oiled with generous payments, Tapia would overtake the family at his leisure. But why not just end it there, if that was the case?

  In fact, this time, it appeared that he might have arranged the flight himself, baiting the three with what first appeared to be a quick, easy trip north, a flight directly to the safety of Socorro. But then what? Estelle ran a finger down the side of the telephone receiver, frowning. Why would Tapia hire his nephew, a mere youngster, to make the flight—and not without risk? Perhaps only because Rudolfo Villanueva would not, his high profile putting him immediately at risk.

  And then, why Posadas? Why land at the gas company’s primitive strip in the middle of the night, and immediately execute the family, leaving them to lie in the desert?

  Had the observant Robert Torrez, ever the hunter, not observed the playing coyotes, the incident might have gone unnoticed for weeks, perhaps months. And then a little piece of metal hangar siding out of place in the glare of a spotlight had led them to Hector Ocate.

  Estelle pushed herself out of the chair and returned to her office. Gordon Urioste looked up expectantly.

  “Gordon,” Estelle said, “I need to know who Manolo Tapia is.”

  “Who?” The blank look on his face appeared genuine.

  “Manolo Tapia,” Estelle repeated, enunciating the name distinctly.

  “I don’t know that name,” Gordon said. “Unless you mean Mickey Tapia, the girls’ volleyball coach.”

  “No. I don’t mean him. It’s Manolo Tapia.”

  “Nope. Am I supposed to?”

  “I hope not,” Estelle said, and abruptly left the room. She conferred briefly with Bob Torrez outside his office, then went in and repeated the same question, receiving the same blank response from Pam Urioste. A moment later, she sat down across from Hector Ocate—by now so worn and frazzled that he had difficulty keeping his eyes open.

  “Hector, listen. When did your uncle first contact you?”

  “My uncle?” The answer was unconvincingly evasive, and the sleepiness left his eyes.

  “We know about Manolo Tapia,” she said. “Your uncle.” She laid the photograph down carefully on the table and tapped the image. “This man. Your mother’s brother. When did he first contact you about making a flight like this?”

  “He…” Hector began, and just as quickly chopped off the thought.

  “Exactly,” Estelle said. “He called you—or e-mailed you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “He e-mailed me some months before,” Hector said cautiously.

  “Before what?”

  “I mean some months
ago.”

  “When was the first time he contacted you?”

  Hector frowned at the empty soda can on the table in front of him. “It was during the winter,” he said finally. “Some time ago.”

  “You don’t remember when?”

  “No.”

  “Did you save the message?”

  He looked up quickly at her. “No. Of course not.”

  “Which computer did you use?”

  “At home. At school.”

  “Which one?”

  “I…I don’t remember.”

  “Listen, Hector,” Estelle snapped, “this is the time to see how smart you can be. Right now, you’re being held on three counts of accessory to murder.” She saw his eyes widen. “Three counts of conspiracy. Theft of an airplane. Illegal border trafficking. I can go on. Unless you cooperate with us, it will only get worse.”

  “If I cooperate with you, agente, I will be killed,” Hector said, his voice a whisper.

  She studied him for a moment, but he wouldn’t return her gaze. “Out at the airport, you were eager for our protection, hijo. You have it now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, then, there’s nothing we can do for you. You’re of no interest to us.” She straightened up and walked to the conference room door, where she turned and looked at Hector. “You can rot in prison. Get used to that idea.” Opening the door, she regarded the boy. “And your anfitriones,” she said, using the formal word for “hosts.” “I’m sure that Señor Tapia will have little trouble finding them…all of them.”

  “You must not,” Hector said, and bit his lip in frustration.

  “And of course, the two children, your friends. Marty and little Lorietta, is it? Let’s draw them into this danger, too.”

  The boy’s jaw bounced as if he were gnawing at his clenched lips, and then his head fell forward into his arms. Estelle felt a wrench of sympathy. She crossed back to the table and bent over, her lips close to his right ear. She kept her voice stern and unrelenting. “Is that what you want?” Hector pushed his head up and covered his face with both hands, elbows on the table. “Is that what you want?” Estelle repeated.

  “No.”

  “Then talk to me. When did you first hear from Tapia?”

  “In late January.”

  “How do you remember so clearly?”

  “Because school had started again. I had just returned from home.”

  “You went to Mexico for Christmas, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see your uncle when you were home?”

  Hector hesitated long enough that Estelle knew his answer before he managed to voice it. “Yes.”

  “Did he ask you to do this thing then?”

  “No. He asked only for my e-mail address. I gave it to him.”

  Estelle slid a pad across to him, along with the pencil. “Write it for me.” He did so, and slid it back. She turned to Sergeant Tom Mears and handed him the pad. “I want the hard drive from the Uriostes’ computer, and then I want the administrator for the school’s system to open up that drive as well. If you have to go through Judge Hobart, get that process started. I want those messages.”

  Not knowing whether what she asked was actually possible or not, Estelle was gratified that Mears simply nodded and left the room, as if such requests occurred every day.

  “Then what?” she asked. “When did your uncle next contact you?”

  “It was in March, I think,” Hector said. “Just before spring vacation. Yes. He wrote to ask if I was coming home for that vacation, too. I replied that I was not. He asked for my telephone number.”

  “The Uriostes’ number, you mean?”

  “No. My cellular phone.”

  Of course you have one of those, Estelle thought. “When did he call you?”

  “That night. He told me to call him when I could be assured that I was alone. That is all he said.”

  “And you did.”

  “Certainly. Later that night. I went outside for a walk, and that is when I called him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He asked if it would be possible for me to secure an airplane. Without anyone knowing. He said that at small airports, there are always airplanes that sit unused for months at a time.”

  “And you knew of such an airplane, of course.”

  “Yes. But I told him that I could not do it.”

  “Apparently you could, after all.”

  “He said that my…my father had refused such a flight. And that it would be bad for him…and for me…” Hector nodded back tears. “If I could not do it.”

  “Why did your uncle want to come to Posadas?”

  “I don’t know if that’s where he wanted to go,” Hector said. “Maybe just because that’s where I am living.” He wiped his eyes. “He was most persuasive. He told of passengers at Culiacán who would pay a great deal for a short plane trip across the border. He told me how easy it would be. That I could fly right up the highway, and that if I remained…” And he held out his hand palm down toward the table.

  “Low?”

  “Yes. Low. The radar would not see us. It would be easy. And you see, I am a good pilot, agente, I know that.”

  “I bet you are,” Estelle said. “I bet you are.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As if the mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had opened a floodgate, Hector Ocate’s recitation of events poured out in a babble of fatigue, and Estelle probed for something that would point her in the right direction.

  “When you landed at the Posadas airport,” she said, “in the early morning hours on Wednesday, your uncle was still with you?”

  “Yes, he was,” Hector said vehemently.

  “But when you became engaged in putting the plane back in the hangar, he simply disappeared?”

  “Yes. I turned my back, and he was gone.”

  “You never saw him again? Not since then?”

  “No.”

  “And he hasn’t contacted you?”

  “No. Never.”

  Estelle fell silent, regarding the boy. He shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. In a rural county, Manolo Tapia’s choices would be limited. He couldn’t simply hail a cab. Stealing a car would be risky without urban cover. He could hitchhike, trying to blend in with the many strangers in town for the bike race. He might attempt to rent a car from Chavez Motors, if they had any left to rent. Or, he could simply find a place to stay and hole up until an opportunity presented itself to skip back across the border. There would be no rooms available at the two local motels, or at the one bed and breakfast, but an enterprising person could always find shelter.

  “Where do you think he went?” she asked.

  “I…I don’t know.” Hector didn’t sound convincing.

  “He could as easily be back in Mexico,” Estelle offered, waiting to see if Hector jumped at the possibility. He nodded quickly. “During the entire time that you were with Tapia—beginning that night in Culiacán when you picked up the passengers and met with him—he never mentioned another destination or…job? Other than the passing mention of something up in Albuquerque?”

  “Nothing.” Hector rubbed his face again. His skin was pale and a sheen of sweat had formed on his face from the effort of trying to stay awake.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I…” Hector began before the question actually sank in. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I could eat something.”

  Without being asked, Eddie Mitchell rose and headed for the door. “How about you?” he said to Estelle.

  “No, thanks.” She turned back to Hector. “Tell me what you know about the Salvadorans.”

  “I know nothing,” he replied. “Really. They talked, but in the airplane, it is not so easy to hear. The woman, she…” and he made a yak-yak motion with the fingers of his right hand. “I could not hear much of what was said.”

  “But each carried a money belt? You knew about that?”

  “Yes, I think so.�
�

  “Your uncle paid you with one of them. That’s five thousand dollars, Hector. A lot of money. And he promised the possibility of another payment?”

  “If a return flight was necessary. Yes.”

  “You say if…Señor Tapia wasn’t sure?”

  “He did not say.”

  Estelle’s cell phone chirped and she pulled it off her belt.

  “Guzman.”

  “Ah,” Captain Tomás Naranjo said. “I am sorry for the interruption. But I thought you should know what we have discovered. Are you free to talk now?”

  “Certainly,” Estelle said, fascinated that the mere mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had set the ponderous wheels of Mexican law enforcement in motion. That phenomenon, all by itself, told her that fortunes stood to be won or lost, depending on Tapia’s actions and connections.

  She held the door for Eddie Mitchell, returning with the box of not-so-fresh donuts that had graced the dispatch desk, then slipped out into the hall and stepped into her own quiet office.

  “The three victims are from Santa Ana, a city of no particular distinction in El Salvador,” he said. “Guillermo Haslán—the victim referred to by name—he is an accountant for PDC. Do you know of them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle replied. The world of corporate initials was so cluttered that any combination would sound familiar.

  “Yes,” Naranjo said. “Let me see.” She could hear the rustle of paper. “A mining consortium with a regional office in Santa Ana. Most interesting. Ah, here it is. Pemberton, Duquesne, and Cordova.” He pronounced each name slowly, as if he enjoyed the musical sounds. “Are you familiar with them? Construction, mining, and other undertakings.”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “There’s no reason you should be, I suppose. They are headquartered in New Zealand, but there are offices worldwide, I’m told. My sources profess to know little more than that, other than that it appears that Señor Haslán may have disposed of some funds that were not his. Certainly not an unusual story, I’m sure you’ll agree. I suppose that the powers that be are perhaps justifiably irritated.”

  “Enough to send Manolo Tapia to retrieve the funds, minus administrative fees,” Estelle said.

  Naranjo chuckled. “Just so.”