The Bisti Business

by Don Travis

  “Using Sabelito money?”

  “That’s the talk.”

  Aggie’s sudden trip back home began to make more sense. “Who’s objecting to using the trust?”

  “Some of the bankers, I guess. And the Alfano boys. Aggie is apparently a little more cautious than the old man. Nobody knows why the younger boy, Orlando, objects to the new acquisition, but the speculation is he doesn’t like using his mother’s money to finance it.”

  “But if it’s Mona Alfano’s decision, who cares what the boys think?” My question brought another thought with it. “And what is Victoria’s position on the thing?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. It seems the Alfano daughter’s husband, William Vitrillo, is in line for a big commission if the sale goes through. So Victoria supports the buyout.”

  Hazel looked at Charlie. “I thought you said Vitrillo was a stockbroker, not a real estate broker.”

  “He is. Actually, he’s an investment banker with his own small outfit. And the seller—” Charlie stopped to leaf through his notes again. “Uh, De Falco Fine Wines is listed as a business, not as real estate, so Vitrillo is legally qualified to handle the sale.”

  “What’s the price tag?”

  “Fifty million.”

  “A 5 percent commission would net Vitrillo two and a half million,” I said. “Nice deal. But that purchase price is half of Alfano’s net worth. That explains why he needs his wife’s money for the deal.”

  “As far as who cares what the younger kid thinks,” Charlie said, “everyone agrees Lando is his mother’s favorite. He has a lot of clout with her.”

  “So we have Mona holding the purse strings with her husband and daughter on one side and her two sons on the other. Interesting.”

  “Not so fast,” Charlie said with a grin. “You know how the rumor mill is. Nothing is as clean cut as it appears. Some people say Lando was about to change his mind and side with his father.”

  “Which would put him at odds with his brother,” Hazel said.

  “But”—Charlie’s grin widened as though he was enjoying this byplay—“others are just as sure he had already convinced his mother this was not a good move for the Alfano company, or more properly, the Sabelito money.”

  “So anyone on either side of the equation could have had it in for Lando.” I reconsidered. “Or either side could have been trying to win him over. The kid’s sudden New Mexico vacation and his refusal to accept his father’s phone calls now make more sense.”

  “And so does the shadow,” Charlie said. “Somebody wanted to know where to get ahold of the kid on short notice.”

  “Once again, it could be anyone on either side of the acquisition.”

  “Like Alfano himself,” Hazel suggested. “Or the De Falco people.”

  “Or his brother-in-law,” Charlie added to the list. “You can’t count him out. Not with two and a half mil riding on the kid.”

  “We’re going to need more horses for this thing.” I picked up my miniature Toledo blade letter opener and tapped the point against the desk blotter. They waited me out, aware I was thinking or was pissed about something. Finally I made up my mind.

  “I’m going to turn this information over to the FBI. Our task is to find Lando Alfano. The rest belongs to the feds.”

  Charlie nodded. “Makes sense. So you want me to back off on poking around in California? Call off the LA investigator?”

  “No, let him stay on the job, and while he’s at it, he can look at the Vitrillos. Nothing specific. Just general information. Charlie, I want to know who hired that PI, Santillanes.”

  “Our man in LA says Santillanes was an independent, a one-man shop. Probably not much in the way of records. But whatever they are, the FBI will have them by now. You think they’ll share?”

  I shook my head. “Not that information. That would put us right in the middle of their murder. Gaines won’t give that up.”

  “Too bad,” Charlie said. “So what’s our next move?”

  I glanced at my watch. “I want to try and catch Gene before he leaves the station. But I’d like to pick this up later. I might not get back until closing time. You mind staying late?”

  They both shook their heads.

  GENE CLAIMED he only wanted a drink, saying it was way too early for dinner. But I knew he’d order an appetizer, and that would soon be followed by a full-course meal, so I agreed to meet him at the original Garduño’s on North Fourth. He was waiting for me at a corner table, already munching on a serving of extra spicy nachos. I ordered a Coors Light from the waitress and took the chair across from him.

  “Glad you thought of this place,” he said. “The newer ones uptown are fancier, but I like the atmosphere here.”

  “And the food,” I suggested.

  “And the food. You think Bush’s surge is going to work over there in Iraq?” he asked out of the blue, causing me to remember a couple of his boys were old enough for military service.

  “Haven’t had a lot of time to keep up with the news, but from what I can tell, things seemed to be getting a little better over there. Not so many caskets coming home.”

  “Yeah. Wooing of the Sunnis has helped. What do they call it? The Sunni Awakening?” Apparently that was all he wanted on that subject. “How you doing, buddy?” he asked.

  “Frustrated.”

  “So this is going to be a therapy session.” He grabbed a nacho and popped it into his mouth, its crunch only slightly dulled by melted cheese.

  I pulsed air through my lips. “I’d rather work for a lawyer than a private citizen any day. I keep running into little signals that the man I’m working for—or at least his family—is somehow involved in all of this.”

  “Okay, this looks like a long session, so let’s order something to eat.”

  After the waitress left with our order of steak fajitas with black beans, rice, and sopapillas, I ran through everything I had on the Alfano case while Gene devoured his cheesy snacks and went through two bottles of Coors. When I finished, he wiped his lips with a napkin.

  “Could be you’re right about your client double-teaming you, but it doesn’t have to be the Alfano family. I’d say the De Falco organization would be as interested in Lando’s position as anyone. Fifty million is a lot of motive. Looks like a bigger motivator for that side of the equation than the other.”

  “That’s true, but I don’t keep stumbling over their people.”

  “You work for the Alfanos. They’re going to be all over your case. But this Santillanes fellow, you don’t know who he worked for. He could have been a minder for Alfano, but he could just as well have belonged to De Falco.”

  I listened to a few other thoughts he had on the case while we ate. I wasn’t really hungry, but he hadn’t wanted to eat alone, so he ended up with a couple of good-sized doggy bags to take home.

  I had no new insights as I headed back downtown after leaving the restaurant, but Gene had said one thing that stuck in my mind. He’d complimented me on using a “local resource” as he termed Jazz Penrod. PIs gather information from locals every day of the week. Were there others out there I could tap?

  I SPENT a few minutes on the Internet researching small aircraft after I got back to the office. When I had suggested to Gaines the plane on the rim of Black Hole Canyon might have been a Piper Cub, it was simply because that name had popped into my mind. I’d seen many World War II posters of the heroic little Army Air Force craft running patrols and ferrying passengers. But after my search, I believed the airplane had been a Piper, or one very much like it.

  The Piper J-3, which had been produced throughout the war and for a short while thereafter, was a tail-dragging aircraft. It was small and relatively quiet—standing only eighty inches high and twenty-two feet long with a wingspan slightly over thirty-five feet. The original craft had a twelve-gallon tank, which gave it a 190-mile range at a speed of 80 mph. The plane was made for a primitive strip like the one at Black Hole, and there wer
e still plenty of them around.

  When Hazel and Charlie joined me at my small conference table in the corner of my office a few minutes later, I asked Hazel to search the Federal Aviation Administration’s web page for any aircraft owned by the known parties, including the corporations.

  “You can search registrations by N-Number, name, make/model, dealer, or territory,” I explained. “You’ll have to go by name.”

  “N-Numbers?” Hazel asked.

  “Those are the letters displayed on the tail fin or fuselage of all fixed-wing aircraft. The first letter N identifies a plane registered in the US. The letters and numbers that follow designate not only the specific plane but also serve as the radio call sign for that craft.”

  “I assume you want all aircraft registered to our interested parties, not just Pipers.”

  “Right. Charlie, you get on the horn and call any local landing fields you can find in the Four Corners area and everything west back toward California. You’re looking for a small plane with one or two men who would have refueled somewhere between August 18 and August 21. If you locate anything that fits, get a description of the plane, the N-Number, and the pilot and any passengers.

  “Start with the small, out-of-the-way fields, those with a windsock and no control tower. The pilot had to use part of his fuel to fly to the reservation, so initially stick to fields within a hundred miles or so of Farmington. If you locate the craft, then try and trace it west… or wherever.”

  “You’re sure banking on this mystery plane being from California,” Charlie said.

  Before I could respond, my cell phone went off. It was Jazz. He sounded excited.

  “Think I’m onto something. I just wanted you to know I’m heading out to the rez so you might not be able to get hold of me. Phone service is spotty where I’m going. When are you coming back?”

  “Monday morning. What have you found?”

  “Might not be anything, but I’ll know by the time you get here.”

  The phone went dead before I had a chance to ask questions. My callback went to voice mail.

  The call worried me. Had Jazz phoned to let me know he was on the job, or did he really have something and was concerned I’d be unable to reach him? Was he biting off more than he could chew?

  I turned to my two companions. “Okay, you have your assignments. Paul and I are taking two days to play golf, and then I’m heading back to Farmington Monday morning.”

  “Monday’s a holiday,” Hazel said. “Why not go back Tuesday? You need a rest.”

  “Two days are more than I usually take. No, I need to go back Monday and start looking for Lando. My instinct tells me to stick close to where he was last seen. I just pray the kid is okay.”

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  Chapter 20

  I NORMALLY get charged up over my cases, and while I was wrapped up in the mystery of Lando Alfano’s disappearance, the prospect of two entire days with Paul took the Alfanos and their problems right out of my mind. If Jazz developed something from his trip to the rez, he’d let me know. In that case, I’d have to leave my loving companion and return to the job. I took the selfish approach and hoped that the phone didn’t ring. Fate was with me. It didn’t. Two days of easy companionship with the most wonderful man on the planet and three nights of coupling passionately with the one person I loved drained me physically but restored me emotionally and intellectually. Admittedly I would have enjoyed it a bit more had I been able to reach Jazz. But he’d warned me he was heading into country where cell phone service was spotty.

  Monday raced around all too quickly, and leaving Paul that morning was difficult for both of us. My travels in this Bisti murder business was our first significant separation since his kidnapping a year ago. While he’s no pasty-faced weakling, I knew he still occasionally suffered flashbacks, and I wanted to be there for support. Nonetheless, we both knew I had a job to do. He offered to take me to the Double Eagle Airport, but I figured it would be easier on both of us for me to drive myself.

  Jim Gray’s Cessna was available, so I chartered it for my 190-mile return trip to Farmington. After drinking my fill of the ever-changing panorama passing below the wings, I took advantage of Jim’s experience as a pilot to test my theory about a small plane landing and taking off from the hardpan beside Black Hole Canyon. He agreed a Piper J-3 was a logical candidate for that sort of strip and suggested I contact the Piper Club, an organization of Piper aircraft owners and admirers. Many of them knew one another and might be able to help locate the mysterious plane.

  Then he proceeded to throw cold water on my theory by naming a number of other fixed-wing aircraft capable of utilizing the same rough field. His own Skycatcher, for example, needed only 420 feet of ground roll for landing and 770 for takeoff. And why a fixed wing? According to Jim, a helicopter would be ideal for such a maneuver, although he did admit those birds made an entirely different noise that somehow attracted more attention than the buzz of small planes.

  When we reached the Farmington area, Jim swung west to take a look at the Black Hole Canyon strip. I had trouble finding the place from the air, but once I got us in the general vicinity, he located the strip quickly. Jim buzzed it a couple of times and decided he would not hesitate to set down there. He also pointed out a couple of other nearby spots that had been used by aircraft recently. Jazz was probably right; this was an area for importing contraband.

  I drove a clone of the vehicle I’d rented a few days ago from the Four Corners Regional Airport and went straight to the Trail’s End. As soon as I’d settled in and freshened up, I tried dialing Jazz to let him know I was back. Mindful of his warning Friday, I was surprised when he answered.

  “Glad you called. Think I’ve found something.” He sounded a million miles away, as his voice went in and out. I had a mental image of a huge flock of geese flying between our phones and interrupting the signal. Of course that’s not the way things worked, but that’s what flashed through my mind.

  “What is it?”

  “Can I meet you tonight when I get back to Farmington? Can’t hear too good right now.”

  “What time will that be?”

  Even through the tinny, uncertain reception, I sensed the smile in his voice. “About dinnertime.”

  “Right. I should have guessed. Where?”

  “How about the Sidewinder?”

  “That dump?”

  “They got good food.”

  “All right, but I won’t buy you booze. What time?”

  We settled on a time, and then I reported my return to Special Agent John Gaines. Apparently Santillanes’s murder was keeping him in Farmington, and I wasn’t too sure he was happy about that. He listened to my information on the Alfano/Sabelito seesaw without enthusiasm but asked me to put it in writing. I had foreseen the request and had Hazel’s neatly typed narrative ready to deliver, with a second copy for Lonzo Joe. The agent’s lack of a reaction was hard to read. It could mean anything from he already knew about it to he didn’t want to admit a private investigator had beaten the feds to the punch.

  “Any leads on Lando Alfano’s whereabouts?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not even a whiff?”

  “Not even a whiff. How about you?”

  “Nothing.” I fed him his own answer.

  “Would you tell me if you did have anything?”

  “Absolutely. I want the kid found. I think he’s in danger.” I asked if he knew anything about the Norville murder. He didn’t have jurisdiction on that one, but it obviously tied into his case.

  He had been in communication with both the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office and the BLM and condescended to share what he knew of Dana Norville’s autopsy report.

  “Did the coroner confirm the kid was raped?” I asked when he finished.

  “He confirmed the sexual activity and said the penetration had been unusually traumatic. Yeah, he termed it rape.”

  “Which mak
es it unlikely Lando was the killer.”

  “Maybe yes and maybe no. If they had a falling out over the Penrod kid, Alfano could have forced himself on Norville after a fight. If they were steady lovers, chances are good they wouldn’t use protection.”

  “Yes, but it’s more likely the rapist was the killer.” I thought for a minute. “It could have been some of the local citizens exercising their well-documented objections to people who are different.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Gaines admitted. “Although my money’s still on Alfano.”

  “Don’t forget about Santillanes. Did his DNA match the semen on Norville?”

  “Dunno. Norville’s Detective Joe’s case.”

  “Yes, it is, but the cases overlap.”

  “True, and we’re cooperating.”

  “What did Santillanes’s autopsy tell you?”

  The coroner had confirmed the man was killed by a single gunshot wound to the right temple from a .38 caliber handgun but found little else of interest. But the doctor had ruled out Santillanes’s belt as Dana’s murder weapon. The LA PI had run a sloppy shop, so the FBI had not been able to determine who hired him. A numbers dump on the man’s cell phone showed he had been in constant contact with a throwaway cellular phone with an LA number. That didn’t mean much except that it had been bought in the city. Gaines could identify the general area where the calls went by the routing, but that would take time.

  “Have you had any luck in tracing Aggie’s movements prior to the murder?” I asked.

  The response was prompt and firm. “I’m not prepared to discuss that subject. What are you going to do now?”

  “Nose around and see if I can find any trace of a stranger wandering the area.”

  “You can probably come up with a couple of dozen, but I doubt any of them will be Orlando Alfano.”

  My string had run out; mutual cooperation seemed to be at an impasse for the moment. We closed our conversation, and I headed for the Crime Lab at FPD where Lonzo Joe had an office. He wasn’t in, but I dropped off a copy of the report I’d given to Gaines.