Totally Buzzed (A Miller Sisters Mystery) (30 page)

I turned to Alejandro. "And just for your information, I think the bad guys murdered Huerta and threw him in the pit with the dead horse–we told everyone it was you."

"Then Mr. Martinez will think I am dead and not send any more bad men after me."

"I hope he will want to come himself to make sure you are dead. By that time, perhaps we will have enough on him to make an arrest." Hah! I thought, wishful thinking. "I have to make some calls now, so settle in for a while."

I called Malcolm and told him we needed him out at Mom's. I called Mag and left a message to call me. I did the same with Ian. I told him that should they be back tonight, we would all rendezvous at my house.

I went back into the kitchen to brief Mom. "I have to get back out to the barn before Butts wonders why I was in here for so long. I'm putting Alejandro's life in your hands now, Mom. I'll call you later after we clean up the mess out at the barn."

I bent to kiss her and headed back out to the barn. In the pit, shovels and brooms had been used to brush away most of the dirt that covered the face-down broken and crushed body.

"No horse did that kind of damage," I said under my breath.

J.J. looked up from inside the pit. "No shit. Look at this."

He pointed to a hand. I saw all the fingers were bent back and pointed up the arm instead of down.

"Wow. I'll bet that hurt. Hey, is Ted still here?"

J.J. replied in a low voice, "Butts is gone, but I'd bet not for long. Is Malcolm on his way?" I nodded. "Good," he said. "I already took the pictures. I'm just finishing the initial audio." He held up the new mini recorder. He grinned and I winced. I never gave him back his old one. "Don't worry about it, Buzz. The fact that you still have mine gave me an excuse to buy a new one. Anyway, it's not like I don't know where you live."

He waggled his eyebrows at me. I hazarded a glance around me. I was astounded at how large the crowd had grown. I wondered if they were here to see the body, or to watch the J.J. and Buzzi show. I should have been embarrassed, but I could only thank God there wasn't a Jell-O mold in sight.

Malcolm took that moment to arrive and the interest of the crowd shifted toward him. Rosie the News Whore was barreling through the barn toward me, followed closely by Al. I could see Al was livid, and that gave me a tingle of satisfaction. So no one told poor Alexandra there was another chance to grab the limelight. Boo-hoo, Al. I pasted a giant smile on my face and went to face the dragons.

"Rosie! How good of you to come all the way out here." Rosie stopped dead. Al bumped into her from behind. She stood staring at me like I'd grown two more sets of eyes. I inwardly smiled. This was going to be sooo easy!

I met her at the barn door and grabbed her limp hand. Shaking it hard, I said amiably, "I cannot believe there is another incident out here. I can take you through it and give a statement for the press. J.J. is pretty busy with Malcolm Evans down there in the pit, but if you want to step over here, I'll be able to answer your questions. Go ahead and get your visual set up."

Both Rosie and Al were still staring at me with their mouths hanging open. I signaled the camera man to go about what he did best, and the flurry of activity seemed to snap Rosie and Al out of their stupors.

Al narrowed her eyes at me and said, "All right. Who are you and where is my obnoxious sister?"

I laughed out loud. "I am here to serve, my dear." I made an elaborate bow and I heard chuckles from the crowd.

Al tried for snide. "Don't give me that crap, Buzz. Even when you were still 'serving' you didn't serve. You hate talking to the press. What gives? Why now?"

Rosie stuck out an arm and shoved past Al, knocking her sideways and almost into the pit. "Oh, shut up, Alexandra. Who cares?" Rosie tucked my arm in her hands and led me off to the side.

My skin crawled as her two-inch lacquered nails bit into my arm. "Okay, Buzz, let's move away from the crowd noise where just us girls can talk."

I swallowed bile and said sweetly, "Good idea Rosie." I watched her flip on her recorder and I began to weave my tale…

26

The limo slid to a stop on Rush Street in Chicago. Eduardo Martinez stepped out of the car and walked through the front doors of the hotel, arrogance dripping from his expression. No one would know he arrived early, he thought. The incident with the horse made him angry all over again. The approximately 30 million dollars it had cost him in the last three days, between the two horses and what Huerta stole, did not concern him any longer. Huerta was one liability taken care of.

Martinez looked around the reception area of the Conrad Hilton Hotel. The opulence of the grand old lady suited his tastes perfectly, as did the little bunny Gutierrez picked up in the airport bar. She certainly was ready enough to jump into the limousine, he sneered silently. Probably expected a fat tip. He calmly brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve, pulled at his cuffs, and allowed himself a small smile. He gave her a tip all right–he told her she should not get into cars with strangers, right before he broke her neck. My God! The ultimate high was the absolute power over life and death.

He thought about the look in her eyes at the moment she knew she was about to die and he could feel himself get hard all over again. He fought for control as he envisioned her crumpled body dumped on Lower Wacker Drive.

He glanced at Gutierrez, the bodyguard he took with him on most business trips. He had sent Gutierrez ahead three days before. He had picked up Martinez at O'Hare before they drove to White Bass Lake. It was unfortunate about the horse. It was more unfortunate about Carole Graff. She would need to be replaced. Damn the woman's nosiness!

Martinez rolled his shoulders to shake off the inconveniences he had suffered of late. He looked around for his bodyguard and saw Gutierrez was, at the moment, playing valet and lugging the suitcase and garment bag through the door. He stopped and gave Martinez a barely noticeable sneer. Martinez stiffened.
Very well, if that is how it was going to be…Lake Michigan is a very large body of water, and three bodies can disappear as easily as two.

He ignored the big man and continued toward the reception desk, already planning the task of finding a replacement bodyguard.

Planning was everything, and he had this trip planned down to the wire. The reception in his honor was in the morning, with brunch beginning at 9:30. The presentation was to be at 10:00, and he could slip out by 11:00 or so. A short drive out to Midway Airport and a quick flight over the state border would take less than an hour. He would be in White Bass Lake by two o'clock. He could have driven, but he wanted the plane for transport, not transportation.

He checked in at the desk, automatically answering the tiresome clerk. Yes, Mr. Martinez would take his regular suite. No, Mr. Martinez would not be attending the cocktail party of the National Latino Businessman's Association this evening. Yes, he was attending their brunch tomorrow morning. No, he did not require a courtesy wake-up, and yes, Mr. Martinez would be dining in his suite this evening; could he have a rare steak and a Caesar salad sent up please? Thank you.

Up in his suite, he stashed his near-empty suitcase and looked on as his clothes were hung by the valet. When he was alone, he pulled the refrigerator away from the wall. He opened the back panel and removed the 9mm gun, taped to the inside. He opened the freezer and removed the three clips, which were stashed in the icemaker.

The stage was set; the players were ready to take their places. Come this time tomorrow, he would be heading back to Mexico–alone. He would pick up Montoya, take care of him, and then after take-off, take care of Gutierrez. They could 'sleep with the fishes' at the bottom of Lake Michigan, as they said in American movies.

Room Service brought his meal. He dined, with exquisite pleasure, on American beef. He always ordered steak when he was in Chicago. What did they do to their steers up here? Midwestern beef was like no other in the world, and though he had imported an American Angus bull to breed to his cows, the beef was still not quite the same.

His evening passed quietly. He prepared himself mentally for the coming day. Like a matador preparing for a fight, he focused on the entrance, the attack, and the kill as they floated through his mind in slow motion. Meditation brought clarity to the plan. He could look upon each individual event and plan his actions for any eventuality. He slept soundly and woke early.

The day was breaking to a misty dawn as Martinez donned a robe and ordered breakfast. He dined on steak and eggs while he read the local newspaper. He eventually got dressed, calmly packed his belongings, called Gutierrez to retrieve the bags, and gave himself one final going-over in the mirror.

Unless one looked very closely, one could not see the bulge of the shoulder holster under his suit coat.

The reception went as planned, other than the President of the National Latino Businessmen's Association being a little long-winded. At 11:10 he tossed his 'Man of the Year' plaque into the back seat of the limo and climbed in next to Gutierrez. He rehearsed Gutierrez's role with him on the way to the airport. They found the terminal with no problem. They were in the air within twenty minutes.

This afternoon the pilot of the rented plane knew Martinez as Hector Barrera Diaz. Martinez let out a self-satisfied sigh, settled back in the cockpit of the rented Cessna 172. He had chosen this plane and pilot carefully. The little passenger plane was big enough to accommodate three men.

Since the days of Al Capone, the area they were flying to was known for its mansion-style summer homes of the very wealthy. Private airstrips abounded, and a private plane was not an uncommon sight.

The plane was common enough that it could also be flown into one of the many local resorts in the surrounding area and become lost among the guest planes for a few days. Martinez had ordered a company car over a week ago and had it waiting at one such resort.

The pilot owned the plane and flew businessmen on short trips for a living. He would not be missed until 'Mr. Diaz from Los Angeles' was long gone. Best of all, Martinez had hundreds of logged hours flying this type of craft. He would pilot it on the last leg of his mission.

Flying in the co-pilot's seat gave him a feeling of euphoria, but piloting an aircraft like this gave him a rush of supremacy beyond mere mortal men. Life was about power, and he was a powerful man. People were pawns to be moved around the chessboard of life, and discarded when they were no longer of use.

Martinez had made very few mistakes in choosing his pawns on the way to his preeminence. Huerta was one mistake, the greedy bastard. He took what was not his and paid for it with his life.

Montoya; now that was a shame. Hard working, loyal and very good at his craft, he had a special way with horses, which was rare even among trainers. Unfortunately for Montoya, he also had a strong sense of right and wrong.

In the beginning he seemed so obedient. Martinez misread those signs and thought Montoya would be easily corruptible. Mistakes like that would prove fatal–for Montoya.

Thank God for stupido peasants like that American policeman–he checked his notes–Theodore Puetz of White Bass Lake, Wisconsin. Now there was a man with no morals. Martinez had the entire story, plus the location of Montoya, out of him in less than ten minutes. Puetz bought the warrant story with no questions. This Puetz was a man Montoya could manipulate and eliminate without batting an eye.

There were many in Mexico of his ilk, placed in positions of authority specifically to do the bidding of those who wield the swords of real power. Martinez chuckled.

In his lifetime he had dealt with and discarded so many insignificant clods like Puetz, he could feed their egos and slit their throats without them suspecting a thing. Their incompetence was exceeded only by their arrogance, and that self-importance usually proved to be the death of them.

By now Montoya would have been arrested for murder, and would be awaiting extradition to Texas. Martinez was too smart to play the games of Immigration–deportation could take months, and Martinez had hours. He looked toward the rear of the plane at the 300-pound bodyguard posing as a policeman from Mexico.