Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  He asked Kerney what he could do for him.

  “You’re the only delinquent I know who has a doctorate in archaeology, runs a history museum, and owes me a favor,” Kerney replied.

  “I’m rehabilitated,” Leonard countered. “Anyway, there isn’t enough cow shit left in Santa Fe County to cover all the boutiques, galleries, and tourist shops. What can I do for you?”

  He handed Leonard the inventory. “Take a look at this.”

  Kerney watched Leonard’s eyes widen as he read through the list. “Is this real?”

  “Yes.”

  He read the list again while Kerney waited. Garcia had red hair and classic Castilian features. He could trace his family roots in Santa Fe to the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico.

  He tapped his finger against the papers. “This is a major find. One any curator would give his eyeteeth to acquire. If it was purchased intact, I could get the museum foundation to build a new wing to house it.”

  “How much would you be willing to pay?”

  Leonard studied the list again. “On the open market, who knows? It would be a bidding war. If I had an exclusive option, I’d offer three million dollars and probably go as high as four. Maybe more.”

  “And if the collection was sold piecemeal?” Kerney ventured.

  “It would take longer to dispose of it, but you could make even more profit. Add another million,” Leonard answered. “Everything on the list has value. Especially now that anything to do with the frontier west is such a hot commodity among collectors. For example, the letters from Grant and Sherman to General Howard: it’s correspondence about Grant’s peace policy regarding the Indians. Howard was a crusty, one-armed, pious son of a bitch who served with Grant in the Civil War. His men called him the praying general. Grant made him a presidential emissary. Any presidential correspondence of historical significance commands top dollar. Those letters are even more valuable because they fill in some gaps. Historians would kill to have them. I wouldn’t sneeze at the Sherman letters, either. He ranks right up there as an important American personality of the time. The letters alone could bring hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “Thanks, Leonard.” Kerney reached across the desk and retrieved the list.

  “I’d love to have an opportunity to make an offer. Do you know who the buyer is?”

  “Not yet,” Kerney replied. “Any ideas where I should look?”

  “It depends on the type of buyer. I’m assuming this isn’t kosher.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Garcia gazed at the ceiling. “Unfortunately, it isn’t that hard to find unscrupulous dealers. If I was in the market to sell something illegally, I’d lower the risk and ship the merchandise out of the country. Western Americana is a hot item among collectors in the Far East and Europe. Especially the Japanese and Germans. They couldn’t beat us in the war, but they sure can outbid us in the marketplace.”

  “Would that be likely?”

  Leonard nodded. “With the quantity and quality of the list, I would say it’s very likely. The megabucks are overseas, and once the items are on foreign soil, the chances of getting caught are almost nil.”

  “Could an average citizen pull it off?”

  “I don’t think so. Not without a broker. There are too many complexities to deal with. If your crook isn’t an expert in the field, he’s going to have to split the profits with somebody who has the right contacts.”

  EDDIE TAPIA felt right at home on the Juárez strip. The gaudy, hot colors of the buildings, the rawness of the streets, the carnival atmosphere of the hustlers, whores, and street urchins, and the smells from the street vendors hawking food to pedestrians combined into one loud pulse of Mexican life. The streets were crowded with drivers playing a mad game of bumper cars. Shills made bilingual pitches along sidewalks, selling fake designer watches and gold jewelry that would turn green within a week. Bars cranked out loud Tex-Mex music to attract attention. The hookers wore dresses that stopped at the ass and pranced around in their spiked heels and cowboy boots working the streets. Open stalls in alleys displayed velvet paintings of Elvis, cheap sombreros, and piñatas.

  Tapia soaked it all up. The first twelve years of his life he’d grown up in Mexican border towns along the Rio Grande. From Matamoros on the Gulf to Piedras Negras, he moved with his family from job to job. His father, who rebuilt generators, particularly those for prized American-made cars, could always find work. Still, it was necessary for Eddie and his brothers to make money. At the age of five, he became a beggar’s apprentice, working for his Uncle Adolfo.

  Every day Uncle Adolfo put on a harness with a padded hump and transformed himself into a jorobado—a hunchback. To Mexicans the jorobado brought luck. Gamblers, whores, housewives—even the priests—would touch Adolfo’s hump for luck and give him money for the privilege. Eddie shilled and sold talisman jewelry.

  After putting Isabel and the baby on a bus to Brownsville, Eddie had purchased all the material needed for his transformation: soft cowhide, which must feel like skin under his shirt; padding, which had to be firm yet pliable; a harness to round his shoulders; and finally the clothes of a beggar. He crossed the bridge into Juárez as a hunchback. Neither his wife nor Captain Brannon would have recognized him.

  Finding Petty Officer Yardman’s trail hadn’t been all that difficult. Concentrating on the GI hangouts and clip joints, Tapia quickly learned that Yardman had won a considerable amount of money and had stayed in Juárez for over a month. His winning streak was remembered by the dealers in the clubs he favored. There was talk that when he started losing, Yardman borrowed heavily to keep gambling, before dropping out of sight. Some people thought he was still in Juárez, hiding from a loan shark, while others reported he’d left town. If he was still around, nobody knew where.

  After a long night, Eddie left the strip and walked through a working-class neighborhood. The casitas were small and packed tightly together along the street, but the sidewalks were clean and the houses well cared for. There were no whores, hustlers, or junkies in sight. He came to a small plaza with a gingerbread bandstand in the center, a wrought-iron fence around the square, and tall shade trees. He sat by the gate of an old hacienda with high, whitewashed adobe walls and watched the morning parishioners on their way to early mass. The church, with two tall spires and a bell tower, also painted white, gave the neighborhood a small-town feeling. Opposite the church, the largest building fronting the plaza was a converted general store that had been turned into a nightclub, restaurant, and gambling parlor. Lettered in Spanish on the door was the name of the establishment: the Little Turtle. It was open for business, and morning customers—mostly locals on their way to work—ducked in for a quick roll of the dice, a cup of coffee, or breakfast.

  It was a relief to get off his feet. Eddie’s muscles ached, and the straps around his shoulders had rubbed the skin raw. He wanted a shower, with lots of hot water and clean, dry towels. It would have to wait. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and checked the grime under his fingernails.

  Next to the gambling house was a boarded-up cantina. The two front windows were covered with plywood. On the sidewalk, padlocked to a streetlight, was a homemade food cart. It had automobile tires for wheels, a tin awning supported by metal brackets, and a screaming-pink paint job.

  A stern voice interrupted Eddie’s preoccupation. “Move on, jorobado. You cannot beg here.”

  The policeman standing over Eddie had small eyes above full cheeks, thick jowls, and a head much too big for his body. A pencil-thin mustache under a fat nose drew attention to his crooked teeth.

  Eddie smiled, reached into his pocket for some bills, and held out his hand. “Perhaps you would allow me to stay.”

  The cop took the mordida. With the bribe transacted, he smiled at Eddie. “What is your name?”

  “Eddie.”

  “I am Dominguez.” The cop was burly, broad-chested, and had a huge gut. “You will not make much money this time of day.”

/>   “No matter,” Eddie replied. “I will rest for a while and be on my way.”

  Dominguez nodded and rubbed Eddie’s hump for luck. “Don’t stay too long,” he warned, before lumbering away in the direction of the gambling house.

  Eddie watched Dominguez enter the nightclub. The door to the adjacent cantina opened and a man in a white apron hurried out carrying trays of food. He was a fair-skinned, blond gringo with a full beard that hid his face. Yardman was blond and the same size as the man in the apron. The man placed the trays in the cart and went back into the cantina. Soon a street vendor emerged, opened a compartment at the rear of the cart, and put a box inside. Then he removed the padlock and pushed the cart down the street.

  During the next half hour, carts arrived at the cantina on a regular basis and the same routine occurred. The gringo brought the food, and the vendors stowed boxes in a compartment of each cart. To Eddie, it looked like the cantina was used to distribute more than just tacos to sell on the streets. He decided to get a closer look. He crossed the plaza, sat on the curb, and watched the next group of vendors. They stocked the carts with bags of marijuana and cocaine.

  “Get out of here, pendejo.” The gringo was behind him. As Eddie hurried to his feet, the gringo kicked him in the butt and shoved him off the curb into the street, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. Keeping his temper, Eddie shuffled away, convinced the gringo wasn’t Yardman. He decided to move on, find a telephone, and report in to Captain Brannon.

  Dominguez stopped him as he crossed the square. “Did you have a problem with the gringo junkie?”

  “Who?”

  “Duffy. I saw him kick and push you.” Dominguez shook his head. “That was wrong of him to do. I will tell Señor DeLeon.”

  “Señor DeLeon?”

  “A very important man. Well connected. He owns the Little Turtle.”

  “Does he also own the cantina?”

  “Of course. It is one of his businesses.”

  “There is no need for you to tell the señor,” Eddie replied.

  “You are wrong, my friend. If I do not tell him, someone else will, and I could lose a mordida I have come to depend on.” Dominguez stopped at the corner. “Will you come back?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I will look for you.”

  “I welcome your protection,” Eddie said.

  TOM CURRY sat at the conference table with Sara and an FBI agent named Johnson, a dour man with thin lips and a long, serious face, matched by a lanky frame. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie.

  “Who found the body?” Johnson asked, tapping the tip of his pen on the desktop, prepared to take notes.

  “An MP on patrol,” Sara answered. “He found tire tracks in a restricted area and followed them. Specialist Yazzi’s body was in a cave, wrapped in a tarp. The back of his head was crushed. Possibly by a rock or some other blunt object. From the appearance of the body, Yazzi has been dead for some time. We have the area cordoned off.”

  Johnson wrote a note and looked at his wristwatch. “My people should be landing there right about now,” he said. “Was anything found with the body?”

  “A sketchbook, his dog tags, and his wallet,” Sara replied. “Nothing else.”

  “I’ll need those,” Johnson said.

  Sara slid a manila envelope across the table.

  Agent Johnson picked it up and set it next to his elbow. “Was there any indication that Yazzi was killed elsewhere and his body moved to the cave?” Johnson inquired.

  “None that we could find,” Sara answered.

  “Weapon?” Johnson asked.

  “We didn’t find one.”

  “Suspects?” he inquired dryly.

  “One possible,” Sara noted. “There was a vehicle accident in Rhodes Canyon yesterday. A state Game and Fish officer, Eppi Gutierrez, was killed by a rockslide. He had been staying at an old ranch that’s used by wildlife and conservation officers when they’re on the range. It’s approximately ten miles from where Yazzi’s body was found.”

  Johnson smirked. “A dead suspect isn’t much good. What do you know about Gutierrez?”

  “The usual background information,” Sara answered. “He was a wildlife manager. Single. Never married. No military experience. No police record. No traffic tickets in the last five years. He held a degree in biology from New Mexico Highlands University. Started working for Game and Fish right after college. Had slightly over ten years on the job with steady promotions. I’ve ordered a deeper background check on him.”

  “Was anything found in the vehicle?” Johnson asked, writing in his notebook.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Sara replied. “His pickup is buried in rock from the slide. The site is under guard with instructions to leave everything as is until further orders. I’d like you and your people to look at it, if that’s possible.”

  Johnson nodded and closed his notebook. “Be glad to.”

  “Excellent,” Major Curry responded, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “Do you have any more questions, Agent Johnson?” Curry’s eyebrows were almost an invisible white against his pale complexion, which made his eyes seem huge behind the reading glasses. There was no humor in his gaze.

  Johnson shook his head. “Not right now.”

  Curry stood up. “Keep Captain Brannon informed.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Johnson said, rising and reaching across the table to shake hands with the officers. As the door closed behind him, the smile dropped off Tom Curry’s face.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Captain?” Curry demanded, yanking off his glasses and leaning across the table.

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me, Sara.” He waved his glasses at her. “I read the dispatcher reports every day, just like you do. Gutierrez’s radio had the same locator chip that every MP unit on the base carries. I know exactly where you were when you called and left that message for Sheriff Baca.”

  She felt his rebuke like a slap across her face. “Sir,” she said weakly.

  “You found that goddamn body. Do you know how serious it is for an officer to falsify official reports and order subordinates to lie for them?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” She was numbed by Curry’s criticism. He had every right to slam her.

  “Will your people stick to the line of bullshit you fed to Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir, they will.”

  Tom got up from the conference table, walked to his desk, lowered himself into his chair, and stared at Sara across the room. “I want to know why you did this.”

  She told him about the burglary, her conversation with PFC Tony, the phone call to Sergeant Steiner, and her suspicions about Meehan’s involvement.

  Curry’s look didn’t soften. “You would jeopardize your career because of some stupid rivalry with Jim Meehan, who doesn’t have to operate by the rules? There’d better be more to this fuckup than that. Tell me exactly what happened at Big Mesa and Rhodes Canyon.”

  Sara collected her thoughts. “I can tell you how we found the body. Or I could start with Gutierrez’s attempt to kill us.” She paused. “But perhaps the major would like to hear about the two thousand gold and silver coins and the letters from President Grant we found.”

  Incredulity spread across Tom Curry’s face. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stuffing the glasses into his shirt pocket. “Start at the beginning. And just who in the hell is we?”

  “HE HAD EVERY RIGHT to jump down my throat,” Sara concluded. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it and twisted her class ring.

  Kerney sat at the far end of Sara’s couch, legs extended, feet crossed. His cowboy hat rested on the cushion, still dusty and slightly mangled-looking. He wore a collarless maroon pullover shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of blue jeans. Sara wondered if he owned anything but jeans. The shirt accentuated Kerney’s well-formed upper body.

  “I’m glad to see you’re not feeling sorry for yourself.” Gutierre
z’s inventory was in his shirt pocket, yet to be revealed.

  “Don’t be snide.”

  Kerney blinked in surprise at Sara’s reaction. “I meant it as a compliment. What did Curry say?”

  “I think my report dampened his enthusiasm to have me cashiered. I got off with an unofficial reprimand.”

  “Are you off the case?”

  In the act of taking a sip of her wine, Sara pulled the glass away from her lips. “Um, no. Officially, the FBI has the ball. A special agent by the name of Johnson is heading up the investigation. Did you find anything in Santa Fe?”

  Kerney grinned, took out the inventory, and waved it at her. “Gutierrez mailed an interesting letter to himself. Care to guess what was in it?”

  “Don’t give me a hard time.” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Come on, fork it over.”

  Minutes passed after Kerney gave her the inventory before she peered at him over the edge of the paper. “This is incredible.”

  “Three to four million dollars’ worth of incredible,” he replied. “I had an expert give me a rough estimate. There’s more. I stopped at the historical museum in Truth or Consequences. They have archival material on the history of Fort McRae, a post that operated on the north end of the Jornada during the Indian Wars. According to the records, in the spring of 1873 a detachment left the fort with military supplies bound for Fort Stanton. The convoy was attacked as it entered the Tularosa Valley. Eight soldiers were killed, along with three scouts, and all the mules and horses were stolen.”

  Sara waited for Kerney to continue. He didn’t. She prodded him. “Is that all?”