by Susan Slater
“I wouldn’t have been looking for anything.”
“That’s true, too. But it would have been easy to put something on board. How was the stuff packaged?”
“The usual. Clear plastic inside paper bags wedged into the panels separating the stalls, buried in the padding.”
“So you were brought down at El Paso, at the border?” Eric nodded. “Then what happened?”
“Didn’t take them long to find what they were looking for. I always thought the border guards had been tipped.”
“And they took you into custody there? In El Paso?”
“Yeah. But this Jonathan guy was there. Met with me the first night. Said he was my lawyer, needed to talk with me and would see about bail in the morning.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd that he was almost waiting on you to be busted?”
“Not at first. Lots of those guys just work the borders. Always around waiting for a quick buck.”
“So when did he say he represented your employer?”
“The next morning. And, funny, that’s exactly what he said—he represented my employer. Even told me my employer would remain unnamed. He never mentioned Billy Roland.”
“Let’s go back to your first conversation. What was said?”
“That my employer felt badly about what had happened and wanted to make a deal with me. You know the rest.”
“Tell me again.” Only this time, I’m taking notes, Dan thought.
“He, this Jonathan representing my employer, offered two million deposited in the bank at Tatum if I would say that I had initiated the whole thing. My greed, my need for big time money.”
“And you said yes, just like that?”
“I didn’t think I’d get any time. Clean record. Impress the judge with my background. That’s when Billy Roland stepped forward. Said he’d pull every string to get me into Milford if it should come to that. Told me he would pray for me and that he’d forgiven me. Said he understood the seven deadly sins.” Eric laughed. “I bet he did. But all this was done in front of an audience. Made him look good.”
“And you got seven years?”
“Reduced from twelve.”
“And you checked with the bank before the trial?”
“Bet your life. Talked with some twit who gave me the account number and verified the amount.”
“Did the twit have a name?”
“Ed.”
“Just Ed?”
Eric nodded.
“Did you sign any papers? Anything at all to verify what you had agreed to?”
“Sure. The wording sounded a little like a confession. I agreed to accept sole responsibility for my actions, which included piloting a plane found loaded with cocaine, and the amount of two million would be deposited in Midland Savings and Loan to gather interest while I was in prison. The reason I knew it was Billy Roland, besides the fact that he would be one of the few people around here with that kind of cash, there was a stipulation that the money would be left to Elaine in case of my death. She was always a favorite of his.”
“I don’t suppose you have a copy of the papers?”
“My copy was on file at the bank. But, I have this.”
Eric unfolded a much worn yellow sheet of lined paper torn from a legal pad. Dan could see nothing in the near darkness of the kitchen. Then Eric struck a match and he saw black pencil tracings that outlined the signature of what looked to be a Jonathan James Reynolds beside a date in April seven years ago.
“How…?”
The match went out. Eric sat opposite him at the table.
“Funny to think that proof of any of this comes down to a copy of a signature that I’m lucky to have. Lucky because some asshole who wasn’t who he said he was pressed hard enough with a ballpoint to leave a replica on the pad underneath. And I was smart enough to save it.”
“I need a copy.”
“Already thought of that. Look at these.”
Again, match light flickered over a much more distinct black on white copy of the signature. No mistaking the Jonathan James Reynolds now.
“What are you going to do?” Eric asked and watched him as the match burned down to his fingers, and he blew it out.
“Don’t know yet. But, one more thing. The monthly updates. Who brought them? You got one a month?”
“That was slick. I got to give that to them. That took some planning. Every month I’d receive copies, pages cut out of investing magazines, or stock updates, supposedly, the ones in my portfolio. Then, like clockwork, Mr. Reynolds would call with that month’s figures. I had received a bank book and I recorded the figures, sometimes a gain, sometimes a loss.”
“So, your only point of contact was this Jonathan?”
“Yeah.”
“These calls. Would they be recorded somewhere in prison records? Like who called and when?”
“White-collar time is a little more lax. You forget I was low risk. Don’t think anyone cared who called or who didn’t.”
“Do you have these pages on stocks? What did you call them?”
“Pages torn out of Value Line or Standard and Poor’s. Any schmuck could have gotten them at a library. No, I tossed them.”
“Were they mailed?”
“All postmarked Tatum, envelopes part of bank stationery.”
“And you’re telling me this Jonathan Reynolds, maybe a.k.a. J.J. Rodriguez, called every month for seven years?”
“Kept me quiet, didn’t it?”
Dan didn’t answer. All he had was a copy of a signature but it might be fun to run it by old J.J. just to see the reaction. Or better yet, compare it with a recent signature, and he thought he had one of those on the deposition he took over the Cisco Kid.
“How would you describe your working relationship with Billy Roland Eklund?”
“Good. Really good. He was like a father. Had helped me out a couple times.”
“No apparent reason he’d want to screw you out of a promised two million?”
“I always considered him a square shooter. I always knew he spent money like water but I never thought drugs was behind it. That really shocked me. Guess when he asked me to take the fall, I thought I owed him one. And he’s apparently stayed clean the last few years.”
Clean or never dirty, Dan thought. It was also hard for him to imagine the old man into anything illegal.
“You ever meet Iris, the second wife?”
“After my time. I didn’t even know the first wife very well.”
“Anyone else who would have liked to see you behind bars? Out of commission for a while?” Dan didn’t know what he was fishing for; it just seemed like a logical question to ask.
“Can’t think of anyone.”
“Maybe a client who thought you screwed him?”
Eric slowly shook his head. “I wasn’t the best lawyer, but most of my work was done for corporations, not private parties.”
“Think about it. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
***
Dan stopped by the Roswell office in the morning to check his mail. Nothing urgent. Then he dialed information for Dallas. Byers, Northmore and Reynolds had a number. Was he surprised? He was more surprised when he found himself holding the line for a Jonathan James Reynolds. What was he going to say?
“Jon Reynolds, how can I help you?”
“Dan Mahoney here, investigator for United Life and Casualty out of Chicago. I’m trying to locate a Jonathan James Reynolds who represented an Eric Linden arrested on smuggling charges a few years back in El Paso, Texas.”
“Eric Linden? Name doesn’t ring a bell. Don’t think I’m your man though, I specialize in divorce. Should I have my secretary check our records?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. And one other thing that would help clear this up, would it be possible to get a copy of your signature?”
There was a pause. Uncertainty? Reluctance?
“I suppose so. I’m not sure I understand.”
“We have
documents signed by a Mr. Reynolds supposedly from your firm, but have reason to believe the signature is forged. I would appreciate it if you could send that copy to my office in Roswell along with a sample of your letterhead.”
The man finally agreed. Dan had only to wait. This certainly made things interesting. Billy Roland’s lawyer impersonating a lawyer from Dallas. He left instructions for the secretary at United L & C to call him the minute the letter came in. Then he called the office in Chicago and asked that secretary to fax a copy of the deposition that had the signature of J.J. Rodriguez. When he had them together, he’d check with a crime lab expert. It could prove interesting. In the meantime it was back to the ranch and time to start that inventory.
***
The Double Horseshoe was quiet. Billy Roland was off to Chicago accompanied by Hank for an international symposium on worldwide cattle markets. Dan left a message at the barns that he would be ready to begin the inventory in the morning; Jorge just needed to give him a time. He wasn’t looking forward to the days in the saddle, but it would be good to get away.
He asked a visiting farrier to check out Baby Belle. He’d be putting her under a lot of stress for a few days, subjecting her to mixed terrain, some rocky. He didn’t need to be out in nowhere with a lame horse.
Hank had shown him where the overnight equipment was kept, sleeping bags, utensils squeezed into canvas carrying cases, plastic slickers, pup tents that folded to no bigger than a Sunday newspaper made of a material to withstand hurricane-force wind and rain. He was in charge of packing his own gear. And as he collected the items and signed them out, he felt the beginnings of something like excitement. More than a look forward to something new, this was adventure. For a few days he would be matching ear-tags to computer lists and enjoying the countryside, not worrying about crooked lawyers, or drug busts gone awry and errant husbands showing up unannounced.
He would be roughing it, sleeping in the open, eating in the open. A chow wagon would meet them at designated dinner spots. Breakfast and lunch, something in packages, would be handed out for the next day at each stop. Billy Roland left a flask of scotch on the dining room table with a note that it might be appreciated. Dan slipped it into his pocket.
They were taking two pack animals but carrying space was limited. The laptop computer would stay with him, the extra batteries could be transported separately. Modern technology meets the Old West. Or something like that.
Jorge came up for dinner that night. Iris decided to cook steaks on a grill outside, sort of a prelude to their trip. It wasn’t like she prepared anything. Thawed steaks and left them on the counter in the kitchen and warmed a pot of beans. The potato salad was in the fridge, fixed before the kitchen help took off for the evening.
Dinner was quiet. Dan wasn’t sure he felt at ease with Jorge but chalked up any reservations that he had to the man’s quiet manner. But in some ways that was a relief, nothing worse than getting caught with a non-stop talker when you’re trying to concentrate on business and happen to be a captive audience.
There would be five ranch hands riding along. They would act as scouts, spot the cows, then the five of them would round them up, drive them to holding pens if there were any close enough and help with checking the ear tags. One of the men was a vet.
Dan expected to check over a thousand head in the next few days. Many would be mixed-breeds, Brangus, Braford; only a few Charolais and polled Hereford mixed in the herd that scrounged for food and congregated at one of a hundred stock tanks. These were range-fed beef cattle being prepared for a market later in the fall.
Jorge said he should be ready to ride at six and Dan turned in about nine after a shower, something he might not have for a while. The bed felt good. He had left a window open and a breeze played with the corner of the sheets. The moon was a perfect crescent, and he watched as its light cast dappled shadows across the quilt. And that’s all he remembered before slipping into the sleep of the weary.
He dreamed of Elaine. The two of them together, running across a field, then tumbling down a hill to wrestle body against naked body in tall fragrant grass. Her hair was swept back from her face and she was teasing him, reaching between his legs, grabbing then releasing him to run a hand across his abdomen. He reached out and drew her to him murmuring her name as he pressed his head between her breasts.
“Shit.”
He sat up. He was awake and focused and pissed all at the same time. “Get out of this bed. Now.” He wasn’t even worried about keeping his voice down.
“You weren’t so all-fired anxious to get rid of me a minute ago.” Iris could pout like no one he’d ever seen before, full bottom lip slightly curving downward, eyes watery, imploring— no, begging—blond hair tousled spilling over her shoulders, down her back giving her a wayward urchin look. But then there were the breasts, nipples erect, thrust forward by the curve of her spine as she sat back on her knees at the foot of the bed but aware, very aware, of exactly how she looked, how provocative the pose.
Dan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood with his back to her and wished he believed in pajamas or, at least, slept in shorts. He pulled on the pair of Levis thrown over the chair next to the window, then not knowing what else to do, sat down.
“What are you doing here?”
“Funny, you have to ask.” She swung a leg around to settle cross-legged, facing him.
“Damn it, Iris, get out.”
“No one’s here to see us.”
“That’s not the point. I’m not interested.”
“That’s just real hard to believe.” She put extra emphasis on hard.
“I’m not into playing games.” She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move. Would he have to carry her to the door?
“Who’s Elaine?”
It caught him off guard. This reference to someone he wished was sitting in the exact same place as Iris and in the exact same attire—nothing.
“Friend.”
“Sure. Close friend, maybe?” Giggles.
“Why do you want to go to bed with me?” Maybe, the direct approach.
She stared at him a moment, then, “Are you going to investigate me?”
“What do you mean?”
“As the owner of those cows that died.”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Then I’ll find that out, won’t I?”
“Will I get the money?” Now, the real reason for being here was coming out, Dan thought.
“If I don’t find reason to suspect foul play.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When will I get the money?”
“One month. Maybe two. As soon as I wrap up the investigation.”
She sighed. “I need the money now.” And then he did something he’d been wanting to do, been curious about ever since the talk with Billy Roland; he took a step toward the bed and grabbed her by the arms. Pulled her arms out toward him and even in the pale light could see the infinitesimal dots in the creases of both forearms.
“I bet you do.”
She pulled away and flounced off the bed and left the room slamming the door behind her. Dan didn’t lock it. He knew she wouldn’t be back. But it was another hour before he got back to sleep.
It must have rained before dawn. Lawn and flowers glistened with a heavier than dew coating of moisture. And the smell of freshness enveloped him as he headed toward the barn. Great day for a roundup. When he thought of last night, he almost laughed. Shouldn’t there be a medal for passing up sex with perfect bodies? But the sadness of it stopped him. A young life in trouble without a promising future.
“You be ready in five minutes?”
It was a question, not a command. Jorge stood in the breezeway of the barn talking to five men whose horses were already saddled. Must be the hands going with them. Dan nodded when he saw that someone had saddled Belle and brought her up front.
The pack horses were tied outsid
e. One of the men handed around a thermos of coffee and sweet rolls, then Jorge swung lightly onto his horse, started down the drive, and waved them to follow. Belle sensed Dan’s excitement and side-stepped the first fifty feet before he goosed her into going forward. The time together would be good for both of them.
***
The first half day netted a hundred and fifty steers found clustered around a stock tank about two miles from the house. All had ear tags and all were numbers in the computer. By late afternoon they had checked an additional hundred and seven. The chow wagon was already parked and waiting for them at the designated spot by the time they finished.
“The bulk of the herd is probably on the Llano Estacado.” Jorge trotted his horse alongside Belle. “This area is called the stockaded plains. If you look carefully, you can see the fortress-like appearance of escarpments, there…” Jorge pointed in a circular motion to the west, “and there.” He pointed back to the east. “We’ll get over closer to those ridges tomorrow. Then the real work begins.”
There was a beauty in the sparseness of the land. The natural boundaries contained the herd in a basin stretching miles in every direction. A wooded area in the distance marked a stream, an oasis-green dot starkly outlined against the dusty sage of the prairie grass. One, maybe, two hundred years ago, buffalo roamed this same area in herds big enough to cover several acres.
They had passed a line of migrant worker shacks. All vacant, looking like they hadn’t been inhabited for awhile. Dan thought they might stop there for the night but Jorge pushed on saying they were later than expected. At the next rise Dan saw the paneled truck waiting on them in the distance.
Dinner was already being served when Dan dismounted. He rubbed down Belle, gave her water and feed before he went to get a plate for himself. There was an iced keg of beer, fried chicken, more beans, and more potato salad. But everything tasted great, something about being outdoors. There was a hint of chill in the September night air. After the dinner wagon left, in this case a panel-backed Land Rover, someone built a fire.
Jorge sat with the men who worked the cattle, but Dan didn’t feel left out. Jorge just seemed more comfortable speaking Spanish. Not that his English wasn’t perfect, it was. Probably educated in the States, Dan surmised. The right qualifications for being a ranch foreman this close to the border.
