Blood Sweep (14 page)

“And funding?” This time, Janelle Waters raised both hands in question. “We know something of the private funding that Mr. Waddell enjoys out at
NightZone,
but that's all private property. You're requesting to tie in county and village land through lease.”

“That is correct.”

“And funding?” she repeated. “I see that you represent Development International. Who are they?” She looked over her half-glasses at Olveda. “Where are they based?”

“I am director of development, based now in Tucson, Arizona.” Olveda's heavy accent and modest cadence contributed elegance and dignity to each word. “Our corporate offices are in Cochepek, Costa Rica. The actual corporate office
building
is included in the Tres Lagunas development.” He reached across and tapped a computer key. A photo materialized on the screen showing a three-story office complex surrounded by dense vegetation. “This is Development International's corporate office. I'm surprised we get any work done at all.” He coughed in self-deprecation. “It's less than a hundred yards from the tee of the twenty-seven-hole golf course.”

Ulibarri grunted something and shook his head, but Arnie Gray beat him to the microphone.

“What you're really asking of us is that we join the twenty-first century,” he said with a benign smile.

Olveda ducked his head. “I truly believe that your cooperation with Mr. Waddell's enthusiasm and far-sighted world view is helping to make this possible, Dr. Gray.”

“And what if it don't work?” Ulibarri asked abruptly. “What if you build all this
stuff,
and nobody comes?” He didn't wait for an answer, but charged on. “Now look, this is pretty simple.” He pointed an index finger at Jim Bergin. “Jim, you been with us for a long time. Since this
NightZone
thing started, how much has traffic at your airport increased?” The set of his jaw showed what he expected for an answer, since Jim Bergin's chuckles at Miles Waddell's expense were no secret.

Bergin partially rose, both hands on the arms of his chair. “About three hundred percent,” he said, and sat back down. From a seated position, he added, “Last month, with all the corporate traffic, my fuel sales were up seven hundred percent.” Ulibarri's face went blank, and Gray took the opportunity.

“Three times?” he said. “That's remarkable.”

“They ain't tourists,” Ulibarri grumbled. “When the building is done…”

“Nope, they're not,” Bergin said, not bothering to stand up again. “Contractors, vendors, big-wigs from the California university that's sponsoring the radio telescope, just whoever. Last group to fly in was some outfit from Switzerland that's making the tramway cable.” He shrugged.

“Okay,” and Gray held up both hands. “This is all premature. Mr. Olveda, we all look forward to seeing your proposal. That's about all we can say today. We'll read it line by line, and put it on the agenda for next month's meeting. You'll need to be here for that. I'm sure there will be
endless
questions.” He smiled, and motioned with his hand to include the audience. “Folks will want to know. But it's far too preliminary at this point to even discuss it. We'll read, and we'll ask Frank,” and he nodded toward Frank Dayan, publisher of the
Posadas Register,
“to run a spread in the paper.” He smiled again. “Should be quite a meeting.”

Several hands shot up, and one man, an area rancher east of town, got to his feet. Gray held up both hands. “Now is not the time.” Steel crept into his voice, and then he softened. “At this point, nobody knows nothin'. So we're not going to spend another minute—not today—on this idea. We all need to study first.”

He lightly rapped the gavel. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Olveda. We'll be in touch. Mrs. St. Clair, you're next.”

Even as the Director of the Posadas Medical Service rose to make her way to the microphone, Sheriff Robert Torrez left his seat and slipped out of the chambers. Evidently Commission Chairman Arnie Gray hadn't heard about the homicide at the south end of town, since he'd not asked questions about it. And since Frank Dayan wasn't dogging him, neither had the newspaper publisher. That was a good start for the day.

As he reached the building's double exit doors, he heard the sharp cracks of hard heels on tile. He glanced back and saw Lieutenant Mark Adams, and the state trooper held up a hand to rein in the sheriff.

“Got a minute?” he said as he joined the sheriff outside.

“Just about.”

Chapter Eighteen

As he walked down the hall, Dr. Barry Cushman peeled off his skull cap and ran his fingers through his long red hair, bringing it back to some semblance of order. He laughed loudly at something Dr. Francis Guzman said, and then brightened as he saw Estelle rising from one of the waiting room chairs.

“Long time,” he said, and offered a hand. Estelle took it, feeling the long, fine bones and the hard overlayment of muscles. Cushman may have just touched five feet six, but he seemed somehow larger, with his square shoulders and large head.

“Francis was just recounting to me the time that Sheriff Gastner escaped from a hospital room up in Albuquerque. With your complicity, I'm to understand.”

“High times,” Estelle smiled, and then favored her husband with a ferocious mock frown.

“Well, lemme tell ya, he ain't walkin' out this time,” Cushman laid on his west Texas accent a little thicker. “The surgery went beautifully, though. Come on in and I'll show you the as-built.”

As they walked across the hall to the hospital's staff lounge, Francis wrapped an arm around Estelle's shoulders. “It really did,” he said. “
Padrino
behaved.”

Moving to one of the computer terminals, Cushman typed in a password and his request. In a moment, a brilliantly clear X-ray portrait of a hip joint rolled into view. “The trouble with these, Mrs. Guzman, is that it'll serve him so well that he's going to be pestering for one on the other side too. And with the arthritis build up, that may not be so far in the future.”

Estelle examined the massive rebuild of William K. Gastner's right hip—new polished socket, new upper titanium femur with a shiny billiard ball nestled into place. “He won't like it, but he'll be on his feet tomorrow.” He stroked the image with slim fingers. “The sooner this whole gadget starts to bear some weight, the better it will be.”

“What are we looking at, then?”

Cushman made a speculative face. “Mr. Gastner is tough, but we have to be careful. He's had his share of med disasters over the years, so we have to be on our toes when it comes to things like clots in the lower legs. He'll be starting some exercises for that this afternoon, and wearing some nifty TEDs—those fashionable elastic stockings? Those will help. He's also been ignoring his prostititis, so he's going to love that catheter for a while. And a drainage tube or so at the wound site. In short, we're going to insult him just about every way we can for a few days. All that will make him mad enough that he'll be sure to cooperate with the PT folks to get out of here as soon as he can.”

“So if all goes well, he may be released by Monday?”

“If all goes well, probably not. My goal is a week from tomorrow. And by then, he'll be shuffling along with a walker. In four months, you won't even know he had the surgery.”

“Four months.” Estelle looked across at her husband. “Camille might be able to stay for a couple of weeks,” she said. “She's on the way.”

Francis nodded. “She'll be a relentless coach, that's for sure.”

“But the most important thing,” Cushman interjected, “is that Mr. Gastner
must
…and I repeat that,
must…
pay attention to his meds. He'll have several, and the ones he was supposed to be taking will all have to be adjusted.” He grinned. “I'm told that in the past, he's been something of a hardhead…a bit cavalier with the meds.”

“Just a bit.”

“Well, no longer. It's this simple. If he wants this whole thing to work, if he wants a normal post-op life, he's the one in charge. I made that very clear to him.”

“I think he understands things like that.” Estelle slipped her arm through her husband's. “And we'll make sure that he does what he's supposed to.”

“And who's this?” Cushman said. The nurse had slipped through the door of the lounge so quietly that neither Estelle nor Francis had heard her.

She gestured toward her companion as if Estelle could see through the wall. “Sheriff Reyes-Guzman, do you have a moment?” The nurse nodded without waiting for an answer, and turned to her companion, still out of view in the hallway. “Have a good visit,” the nurse said cheerfully.

“Thank you so much,” he murmured. He stepped through the doorway, and they saw a middle-aged man of medium height and astonishing good looks, olive skin, brilliant black eyes and generous mouth, nose sculpted with just a hint of an aquiline curve at the bridge. The cuffs of his chinos broke neatly over dark brown, tasseled shoes, and the expensive golf shirt looked as if it had been pressed. He saw Estelle's startled expression and smiled, his teeth just crooked enough to add character and charm.

Estelle thrust out her hand as he approached. “Joel?” She had met him but once, decades before, but had been so struck then that she had never forgotten him.

“My sister commanded.” He wrapped Estelle's hand in both of his.

“Caramba,” she whispered. “
Padrino
will be so pleased.”

“Maybe so.”

“Dr. Barry Cushman and my husband, Dr. Francis.” As the three men shook hands, Estelle added, “This is Joel Gastner,
Padrino's
oldest son.”

“Ah.” Cushman's eyebrows arched up. “Perfect timing, sir. Your father tolerated the surgery well, and is in ICU recovery at the moment.” He turned and gestured toward the computer screen. “He's far too groggy to be responsive just now, but this gives you the inside story.”

Joel Gastner slipped on a pair of half-glasses from a case clipped to his trouser pocket, and examined the image. “No other injuries from the fall?”

“None whatsoever.”

Joel turned to Estelle. “Some sort of episode triggered it?”

“Not that we can determine. His feet just got tangled in cramped quarters and down he went.”

“So unfortunately common with the elderly,” Cushman added. “And in his case, there was the added complication of a torsional motion…a twisting. He managed to cause some real damage. Here—” He asked the computer something with a few deft key strokes, and a second X-ray image appeared to share the screen.

“This is the before view, and as you can see…”

“Ouch.” Joel grimaced. Stared at the image for a few seconds, then reached out to indicate one edge of the shattered hip socket. “A little indication of arthritic erosion, maybe.”

“No more than we would expect for a seventy-six-year-old patient.” Cushman regarded Joel with interest. “What sort of work keeps you busy?”

“MedArchives International,” Joel said.

“The firm out in San Diego?”

“That would be us.”

“How interesting,” Cushman said, and sounded as if he meant it. “Maybe sometime while you're here, I can corner you for a few minutes.”

“Without a doubt.”

Estelle smiled broadly, an expression not missed by Cushman.

“What?” he asked her.

“Nothing, doctor.
Sin duda,
he can give you the answers you want.”

“Damn good timing, then. What do you do for MedArchives? Sales? Development?”

“This and that,” Joel said. “At the moment, I'm president and CEO.”

“Well, okay then,” Cushman said with delight. “I certainly
do
want a few minutes of your time.” He thrust out his hand again, shaking Joel's vigorously. “But, as of now…” He regarded the computer images again. “Mr. Gastner is our immediate worry. When did you last visit with your dad?”

“Well, make it about…” and he hesitated, calculating. “About twenty-seven years ago. We've spoken twice, briefly, since then.”

“That's the way these things go, sometimes,” Cushman nodded. “In any case, you made good time, and now you're here. You were able to catch a convenient flight?”

“Ah, very convenient. Our Gulfstream is at Las Cruces International. San Diego direct, and rented a car at the airport.” He shrugged as if the logistics simply did not matter. “I'd like to see Dad for a few minutes, even if he's not awake.”

“Certainly.” Cushman glanced at his watch, then at Estelle. “What are your plans now, Mrs. Sheriff?”

“They're changing,” she said. “I was going to find myself a room for tonight, unless Camille finds her way down here this evening. But with Joel here…if you're planning to stay for a bit?”

“I am. I have a meeting in Brussels on Monday that I really shouldn't miss, but until then. I really want to talk with Camille, too. She's flying commercial to Albuquerque?”

“And from there to here sometime today, I suppose,” Estelle said.

“I'll be in touch with her, then. If need be, to smooth things out, I'll just hop up to ABQ and fetch her. You drove down, or rode in the ambulance?”

“I have my county car. Francis will be coordinating
Padrino's
post op and therapy, so as soon as he's free to go back to Posadas, we'll take my car.”

An easy smile lit Joel's features. “Ah, hometown. Interesting stuff.”

“May I show you where recovery is?” Cushman intervened.

“Of course.” Joel started to follow him, then stopped. “And Mrs. Guzman, please make use of me while I'm here. Anything Dad needs, anything you need, just let me know.” He handed her a business card, and pointed at one of the numbers. “That's the one in my pocket.”

She nodded her thanks and watched Joel Gastner and Dr. Cushman walk down the hallway, both graceful as cats.

“He looks just like his mother,” Estelle said to Francis. “A couple of decades ago, when I first saw him, I thought he was a movie star heart throb visiting town.”

“Your heart throbbed, did it?” Francis laughed.

“Oh,
sí
.”

“Should I be jealous, Mrs. Guzman?”

“Ah, no.” She smiled at Francis, and then her face grew serious. “I never knew what the original argument was between Joel and his dad, but I know that they didn't correspond much. When
Padrino
retired from the S.O., and we had that big party at the Don Juan? Not a word from Joel. Not even a simple card.”

“Buddy came, though.”

“Yes, Buddy came. He managed to break loose from the Navy for a week or so and drove here with his son. Camille also came. The other daughter called from Rhode Island with her congratulations. But nothing from Joel.”

“At least he's here now, and that's a good start.” He watched as Estelle drew out her phone and checked the screen. A deep, calculating frown puckered her thick black eyebrows. “What?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Do I get to know?”

“Joel mentioned that he has a Gulfstream, with a meeting in Brussels next week. So he could have me in Mazatlán in just a couple of hours.”

Francis groaned. “And then what? You're going to charge around after all the bad guys with a borrowed machine gun?”

She grabbed him by the shoulder, a grip that softened and slid up to embrace the back of his neck. “Look, Naranjo said two men were
killed
just outside the theater. And
I
have reason to think that they're the ones who initiated the telephone scam with
Mamá
. Something is going on down there, and Francisco is right in the middle of it.”

“And so you want to charge in.” He raised an eyebrow. “And while you're down there, Bobby is left with a homicide here, no telling what Bill might need, and Camille is abandoned to her own devices?”

“I need to know that my son was safe,
querido.
I can't just
assume
that he is.
”

“
Our son
is
safe. I imagine the
Teatro
is crawling with cops. If Tomás says it is, then it is. And Francisco says he has a personal escort now. So…” He wrapped a big hand around her wrist. “Not to mention that the Mexican police are not going to welcome you as anything other than being a proud mother. They're not going to issue you a rental M-16,
querida.
”

“I can be the proud mother. It's just hard to do it from a distance.” She felt a pang as the words just made sounds. The Mazatlán gig had been right there, in black and white, in the Leister bulletin. She had missed it.

“I know.” He wrapped her in a bear hug. “Do you want me to call him?”

“Call who?”

“Francisco. Let me see if he'll tell me anything beyond what he's told you.”

“You'll do that ASAP?”

“Sure. But let me finish up with Dr. Cushman first. We'll make sure Bill is out of the woods.”