Blood Sweep (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

With a hundred other things that he could, and probably should, have been doing, Sheriff Robert Torrez entered the county commission chambers at six minutes before nine, leaving the crime scene out beyond the interstate to his staff. Had the strange little man from Tucson, Dominic Olveda, not been presenting, Torrez would have had no compunction about skipping the meeting—and wouldn't have much cared if none of the other members of the department had been able to make it, either. He, or someone else from his department, was not so much required to attend as it was
expected.

Naturally enough, the Sheriff's Department was always the target of those who chronically complained about County services…especially the expense of the sheriff's operations. But as an elected official, the sheriff marched to his own drummer…until voters said otherwise. Try as they might, the county commission could not tell him how to run his department. Paybacks, if necessary, came at budget time.

The meeting would last all day, but guests like Dominic Olveda were prodded to the microphone early on the agenda so they didn't have to wait for all the committee reports, budget minutia, or haranguing citizens.

As he entered the building, Torrez skillfully avoided the foyer, where a couple dozen politicos gaggled. He didn't want to field the inevitable questions about the election three months hence. Twenty people could throw their hats in the ring as far as he cared. He knew that in a county as tightly knit as Posadas, he would probably win.

And if he did not, he was sure that Lieutenant Mark Adams would, even though many voters didn't much cotton to the State Police, or that Adams actually lived in Deming, well outside Posadas County. True enough, he owned a modest home in Posadas that he rented, but was he planning to move there if elected? Adams had implied that he would, but he'd never come right out and said so.

Of more importance, Bob Torrez knew that Adams was retiring from his state job in October, and the two lawmen had agreed that the election loser would become a captain in the Sheriff's Department, replacing Eddie Mitchell, who had left to join the Secret Service, working in Bethesda, Maryland.

It was always possible that a spoiler might come out of the woodwork—possible, not probable. The third candidate, Jerry Steward, had run for sheriff on three previous occasions over the years, his lengthy and often inarticulate diatribes filling the editorial page of the
Posadas Register.
No one took him seriously. For a brief time twenty years before, he had been a deputy in Bernalillo County, and that stint appeared to be his entire foundation of law enforcement, or even administrative, experience. His platform was consistent—the county bureaucracy mismanaged funds to a criminal extent.

Steward was not alone in wanting the top lawman spot. Even the current county manager, Leona Spears, had at one time thought that she did, and she ran for sheriff once, her campaign failing to yield even double-digit returns.

Slipping through the far left of the multiple double doors servicing the chamber, Torrez saw that the audience was going to be SRO by the time the foyer drained into the room. A huge and colorful map of Posadas County was projected on a screen down front, the screen and projector skewed so that the image was visible to both commission and audience.

County Manager Leona Spears, dressed in a conservative and generously cut brown suit, had already taken her seat at the manager's desk near the far right wing of the commission dais. Papers were stacked neatly before her to right and left. She saw Torrez and clapped a hand to her chest as if in cardiac arrest, then favored him with a wide smile and a waggle of her fingers. She bent to one side to talk with the Monica Xavier, the county clerk. Xavier enjoyed the honor of having more relatives in Posadas County, in and out of office, than even the current sheriff, whose list of cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, and aunts was truly spectacular.

A microphone stand took up aisle space on either side of the center audience section for citizens who wished to vent, and Torrez slipped into one of the seats on the outer aisle, as far from the nearest microphone as he could get. The hall had been built during the flush years when Consolidated Mining promised to make Posadas the industrial gem of New Mexico. With seating for a hundred, the chambers still filled on occasion, and this appeared to be one of them.

Just when he had about talked himself into leaving, a hand dropped on Torrez's left shoulder, and the sheriff looked up into Dr. Arnie Gray's kindly face.

“Sheriff, how's this gorgeous day treating you?”

“That would be a long story, Doc.”

Gray, a several-term chairman of the county commission and a busy chiropractor, flashed a comforting smile. “I hear ya.” His angular face went sober. “What's this I hear about Bill Gastner? Stroke or something like that?”

“Hip,” Torrez said. He squirmed upright in the seat, untangling his boots from the chair in front of him, then stood up. His burly six feet four accentuated Gray's stick figure—six-six and gangling.

Gray's face formed a big O of recognition. “
Hip
,” he grimaced. “That's bad at his age. Well, any age. He went to Albuquerque?”

“Cruces.”

“Oh, well,
that's
good. He's got someone with him, I hope. I mean family-wise.” Gray raised a hand in salute at someone across the room.

“Sure.”

“Ah, good.” He reached out and patted Torrez's arm. “I'd better get this show on the road, or we'll be here until midnight.” He turned, then stopped abruptly. Drawing closer, he dropped his voice. “What do you know about this Dominic Olveda fellow?” When Torrez didn't reply immediately, Gray added, “He's come around to see me a couple times. Very
polished.
”

“We'll see,” the sheriff said.

Gray apparently took that answer to be as good as he was likely to get. “Leona has spoken with him at some length, I understand. So this should be interesting.”

“Yep,” Torrez said, not meaning it. Something about public meetings made him itch. Estelle Reyes-Guzman handled the gatherings with aplomb, able to think quickly and eloquently on her feet. When the undersheriff couldn't attend with her succinct monthly report, Sergeant Jackie Taber had filled in on a number of occasions. And Commission Chairman Gray noticed. He paused again and regarded Torrez with a knowing grin. “Are you actually going to do some campaigning this year?”

“Don't think so.” Torrez's reply prompted Dr. Gray's smile to grow wider still.

“Lieutenant Adams has lots of friends, you know.” He nodded across where the State Policeman, in full uniform, was talking with two of the other commissioners, smiles big, body language buddy-buddy.

“Yep.”

The sheriff saw that Dominic Olveda was already seated, managing to enter the hall without causing a caucus of his own. A large briefcase took up a second seat beside him. This time, he was dressed in a conservative dark blue pinstriped business suit.

Airport Manager Jim Bergin slipped down the crowded aisle and Olveda glanced up, then quickly collected his briefcase, nodding to Bergin in invitation. Bergin slid into the seat, looking self-conscious. In the decades that he'd run the FBO at the airport, under contract to both village and county, Jim Bergin had been a steady hand, neither lax nor particularly ambitious to pursue new possibilities. Torrez knew that Bergin found baffling County Manager Leona Spears' eager politicking on behalf of new runways, taxiways, hangers, and electronics, since he saw no great swell of new business on the horizon. He still chuckled at Miles Waddell and the rancher's
NightZone
development.

Torrez found it interesting that Bergin had chosen to sit immediately in company with Dominic Olveda, thereby at least appearing to support whatever it was that Olveda wanted to develop. He sighed, wishing not for the first time that his undersheriff wasn't tied up in Las Cruces.

Olveda finished shuffling papers just as Dr. Gray rapped the gavel. In the back of the hall, Bob Torrez tried to make himself comfortable, slouching down with one knee braced against the seat in front of him, turned slightly away from the heavy woman who had wedged herself in the seat beside him. She and two companions beamed at Torrez. He couldn't ignore them, since the heavy woman whose elbow prodded his ribs was Veronica Espinosa, née Veronica Torrez, oldest daughter of cousin Milton Torrez and his late wife, Adele.

She leaned closer yet. “You should come to these more often,” she whispered. “They're
fun.”

“Fun” wasn't the description Torrez would have chosen. He muttered a minimally polite greeting, offered a nod and a smile, and let it go at that.

During the prayer that followed the pledge to the flag, Torrez scanned the audience. He knew most of them, always puzzled that people would want to spend a day cramped in chambers, sharing flu germs, listening to the drone of the endless reports. Perhaps they were here to listen to Olveda, or to any of the other seven guests who had reserved space on the agenda.

“It's always a pleasure to see the chambers full,” Dr. Gray intoned. He adjusted the microphone. “We have a lot on our plate today, so I'm going to ask that presentations be brief and concise.” He grinned. “And we know how that goes.” The audience murmured knowing amusement. “At this point, I'd like to recognize Mr. Dominic Olveda, from Development International.” He lifted a batch of notes that partially covered his agenda. “From Phoenix, I believe. No—make that Tucson. You've come a long ways to talk with us. Welcome, sir. The floor is yours.” Gray leaned back in his chair and laced his long fingers together over his belly.

“Thank you for according me this time.” The PA system amplified Olveda's silky voice just enough. The man was no stranger to microphones. The map of Posadas County winked off the screen, replaced by an aerial view of the airport, a view facing west down the length of the runway. “The county is to be congratulated for taking steps to make the astronomical observatory theme center a reality. What is now called
NightZone
will surely attract visitors from all over the world. It will be…it
is,
one of a kind.” He turned and smiled at the audience. “I have visited several times in the past few days. Again, congratulations.
Most
impressive.”

He paused and smiled at the commission as if they'd actually done even an iota of the work involved in the development. “What we propose,” and the image changed first to an architect's rendering, and then split to share the screen with a photograph of a sprawling building, “is a sister development of the
Tres Lagunas
hotel complex near Cochepek in Costa Rica.” The room was dead silent. “
Tres Lagunas
is a much larger development than what we're seeking permission to build here, of course.”

The architect's rendering enlarged to take over the screen. “And don't misunderstand me. What we propose is in no way related to Mr. Waddell's development, nor is intended in any way to be competition. It is only to take advantage of an opportunity that we see. An opportunity that his imagination and courageous development will in its own way, make possible.”

Bob Torrez pushed himself up so he could see around a coiffed head. He had not yet caught sight of Miles Waddell, but certainly the rancher would be here to defend his interests.

“First, a modest hotel,” Olveda continued, “on the current airport grounds, at the far west end of the runway-taxiway complex. We envision some fifty-two rooms, with all the ancillary features one would expect of such a facility: conference rooms, both restaurant and café dining, and so forth.” As Olveda spoke, images of the features wafted across the screen. “This area,” and his laser pointer circled an area east of the hotel, “is aircraft parking for patrons. Pilots may taxi right to the facility. And this,” and the laser touched a small but elegant building set well back from the taxiway, “is automobile rental. So you see, one can fly in, park, and rent. Or take a shuttle service to the narrow gauge rail facility. It would be that simple. And, as you can also see, we are well removed from the F.B.O., currently operated so ably by Mr. James Bergin on behalf of the village and county.”

He paused, and Dr. Gray lifted his pencil. “What you're showing us now is the whole extent of the development that you're proposing at this time? Very ambitious, I must say.”

“At this time, yes.”

Tobe Ulibarri, a commissioner since the last Ice Age, loudly cleared his throat. Even when saying “Good Morning,” he could sound confrontational. “Where the hell is the water for something like this coming from, Mr.…?” and he flapped a circle with one hand in lieu of a name.

“That is my purpose this morning, sir,” Olveda said. “I am delivering to the commission these proposal packages,” and he rested his hand on a pile of fat envelopes, “that will explain the project as we envision it. I wanted you to know from the beginning—in fact, the fundamental purpose of my visit today—that we are not asking the local governmental entities for a single cent of investment. The village water system, for example, was never extended the seven miles out to the airport. We propose,” and once more his hand settled on the envelopes, “to develop water resources, sewer resources, and whatever else we may need, funded entirely by Development International.”

“On whose land?” Ulibarri snapped.

“I would guess, ours,” Gray interrupted. He smiled at Olveda. “Correct?”

The man nodded. “Exactly so. We do not own one square meter of Posadas County lands. All of this is rented, with what we think are generous terms. You will see in this proposal that we are asking only a modest longterm lease to drill two wells, and construct a state-inspected sewer reclamation system north of the development. That is all. A simple lease of the land itself, of the roughly seventeen acres of open prairie.” With the laser, he outlined a rhomboid-shaped property that would provide significant cushion around the proposed facility.