“What is it?”
“It’s a revolving line of credit.”
Dawson nodded. “Line of credit mean that it can be tapped at will?”
Martinez nodded. “And repaid when necessary.”
“That means that my father had access to $20 million when he needed it.”
Martinez nodded. “We’re in the business of making loans, making things happen in this community. Look at Rancho la Peña. You’ve lived there. Well, things are being built. And the money was repaid as it came in. So, it’s listed as an asset.”
Dawson exhaled and pondered. “The bank was never worried?”
Crowell sighed and looked out the window. “Your father drew money from the line of credit to build. When the houses sold, he paid back what he’d taken out. We didn’t view the money as unsecured.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because of what?”
“Because there are a number of players there.”
“Like who?”
“Like the federal government.”
“You’re saying the federal government secured these loans?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What does that mean?”
“It means that there were people we could go to if things got bad.”
“Like in 2008 when the economy collapsed and people stopped buying houses?”
“Yes.”
“Like when my father and his wife Jacquelyn faced a mountain of debt.”
“Funny thing about that.”
“What?”
“When the federal government built the port of entry at Rancho la Peña, the liens against the property disappeared.”
“Millions of dollars’ worth?”
Crowell nodded.
“How?”
“The government can’t build on land that’s not free and clear of debt claims,” Crowell said. “The government was forced to pay off all of the recorded liens against Rancho la Peña so the port of entry could be built.”
“Like what?”
“The power company had a lien.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. They ran a trunk line into the development ten years ago. They claimed Rancho la Peña owed them $3 million.”
“Which he didn’t have.”
“Not that I know of. Then there was the state highway department. They built a highway in and out of Rancho la Peña. Another $5 million that was not paid.”
“How did he get away with that?”
“Your father had ties to a certain political figure.”
“Senator Micah Madsen.”
“Senator Madsen sponsored an amendment to the federal appropriation bill of 2009 to build the new port of entry at Rancho la Peña. It included money to pay off the debts.”
“That was generous of him.”
“Not really. Businessmen and ranchers on both sides of the border convinced Madsen that a new port of entry at Rancho la Peña was needed to bypass the congestion at the Juárez crossing into El Paso. The project fit in nicely with the long-term plan for Rancho la Peña. All of that commercial warehousing they were building needed to be filled.”
Dawson thought for a moment. It was an incredible deal for anyone involved in the ownership of Rancho la Peña. And Madsen had been the key to the creation of the port of entry. Dawson was already thinking about the drive north Santa Fe when he stood and thanked Crowell and Martinez for their time.
Martinez stood. “Lots of luck with your search.”
Chapter 24
Santa Fe, New Mexico
The late afternoon sun burst from behind puffy clouds that cast fast-moving shadows, spreading a bright, clear light across the soccer fields southwest of town. Thunderheads towered over the forested peaks of the nearby Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Dawson parked and stepped out. Cool September air swept down from the Jemez mountains. He scanned the parking lot and recognized his ex-wife’s car. He’d rightly guessed that he might find Carolyn and Erica at soccer practice.
He had some time before his dinner meeting, but even so, berated himself for not scheduling time to be with his children since he was back in town. But this trip was not about family. He was up against a deadline on a story that still didn’t understand. Too many loose ends. He was running out of time. He had walked away from a presidential campaign just as it was gathering like an ocean wave about to break. But his father had been killed, and his search for the killers was morphing. He could not afford any blind alleys, wrong turns. There was never enough time. Time for his kids. Time to eat. Time to exercise. Time to sleep. Time to research. Time to write. There was no time.
Dawson surveyed the fields. He spotted Carolyn with her hair blowing in the breeze. She stood at the sidelines, her arms crossed over her stomach, intently watching the practice.
He felt short of breath, weighted down suddenly, as he listened to cheers and shouts of encouragement from the moms and dads, the brothers and sisters, scattered at the field’s edge. It was a different world, a way of life he abandoned years ago. It had happened quickly. After he returned from a one-year contract as a crime reporter for the Los Angeles Times, Carolyn announced that she wanted a divorce.
The moment was burned into his brain. She’d been thinking about it for a long time, she said, and had decided their marriage was over. He sat there stunned, as if clubbed. He turned to her in shock and saw only Carolyn’s steely gaze. She was resolute. He later wondered if she’d had an affair. But he really didn’t want to know, he decided, because it didn’t matter. The marriage was over. He felt shattered. Drinking gave him nothing more than thumping headaches. He joined a Zen Buddhist meditation center and spent weekends sitting on cushions in complete silence, listening to his mind rage. He learned that acceptance was not defeat. He began to pick up the pieces. He accepted an offer from the Seattle Times, put his stuff in storage, packed a couple of suitcases, and hugged his kids goodbye.
Regret gurgled up inside while he watched the girls running around the soccer field, realizing how much of his children’s lives he’d missed. What did I do? He had no quick and easy answers, but he could tick off the reasons, like he’d done a dozen times before. Travel. Adventure. War. Career. The reasons now sounded like tired, old excuses. He felt like a stranger in a town that he had once called home. Now he felt like an extra in the movie of his life.
Tall and lithe, Erica played forward, skillfully guiding the ball down the field with careful, controlled kicks. A defender about Erica’s size came up to intercept. Erica did a stutter step, then kicked the ball past the defender, darting after it.
She again tapped it with the side of her foot and away from a center fielder, then from ten yards out, booted the ball toward the goal. The young goalie leapt, swatting at it with a gloved hand, but the ball bounced onto the ground and into the goal. Cheers erupted from Erica’s team.
The coach, a fit-looking woman with short, brown hair, blew the whistle loudly. “Good job, Erica. But you don’t need to do it all by yourself. You have teammates on either side of you. Use them!” The coach waved for the team to reassemble in the middle of the field and start again.
Dawson walked up behind Carolyn. “Erica’s pretty good.”
Carolyn turned suddenly, surprised at the sound of his voice. “What the hell?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“Are you lost?”
“You’re being rude. So I must be in the right place.”
“What brings you to town? Don’t you have some important story to cover?”
“Don’t you ever lighten up?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s tedious.”
“Tedious?”
Dawson shook his head. He didn’t feel like bickering. “So, Erica is captain. That’s commendable.”
“Co-captain, actually.” Carolyn turned back the field. “She feels like she needs to score all by herself. The coach is trying to
get her to pass off more.”
“I saw. But I can sympathize with Erica. Especially if the girls she has to pass to can’t do what she can do.”
“It’s a team sport.”
“The point is to score goals and win.”
“You’re Vince Lombardi now?”
He let the comment drop. “Where’s Brandon?”
“Boys league. We’re picking him up when Erica is done. I can’t be two places at once.”
“Is he going to try baseball this spring?”
“He could use some coaching.”
Dawson felt a stab of guilt in his gut. “I wish I could. I…I guess I wish for a lot of things.”
They turned back to the field where Erica again commandeered the ball and charged down the field. A defender approached. “Pass! Pass!” the coach yelled. This time the defender was quicker, intercepted Erica’s sidestep move, and slammed into her. Both fell to the ground and the ball rolled away, but it was kicked by another player as the play continued. Erica lay on the ground, rolled over, and kicked her legs in frustration. Carolyn darted onto the field as the coach blew the whistle.
Carolyn put an arm around Erica, who held her elbow as Carolyn helped her off the field. Erica saw Dawson and paused. “Dad? What are you doing here?”
“I’m in town. Thought I’d come see you practice. You okay?”
Erica shrugged. “My elbow hurts.”
“Good thing it wasn’t your knee.”
Erica nodded. “I guess.”
“Here, let me see,” Dawson said. Erica lifted her elbow enough for him to take it in his hand. It was red but wasn’t yet swelling. “Can you move it?”
Erica nodded and grimaced, slowly straightening her arm and bending it back.
“You’ll be okay. Put ice on it when you get back to the house.”
“Okay.” Erica massaged her elbow. “How long you going to be in town?”
Dawson frowned. “Not long, I’m afraid.”
Erica’s face fell in disappointment.
Dawson put a hand on her shoulder. “You know your grandfather was killed. Murdered, actually.”
Erica looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m trying to find out what happened and why.”
“Aren’t the police doing that?”
“Yes, but…”
Erica looked at him, waiting. “But…?”
“It’s complicated. I need to figure some things out, and I need to do it quickly.”
“Are you coming to the house for dinner?”
“Not this time, sweetheart. I have a dinner meeting in a couple of hours. Next time. I promise.”
Erica shook her head and faced the field.
Shit. Dawson wanted to reach out, take her in his arms, and hold her tight, tell her he would be there for her forever. “Take care, Erica,” he said. “Put some ice on that elbow.” He turned and walked away, his stomach churning.
Chapter 25
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Thick, orange light flooded San Francisco Street and burnished the truncated stone towers of St. Francis Cathedral. Dawson strode along the sidewalk below the watchful eyes of the bronze Bishop Lamy, the man who had never finished his cathedral in the desert.
He crossed the street and hurried between the blue posts of the overhanging portal and through the open archway into a courtyard of foliage and towering trees. He searched the flagstone patio filled with diners seated at glass-topped wrought-iron tables.
Jaime Casados was an attorney who had worked with Madsen when the senator was the New Mexico attorney general. Not long after he’d left Santa Fe, Dawson had lost touch with Casados. They’d reconnected on social media recently and agreed to meet for dinner. Casados was now with the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
Already seated, Casados stared intently at his smartphone, tapping in a text message. He was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, and he still dressed well, looking lawyerly in a charcoal gray suit, crisp blue shirt, and patterned tie that hung loosely at the collar. Dawson felt like a slob in in boots, jeans, and corduroy coat. But unlike attorneys, journalists could get away with casual. It was just part of the job.
As Dawson stood at the table, Casados looked up, smiled, and extended his hand.
“Long time no see,” Casados said, motioning to a waiter. “What are you drinking these days?”
Dawson took a seat. “A margarita would do me just fine.”
Casados leveled his gaze. “You’ve been some places and done some things since we last met.”
Dawson felt his face flush. “Yeah, well. It feels good to be back in Santa Fe. This place can grow on you.”
“Hometown boy makes good.”
“Got lucky, I guess.” Modesty was the best policy, he thought. It was a practice that had often confounded people he’d met in third-world cultures where braggadocio and displays of wealth and power were not only the norm, but expected.
“It was more than luck. You’ve got some real talent.”
He’d forgotten about Casados’ modus operandi—pump people up and glaze them over. Dawson smiled to himself. He’d also employed that technique a few times. “You’ve got to be in the right place at the right time if you want to get a decent story.”
The waiter put their drinks on the table, then took their orders. Casados turned back to Dawson. “Life must be boring now that you’re back from the war zones.”
“I’ve been on the campaign trail following your former boss.”
“Madsen was in El Paso recently, I believe, speaking at your father’s funeral.”
Dawson nodded. “He’s in California now.”
“So, what are you doing in Santa Fe?”
“Looking into my father’s death.”
“A terrible tragedy. Disgusting, actually,” Casados said. “What have you found?”
Dawson frowned and shook his head. “A lot of loose ends. I don’t know which thread to pull first.”
“With that much land on the border, well, I would think the cartels…”
“Of course. But why would a cartel want to kill my father? That’s what I don’t understand. He was land developer, not a drug dealer.”
“What are you going to do?”
“His death had something to do with Rancho la Peña. That much is clear, since there’s no other explanation.” Dawson sipped from his margarita. “I met with my father’s banker yesterday.”
“How did that go?”
“My father had a $20 million line of credit. That’s how the entire project was financed.”
Casados nodded and a thin smile came across his lips. “That’s another reason to suspect the cartels.”
“Why’s that?”
“Funny thing about lines of credit. The transactions aren’t covered by federal reporting requirements. The drug cartels love them.”
Dawson sat back, confused by Casados’s words. Then it came to him. “That means they can move huge amounts of money in and out of the bank, but the bank doesn’t need to report the transactions?”
“Exactly.” Casados smiled broadly. “They can put $5 million in one day, and take it out two days later.”
“Perfect for major drug deals.” Dawson stared, considering the implications. “That means you guys have been looking at this stuff, probably for a long time.”
Casados didn’t answer immediately, then shrugged.
“That’s interesting,” Dawson said. “I’m in town because I’d like to know how my father ended up with those twenty thousand acres on the border in the first place.”
“There’s something you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“A couple of months ago, your father contacted our office.”
Dawson sat upright, his mind racing. “About what?”
Casados shrugged. “I didn’t take the call.”
“Who did? What did he want?”
Casados smiled and lifted his hands. “Don’t get so jumpy. I just know he contacted u
s. I don’t know about what or if there was any follow-up. Let me get back to you. Okay?”
Dawson’s heart sank. Why would Sam call the U.S. Attorney’s Office? Why no follow-up? He stared at Casados, wondering about his old friend. He was sure that Casados knew what Sam had called about, but couldn’t divulge it until he cleared it with his boss.
“That would be helpful,” Dawson said. “Let me know what you find out. I can’t imagine why my father would call your office.” He fell silent. Unless Sam had something to trade, like information. But trade for what?
Casados nodded. “I will.”
Chapter 26
Santa Fe, New Mexico
The brown stucco building was marked with a sign that welcomed him to the Bureau of Land Management’s Public Lands Information Center. Inside Dawson asked the uniformed woman where to review land documents.
She pointed to tiled steps, which he scaled, then pushed open a heavy metal door and stopped at the first room. “I’m researching BLM land sales,” he said, handing an elderly woman his card. She took his card, and after a long moment, lifted her head and frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”
Dawson didn’t respond as he met her stare.
“What are you interested in?” the woman asked.
“The Rancho la Peña grant in southern New Mexico.”
“It’s a big file.”
Dawson shrugged.
She sighed. “I need to get approval.” She picked up a desk phone, and after explaining Dawson’s request, she hung up, pushed her chair back from the desk, and stood. “Come with me.”
Dawson followed her down the corridor to a door marked “Director,” which she pushed open, revealing a gaunt man with a sunken chest and an ashen face, made even more ghostly by the fluorescent light. He wore an open-collar polo shirt under a drab, brown sport coat. He looked up through glasses and motioned for Dawson to sit. “You’re interested in the Rancho la Peña file?”
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