Blood Sweep (12 page)

No fresh wounds marked the beefy chest, although a puckered scar just below Quesada's right collarbone drew a brief “Huh,” from the sheriff. “He collected that one a while ago.” With Sharpe assisting, they rolled the corpse over far enough to expose the back, pocked with a far larger scar high up, just below the crest of the shoulder.

“In and out,” Sharpe said.

No other wound marked the back of the victim's neck or marred the skull. Blood had gushed from the blasted chin, the mouth and nose.

“You can have him,” Torrez said.

“Do you have the State Police Crime Unit coming?” Sharpe asked. His implication was clear, but Torrez instead turned to his deputy.

“You need to call that in to Doc for his paperwork,” Torrez said to Sutherland. “He'll want the DOB and stuff when he tags the corpse. And you might as well give Stub Barnes a shout so we can get this thing to impound.” He glanced at his watch. “And it ain't long until Taber is on shift, so have her out here. And then…we got two names I want run by the NCIC. This guy, and our friend from this afternoon—Olveda. Let's see what kind of story these Tucson boys can tell.”

“And the rifle case,” Linda added.

“And that,” the sheriff echoed. “Let's see what he's hidin' in there.”

Chapter Fifteen

Estelle Reyes-Guzman startled as a hand gently shook her shoulder. She looked up into the concerned face of Blanche Johnson, LPN. “Your gadget is going nuts.” The nurse nodded at the little chair-side table where Estelle's cell phone was vibrating itself in a slow circle on the Formica tabletop.

“I don't know what she's got against a nice, comfy motel room,” Bill Gastner said. His voice was strong. “Better yet,
home.”

Estelle drew herself up, untucking her legs. It used to be easy, sitting curled up on top of her feet. It still was, save for the uncoiling. Her watch said 6:10. The phone continued dancing, and she retrieved it, feeling a wash of relief as she viewed the international number.

“Guzman.”

“Ah, most fortuitous,” the smooth, quiet voice said.

Nurse Johnson had started her morning pre-surgical ritual with the patient, and appeared to be in no hurry to leave the room. Estelle rose from the chair and tried to rotate the kink from her neck. “Colonel, I am
so
pleased that you called,” she said. The hallway outside Gastner's ICU room was empty, and she rested her back against the cool block wall, waiting for the knots to release.

“I hope this isn't a nuisance,” Colonel Tomás Naranjo continued. “Your officers tell me that you are standing guard, so to speak.” He laughed in quiet sympathy. “But this time, our good fellow is not so likely to walk out of the hospital on his own, no?”

“No.” She sighed. Gastner once had done just that, albeit with her assistance—perhaps
complicity
was a better word. And of course, Naranjo remembered. He and Gastner had always been neck and neck in the human gazetteer race.

“How is he now? I am told that it is a badly broken right hip, no?”

“Yes, and we can add to that his spending more than a day lying on the concrete floor of his garage, unable to move. But he sounds stronger this morning. He just barked at me for spending the night here.”

Naranjo chuckled. “Of course.”

“Surgery is here in just a few minutes. They're prepping him now.”

“Oh, my. That is such a trial at any age, but at his…Should you have the chance, will you extend my fond regards?”

“I'll do that.” She knew better than to push the Mexican colonel
toward the central point of his call. With some amusement, she remembered her mother's description of Naranjo in a hurry, speaking too fast for her old ears to follow…and how unlikely that would be.

“You sound tired, Sheriff.” His voice was as soothing as a piece of warm velvet.

“An uncomfortable chair for the night,” she said cheerfully. “I'm going to go find myself a nice cup of tea here in a moment.”

“Ah.” The brief silence that followed meant that Naranjo was searching for the open door. She knew it was coming before he said, “And how is your mother?”

“She is well, although I confess that at this moment, she is confused. She had every reason to think that you had called her personally with some most distressing news, Tomás.”

“She believed that she was speaking to me?”

“Exactly.”

“How puzzling. I
should
call your mother more often, but we know how life's little interruptions keep us from doing those things that are most important.” His cadence, his caressing of each syllable, reminded her of the late, great Puerto Rican actor Raúl Juliá. Years before, when she had watched the video,
Presumed Innocent
, she had leaned close to her husband's ear at one point in the film and whispered, as Juliá engaged another character, “He sounds exactly like Tomás Naranjo.”

“I was certain you hadn't called, Tomás. Not about this.” She quickly told him of the telephone scam and the request for money.

He was silent for some seconds. “But she has not responded to this request?”

“No. She went so far as to ask our bank for a cashier's check. Fortunately, the bank president intervened and discussed the matter with me before proceeding.”

“Ay. All of this is most unfortunate. But the most important question, then. Have you heard from Francisco?”

“He called earlier yesterday evening, Tomás. I did not mention anything about the phone call to Teresa because I didn't want my son to start worrying. If he already had reason to think that something was wrong, I know that he would have said so.” She sighed. “The news of
Padrino's
injury is difficult enough. He is more than
padrino
for the boys. He is also a close and cherished friend for them.”

“I understand that,
Señora
,” Naranjo said. “I am told that the first concerts went very well indeed.”

Told by whom?
Estelle wondered, but she knew that Naranjo's contacts were both efficient and wide-ranging. “They did. Francisco is most excited.”

“I should think so. And of course, we send our very best regards to all of our friends north of the border.”

“Thank you.”

“In addition, I wanted to alert you to a possible situation.” He accented each syllable of the word for emphasis. “It appears that two men were killed in Mazatlán yesterday.” Estelle heard papers rustling. “The Ortega brothers. José and Hector. I can't imagine that you have heard of them.”

“No.” Estelle's fingers grew cold holding the phone. “Where and how did they die?”
Two men wasted,
Francisco had reported.

Naranjo paused. “Their bodies were found in a small courtyard not far from the conservatory where your son is performing. Both had been shot once in the head with a small-caliber weapon of some sort. There was no effort made to hide the bodies. They lay on their backs, I'm told, side by side. As if
arranged,
you know. We—actually, let me be accurate. Metropolitan authorities are following several promising aspects of the case.”

“Such as?”

“One of the men had in his possession an envelope on which he had written several phone numbers. One of the numbers was underlined. I think you might recognize it.” He read off the number, complete with area code—the Guzmans' landline in Posadas.

Estelle said nothing, but realized the crashing she heard was her own heartbeat.

“That would be the telephone that your mother would answer, I would think.”

“Yes. She will not use a cell phone. They make no sense to her.”

“Something
was
planned, then,” Naranjo said. “It appears that way. We—they—do not know who might have interrupted whatever plan was in progress. Perhaps a kidnapping if the phone calls produced no results.”

“I don't want to think about that.”

“I know you don't, and I don't blame you. But this is a time when we must face all facts, my friend. Security around the venue was doubled and tripled after the discovery of the bodies, let me assure you. It was made very clear…
very clear…
that
nothing
would interfere with concert programs, or with the musicians themselves. Honored guests in our country will remain so, safe and secure so that all may appreciate and applaud their performances.”

“Thank you, Tomás. But I must tell you the curious thing. We received a telephone call. Carlos happened to answer and talked with a man who claims to be an uncle of mine. He used the name Benedicte Mazón.”

“Most interesting.” Naranjo had not hesitated.

“Yes. He asked to speak with no one else, but just called to deliver a message. He told Carlos that there was no cause to worry about Mazatlán. The implication was that if there had been any issues surrounding the concert venue and the boys, they were no longer a worry.”

This time, it was the Colonel who fell silent, and Estelle waited patiently. Finally, Naranjo said, “One more time, his name, please?”

“Benedicte Mazón.” She spelled it for him, wondering if he was having second thoughts now about recognizing the name—or admitting to her that he did.

“And this Señor Mazón said he was an uncle of yours?
That
is curious.” Naranjo had heard the story of Estelle's life journey from the tiny, isolated border town of Tres Santos to her career in the United States, and he had had the opportunity to engage Estelle's stepmother, Teresa Reyes, in conversation on many occasions. Both enjoyed reminiscing about quieter, simpler times in the border country.

A central character of those stories and times had been Teresa's uncle, Reuben Fuentes—a character well known to both Naranjo and Bill Gastner himself. When Teresa had sent her then sixteen-year-old daughter Estelle to the United States to finish high school, the teenager had lived for two years with Reuben, in itself something of a gamble. The sixteen-year-old had prospered, however. Never had Estelle heard the name Benedicte Mazón mentioned.

“We will see,” Naranjo said simply. “Kindly allow me some time to pursue this. In the meantime, I will make sure that a contingent of the very best men is assigned to the two musicians and their troupe.” He chuckled. “But please…we will be ever so discreet, believe me.”

“I appreciate all you can do, Tomás. I really do. I am more in your debt than I can repay.”

The dismissal in his tone carried clearly. “You know, over the years,” and he paused, “over the years, we have worked closely on so many things.” He laughed gently. “I believe we both are beyond counting who owes what debt to whom. To work as one—that is what we must do.”

One of the nurses, assisted by a candy striper, pushed a mobile bed silently down the hall toward Estelle, then turned and eased it into Gastner's room.

“They're transferring
Padrino
now, Tomás. I should go.”

“Word from us soon, then, Sheriff. And please, rest well.”

“Please give my love to Marta.”

“With pleasure,” the Mexican policeman said. Eschewing the social circles that might seem appropriate for a colonel's wife, Marta Naranjo instead presided over their exquisitely appointed
hacienda
and exclusive gift shop outside the tiny village of Alegre, itself a destination for well-heeled shoppers from both sides of the border. “How do they say…
‘
when the dust settles,' we must all meet in Alegre. It has been too long.”

“I look forward to that,” Estelle said.

Chapter Sixteen

With its position photographically recorded half a dozen ways, Torrez lifted the heavy plastic rifle case out of the Jeep. A search had turned up nothing else in the rear compartment—no clothing, no maps, no food, not even a candy wrapper.

He snapped the latches and opened the rifle case. For a long moment, he knelt quietly, one hand on the case cover, the other relaxed on his knee.

“You think that's the one?” Sutherland asked. Torrez didn't reply. He slipped a gloved index finger under the barrel and raised it until he could bend down and sniff the aroma—rich and recent, a tangy odor as yet uncut with solvents or oil. The muzzle itself was threaded for half an inch to accept a suppressor, and that ten-inch black tube lay in its own nest in the foam case liner.

Without touching anything else, he lowered the rifle back in place. He knew ranchers who routinely used suppressors on their varmint rifles—whether the suppressor was legally owned or not wasn't a concern. More effective with sub-sonic ammunition, the suppressors still muted the rifle's report enough that the whole prairie dog town wouldn't dive for cover from a shot fired from four or five hundred yards away. Torrez had heard the one shot aimed at him, however. The shooter hadn't bothered with the suppressor—perhaps saving it for other jobs where the rifle's loud report mattered.

Further lab work might change his opinion, but at first glance, there was nothing unique about the Sako rifle.

Nestled beside the suppressor was a box of premium grade hollow point hunting cartridges. Torrez lifted one corner of the box just far enough to remove it from the case, and using his pen as a stylus, opened the box flap. The Styrofoam innards slid out, revealing nineteen rounds remaining.

“So,” he said, and rocked back on his haunches. The Sako was by no means an unusual gun—not a high-priced assassin's tool, but a most competent hunting rifle. Some machinist or gunsmith had taken but a few moments to thread the barrel to accept the suppressor. Chambered in the venerable and common .223 cartridge, ammunition choices were abundant anywhere around the world, military or otherwise.

“Nice rig.” He glanced up at both Sutherland and Linda Pasquale. “Get Mears on this,” he said. “Every little thing. Might even get some trace DNA off the stock.” He lifted his right hand and aligned it close to his nose as if sighting a rifle. “Gonna be something touching somewhere, unless he wiped it down already. Might not have had the time.”

With a creak of leather and crack of his right knee, Torrez stood up. “And see what the state can do for us,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Adams can call their van down here. Maybe they'll find some fiber or something. Who knows? They ain't going to be happy we got a start already, but tough shit. We ain't got all day.”

“You don't want the rifle to go to them, Sheriff?”

“No, I don't. Sign it in to Mears. It and the forty-five both. If there's somethin' there, he'll find it.” He turned as an approaching vehicle slowed. The county unit eased into the lane and parked behind his own. Sergeant Jackie Taber's blocky figure appeared. The dawn was just burning cracks through the deep indigo of the eastern sky, and Taber walked carefully head-down until she was within a few feet of the sheriff. She looked up and touched the brim of her Stetson with two fingers. “A perfect morning, sir,” she said.

“You find out anything more yesterday?”

She eyed the Jeep with interest. “Well, as a matter of fact,” she said. “Linda and I did some scouting. If this is the vehicle, then he parked just ahead of your old heap, disabled it, and then drove on down the road about two-tenths of a mile, right where that rise in the prairie drifts down to join the arroyo. He parked there, and hiked in.” She raised both hands and brought them together, like two paths converging. “He flanked you, sir.”

“Huh.” He turned and flipped his flashlight in Linda's direction. “You didn't tell me about that.”

“No, but I would've,” Linda replied cheerfully.

“We found the place where he might have taken the shot,” Taber added. “Nice little barricade of rocks, a couple of places that made a good rifle rest. Paces out to about four hundred yards, plus or minus.” She frowned then added in her characteristically precise, military fashion, “Odd, number one, that he didn't hit you. And odd, number two, that he didn't take a second shot. That giant bush that you used as cover wouldn't have covered much. Had he taken the time, he would have had a comfortable view.”

“Yeah, well.” He took a step closer to the Jeep, resting a hand on its left tailgate latch. “And then? He spends the rest of the day thinkin', and then come dark, he parks here, and maybe shoots himself in the head. One shot, right under the chin.” Torrez abruptly interrupted his narrative, as if embarrassed that he'd talked too much. “Or maybe not,” he said after a moment. “Maybe someone was in the Jeep with him, and reached over to jam the gun hard into the flab under his chin. Bang. One shot.”

“Which way are you leaning?”

“Why would he shoot himself?” Torrez asked, not expecting an answer.

Taber's shrug was deep and slow. “His grief and remorse were so wretched at missing an easy rifle shot at you earlier that he just couldn't face himself another minute.” She kept a straight face, but Linda Pasquale's smile was huge. “That's if we're talking the same Jeep and the same shooter.”

“It is,” Torrez muttered. “You can match up the tires later, but I know Goodyear Wrangler tracks when I see 'em. There's going to be two Jeeps involved? I don't think so. Got the rifle right here. Maybe the shooter too. Just some leftover questions, is all.”

“Such as.”

“Why'd the killer leave the .45 behind?”

Taber frowned. “I can think of a couple reasons. Number one, what better way to make sure he isn't caught with it on down the pike? What kind of gun is it?”

Torrez motioned to Sutherland, and in a moment the deputy returned with the bagged and boxed gun. Taber looked without touching.

“Okay. That's pretty generic. A trace is going to be a challenge. But the slug didn't exit, so we recover that and we know a little more.”

“Yep.”

“So the slug matches the gun, and the killer doesn't need to worry about something as incriminating as that in his possession.” She shrugged. “That's my wild-hair, early morning guess, and it's not worth a whole lot.” She straightened up, and turned slowly in place. “It's what's outside the yellow ribbon that's interesting.” She turned back to Torrez. “Another car? Did the killer drive in here behind the Jeep?”

“No tracks that I saw,” Sutherland offered.

“At least none that we haven't driven or walked over,” the sergeant said gently. “There shouldn't be anyone parked in here at all, and here we all are.”

“I mean, when I drove in to check the Jeep, I didn't know if there was anyone here,” the deputy said. “I mean…”

“Gotcha,” Jackie smiled, clearly hearing Sutherland's discomfort. “And I would have done exactly the same thing. We pull up behind a vehicle parked along the highway, and we don't cordon the scene off
first,
do we? So we'll see what we can see when the sun comes up.” She held up an index finger. “Somebody either
rode
in here with the Jeep victim, then what? Walked away? And to where? Or,” and she raised another finger, “they
drove
in behind him in a separate vehicle, had a meeting, did the deed, and then maybe backed out and away he goes.” She thrust her hands in her pockets. “Do you have the State Police coming with all their goodies?”

“Yep.”

“Do you want the generators?”

“We got morning comin' here pretty quick.”

“Have you figured out any new theories about why someone was willing to take a potshot at you, sir?”

“Nope.”

“That's a lot of work, for sure. Following you all the way out there, working the location to his advantage, jigging your truck…a creative thinker. Or at least a
determined
one.”

“Yeah, well.”

“And about three months before the election, too,” and she smiled at the dark look Torrez cast her way.

“It don't have nothin' to do with elections,” he said.

“I don't know. Maybe Lieutenant Adams has it in for you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Torrez said, and motioned to Deputy Sutherland. “You want to get them comin'? Otherwise we'll be here all day.” If they were able to secure the crime scene investigations unit from the State Police, it would be Lieutenant Mark Adams who would assign it. The Lieutenant's relationship with the Posadas County Sheriff's Department was good-natured and cooperative—if he could call in the rig, he would.