The Bisti Business

by Don Travis

  “I’ll fly you down in the Mitsubishi. It’s faster.”

  “No. I’ll take the Cessna. You stay here and work with Delfino. He’ll be poking around at this end. If you’re nice, he might even let you tag along with him.”

  “Nice? Hell, we’re climbing buddies. He’ll take me along.”

  I HAD been in Santa Fe’s old hospital a couple of times, but this was my first visit to the new one. The steel and brick and stucco might be new, but it had the same antiseptic aroma and deceptive air of peace and calm masking death and disease as the original.

  Artie Hartshorn stood at the receptionist’s desk running a calloused hand through what remained of his once-brown hair. The rough hands were not the product of his service with the SFPD but of his avocation. Artie did woodworking in his spare time and had gotten good at it. I’d bought a pair of scallop-topped maple lamp tables out of his garage a few years back, and they were two of my prized possessions.

  Artie turned when I called his name. “There you are. You get me up in the middle of the night and then don’t bother to show up.”

  “Made pretty good time from Taos, I’d say.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Guess so. Anyway, the Cruz kid’s on the fourth floor. They tell me he’s awake but not making much sense.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “Aunt of his by the name of Lucinda Cruz de Schwartz. The bad news is she’s married to Harvey Schwartz.”

  “The attorney? Crap. Well, let’s go see the kid anyway. Maybe they’ll let him say something.”

  Lucinda Schwartz looked about five generations removed from Hispanic farmers in northern New Mexico. Her lustrous black hair was done in a tight french roll. Her full, sensual lips—Botox, in my opinion—looked pouty. Generous mascara, but not overdone. In fact, nothing about the woman was overdone, except the dangling enameled earrings and black sheath with a slit up to there, which came close. She must have been dressed for an evening out when she got the call about her nephew.

  She strolled across the room to block access to Joe Cruz as we approached. She’d obviously done this before, which told me her nephews were likely a pain in the butt to the family.

  “Officers,” she said without benefit of an introduction, “may I help you?”

  “You’re partially right, Mrs. Schwartz,” I said. “He’s carrying a shield. I’m private.”

  She shrugged. “Birds of a feather.”

  “Mrs. Schwartz,” Artie spoke up, “we need to speak to your nephew.”

  “Not without my husband present. He represents the family.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I’m not interested in any sort of prosecution. My sole interest is locating the owner of the car lying at the bottom of the Rio Grande Gorge. I can probably trace Joe’s brothers’ movements back and learn what I need to know, but that’s going to take time. And we might not have much time. If the man who owned that Porsche is in trouble, the quicker we get to him, the better.”

  “That may be your interest, Mr.… uh….”

  “Vinson. B. J. Vinson.”

  “Vinson? Weren’t you the PI involved in that Zozobra thing last year?”

  “We both were.” I indicated Artie. “Detective Hartshorn was the lead detective in the case. If your nephew could just tell me where to start looking, it would help a lot. I don’t expect it can do any harm, because I’m pretty sure that boy over there was not involved in taking the car. That was probably his brothers. But anything he knows from hearing them talk could be helpful.”

  “Why don’t you wait out in the hall for a few minutes,” she suggested.

  As we restlessly paced the polished tiles outside the injured boy’s hospital room, I picked up a call from Hazel on my cell phone. According to Gilda Gistafferson, there were no charges on the company credit card Lando carried. Alfano’s attorney was making arrangements to get copies of the kid’s personal bills from LA. Before hanging up, I asked Hazel to remind them to also pick up statements for Norville’s cards, since they likely went to the same address.

  If Lando was traveling on a fun trip with a lover Papa Alfano detested, he might be using plastic sparingly. But if the journey called for stealth, why hadn’t he disabled the GPS device in the Porsche? Maybe because he intended to ignore his father, not evade him. Or had he even thought that far ahead?

  Then Gilbert Delfino called to say he’d learned from friends and neighbors of the Cruz family that the two middle brothers—the ones who died in the canyon—had gone to the Mora Valley with their parents. Joe, the youngest, stayed behind with an aunt. Something about a girlfriend, Delfino surmised. But Martin and Jaime didn’t stay with the family. They had headed off on a side excursion to Farmington, a town in the Four Corners area.

  “How did they go?” I asked.

  “Rode their thumbs.”

  “Hitched? Did they make it all the way to Farmington?”

  “So far as we know. I called the city police up there and asked them to start making inquiries. I also told them you’d probably be in touch. I talked to Sergeant Dixie Lee in their Patrol Division and tried to pave the way for you a little. You know, let them know you were once one of the brotherhood.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it. We’re waiting to talk to the youngest brother now, but he’s represented by counsel. Don’t know if he’ll cooperate or not.”

  “Well, good luck. This sure has caused a flap around here. I’ve had a bellyful. Think I’m gonna become a medicine man and take up smoking peyote.”

  “Right.” I laughed. “Trade one set of problems for another.”

  “Yeah, but they’re different problems. Well, sorta.”

  Lucinda Schwartz emerged from her nephew’s room, so I thanked the Taos policeman-cum-shaman and hung up.

  “Gentlemen, on the advice of my husband, I am unable to allow you to question my nephew. However, Mr. Vinson, it might be possible that someone left an expensive automobile unattended and with the keys in the ignition, almost as if he wanted to be rid of the machine.”

  “And,” I added, “it might be possible it was abandoned on some street in Farmington.”

  Her eyes glinted with amusement. “Harvey said you were sharp. Yes, it’s possible such an automobile was abandoned on a road a little south of Farmington. Perhaps at a little clearing with a cottonwood and honeysuckle on one side and a meadow across the road. There might have been a white horse in the meadow, but we’re just speculating, you understand.”

  “The only thing is, that’s a lot of speculation from a youngster who wasn’t along for the trip. You know, all the detail.”

  “Let’s just say one of my nephews liked to take Polaroid snapshots. And he happened to like horses. Somehow an orange car and a white horse ended up in one of them.”

  “I don’t suppose I could get a copy—”

  “I’m afraid not. Not without a lot of paperwork.”

  “I understand completely. And thank you.”

  “One more thing.” She hesitated dramatically. “It’s possible that a car like that would have had a couple of bullet holes in it.”

  “Bullet holes? Where?”

  “My spirit guide was a little fuzzy on that one. In one of the back panels—on the driver’s side, perhaps.”

  “Any blood? A body?”

  “Apparently not.”

  As we left the hospital, I got Aggie on the line and shared everything except the information about the bullet holes.

  “Looks like we’re headed to Farmington,” Aggie sighed.

  “Guess so,” I agreed.

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  Chapter 8

  AGGIE ALFANO casually operated the controls of the Mitsubishi as he received landing instructions from the tower at the Four Corners Regional Airport. I don’t speak “radio” and was always mystified how a pilot made enough sense of the mumbo jumbo to bring his craft safely to ground. He finished his discourse and made an adjustment to a dial.

  “
You ever landed at Four Corners Regional before?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I have. I’ve fueled up there on the way to Taos. You’re in for a thrill.”

  My gut tightened. “What does that mean?”

  “The airport is high, and the runway ends in a cliff. Dicey.”

  “Dicey? Is that pilot lingo for suicidal?”

  He laughed aloud. “No, but I’m glad we’re in the Mitsu. Short takeoff, short landing,” he explained. “We’ll be okay.”

  A massive fluffy plume boiled up out of a gigantic smokestack and rode the prevailing air currents beneath our wings like one of the malevolent spirits of native folklore, spreading mischief far to the southwest. Plans for a new electric power-generating plant, to be fed by area coal mines, were slowly making their way through the bureaucracy to one day add dollars to the economy and carcinogens to the environment.

  “Those emissions look nasty.” Aggie reflected my own thoughts. “You know much about Farmington?”

  I chuckled. “I’m a history buff, so I know a little about a lot of places, and not a lot about any of them.”

  Farmington, a small city of just under 50,000, which the early aboriginals called Tótah, or the Meeting Place of Waters, perched on the Colorado Plateau at the conjunction of the San Juan, Animas, and La Plata Rivers. Combined, these three rivers accounted for 25 percent of all the water in the state. The local economy was carbon based: natural gas, coal, and oil.

  “There’s something that worries me more than that smokestack at the moment,” I said. “Farmington’s been the target of several civil rights investigations, mostly for hate crimes motivated by racial discrimination. The place is virtually surrounded by Native Americans—the Navajo Nation west of Farmington, the Ute Mountain Reservation to the northwest, and the Southern Ute to the northeast—and that’s sparked trouble at times. It’s not much of a leap to conclude that a couple of gays might run into the same type of prejudice.”

  “Lando and Norville don’t flaunt their lifestyle,” Aggie said. “But they wouldn’t hide it if asked if they were gay.” He glanced over at me. “Well, here we go.”

  He aligned the Mitsubishi with the runway and touched a lever that lowered the landing gear. I felt a distinct thump when the wheels locked into place. Although I’m an experienced flier, my sphincter puckered as he dropped toward the runway. The landing wasn’t actually scary, but his warning had primed the pump and he knew it. There was a touch of a grin on his lips as the craft shuddered to a halt well short of the end of the runway.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked.

  “No, except for the buildup.”

  Aggie made arrangements for refueling and a tie-down while I went to find a rental car. He had piloted the plane, so it was only fair I drove the auto. Farmington is spread out over some thirty miles, and I’ve always had trouble deciding where “downtown” was. Even so, we found the municipal complex easily enough and headed for the police station to ask for a Sergeant Lee. Delfino had apparently cleared the way for us.

  Sergeant Dixie Lee turned out to be a voluptuous woman about an inch shorter than I was who regarded the world through two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, a lapis blue, set in an attractive, fair face only slightly hardened by all the crap she’d seen in her years on the force. Her voice was scratchy like a smoker’s.

  “Good to meet you.” She gripped my hand firmly and swiveled to face Aggie. “You too, sir. I expect you’re not interested in small talk, so let’s get right down to it.” She picked up a file from the counter where we were standing. “Orlando S. Alfano and Dana J. Norville have already come to our attention.”

  “How so?” Aggie craned his neck to get a glimpse of the document she held.

  “They were involved in an incident in a roadhouse out on the city limits a couple of weeks ago.” She consulted the file. “August 11. Saturday night.”

  “What kind of incident?” I asked.

  “Well, we don’t have a gay bar here, but the Sidewinder Bar and Grill catches some of that trade.”

  The name rang a bell. “Wasn’t that the place investigated in a civil rights case a few years back?”

  “Yes, sir. At least, a couple of their patrons were. They claimed a man made homosexual advances. They took it outside, and the victim—or the perpetrator, depending upon your viewpoint—almost died from his beating.”

  “Was that what happened to Lando?” Aggie asked.

  “Not exactly, but close.”

  Absently toying with a curl of blond hair that fell to her shoulder, Dix Lee told us Lando and Dana went to the Sidewinder, perhaps under the impression it was a gay bar. Once there, they struck up a conversation with a local identified as Harper Yarborough, an oilfield roustabout better known as Bud. According to the police incident report, Yarborough claimed the two had propositioned him. Offended, he left. When Lando and Dana exited the bar a little later, Yarborough and a couple of friends were waiting in the parking lot, no doubt figuring two pansies would be easy pickings. Lando and Dana proved to be anything but.

  The cops at the scene wrote up the incident and sent the parties in separate directions without making any arrests. Orlando was in possession of his Porsche at the time, because the report indicated the two men left in it.

  “Nothing after that?” I asked.

  “Found where they stayed. Trail’s End Motel down on Main.”

  “How long were they there?” Aggie asked.

  “Checked out on Tuesday the fourteenth. Nothing since then.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but we’re going to be nosing around town. We’ll keep you informed of anything interesting we turn up. Or you can assign an officer to escort us if that works better for you.”

  “Thanks, but we don’t have that kind of manpower. Just leave your cell phone numbers, and let us know where you’re staying.”

  “Might as well try the Trail’s End, provided they have a couple of vacancies.” I gave one of my cards to Aggie, who added his phone number to mine and handed it to Dix Lee.

  She nodded. “We’ll let you know if they turn up anywhere.”

  We exited the municipal complex parking lot, hung a left on Auburn Drive, and proceeded south until we picked up Main. The Trail’s End was a surprise. It was a two-story, stucco-clad, cinder block motel, typical of those built in the forties. White paint, flat roof, and steel casement windows made it indistinguishable from the one down the street and the one beyond that. It was certainly not a place I’d expect the son of a megamillionaire to select for his base of operations in the area. Nevertheless, we checked in and were given adjoining rooms at the rear, away from the busy commercial street.

  After cleaning up a little, I went to the lobby to do some of that nosing around I’d warned Sergeant Lee about. The same young lady who’d seen to our registration was still at the desk. I returned her professional smile and paused to examine some postcards on a revolving rack.

  “Your first time in this part of the country?” She moved closer to field the payment for any card that caught my fancy.

  “First time in quite a while. What sights would you suggest for a stay of no more than a couple of days?”

  “Oh, there’s so much to see. All you can do in two days is hit the highlights. There’s Navajo Lake and the butte over at Shiprock. Mesa Verde National Park is forty miles to the northwest. Chaco Canyon is only about fifty. Aztec Ruins National Monument and the Salmon Ruins are both old pueblo sites close by. Then there’s the Bisti badlands country south of here. If you’re into the arts, we have some good galleries.”

  As she gave me the tourist pitch, I noticed she wasn’t as young as she appeared at first glance—probably thirty or so. The brown hair worn in a ponytail contributed to the deception.

  “Actually, this is not just a pleasure trip. We’re hoping to cross paths with Mr. Alfano’s brother who’s vacationing out here.”

  “Oh, the guys in the orange Porsche. I wondered abou
t that name when you registered. You know, the name and the fact the brothers look so much alike.” Her gray eyes shifted from her tanned hands folded on the counter to a spot over my head and back again, as if she were distracted. I took a shot in the dark.

  “Don’t worry, Melissa.” I caught her name from her nametag. “Mr. Alfano knows his brother is gay and is here with another young man.”

  Her features relaxed. “I wasn’t sure. Neither of them acted… you know, that way. Boy, they sure did attract a lot of attention. Or that car did, anyway. A day after they checked in, some guy was asking about it.”

  “Asking about it? How?”

  “Well, he started making car talk, you know, quoting the stats on a car like that and speculating about how much it cost. Wondered about the owner. That kind of thing.”

  “What did he ask about the owner?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just wondered who’d be able to afford a car like that.” She paused before adding. “And why he’d be staying at the Trail’s End instead of one of the fancy places.”

  I smiled. “I have to admit that thought crossed my mind too.”

  Melissa wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s because they liked the freedom. Everybody left them alone. Nobody looking over their shoulders. Close to the highway. That kind of thing.”

  “Back to the man asking about them.”

  “About the car,” she corrected.

  “Okay, about the car. What did he look like?”

  “Like a hundred other guys, I guess. Older than you. Maybe bigger than you. The only thing that stood out was his forehead. Domed, I’d call it.” She giggled. “Really domed.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “I don’t know. He must have parked at the side. He just came through the door and asked for directions to one of the parks around here. Then he made a comment about the car. I remember he spoke a lot better than he looked. I mean, his grammar was okay, but he was sorta tough looking. I had the feeling he was just making conversation. Guys do that sometimes,” she added.