by Don Travis
Eventually Gaines beckoned us over and lifted a wallet in his gloved hand. “Looks like you were right, Vinson. The California driver’s and PI licenses say it’s Santillanes. You’ll come in and give a statement, right? Both of you.”
I agreed and headed for my rental car before he decided to take us in for questioning that very minute. Jazz was quiet most of the way back to town, but at length he spoke.
“Heavy, huh? I never saw a rotten dead guy before. I mean, I been to funerals, but those guys sure didn’t look like that dude.”
“No, but it didn’t bother Santillanes any more than it bothered those corpses being cleaned up for the mourners.”
“Man, you sure have weird thoughts.”
I laughed. “You’re not the first one to tell me that. Thanks for your tip, Jazz. If you hadn’t called me, the body might not have been discovered for weeks.”
“Yeah, sure. What’re you gonna do now?”
“Keep looking for Lando.”
“How come you don’t think he’s the killer? You don’t think gay guys can be killers?”
“Sure they can, but everything I’ve learned about Orlando Alfano says he’s not a murderer.”
“And you’re not ever wrong?”
“You got me there. I’m wrong a lot.”
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Chapter 18
WHEN I dropped Jazz off at his house, I asked him to phone me the next morning. Then I returned to the motel to check in with my office and figure out how much to tell my client about the events of the day.
Hazel had received Lando’s credit card statements from Gilda Gistafferson, but there was little of interest in them. The last charges were for the room at the Trail’s End. When we were through discussing Alfano, she filled me in on the status of our other cases and rather hastily slid over a new one she had accepted. It was a domestic case for a woman who lived a couple of doors down the street from her. Hazel knew we didn’t take that type of job, but I didn’t have the heart to argue with her for helping out a neighbor with an errant husband. Besides, there was a familiar quiver to her voice clearly signaling she was loaded for bear and just waiting for me to object. I held my tongue, and she put Charlie on the line.
“How’s it going?” His calm voice was as soothing as a balm.
“Slowly. I’m getting frustrated on this end.”
“We’re not doing much better here. The LA PI we hired tells me Bruno Wills has been in LA for the past two weeks.”
“He’s sure of his information?”
“He’s a good man, BJ. He’s got it documented. There are a couple of holes, but they aren’t big enough for the guy to have made it out here to New Mexico and back.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I updated Charlie on everything that happened and asked him to see if he could learn who hired Hugo Santillanes. I also asked him to trace Aggie Alfano’s movements in the days before he showed up in Taos.
“Might as well go the rest of the way,” I added. “See if anyone knows where Alfano Sr. was. He called me from Hawaii, so he should have left a trail over there.”
“Our own client?”
“Why not? Yeah, I know, it’s his son that’s missing, but it’s also his son’s gay lover who was killed at the Bisti badlands. I don’t have any real reason to believe he or any of the family is involved, but let’s be as thorough as we can without making waves.”
“Tall order there,” he said. “A family like the Alfanos has eyes and ears all over the place.”
“I know, but do the best you can.”
“Okay, here’s something else for you to chew on since you brought up the Alfanos. According to our LA investigator, Anthony Alfano’s wife is the former Mona Masterson. Her grandfather, Titus Sabelito, was into booze in a big way back in the old days. Sabelito Distributors. Made a lot of money during Prohibition, they say, and a bunch more after it ended.”
“How much money?”
“Not sure yet, but enough to make Alfano look penny ante, they say.”
“Now that’s interesting.”
“Yep. They also say Mona Alfano’s health isn’t that good. She had breast cancer a few years back. They got it, but some of the stuff keeps showing up in other places.”
“That would be a windfall for Alfano. I assume he inherits under California law.”
“He can’t touch a penny of it. Old man Sabelito put it all in a trust long before he died in ’92—at age ninety-two, as a matter of fact.”
“Who’s the beneficiary under the trust?”
“His granddaughter, Mona. Anthony’s wife. From her it follows the bloodline, thereby skipping Anthony Alfano.”
“Was she married to anyone else before she met Alfano?”
“Nope. At least there’s no record of a marriage.”
“I know she and Anthony have two sons, Aggie and Lando, and I’ve heard Aggie mention a sister.”
“Victoria. Named after the great-grandmother, I guess. According to the scuttlebutt, she’s the eldest of the Alfano brood and made in the old man’s mold.”
“How old is she?”
“A year older than Aggie.”
“That would make her about thirty-five. She married?”
“Yeah, to William Vitrillo. He’s some sort of broker in LA. Stock broker, I take it.”
“See what else you can find about the Sabelito trust. Anything else I should know?”
“Nope. That’s all I got. Oh, yeah. Hazel wants to know if she can hire somebody to give us a hand. Just till you get back. We kinda got our hands full here right now.”
“Sure. You have anyone in mind?”
“I was thinking about Tim Fuller. You remember him? An old sergeant outa downtown. He took his papers about five years ago, but he’s got a PI license he doesn’t do much with.”
“Have at it. It looks like I might be tied up for a while. My best lead’s dead, but somehow, I don’t think the Alfano kid is. He’s out there somewhere.”
I hung up and thought about what Charlie told me. There was no rational reason for believing Lando was alive and still in the area. Chances were good he had been in the plane that took off from the makeshift strip on the rim of Black Hole Canyon. I likewise had nothing to indicate any member of the Alfano family had a hand in the death of Dana Norville. Maybe it had been a gay lover’s quarrel out there in the Bisti Wilderness, but my gut told me otherwise, and that kept me on the ground here in Farmington. Well, my gut and instructions from San Juan County Sheriff’s Detective Lonzo Joe. And Gaines had made that same “suggestion.” Had Aggie cleared his departure with anyone? I hadn’t seen or talked to Lonzo since he took off, so the deputy might not be aware Aggie was in California.
I dialed Alfano’s office. It was time to take my client’s temperature.
Worry edged Gilda’s voice when the operator transferred my call. “Oh, BJ, that’s terrible news about Dana. He was such a sweet boy. Well, man, really. I have to stop thinking of those two as youngsters. Is there any news of Lando? I’m so afraid for him.”
It all came out in a rush and seemed genuine. If someone had spirited Lando out of New Mexico, Alfano’s private secretary wasn’t aware of it.
“I think he’s alive, Gilda. I have no proof of it, but that’s my belief.”
“Then why hasn’t he contacted us? It makes no sense.”
“He may be hurt. Or he may be wary about contacting the family.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?” Her voice rose.
I scrambled to cover my blunder. “Because that’s the first place anyone would look. I think he’s in serious danger, and he’s trying to keep that danger away from the people he loves.”
“That would be so like him,” she said in a calmer tone. “But he knows there’s no place where he would be safer than here.”
“I need to warn you to expect a visit from the FBI.”
&nbs
p; “They’ve already been here, and Mr. Alfano was terribly upset by the time they left. Something about a murder out on an Indian reservation. I was so afraid it was Lando.”
“They didn’t waste any time,” I said, more to myself than to Gilda. “No, it wasn’t Lando, but they think he might be involved. Is your boss available?”
“Let me check. Can you hold for a moment?”
Sixty seconds later, Alfano picked up the phone, but his voice was not the authoritative blast of prior conversations. “Have you learned anything?”
“Nothing about Lando, I’m afraid. I understand you’ve had visitors.”
“Visitors? You mean the FBI? Yeah, they wasted a couple hours of my time. What could Lando have to do with a dead private investigator?”
“You remember me asking if you’d hired a PI named Hugo Santillanes. The man followed Lando and Dana halfway across New Mexico. That’s how Lando’s connected to him. I’m the one who found him shot dead out at an unimproved landing strip on the Navajo Reservation.”
“Who shot him? It wasn’t Lando.”
“I agree, but I don’t know who it was. He was stuffed in the trunk of his car a couple of weeks ago, and he wasn’t a pretty sight. Around forty, husky, thinning blond hair. A scar on his chin. Pronounced forehead. Any of that sound familiar?”
“No, I told you I didn’t—”
“Look, I’m going to level with you. My best lead died with that PI. My office is working through another investigator in LA to see what we can find out about him, and I believe whoever killed him immediately left the area in a private plane. Nonetheless, a couple of small things make me believe Lando might still be around here—maybe hurt, most certainly confused, and possibly even dead. The odds of finding him are not good. I have an idea I want to try, but I need directions from you. Do you want me on the job? After all, the FBI is on the case now, and it’s your money I’m spending.”
“You’re damned right I want you to stay on it. And don’t worry about money. Or the FBI. Do what you need to do. I want my son found. And if they’re going to fuck around and waste time questioning me, that’s not going to happen. Find him, Vinson, before they do. Aggie tells me you’re a good investigator and an honest man. Now, what do you have in mind?”
I told him I wanted to hire a local who knew the area and had better contacts than I did. I neglected to tell him my choice was an eighteen-year-old mixed-blood gay kid with a dazzling smile and a smoky, seductive look.
JAZZ MET me for breakfast the next morning dressed in baggy Levi’s and a pearl-button shirt. At least he didn’t wear his britches with the crotch down around his knees like so many of the kids nowadays. As soon as we ordered, I turned to business.
“Jazz, I’d like you to nose around to see if you can pick up any sign of a recluse, an injured man, anything that’s out of the ordinary. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You’re hiring me to work for you?”
I hesitated a moment. “Yeah, I guess I am. But you’re not a licensed investigator, so all I want you to do is keep your ear to the ground and ask around a little. Remember, two men have been killed, and although I’m confident the killer left the area from that strip out at Black Hole Canyon, I don’t want you doing anything to put yourself at risk.”
“Cool. A junior PI.”
“Dammit, don’t go off half-cocked. Just ask around and listen. Like you did when you picked up on the abandoned car.”
He smiled. “That was something, huh? Turned up a murder.” A calculating look replaced the smile, but he waited until the waiter delivered our chile rellenos—and a short stack of pancakes for him—to ask the question hanging on his face. “What kinda ‘making it worth my while’ are we talking about?”
“I was thinking maybe you could spend a week nosing around, and I’d come up with five hundred or so.”
He cocked his head. “I’ll need some wheels.”
“You seem to do okay without them. I understand you get around town and out to the reservation any time you want.”
“Yeah, but it’s a hassle fitting my schedule to somebody going my way. Make you a deal. There’s this Jeep Wrangler a buddy of mine is trying to unload. It’s old but in good shape. I got it covered, all but about six hundred bucks. You pony that up, and it’ll make things easier. You know, get me around to lots more places.”
“You have a driver’s license?”
“Sure. Wanna see it?”
“No, your word’s good.” I paused to consider the pros and cons of the thing. “Okay, it’s a deal. Let’s go take care of it.”
In the end he talked me out of a down payment on an insurance policy, which is mandatory in this state, and some driving-around money. I also got him a prepaid mobile phone. It added up to more than I had intended to invest, but it was worth the expense. People who wouldn’t give me the time of day would open up to him.
As soon as I was certain Jazz understood what I needed and his butt was comfortably seated in his new—at least to him—Wrangler, I headed for the airport. I wasn’t certain about the wisdom of leaving after turning Jazz Penrod loose on the town, but the kid had a good sense of self-preservation and my cell number in case he needed help or found something interesting. The Labor Day holiday weekend loomed in front of me, and I wanted to spend it with Paul. But first I needed a face-to-face meeting with Hazel and Charlie and a few minutes with Gene. Those three had a way of grounding me, and that’s what I needed. Almost more than I needed Paul.
I called both Gaines and Lonzo Joe from the terminal to let them know I was temporarily leaving town and to ask if there was any new information on Santillanes. Gaines confirmed he’d been shot once in the head, probably with a .38, but said it was too early for any additional forensic information. However, he confirmed Santillanes’s belt had been ruled out as the weapon used to strangle Dana Norville to death.
I CALLED Paul, and he wrangled some time off from work to meet me at the Albuquerque Sunport. Trying to keep my heart from bursting free of my chest as I spotted him waiting curbside, I slipped into his old purple Plymouth, and we exchanged big, loopy grins.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
Nodding, he sped across town to the Double Eagle Airport to recover my own vehicle, and then we ignored the speed limit in our race for home.
The house on Post Oak Drive in the North Valley had never looked so good—although the white trim on the red brick, cross-gabled house needed repainting. But I lost that train of thought the moment the door closed behind us. Judging from the joyful fierceness of his coupling, Paul must have missed me as much as I missed him.
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Chapter 19
I WENT to the office that afternoon expecting to take Hazel and Charlie by surprise, but somehow they’d found out I was back in town. Sometimes Hazel was a better PI than I was. At any rate, she was ready for me, insisting on taking care of a multitude of small tasks to clear a couple of cases off the books so she could render the clients a final billing—including the peep job she’d accepted from her neighbor. Instead of sneaking around on his wife, it seems the husband had been getting treatments for a prostate problem on the sly. Case closed. Satisfied client, embarrassed husband.
When Hazel was finished with all of that, Charlie joined us in my office to discuss the Alfano case. Hazel had contacted the last half-dozen places Lando had charged items on his credit cards but learned nothing we did not already know. Charlie had better luck. He was ready with the details of the estate of Mona Masterson Alfano’s grandfather.
“How did you come up with this so fast? We only talked about it yesterday.”
“The Sabelito-Masterson-Alfano saga is common gossip from the Bay to points north.”
“North—meaning Napa Valley.”
“Meaning Napa Valley. Mona Alfano’s mother died when the girl was only about two years old. Since Titus Sabelito didn’t approve of Mona’s father, Dwight Masterson, the c
anny old bastard had put all of his daughter’s assets in a trust as a means of keeping money out of the hands of her widower. Then he gave Masterson a position in Sabelito Distributors and a lifetime income from a smaller separate trust set up for him in exchange for signed legal permission for the old man to raise the granddaughter.”
“Give me the background.”
“Titus Sabelito was a contemporary of Alfano’s father.” Charlie consulted his notes. “Giuseppe Alfano came from the same part of Tuscany. These old-world guys usually have large families, but Titus survived all his kin except for his granddaughter, even though he was almost two decades older than his wife, who died of TB back in the fifties.
“The word is the old man didn’t care for Mona’s choice of mate any more than he did his daughter’s. Apparently there was something between the Sabelito and Alfano families from the old days when both were establishing themselves. But by the time Anthony got his claws into Mona, Sabelito was in his late sixties and didn’t put up much of a fight. Probably because he knew he could keep a finger on things from beyond the grave through the primary trust.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Somewhere around a billion dollars.”
“Wow! That does make Alfano seem like a piker. So who controls the money?”
“There’s a trust committee of bankers, lawyers, accountants, and the like, but Mona has the final say—within the limits established by the trust documents, of course. There’s talk about a money struggle going on right now. Something about Alfano buying a vineyard at the north end of the valley.”