by Don Travis
“Uh-oh. Is there a Gonda grandchild out there somewhere? I don’t believe Gonda’s aware of that fact. He told me Zuniga dropped out of school because of fraternity hazing.”
“Maybe that’s true, but maybe he wasn’t being straight with you.” She grimaced. “Most of our clients start lying at some point in our investigation.”
“You might be right, Hazel, but I’ll bet you a dime he’s ignorant about a child. Where is the boy?”
“That’s something of a mystery. He doesn’t seem to be around anywhere. The Daytons still live in Las Cruces, but there’s no evidence of a two-year-old child living with them,” Hazel said.
“We need to find that boy. Now tell me about Zuniga?”
“I talked to some of his professors who said he took it hard as well. But he seemed to rally and was getting better. Until Lucia’s brothers started harassing him. One of the brothers… uh, Patrick, was at NMSU at the same time Bas was. Two other brothers lived in town.”
From what Hazel learned, the brothers apparently held Zuniga responsible for their sister’s death and started exacting retribution. Zuniga showed up at the dorm and in class with cuts and bruises a couple of times, but he refused to explain what happened. Then one day he must have figured he’d paid enough, because he fought back when all three brothers came for him at the same time. He used a baseball bat to defend himself.
“Two of the brothers ended up in the hospital,” Hazel said. “Zuniga ended up in hot water. But the judge ultimately decided his use of force was justified. After that he quit school and worked as a migrant worker until he showed up back in Las Cruces. After that our client hired him to work at Lovely Pines.”
“That explains a few things,” I said, recalling what Claudio Garcia told me about Bas going into his room and sobbing on occasion. “But where is the child? Did Zuniga assert his claim as the father?”
“No evidence of that,” Hazel said. “The birth certificate didn’t list a father, so he’d have trouble claiming parentage if the Daytons wanted to keep the child. Of course, blood tests should clear that up. But that would take the cooperation of the Dayton family or a court order.”
“We need to find that boy. What name was he given?”
She consulted her notes. “David James Dayton.”
HARD ON the heels of our early morning meeting, Ray phoned to let me know his people were finished at the crime scene and I was free to examine the area on my own. Although the autopsy wasn’t yet performed, the ME had expressed the opinion Zuniga died of gunshot wounds, probably a .22 or .25 caliber. There were three such insults to the body. It was possible other shots were fired and went wild, but no other projectiles had been located.
As soon as Ray terminated the call, I drove to Valle Plácido to examine the crime-scene area. The evidence markers were gone, but when I walked the outer perimeter of the area yesterday, I’d taken photos of the markers, allowing me to recreate the scene. The state boys used an alphanumeric evidence indicator system I was familiar with. The letters represented different types of evidence such as blood, clothing, glass, and the like, while the numbering system pinpointed location, progressing outward from the body.
Ray’s observation about Zuniga possibly being shot in the back while running away was a plausible theory. I found scuffmarks well short of where the body was found, indicating he had been accosted and then killed, possibly while trying to escape his assailant.
A house sat directly across the road from the entrance to the Lovely Pines—no more than a tenth of a mile from the murder scene, yet Ray said no one heard the shots that killed the man. Why? A silenced pistol would indicate a professional killer and a premeditated murder. More likely, the caliber of a weapon that small might have gone unnoticed. This was a rural area, so locals probably shot at varmints fairly often. The neighbors wouldn’t necessarily pay attention to a shot unless there was something unusual about it, such as being close by or extremely loud. In addition to that, the house across the road was a solid adobe with thick walls.
The neighbor returning home found the body around three. Zuniga left the winery at two. That meant the kill was fresh. The police cast a number of vehicle treads, but Highway 165, although dirt, was well traveled as a way into the Sandias, so the odds of that effort bearing fruit were remote. No strangers had been reported in the area, but again, the human mind is a funny thing. Strangers passed this way all the time heading up into the mountain or to the Huerfano picnic area just up the road, but if they hadn’t been “lurking,” they wouldn’t have been noticed. The killer could have been seen without being seen.
Finished with my examination, I drove the short distance to the winery to talk to the staff again. As I entered the chateau, Gonda and another man met me in the foyer.
“BJ, your timing is perfect. My nephew Marc has just returned from his trip.”
I examined Juisson as we went through the introductions. He was tanned, extremely good-looking, something shy of thirty, and almost my height. The brown hair was so dark it looked black at times. He tended to hold his head back so that his piercing green eyes appeared to be gazing down his aristocratic nose. Even before he acknowledged the introduction in a pleasant baritone with hardly an accent, I’d formed the impression he was not as generous a man as Gonda. This guy would be keenly aware of the family’s wealth and position. And his place in it. I do not ordinarily rush to judgment about a new acquaintance, but I reached this one in a short mental footrace.
Gonda pled pressing business in the winery and asked Marc to provide whatever I needed. What I needed was a conversation with this nephew. As we took a seat in the salon, I clicked on the recorder attached to my belt.
“I understand you’ve been on a business trip,” I said. “When did you get back?”
“Last night. It was combination business and pleasure. Although Uncle Ariel always introduces me as manager-in-training, I’m actually the firm’s sales force. Of course, he and Aunt Margot do their share of schmoozing customers who show up on the premises, but I’m the outside salesman. I was in Los Angeles making the rounds of a couple of distributors, but I found time to visit the beaches. With Uncle Ariel’s knowledge and approval, of course.”
“Was it a successful trip? From a business standpoint, I mean.”
“Very.” He grinned. “From a commercial and a personal standpoint.”
I smiled back at him. “I gather you’re not tied down by a wife tucked away somewhere.”
“Not a single one. Someday, maybe, but not right now.”
“Is there a target in your crosshairs?”
“Several. But I haven’t settled on one yet.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I assume you want a bio.”
I nodded. “Sure. That would be helpful.”
The picture that emerged was that of a young man born in Vétroz, Switzerland, of the union of Count Konrad de Juisson, a Belgian living in Antwerp, and Countess Candice Gonda de Juisson, Ariel’s sister. Did this entitle him to an honorific or title? I suspected not, because he represented himself as Juisson rather than de Juisson. Or else he chose to derogate or disavow titles in order to pursue a commercial venture. At this point I was merely rambling around in my own head, as I had no idea if such strictures were still placed on noble families, although historically I believed that to be true.
Marc was a natural athlete as well as a born flirt. I suspected he was firmly planted in the heterosexual side of the male universe, but that did not prevent him from flashing those green eyes at me. It could have been from a desire to experiment but was more likely to try to exert control over the situation. Or perhaps disrupt it. An interesting thought.
Juisson came to the US to attend college at Texas A&M in College Station, graduating in 2003 with a degree in agriculture and going to work for the European Wine Consortium where his uncle was the comptroller. He came north to the Lovely Pines with Gonda in January of this year.
What Juisson didn’t say, but what Hazel had turned up in he
r background check, was that he owned a modest rap sheet for drinking and fighting and a more serious charge of attempted rape. Although the charge was later dropped when the young lady refused to cooperate, it almost cost him his student visa.
That raised a couple of interesting possibilities. Perhaps he was aware of Bascomb Zuniga’s parentage, which placed another heir—and an outsider, at that—between him and the family fortune. I wasn’t certain that held water because Ariel’s sister, Marc’s mother, likely had an equal claim to that same fortune.
Or he could have gone for a macho fling with the handsome young Zuniga and been rebuffed. It was hard to see this self-confident man killing out of rage over rejection, but indulging in violence to keep a gay pitch to another man from becoming public knowledge wasn’t out of the question. Likewise, violence against gays was often a method of denying such tendencies. Juisson was once accused of attempting to rape a woman. Why not a man?
Why was I assigning such malevolent traits to Marc Juisson? Why did it matter, anyway? Zuniga’s murder was a police problem, not mine. I’d been hired to get to the bottom of an unknown trespasser. But maybe they were connected somehow. At any rate, I knew Gonda expected me to look into the matter. Look into, hell. He expected me to solve the damned thing.
“Marc, this is a matter of form—” I paused and rephrased. “No, it’s something you’ll be asked to do by the police when they interview you, so please put together your trip itinerary, along with your receipts, places you stayed, and people you contacted. Give them to me so I can look them over before Lieutenant Yardley or Sergeant Muñoz requests them. Okay?”
“Sure. I’ll start putting things together. Will copies of receipts be okay for you? You know, so I can give the originals to the cops.”
I agreed and then asked another question. “Do you own a firearm?”
He shook his head. “There’s no need. There are weapons in the chateau. Any time I go hunting, I use one of them.”
“Do you hunt often?”
“Not often but regularly. I’ve bagged my share of deer, black bear, elk, and antelope. But I prefer the birds. I’ve taken pheasant, partridge, quail… the usual.”
I thanked him for his time and watched him rise and walk away. Deliberate, studied, polished, and perfected. He moved as if on display, like a peacock before his hens. It was a confident, arrogant, and yet somehow provocative manner. He likely did everything that way.
I FOUND Gonda in the winery preparing to leave for Cutter Flying Service at the Albuquerque Sunport, where he was to pick up Bas’s mother. Barbara Zuniga was flying in on a chartered plane from Las Cruces. From there they planned to go to a funeral home to make arrangements for their son’s services, which couldn’t take place until OMI released the body.
Now wasn’t the time to brace the man over an unacknowledged grandson, so I once again gave my condolences and asked if his people were still standing guard over the winery.
“After what happened to Bas, I refused to allow them to pursue the venture any longer. The security people will be here early next week to install their devices. Until then we will just take our chances.”
“Good. I need a key. I’m going to spend the night inside the winery.”
“Are you sure that is wise? I mean, after what happened to Bas.”
“We don’t know that your son’s death had anything to do with the intruder. Besides, I’m a little better prepared for such things than he was. I need the key to the side door. I want everyone to see the padlock on the front door is securely fastened. And I don’t want anyone except you and Margot to know what I’m planning to do. Anyone, understood?”
“If you think that best.”
He led me upstairs to his office, where duplicates of all his keys rested in a securely locked gunmetal-gray case. He looked through them, selected one, and handed it over.
“This is a master key. It opens all of the locks except the padlock on the front door. This will give you free run of the place.”
I thanked him and took my leave for Albuquerque to clear my desk and get ready for a long Friday night. Stakeouts are boring as hell—until something happens. And then they are not. I’d much rather spend this night with Paul, but there was a job to be done.
Chapter 8
I SELDOM walk around armed, but I brought my new Ruger .357 Magnum revolver with a 2.25-inch barrel along on the stakeout of the winery. A deadly shooting in the vicinity tended to make me err on the side of caution. I also packed a small but powerful, rechargeable halogen flashlight, a lined lightweight jacket, and a big thermos of black coffee.
The forest was quiet as I parked the Impala in a turnoff beside the road directly west of the Lovely Pines property and struck out through the woods. I’d waited until dusk to arrive, gambling no intruder would do what I was doing… walking around while it was still light. I sat on the stone wall surrounding the place, swung my legs over the top, and as simple as that, I was on Gonda property.
At that time of year, twilight didn’t start falling until nearly eight o’clock, so the place had a deserted appearance. Gonda and his wife kept their cars in a garage at the chateau, but there were still two other vehicles in the parking lot. The front gates to the property were closed, so the odds were those vehicles belonged to employees. Several lived on the premises. Juisson, for one, and the Bledsongs. The red Mazda Miata MX-5 was probably Juisson’s. The Ford Fusion might be a rental for Barbara Zuniga.
So far as I could tell, I hadn’t been observed as I walked to the winery’s small door on the east side and let myself in with Gonda’s skeleton key. The first thing I did was to make sure no one else was in the building. I knew Gonda sometimes worked late in the lab, but I’d asked him not to do so tonight.
I checked out the cellar next, which was a more difficult task. The place was huge and dimly lit, with rows and rows of barrels and racked bottles. As I went down one aisle, half a dozen people could have been sneaking up the other side. Nonetheless, after an hour of steadily prowling the chilly place, I was reasonably satisfied I was alone.
I made myself comfortable in the odd little employee lounge area at the far north end of the cavern behind the wine casks and laid the small recorder I carry on my belt on the arm of the sofa. I snapped it on before pouring a mug of coffee, all the while wishing I’d brought a heavier coat. What I was trying to accomplish wasn’t clear in my own mind. Furthermore, it was probably counterproductive. If Zuniga’s murder was connected to the intruder in the winery, then the heavy police presence yesterday and today should cause the intruder to ease off. That made perfectly logical sense. Yet here I was.
I chose to remain in the semidarkness of the cellar because that’s where Zuniga and Hakamora heard the unexplained noises. Nonetheless, I took occasional jaunts into the winery, since some of the mischief was done there. I’d brought my old tape recorder since I had no idea how long the newfangled digital ones would record continuously. I changed tapes in the recorder three times during the night, carefully marking the time span on each, even though they’d only recorded noises I’d been making. The barely luminous dials on my father’s old Elgin wristwatch read 3:00 a.m. before I decided to give it up as an exercise in futility.
I was screwing the cap back on my coffee thermos when I froze. A distinct noise came from off to my right. It sounded like a low rumble. I tried to orient myself. I was sitting on the broken-down couch shoved against the far north end of the cavern. That meant the noise came from the west side of the room. I waited but heard nothing else. I slowly got to my feet and began to edge along the wall. Every few steps I paused to listen, but the place was silent except for sounds I caused.
Then I heard a scurrying. Rats? Did the cellar have rats? Awfully big ones, if that was a rat. The inside of my right thigh began to pulse. The old gunshot wound was acting up. It usually waited until I faced danger to give me problems. Did my scar know more about this situation than I did?
Then all doubt vanished. A bottle rolled ac
ross the concrete floor somewhere in the distance. Had he heard me and dropped the bottle in surprise? I abandoned stealth and raced down the row of wine racks, trying to cut the intruder off from the exit. Within seconds I reached the south end of the cave without seeing anyone. I paused to listen again. Nothing. I pulled out my flashlight and flicked it on briefly… just long enough to check out the dark recesses at the western end of the wall. Still nothing. I turned the light off before my night vision was completely spoiled, pulled the Ruger from the belt at my back, and started walking. As I passed each row of racks, I quickly raked it with the halogen beam. One row short of reaching the west wall, my light picked up a gleam on the floor. A bottle of wine.
I spun on my heel and raced back to the door to the winery. It was firmly closed. Could the trespasser have made it past me and out the door? Possible. I’d been faked out of position by the rolling wine bottle. I rushed through the door and out into the winery. The place was empty.
I stood at the locked door I’d used to enter the building and considered my options. I wanted to rouse Charlie out of bed and have him join me, but that would take too long. I pulled out my cell and dialed the private number Gonda had given me. When his sleepy voice answered, I quickly told him what happened. He woke up in a hurry and said he’d be right there.
“Bring your nephew and a couple of flashlights to the side door,” I said.
I unlocked the door and then stepped to a spot where I could keep watch on both the entrance to the winery and the door to the cellar. While I waited, I dialed central dispatch and informed the officer on duty of what happened and asked him to contact Lt. Ray Yardley of the SP and Sgt. Roma Muñoz at the SCSO, stressing this might have something to do with their homicide case outside the same place two nights earlier. Those two would appreciate my disturbing their Saturday morning, I’m sure.
Within five minutes, Gonda and Juisson showed up, both of them armed. Gonda, dressed in faded denim, toted a shotgun. Juisson, although tousled-headed, looked as if he were dressed to go partying: dark slacks, light-colored open-weave shirt, and loafers. He held what looked to be a genuine German Luger pistol in his right hand.
