San Rafael Jacked

by Tom Ellis

  Jolene smiled, “I agree with that." She studied the lake for a few minutes and then turned to Burns.

  “What if we have to take the ranch back?”

  “Then it gets complicated.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that is an understatement.”

  Burns gave her a sad smile. “We don’t know what we will find out there. The situation could go sour anytime and turn dangerous for everybody involved. Extreme violence is a way of life with Mexican criminals. I’ll give Buddy Russell call this evening and put him to work.”

  Jolene nodded and cast her line into the lake again. Burns watched. She caught a nice bass on the third cast. He removed the fish from the hook and put it back in the water.

  “Burns can I redecorate the kitchen?”

  He gave her a quizzical look before he could answer his cell phone buzzed. Andy held up his hand as if to say hold that thought and answered the phone. Hearing his end of the conversation, Jolene realized he was talking to the flight service he leased his jet to for an hourly rate. She smiled and walked back to the house the rod and reel.

  Andy Burns listened to Buddy Russell’s voice mail message and left the detailed message it requested. Russell recently retired from the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Burns met the half-Apache Russell when Andy was a border patrol agent and Buddy, a patrol deputy. Russell was an investigator when he retired. He was also a licensed real estate broker. Buddy knew Southern Arizona real estate.

  The San Rafael Valley is in Santa Cruz County Arizona. While Russell located his real estate business in Cochise County to the east, he was partners in a private investigations outfit based in Santa Cruz County. His partner was a former Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s investigator who also operates a used car lot in Nogales Arizona. Unlike TV shows, PI work doesn’t pay all the bills.

  Chapter Five

  Andrew Burns sat at his workbench when his cell phone buzzed. The number was an Arizona area code and belonged to Buddy Russell.

  “Good Morning Buddy, how was the sunrise out there this morning.” Burn said.

  “The kind that would make you move back here and never leave Cowboy,” Russell responded using a sobriquet for Burns the half-Apache had used since the two first met decades ago.

  “And with the humidity around that swamp you live in you need to let me sell you a ranch. I don’t see how you stand that place. Every time I look at the weather, there is a hurricane or tornado hitting somewhere in Alabama.” Russell never missed the chance to comment on his visit to Burns’ place a few years before during a once in a lifetime trip to Disney World and its attendant attractions.

  “Spoken like a high desert Half Breed. I look at Arizona weather to find out what part of it is on fire. And any ranch you would try to sell me would have a house made out of that pile of mud and branches you Apaches call a teepee.”

  Russell snorted, “That’s a wickiup Cowboy. You would be lucky if I let you buy a line shack an outhouse and a well.”

  “That sounds good Mi Amigo. It has been too long since I’ve been out there. It will likely be soon depending on what you have learned.”

  “The Rocking H Bar has never been listed for sale. And no one has registered a new deed, quick claim or otherwise on the property. According to the tax records, Lyon Hamilton still owns it. And the taxes are due this year and have not been paid. There are no state or federal grazing leases attached to the property. So no BLM involvement. That ranch is 2500 acres of deeded property in a prairie paradise located in one of the worse places in this country. The powers to be in Santa Cruz County have their heads stuck so far up their butts on the border issues that they can see cavities in their teeth.”

  “Border troubles as bad as your ex-boss says on the news?”

  “If anything they are worse. A new cartel kingpin has taken over in Sonora and one of the largest ranch owners on the Mexican side of the San Rafael died. His sons and daughter like the money the cartel throws their way. A lot less work than ranching.”

  “What did the rancher die of?”

  “Natural causes. Hard to believe, but according to my source the truth. The same source used to be my counterpart in Santa Cruz SO. A new sheriff put him on the road. His name is Bernie Cruz alias Burrito Cruz. He was born in Lochiel. There is a Scottish gringo named Cameron in his family tree. He tells me Hamilton is a distant cousin. Burrito says you won’t get any help from the sheriff or any of his people. And a lot of the Border Patrol guys look the other way now.”

  Burns drew in a deep breath. “I hate to hear that. Is this Cruz your PI partner?”

  “Yes and he has a used car lot in Nogales.”

  “He’s not one of the TV hucksters advertising Cruz’s Cruisers low ride in style is he?”

  Russell laughed, “Burrito will love that one. You two will get along well.”

  “Based on what Jolene has learned, we will likely be out that way in a couple of weeks.”

  “So you are still seeing that good-looking deputy police chief from wherever around there she's from. The one that fishes.”

  “Yeah, she took an early retirement and moved in here. I encourage her to keep going to fishing tournaments. It keeps her mind off redecorating the place.” Burns said.

  Russell laughed out loud. “Yep, that’s woman for you, Cowboy. Pretty soon you won’t be able to wear spurs in your house. On the serious side amigo, whatever is happening in the San Rafael smells. And it won’t likely be settled inside the system either. Between Burrito and me we’ve got your back for whatever you need to do. I’ve got a real estate rental listing on the Double B Ranch. It’s a casita with a barn and a corral. It was a line shack in the old days. It has an RV hookup and a well. The rancher uses it as a source of income source. He rents it to writers, cowboy wannabes and whoever else. And the good thing, it is across the fence from the north end of the Rocking H Bar. It would put you close to the action. The rancher will do a short term lease on it. And, if you are interested, the guy has a practically new high-end motorhome sitting on the RV hookup at his headquarters. An old couple from Seattle drove it down here. They were terrified of driving it back home. So they put it for sale in place, agreed to pay the hookup rent until it sells or someone is hired to drive home. It’s not cheap, but it is an option. It has satellite TV and the internet.”

  “Take some pictures of it, inside and out. Email me those and the particulars on the casita.”

  “I will do and one more thing Andy. Don’t let that woman get away from you.”

  Burns disconnected the cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. He walked outside and sat in a chair on his covered patio that doubled as the firing line for his range. He watched the lake and saw Jolene docking her Ranger Bass Boat. He watched her answer her cell phone. He saw one of his tractors moving along the edge of the lake. That one had an eight-foot rotary mower on the rear and a boom mounted four-foot mower for working the shoreline. Burns hired man Wilson Gilmore was driving the tractor.

  The 70 something ageless six-foot five-inch-tall mahogany skin color raw bone African American’s hair looked like white steel wool. Wilson Gilmore was a paroled murderer. A crime he committed in various degrees three times. After spending 45 years in the state penitentiary. The parole board figured he was too old to cause any more trouble and let him out. No one bothered to explain checkbooks and social security direct deposits to him. Wilson didn’t know how to balance a checkbook. He wound up in the Baldwin County Jail for writing bad checks. A sympathetic jailer brought Wilson’s plight to the attention of then Chief Deputy Bob Rabun; after Wilson beat a fellow inmate of the same race senseless while the former was working as a trustee. The jailbird victim did not perform work to Wilson’s standard. With income accumulating due to no checkbook access, Wilson had funds to make good his checks, which were all written to a large grocery store. Wilson Gilmore liked to feed hungry people, something he’d learned in the prison chapel. Rabun knew Andrew Burns was looking for a hired hand. A call to Andy and the
judge set Wilson free on an unofficial work release house arrest at the Burns recently constructed caretakers cabin.

  Theodis Cleckler proclaimed the situation a blessing for both Andrew Burns and Wilson Gilmore. Jolene Hadfield, on the other hand, failed to see any blessing in the fact a convicted murderer now lived at Burns place. When Jolene encountered Wilson during a weekend visit shortly after he moved in, the huge black man held a hot cast iron Dutch oven his massive hands with a kitchen towel wrapped around it for protection. When Jolene answered the knock at Andy’s front door, Wilson politely explained he had made an apple cobbler for Mister Andy and his lady, and that he needed to sit it in the kitchen.

  Burns came in the room about that time and told Wilson to take the pot to the kitchen. When he was out of sight and not necessarily out of hearing range, Hadfield inquired as to who he was. The explanation complete with the admission of murder convictions, almost caused Hadfield to pitch what some southern folks would call a running fit. She didn’t. Probably because Jolene realized it wasn’t her place to comment. Theodis Cleckler arriving with a church van full of children helped alleviate the meltdown as well. The apple cobbler being the best she’d ever tasted caused a lot of forgiveness. And Wilson explained in a way that only he could when he said.

  “Miz Jolene, I’s always got along with the white folks. I jus can’t stand niggers.”

  Gilmore finally won her over a few weeks later when he presented her with a model of her bass boat made of popsicle and match sticks. It was painted and detailed right down to the license numbers on the bow. Now all his fines and checks were paid, he no longer reported to a parole officer. The structure of having jobs to do along with a place to live gave him what he needed. He handled the chores and farm tractors with ease. The evil burro had become reasonably tame with Wilson around. He did not drive a truck or car and would not learn. He was picked up on Sundays by a church group, and they returned him before dark. Wilson asked Andy if he could purchase a pair of mules with his money. The long-eared beasts were an interesting addition to the place. As was the large garden Wilson planted after plowing the ground with the mules. The garden had since turned into a forty-acre farm inside Burns’ square mile. A farm that provided fresh produce to local people who couldn’t afford groceries.

  Burns contemplated this and the San Rafael problem. That could easily go from bad to worse, very worse and very bad. He watched Jolene approach and considered her involvement. She would have to share in the all the risks. Was solving the mystery of Lyon Hamilton’s disappearance worth the risk? Was it worth the risk for both of them?

  Jolene sat down next to Andy. She enjoyed the patio and its view for a minutes before recounting her phone call.

  “David Cromwell has gotten all the paperwork from Lois Thornton, and he has been in touch with Lyon Hamilton’s lawyer out in Nogales Arizona. That lawyer is J.P. Williams and according to David, he is not happy about Hamilton’s disappearance. He is willing to work on her behalf to resolve the issue and inspect the bank records. He will subpoena records and deeds involving the sale of the ranch. He said serving it would be a problem and getting compliance may be difficult. Have you heard from Buddy Russell?”

  Burns passed on he learned from Russell.

  “How soon before we go to Arizona?” Jolene asked

  “I don’t have any pressing projects at the moment. A few people are discussing building rifles but no commitments. I got an email from timeshare company this morning. The Citation is due into Mobile Aerospace tonight. So it I’ve put it on a forty-eight-hour owner priority notice. Hanger space at the Nogales FBO will not be a problem. When I get the information from Russell, we’ll set a date.”

  “Didn’t you say the CRM ranch has an airstrip and a hanger? Why not use that instead?”

  “The airstrip on the CRM is dirt and even if it weren’t the jet won’t fit. On the other hand; the MU-2 goes in there quite well. Using the jet is, a misdirection. I don’t want anything connecting us to the CRM.”

  “Sounds good. But what are you going to do with a motorhome when we finish out there?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Most likely it will wind up at the campground for sale.”

  “Is that campground making any money yet?” Jolene asked, knowing it was a property David Cromwell recommended Burns buy. CRM Holdings had grown in acquisitions and income since Andy inherited the original company from Charlie Raifield and changed the name. Business moguls would not have predicted the success of an organization owned by a retired cop and gunsmith. It was the combination of business manager Cromwell, lawyer, and CPA, along with Burns instinct that made things work. Andy always listened when his mentor, the late Charlie Raifield, spoke about business. The Citation jet was from a company facing bankruptcy they purchased and turned around. When Hadfield learned CRM owned the lodge where she recuperated, it became her favorite perk. The aggravating part was she could only use the place when accommodations were available, which wasn’t very often. Burns would not use owner privilege to displace paying guests.

  “The campground is doing well. All it needed was to be maintained correctly and kept clean. Fresh paint and advertising make the difference. They get a lot of big motor homes stopping through up there. It being within sight of I-10 doesn’t hurt either. David is looking at a hotel franchise now.”

  “Another place we can’t stay at unless space is available?”

  “There are several properties involved. I’m not sure it is viable. However, David thinks they are a good investment.”

  The gate alarm sounded. Burns glanced at his watch. “Looks like my night sight customers are here. A couple of rookies that are starting the police academy next week.” He got up to greet his clients.

  Chapter Six

  W. Ashton Bradford sat quietly on a bar stool in one of the smaller lounges in the Tucson Casino. He liked the atmosphere. You could carry on a conversation; the gaming machine noise was nonexistent. There was an intimate feeling in the room, a place where one might meet a consort for an affair or a high priced hooker might rendezvous with a client. Ashton was always on the lookout for one of these women. This night, he paid more attention to a man he figured for an employee of the casino’s security department. Bradford believed himself an expert on body language and thought he could spot a crook regardless of dress or surroundings. The new guy was a predatory thug with brains. The man casually walked through the bar seeing everyone there and not acknowledging the presence of anyone. There was no prey worthy of his efforts in this room. Bradford liked the vibe coming from the man.

  The bartender eased toward Bradford discreetly waiting to speak until the man left the room. “That is the house security supervisor for this shift. He’s ex-FBI like most of the security honchos. Scuttlebutt says he didn’t leave the feds on the best of terms. His name is Ron Kroll.”

  Ashton looked toward the entrance as slid a folded fifty-dollar bill across the bar under his fingertips. “Thanks, Fred. Bring me another one if you will.”

  “Certainly Mr. Bradford,” the barkeep said as he caused the bill to disappear.

  At 5’ 10” in his early fifties, Ron Kroll was in excellent physical condition with the skills of a Hollywood A-list actor. He did not have the classic looks of a leading man. However, Kroll the chameleon could turn into any person he chose to be. Once, he convinced a church congregation he was a humble preacher. A skilled motorcycle rider, Kroll’s first undercover assignment was that of a fearsome biker. The gang he infiltrated still hadn’t figured out who he was. As an everyday FBI special agent, Kroll was mediocre at best. As an undercover operative, he was the best the bureau had. Unfortunately, he ignored all the rules, the Constitution of the United States, the Bible, the policies of the Catholic Church, and the Baptist convention; and especially the rules and policies of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The current gig was the easiest to play, and the most dangerous. All Kroll had to lose was his life and his federal pension. Kroll retained an
attorney who was successful in suing the government’s alphabet agencies over personnel matters. The lawyer did not believe the FBI would honor the contract and Kroll would have a protracted legal battle to get his pension. The original contract was in Kroll’s safe deposit box, and the lawyer had a copy. He awaited Ron’s call.

  Bradford casually watched Kroll walk toward the gaming floors. A magician was the only person who could fool Ashton Bradford. Ron Kroll was a magician. A call to a bureau contact would begin Bradford’s background check of his potential employee. He thumbed through his phone and found Adam Hall’s number. Bradford figured Hall for a kindred spirit. A former agent who’d left the bureau for a cushy casino security chief’s job.

  It took Hall a few minutes to answer the recorded phone. Unbeknown to Bradford, he was the only one with the number. Hall’s involvement was confidential. Adam Hall and the Director had gone through the FBI Academy together. They were good friends. Ransom Carter was the only person other than the Director who knew Hall’s role.

  “Speak,” Hall said bluntly.

  “You still using all your fancy cameras and spy gear to cheat in your houses poker games asshole?”

  “Only when a dumbass dickhead like welch on the bet Ass Bradford is at the table.”

  “What do you know about an ex-bureau type named Ron Kroll?”

  “You give up on foreplay Ass?”

  “We are both busy trying to screw the house, why waste time?”

  “Kroll throw you or one of your thugs out of a club somewhere?”

  “We have not had the pleasure yet. I wanted to get the scoop on Kroll first.”

  “I vouched for his resume as him not being a thief. It’s the only way any house would hire him with his track record.”

  “What is that?”

  “He is a rule breaking heavy-handed bastard who would stomp a confession out anybody. He hates Muslims with a passion and will shoot first without asking questions. He was behind several unresolved killings on some undercover assignments. The Bureau believes he’s changed sides and has a ton of cash stashed somewhere. With their typical ineptness, they can’t find it. And Kroll is smart enough to hide it. One other thing that should endear him to you.” Hall waited to make Bradford ask.