The Zozobra Incident

by Don Travis

  “Morning, ma’am. My name is Vinson, and I’m looking for Estelle Bustamante.”

  “Why are you looking for Estelle?” Suspicion and worry did battle on her broad features.

  “I’m trying to locate a friend of hers, and I thought she might be helpful.”

  “What friend?”

  “A man named Emilio Prada.”

  The woman frowned so deeply her eyes became squints. “That one. No good. She’s finished with him. She can’t tell you nothing. You a policeman?”

  “No, ma’am. Used to be, but I’m a confidential investigator now. May I speak to her, please?”

  “Not here.” She spoke in clipped tones. “Work.”

  “May I ask where she works?”

  “She don’t want you bothering her at work. Like to get fired if she goes talking about personal things at work. Lawyers don’t like people doing that.”

  “Lawyers? Would that be Stone, Hedges, Martinez?”

  “Never heard of them. These are labor lawyers over on San Pedro somewhere, but don’t you go bothering her at work. You hear me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am. I’ll come back and see her this evening… if that’s all right.”

  Flummoxed by a simple, if insincere, courtesy, Estelle’s grandmother allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up. “You do that, young man.”

  Out of sight around the corner, I pulled a yellow-page directory from my trunk. There was only one listing for labor attorneys on San Pedro NE: James, Jamieson & Smith, PA. With the scent of prey in my nostrils, I raced across town to a small, single-story brick building I’d passed a thousand times without noticing the unpretentious sign.

  I pulled into a convenience-store parking lot across the street to consider my options. This was definitely a lead worth pursuing. The linkage of Emilio, Estelle, labor lawyers, Harding, and his labor problems was too strong to ignore. And Del’s racy photographs neatly squared the circle. I took binoculars from the glove compartment to examine the small building across the street. Its generous windows were well screened by lush foliage with leaves the size of elephant’s ears. In fact, that’s what the plants were called. Nonetheless, I was able to make out a woman who could have been Estelle seated at a desk in the lobby.

  To get a voice for later comparison, I called the firm and watched through the window as she picked up the telephone. I apologized for dialing a wrong number when she answered in the same singsong tones as the Blah receptionist.

  I’d just finished an artery-clogging hotdog and a sugary forty-eight-ounce cola from the convenience store when three women exited the James, Jamieson & Smith building shortly after noon. Estelle was sandwiched between two females who towered over her petite figure. All three piled into a middle-aged Ford Taurus. Because Estelle drove, and because the make and model matched the description Susie Garcia had given me, I figured the car was hers. I tagged along behind long enough to confirm the license plate number and then peeled off to take care of a few items at the office.

  THE JJS law firm began emptying promptly at five, but Estelle did not emerge and head for her car until almost five thirty. Deciding against waylaying her in a parking lot with an abundance of legal advice readily at hand, I allowed her a block’s lead before falling in behind her. She drove directly to a day care center on East Lomas, where she picked up a toddler with black hair. Emilio’s kid?

  Next she pulled into a Smith’s supermarket parking lot and lugged the child inside to do some shopping. Half an hour later, I pressed the Record switch on the tape machine on my belt as she dumped a bag in the trunk of the Taurus.

  “Ms. Bustamante?” I softened my voice to avoid frightening her. It didn’t work; she jumped as if goaded by a cattle prod. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Who… who are you?” She turned to face me, shifting the baby, a boy of about eighteen months, to her left hip. “How do you know my name?”

  “My name is B. J. Vinson, and I’m a confidential investigator. I need to ask you some questions about Emilio Prada.”

  A shadow flitted across her face. The full, pouty lips pulled down into an attractive frown. She had spectacular dewdrop eyes and lustrous black hair that fell below the shoulders. “Oh, him! I haven’t seen him in months, and I hope it’s a lot longer before I see him again.”

  “So, you’re not involved with him at the moment?” I stared pointedly at the kid. She took my meaning.

  “He’s not Emilio’s. His father went to Iraq.” Tears threatened to brim. “And didn’t come back.”

  “Sorry for your loss. That’s happening to a lot of good men and women. Do you mind telling me where and when you last saw Emilio?”

  As she strapped the boy firmly into a child’s car seat, Estelle sketched her recent life with broad strokes. She went into an emotional and physical tailspin when her fiancé was killed in the war. She took to drinking, doing drugs, and running around the countryside, not too particular about the partners she chose. She was aware of Emilio’s reputation but didn’t really give a damn. When he asked her to move into “his” apartment, it seemed the answer to her prayers.

  Del Dahlman came as a shock. She knew right away they were lovers but was too mired in alcohol and marijuana to pull away. That didn’t happen even when Emilio offered her to Del. The lawyer’s rejection, in its own perverse way, was an even greater blow. But soon after Del threw them out of his place, she woke up to reality and went home to her grandparents, reclaiming her life and her child. She had barely managed to hang on to her job with the law firm, although she had to work like a Trojan for the next six months to rebuild her reputation as a reliable employee.

  “When did you see the pictures?”

  “What pictures?” The words were reasonable, but the wary look on the woman’s face rendered them false.

  “Those of Emilio with another man.”

  The child fussed, distracting both of us for a moment. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Estelle, you’re not a good liar. Those pictures could be big trouble, and it’s my job to recover the prints and the negatives. I intend to do my job. Hopefully I can accomplish that without causing waves, but if I can’t, then I’ll stir the water.”

  She straightened from comforting the boy and met my eyes briefly. Then she dropped her chin and blushed. “All right. Yes, I saw them. They were… they were disgusting. I told Emilio to burn them.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. And that’s when I came to my senses and saw him for what he was.”

  “And what was that? A blackmailer?”

  She glanced up, startled. “No! A man who prefers other men. I was just a diversion. Someone to dangle in front of his lover to make him jealous.”

  “That won’t wash. He moved out rather than give you up.”

  “That’s what I thought too. But he was just angry because the lawyer made him choose. I don’t know how many times I caught him looking at those pictures with a hungry look on his face. It was plain to see he felt he’d made a bad bargain. And then we had our fight, and I left.” She shivered. “Thank God it came down to a fight. Otherwise I’d probably still be with him, drinking and doing all kinds of bad things.”

  “How many of the pictures did you take when you left?”

  Her eyes flashed. “None! What would I want with them? They were a matter of shame to me. A reminder Emilio wanted a man instead of me.”

  “Did you know the man in the pictures with him?”

  She colored again. “Of course. It was Mr. Dahlman. I thought he was a nice man, but when he and Milio fought, he said some terrible things. Not only about Milio, but about me too.”

  “And that made you mad.”

  “That hurt me. And, yes, it made me mad too.”

  “So you decided on some revenge.”

  Estelle shook her head. “No. When Milio and I had our fight, I was grateful to Mr. Dahlman for making me see some things.” Her eyes widened. “You… you said something about b
lackmail. Is Milio blackmailing him?” Then, bright girl that she was, she made another connection. “You think I’m trying to blackmail him?”

  “Are you?”

  “I wouldn’t know how,” she said. “I don’t have the pictures. Never had them. Don’t want them. What if my little boy saw them?” She trembled at the thought. “And I don’t believe Milio would blackmail anybody either. He does things for money—bad things. But not that. I mean, if he exposed those pictures, they’d show him too, and his macho pride wouldn’t allow that.”

  “Macho pride? You said he preferred a man to you. Where’s the macho pride in that?”

  “In those pictures, he was….” She paused, stumped. “He was the man, but it was with a man. He’d never want anyone to see that.”

  “Apparently he’s been hauling them out and sharing them with men he picked up.”

  “His fairy friends, you mean? Yes, he would see no harm in that. It would be his way of bragging. But not to anyone else.”

  “Why? Everyone knows he picks up men.”

  “Knowing it is one thing. I knew it too, but seeing it is harder to deal with.” She shook her head. “No, he would not do that.”

  “Around the time the two of you broke up, the negatives to the photos went missing. Do you have any idea what happened to them?”

  “I didn’t know he lost them. He used to keep the photographs and the film in that backpack he carries around sometimes. And before you ask, I didn’t take them.”

  “Do you know how to get in touch with Emilio?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  I asked a personal question to get a measure of the woman. “Since you live with your grandparents, why aren’t they taking care of your son?”

  Her nostrils flared. “I raise my own child. Nobody else is going to do it. It’s hard on me to put him in day care, but it’s good for little Luis. He’s around other children and learns to deal with them. Besides, Abuela keeps him a couple of days a week.”

  “Thank you, Estelle. I appreciate your candor. If I need to speak to you again, may I call you at your law firm?”

  “I guess so.”

  Driving away slowly, I watched the young mother in the rearview mirror. She went about the business of closing the trunk, checking her child’s restraints, and getting into the driver’s seat in a completely normal way. Sometimes you can tell a lot about a person who doesn’t know she is being watched. There was no deceit, no anxiety in Estelle’s body language.

  So where did that leave me? The labor dispute still seemed the most likely reason for pressuring Del, but if Estelle was being forthright, how did the pictures come into play? That made me wonder if Emilio knew any of his ex-girlfriend’s law partners.

  I phoned the office, but as Hazel had nothing pressing, I decided to deny her the opportunity to hand me another case, so I tackled the next name on Prada’s list. According to the cross-reference directory in my trunk, one of them, Stephen Sturgis, was a professor at the University of New Mexico with a far Northeast Heights home address. UNM was closer.

  I entered the campus at Central Avenue and Stanford, where John Tatschl’s bronze of the university’s lobo mascot stood in eternal vigilance in front of Johnson Center. As a lifelong history buff, I knew UNM had opened in 1892 with a total of twenty-five students in a Victorian-style building isolated on the desert east of Albuquerque. Now it occupied approximately eight hundred acres totally engulfed by the city’s inexorable march to the heights.

  A lady in the administration office consulted a directory and sent me to the Department of Communication & Journalism building near the northwest corner of Central Avenue and Yale. Sturgis was a professor in the school of journalism where Paul Barton was a student. Another coincidence?

  That’s the bad part of this job: it feeds paranoia. We all have some, but it seems a generous dose is virtually a prerequisite for a PI license. Unable to contact the professor, I left my card with a message asking him to phone. Then I spent the remainder of the day attempting to run down more of Emilio’s johns.

  THE NEXT morning, I sat in my office and reviewed the situation. If Emilio had been straight with me, someone on his list—or someone close to one of those people—had to be the blackmailer. Charlie had not yet gotten back to me about his canvass of the apartment house personnel, but it was really too soon to expect results. With a sigh I picked up the phone and called Richard Harding. He surprised me by taking my call.

  “What can I do for you?” His heavy, lumbering voice blasted through the phone. “I hope you’re through with that nonsense we discussed last time.”

  “Not quite. I have a thought I’d like to run by you.”

  “Run.”

  “Is it possible to determine if anyone got into your Photoshop files?”

  “Someone I don’t know about, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Afraid that’s beyond my technical capabilities, but I have someone in the office who should be able to check that for me. What are you thinking?”

  “Well, you’re in a contest with organized labor, and Del represents you in that matter, if I understand it correctly.”

  “That’s right. You think they’re the ones putting the pressure on him?”

  “It’s a thought. The night cleaning crew likely has access to your office. Do you think a little pilfering is above them?”

  “I don’t believe anything’s above them, but I thought this was a money demand, not someone pressuring Del to lay off.”

  “True. But it’s such a modest demand, it’s almost as if someone wants him to pay to validate his vulnerability. Certify the hold they have over him, you might say.”

  A pause. I assumed Harding was debating which side to come down on. He apparently chose to consider my alternative. “That makes sense. All right, I’ll check on it and get back to you.”

  The next half hour was devoted to my decision-balancing procedure—writing down the pros and cons of each theory about a case and assigning a weighted balance to each. For example, when considering whether to continue my swimming therapy, the fact that it was not always convenient weighed heavily on the negative side, but that is more than offset by the knowledge I will walk with a limp without the exercise.

  Right in the middle of analyzing the labor dispute as a possible source of my client’s problem, Hazel put through a call to my office, but not before warning it was someone on that “Del Dahlman thing.”

  “Mr. Vinson, this is Steve Sturgis. I received a message to call you.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Mr. Sturgis. Or is it Professor?”

  “How about just plain old Steve?”

  “Steve it is. I’m BJ.”

  “As for calling you back, who could resist the opportunity to respond to a call from a private eye? A shamus.”

  “Anything but a private dick.” Sturgis seemed to get a kick out of that one. “Steve, I have something to discuss with you, but it’s sort of sensitive. Perhaps it would be better to meet somewhere.”

  “My, my. You know how to grab a guy’s attention. What do you suggest?”

  “Well, you can come to my office, we can meet at the North Valley Country Club, or I’m open to your suggestion.”

  “The country club is fine with me. I assume they know you there.”

  “Yes. I’ll be in the coffee bar. Is an hour okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  STEVE STURGIS was a distinguished man in his early forties with premature gray hair and an erect, almost military carriage. He projected energy and vitality and competence. If Paul were one of Steve’s students, he would be well grounded in his trade. The man inspired confidence. Half a second later, the green-eyed monster punched me in the gut. Had Paul bedded his prof, who was, by the way, eminently beddable? As we took a seat at a table in a far corner of the club’s dining room, I shook my head to clear away the thoughts.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Had a
thought about another matter I’m handling, and I didn’t like it much.”

  “I see. And what is this case you’re working on that involves… or might involve me?”

  The waiter interrupted to take our lunch order. I chose the patty melt with green chili and tater tots; Sturgis opted for a grilled salmon steak and a salad with reduced-fat ranch dressing.

  “Steve, this is going to touch on something that might be sensitive. It’s not an accusation, nor is it meant to embarrass or threaten. I simply need some information on a very delicate case. Do you mind if I tape this conversation? I do that routinely so I can go back and review things afterward.”

  “Now you have me intrigued. No, I don’t mind. Go on.”

  I spoke into the little machine noting the case number, naming the subject of the interview, and noting the time and date as 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, July 25, 2006. Then I placed the recorder in the middle of the table. “Professor Sturgis, a month or so ago, you picked up a young Hispanic named Emilio outside of a bar. You took him home, and the two of you engaged in private acts that are your own business and no affair of mine. What does concern me are the photos he showed you of himself and another man. I’m trying to recover those pictures and the negatives.”

  Sturgis glanced at the recorder lying on the table but did not go into denial. He nodded. “All right. That’s true. Well, partially true. I allowed myself to be picked up, but the result is the same. And yes, Emilio showed me some photos. He was quite proud of them, actually. I guess he had a right to be. That young man has been favored by nature in just about every way possible. And the photos… uh, helped advance the evening, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Did he give you any of the snapshots?”

  “No. I thought of requesting one, but decided against it.”