“I don’t care about boats,” Holman said. “Why would he be interested in two three-year-olds?”
“Well, I said he was a wheeler-dealer. If there’s a market, then he’s in there pitchin’.”
“You mean sell them? Sell the kids?”
Costace shrugged in that cold-blooded way that suggested that he’d seen it all. “How’d it happen, exactly?”
Holman told him about Cody Cole’s disappearance.
“And that happened several days before the Guzman boy was taken?”
I nodded. “Well, see,” Costace said, “the Cole youngster’s abduction fits. There’s no way of tellin’ just yet how the Coles made contact with Madrid in the first place, but if they set up a deal, Madrid’s style would fit just what happened. They hold the kid-maybe using that big old RV for just that purpose.”
“That would mean that the boy’s natural father was in on it, too.”
“Would seem so. Madrid hits town, and if he thinks the coast is clear, all he has to do is hand over the pesos to the parents and then hit the road.”
“Why wait four days to do it?” I asked. “Cody went missing on Saturday night. Why would they run the risk of keeping him around for four days? That doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
“Madrid might have been planning to hit town last Saturday. Who knows?” Costace said. “Anything could have delayed him-traffic accident, other troubles.” He rested his chin on his hands and stared at the floor. “He’s late, and whoever is holding the boy is forced to mark time. One day, two days…”
“What about the second boy?”
“That’s a problem,” Costace said. “We’ve been getting rumblings now and then that there’s a market for children-sometimes a family of ricos gets it in their heads that they’d like a little blond-haired, blue-eyes status symbol. They’re willing to pay good money for an instant adoption, and that would attract the Roberto Madrids of the world. You want it, he finds it. But the Guzman boy puzzles me.” Costace smiled without much humor. “Lord knows, Mexico has its share of cute little black-haired, black-eyed urchins who speak Spanish. I don’t see much need to go north of the border to fetch another one, especially a high-visibility target like this little Francis. That sounds like panic to me.”
“Panic?”
Costace shrugged. “If the deal was goin’ down without any hitch, Madrid would have taken the Cole boy and hit the road. He would have been in and out of here so slick, no one would have been the wiser. Little Cody would have been a Mexican citizen by bedtime Saturday night.” He shrugged again. “Nobody would have been the wiser. After a few days, the search is called off; everybody’s sad, but eventually everyone forgets. Ma and Pa Cole pocket a trunkful of cash. But it didn’t happen that way. From what you say, there was a hell of an argument.”
“Someone changed her mind,” I said as a lightbulb flashed in my head.
“Who?” Holman frowned at me.
“We went through Tiffany Cole’s house tonight,” I said. “That woman has a screw loose somewhere. That child’s been living with them for all three years of his life, and except for a half-eaten dish of hash and a plastic child’s cup of milk, there wasn’t any way to tell he’d ever been in that house.”
I got up and walked to the window. “She makes a deal to part with the youngster. We don’t know how she did; we don’t know the circumstances. We know that her ex-husband, Paul Cole, came to Posadas under false pretenses, so only an idiot would ignore his involvement. It couldn’t happen under Andy Browers’s nose without him knowing, so he’s in on it, too.”
“A real crop of woodchucks you got here,” Costace said.
“They make a deal with Madrid. The time comes to deliver the boy, and someone backs out. Mama, maybe.”
“Touching,” Costace said.
“Maybe they took some money in advance to secure the deal. They know they have Madrid at the motel, waiting. They figure, Hey, what the hell. Give him some other kid.”
Costace rubbed his face. “Do you have some reason to believe they’d know about the Guzman child? Why would they choose him?”
“Sure,” I said. “His mother’s high profile in this town, as is his father. And his picture was just in the local paper, in a big play they gave the search efforts.” I rummaged on my desk and found a copy of the Register. “Here it is.”
Costace frowned and examined the newspaper at some length. “Handsome boy,” he said finally. “But I can just see the look on Madrid’s face when they come trooping into his motel room with Francis Guzman, Jr., in tow.”
“And so the argument,” Holman said. “In all your dealings with Madrid, is he usually armed?”
Costace held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t dealt with the man myself. And he’s a slick one. He’s no strong-arm, if what I hear is right. Sure, he might carry a knife, but the fastest way to get yourself nailed at the border is to be carrying a concealed weapon. No, guys like Madrid come and go slick as an oil spill, because they know what attracts attention.”
“Why would he fight, then?”
“Well,” Costace said, “if they already had a down payment and didn’t want to return it, then he might get just a little testy. Depends on who he was facing, and what they were trying to pull on him. It’s all just speculation.”
“That’s all we’ve got,” I said. “There was blood all over the motel room, and considerable blood in the truck and Browers’s house.”
“He got in a couple good licks, then,” Costace said. “They shot him twice?”
“That’s right,” Holman said. “The coroner told me tonight that the preliminary shows two twenty-two-caliber wounds. One in the side, one in the back. He lived for about twenty minutes.”
“End of his argument,” Costace said. “And now your good folks have discovered how easy it is to go from foolproof plan to royal fuckup.” He stood up and pushed the chair back against the desk. “Did you find any money in the motel room, Sheriff?”
Holman shook his head. “Nothing. Not even Madrid’s wallet. There were a couple of car-rental papers. That’s all.”
“Then your folks are running around with a bundle of money that doesn’t belong to them, and they haven’t delivered the goods, either. Someone down south isn’t going to be too happy, but there isn’t a hell of a lot they can do, either.” He glanced at his watch, as if we’d used up his allotment of time. “If what we’ve been thinking is true, then you can figure it out as well as I can. If I were them, I’d get rid of three things.” He held up three fingers, then bent the index. “First is the bleeder. He’s hurt bad, maybe dead. There’s a lot of empty desert out there, so that’s no problem.” He bent down the second finger. “The second is the Guzman child. Without that little kid, they’re just a nice family. And finally, they’ve got to dump that RV. They bring top dollar in Mexico, so if they can slip across the border, they’ve got a chance.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You been in touch with Naranjo, I imagine?”
“Trying,” I said.
He nodded. “There’s some good news in all this,” he said.
“I’d like to hear it,” I replied.
“Well, if Madrid had the boys, I’d bet even money that you’d never see them again. He knows how to slip in and out of Mexico clean as the wind. He’s got contacts, and he knows who to pay. But Madrid’s dead. You’re dealing with a bunch of wild-eyed amateurs. Who knows what they’re thinking, or what their logic is? You wait long enough and they’ll drive themselves right into a dead end. They can’t come back. They can’t cross at Regal. The Border Patrol’s looking for ’em every foot of the border, and they don’t have Madrid’s savvy or contacts.”
“Maybe that’s good news, and maybe it isn’t,” I said, and eyed Costace. “At least one of those two little boys is excess baggage at this point. And as you say, it’s a big desert out there.”
Chapter 37
Most of that night, Jim Bergin’s Piper Archer moaned in high, lazy circle
s over Posadas County, spotting headlights. State police took care of the interstate-the interchange at Posadas was blocked, and any vehicle coming on or going off was searched.
We concentrated on two possibilities. First was the notion that they might have ditched the mammoth RV for a more sensible vehicle. If that was the case, then officers manning roadblocks needed to check every vehicle-and they did, with mind-numbing regularity.
The second option was that they might keep the RV, knowing its intrinsic worth on the black market if they ever successfully reached Mexico-or, for that matter, a dozen different chop shops scattered across the Southwest that might specialize in such monsters.
“See, the problem is,” Martin Holman said, “the average person just doesn’t look very closely.” We were trying to do just that, me driving and Martin looking closely. “Remember that Ditch Witch that the telephone company had stolen right off a job site last year? Machine, trailer, the whole works. Never found it.” He turned to find the large handheld spotlight. “You see some guys working out in the field with a backhoe, or Ditch Witch, or jackhammer, whatever, you don’t stop and walk out and ask for proof of ownership.”
“How true,” I murmured.
“We assume that the people using the equipment own the equipment. It’s that simple. Besides, we can assume they had a choice.”
“A choice of what?”
“They could have taken Browers’s truck in the first place and left the RV behind. That they didn’t do that indicates to me that they want that RV. It’s worth a lot of money in the right places. His old pickup truck isn’t.”
I idled 310 up to the fence of the Consolidated Mining boneyard. High up on the mesa side overlooking the village, the abandoned mine and equipment yard rivaled the landfill for Posadas County’s shot of ugly. The gate was heavy steel and chain link, with barbed wire on top. The lock was a length of inch chain with a massive lock inside a plate-steel lock cover. Everything was in place.
Nevertheless, Holman buzzed down his window and swung the beam of the portable spotlight across the vast acreage of mining detritus. Nothing that could have been a disguised RV stood out.
“Turn down the dump road so we can check that tin building,” he said. “My bet is that they just drove out of the county and went on their way. They had darn near two hours head start, with no blocks, nothing. By the time we knew something was up, they could have been halfway to the crossing at Douglas-Nogales.”
He switched off the light and glanced at the dashboard clock. “And from the time the boy first went missing to when we knew the RV was involved was almost three hours, and that is enough time to get across.”
“We’re just going to have to trust that the federales got word to Naranjo and he has his side locked up,” I said. “There are far fewer roads down there than up here.”
“Unless you count the dirt two-tracks. Stop.”
I did so, and Holman scanned the tin storage building. One end was open, and we could see the jumble of fifty-five-gallon drums.
We turned around and headed back to County Road 43 and the winding macadam that led up to the abandoned quarry. I had no expectations of seeing a thirty-foot-long buslike RV parked under the pinons. Hell, there were few pinons tall enough for it to slip under in the first place. But our only hope was to leave no spot in the county unaccounted for, and to that end, every available car and person was working through the night. With the airplane overhead in constant communication, if someone moved with headlights on, we’d know it.
And with that came the nagging realization that Andy Browers, with his experience working for the Electric Co-op, knew every small nook and cranny in the county.
Shortly before midnight, Deputy Tom Pasquale had put together the blood-evidence profile, and it fit Agent Costace’s theory. None of the blood in the motel room, except for a small amount immediately associated with the body, belonged to Roberto Madrid.
The blood around the rest of the room, in the bathroom, on the curtain, outside in the parking lot-all the blood evidence at the motel-matched the blood found in the back of Andy Browers’s truck and in the bedroom of his home.
Costace and Pasquale-and young Pasquale was in seventh heaven just associating with the taciturn FBI agent-shagged an Electric Co-op official out of a comfortable evening at home and rifled through records. Andy Browers’s blood type was listed there as O-negative. The blood evidence in the motel room, his truck, and his bedroom was AB-positive.
Francis Guzman, Jr.’s blood type was A-negative, and that afforded a temporary shot of relief.
Detective Richard Steinberg routed a Bernalillo school official out of his comfortable evening at home and they rifled through school records. Coach Cole’s blood type, on file with the school nurse after a recent school-sponsored blood drive, was AB-positive.
Two of the missing party had no blood type on file. We had no record of Tiffany Cole’s type, nor of little Cody’s. But AB-positive was common enough. Millions of people shared that blood type. A DNA comparison would establish that the blood specimen either did or did not belong to Paul Cole, the only one of the three whose type was on file. But a DNA check wasn’t going to happen in the middle of the night, or even by the next day.
I had decided that, based on the evidence of the fight in the motel room, it was Paul Cole’s blood. That made sense to me. A distant second choice was Tiffany’s. It made no sense that the injury would have been suffered by Cody, either from the placement of the blood splatters or from the amount.
The gravel turnout that led to the shore of the quarry pond was empty. There was no place to hide an RV there, no matter how the driver tried to nestle the thing under the trees.
As I turned around, I saw moisture on the windshield. “No,” I said. “We don’t need this now.” The clouds were glowering, and if the vagaries of New Mexico’s weather held true to form, we could expect anything-rain, snow, wind, and mud, the works.
The cellular phone between us chirped, and Holman snatched it up.
“Holman.” For the next few seconds, he just listened, and then he shrugged. “Whatever he thinks is best. He’s the boss. Check back with me when you’re on the ground.”
He switched off and sighed. “Bergin says the weather is worse in the southwestern corner of the county, and it’s moving this way.”
“He’s landing?”
“Right. They’ve seen absolutely nothing in the past half hour except lights on the interstate, and once in awhile a local vehicle.”
I parked 310 facing downhill. We could see the lights of Posadas below us, and beyond that, a dark inky void that stretched to the San Cristobal Mountains and, beyond that, Mexico.
For a long minute, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “We’ve got enough people out that every major road is covered in or out. There’s no two-track or cattle path that goes anywhere without surfacing eventually on one of the main roads. The border’s closed. I don’t know what else we can do.”
“I think they’re long gone,” Holman said.
“We don’t know that,” I said. “No matter who’s calling the shots, whether it’s Browers or Cole, he doesn’t know how much of a head start he had. We’ve stayed off the radios as much as possible. They can’t know for sure what we’re doing. That’s our only advantage right now.”
Holman sniffed. “I’m not sure we know, either. There’s got to be something other than sitting and waiting.”
“We keep looking,” I said, and pulled the car into gear.
Chapter 38
At two minutes after six on Thursday morning, I was dozing in my old leather office chair, my boots up on the desk, hands folded on my belly, and my head slumped on my chest. I’m sure that with two days’ growth of beard, I looked like some old hobo off the road.
A few minutes earlier, I had elected not to go home, despite Camille’s entreaties. For sure, I knew that her “Dad, you’re not doing anyone any good staying here” was probably true. But I felt closer to wher
e something might happen, and that was important to me.
Dr. Francis Guzman appeared in the doorway of my office, moving noiselessly. I don’t know how long he’d been standing there, but I jarred awake and looked up.
“How are you doing?” he asked, his voice husky.
“You making morning rounds?” I said, trying for some humor on a humorless morning. I glanced at my watch.
“I’m on the way,” he said. “Estelle went back over to the hospital for a little while to be with her mother. Then she said she’s coming here.”
I nodded. “You haven’t gotten much rest, either,” I said.
He sauntered over to my desk, hands trust in his pockets.
“Nothing?”
“No word, Francis. We made a little bit of progress a couple of hours ago.” I tried another smile. “There’s nothing like the middle of the night to put the screws on people. A Bernalillo detective who’s been working with us talked to Paul Cole’s new wife. She’s co-operating.” I leaned back and hooked my hands behind my head. My arms felt like lead.
“She and Paul Cole are so far in debt that she’s petrified. They had an argument last week when he broke the news to her about his so-called hunting trip to Wyoming. She says they can’t afford gas to drive to the grocery store, let alone something like that. They’ve paid their mortgage payment with a credit card the past several months. She really believed that Wyoming was where he was going.”
While I was talking, Francis Guzman pulled a blood-pressure cuff out of the pocket of his lab coat and advanced on my left arm.
He prompted me when I stopped talking. “And then?”
“She works at an animal clinic, and of course he’s a teacher and head coach, so their combined incomes are pretty solid. But she admitted to detectives that they’ve been living on their credit cards, just paying the interest. And now she’s afraid Cole’s going to get himself in hot water with the school and lose his job.” I pushed up my left sleeve and held it while Francis positioned the cuff. “The most interesting thing she told detectives is that for as long as she’s known Paul Cole, his ex-wife has been pestering him to take custody of little Cody.”
Prolonged Exposure pс-6 Page 24
