Such was the custom of those distant times that this considerable territory became a virtual fiefdom under his direct control, one that included not only tenure of the land and all its many resources, but also whatever produce and free labor he chose to garner at will from the Indian inhabitants in its few scattered, native villages. Most propitious to him, this all-encompassing grant could be legally bequeathed in perpetuity to his descendants from one generation to the next.
Needless to say, this couldn’t—and didn’t—continue into the modern era.
The slow passage of centuries took its toll.
With the rise of Mexican nationalism and democratic freedoms, the original composition of this once enormous estate saw gradual, yet substantial, reductions in both territory and fortune—and when Mexico finally achieved full independence from Spain and other interventionist foreign powers, it seemed by all rights that the estancia’s archaic origins alone should’ve long since doomed it to dissolution.
That this never fully occurred, however, was due solely to the wisdom and ambition of successive Ruiz caretakers—all beginning in the first half of the 19th century when the then head of the family felt motivated to somehow forestall what he perceived as being inevitable ruination. Unlike his shortsighted predecessors, who were content to leave things as they existed, he saw a dark cloud looming in the not-too-distant future and felt duty-bound to address the problem before it became totally unmanageable.
What was needed was a long-term strategy.
But how was one to tackle the dilemma of being on the wrong side of history?
Whether it was from an innate genius on his part—or simply the result of many thoughtful days studying the problem—he eventually came up with an aggressive plan of action to hopefully forestall disaster. Out of necessity, he understood it would require a lengthy period of trial and error, yet he was confident of being on the right track.
More a nebulous philosophy rather than a fixed diagram for success, its overriding principle was the paramount need for his family to establish a system of powerful friendships and connections throughout Mexico . . . something his complaisant forbearers had always disdained to do. It would entail considerable study and cunning, but his goal was to develop substantial influence with all those wielding real power.
Fortunately, he lived long enough to see his first efforts begin to reap positive benefits—enough so that his immediate heirs quickly took it upon themselves to adhere to his example. Though a proud and arrogant lot, they were yet sufficiently intelligent to appreciate its evident benefits.
The present head of the Ruiz dynasty reflected on these things as he sat in the quiet solitude of his ground-floor study. Being an avid historian as regards to his own lineage, he credited his great-great-grandfather for preserving much of his inherited holdings.
And rightly so, he thought, for it was upon that insightful stratagem that his descendants had built upon over the ensuing years, each in turn seeking out long-term opportunities wherever and whenever they arose. Today all of these shrewd and far-reaching entanglements—including marriage into prominent families, intricate political alliances, and judiciously layered investments in both natural resource development and manufacturing—now placed the family in a virtually unassailable position of security.
Yet as satisfying as these past accomplishments were, Ruiz still wanted far more for his family. Much, much more, in fact, for his future ambitions had hardly been scratched. Now he believed himself on the threshold of finally seeing his grandiose vision fully realized. Not having the enormous financial wherewithal required to make this next leap forward was no longer a valid consideration—for a prodigious treasure virtually beyond imagining was unequivocally his to exploit.
All that remained now was careful planning and execution.
Centered in the oldest section of the original Hacienda, Ruiz’s spacious study was richly paneled in its original, dark mahogany, the sturdy antique desk and furnishings likewise unchanged from centuries past. This was his private retreat. Here he could always count on being left undisturbed, for both his family and the servants had long since learned to respect his regular need for contemplative isolation. As always, he found the relative silence this provided to be conducive to his thought processes.
Pleasantly enough, this intentional quiet also extended beyond his study, continuing out through the open, louvered doors onto his sunlit courtyard paved in smooth stone. The balmy air of midday that wafted in was replete with the scent of jasmine and blooming flowers—plus the fragrance of several ornamental lemon trees that were clearly thriving between the wide arches of the bricked colonnade surrounding his out-of-the-way location. Due to the unusual spring warmth, the latter were already globed in green fruit, promising a bountiful year.
All of which was owed to the patient diligence of his wife.
To be truthful, Ruiz seldom devoted much thought to Isabella’s gardening activities and domestic hobbies. Certainly never on a routine basis. Not only had they long since grown apart, but also his overall assessment of women was such that what little consideration he did give to their gender was always fleeting and unfocused. In his long-held opinion, the need to do any more than this was usually unwarranted. They had their purposes, he acknowledged, but once beyond childbearing years their value rapidly diminished in significance.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Isabella in his way.
How could he not?
Seven years younger than him at the time of their marriage, she’d dutifully delivered his son and heir, Miguel, a boy of immense promise just now turned thirteen and presently enrolled in a private prep-school in the U.S. What more could he have possibly asked from her? Despite his low estimation of her intellectual capacity, he yet knew her to be both socially adept and piously devoted to the household.
Thus he continued to show Isabella the greatest respect.
While musing on this aspect of his life, Ruiz’s thoughts briefly touched on the one person who seemed to contradict his collective view of women. His recently widowed younger sister, Camilla, now currently residing in San Antonio along with her two young children, had always struck him as perhaps a singular exception to his otherwise fixed beliefs. However, this was an assessment he found difficult to make. Due to the lengthy gulf in their ages—her being younger than him by a full twenty years—he’d yet to formulate a final opinion. What few private conversations they shared since her childhood had always brief in nature and proven inconclusive, not truly telling of her abilities one way or the other.
But appeasing his mild curiosity held no urgency.
He’d far more important things to occupy his mind.
Ruiz was quite satisfied with the expeditious removal of Patch four days before. By all accounts, the sheriff’s sudden death was viewed as an unfortunate occurrence—and, more importantly, as one resulting from entirely natural causes. This was key. Not even the big man’s closest acquaintances could dispute the fact that Patch had been a walking heart attack just waiting to happen. In addition, he thought the place and tawdry circumstances of his demise only served as reinforcement. It was the classic scenario of an older man falling victim to his own excesses.
What other conclusion could anyone draw?
In Ruiz’s estimation, Marino had performed his latest mission flawlessly. But he’d come to expect nothing less from his long-time subordinate. After a five-year association—one that saw all the complex groundwork finally put in place for them to now safely exploit the great discovery—he was well past having doubts of his henchman’s abilities. In truth, he couldn’t imagine selecting anyone more dedicated or capable to assist him in this grand endeavor. Now all of their meticulous planning had at last come to fruition.
Though Marino also stood to reap a considerable fortune for his efforts and loyalty, it was Ruiz who would ultimately garner the lion’s share, which was only proper since it was he alone who made the initial find.
It had basically evolved
out of a most fortuitous accident.
Six years earlier, he’d taken it upon himself to read through all of the many archives so assiduously boxed and stored in his family library. Suspecting he was probably the only one in modern times who ever made this effort, he soon became fascinated by the historical contents of the material. It was only when reaching the records of Alejandro’s grandson that he suddenly realized the enormity of what was being revealed to him—which was nothing less than the probable existence of an ancient gold hoard of incalculable value.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Enid, Texas. Two days Later.
It was 5:15pm local time as David swung his rented Ford Edge SUV into the entrance of the Clarion Hotel on the southern fringe of Enid. Located off the main highway going north, the city had a posted population of fewer than 17,000—somewhat smaller than he expected to find. Though there were probably more sumptuous accommodations to be had, he figured this would suit him fine for the time being. The duration of his stay was as yet undetermined. Like his return flights, everything was completely open-ended.
The hotel appeared to be nothing special, but this was as he wanted. Though the two-hour drive up from Del Rio International Airport had been relatively pleasant, his long day had begun before dawn. Now the only immediate thing on his agenda was a relaxing evening spent organizing his thoughts and getting his bearings.
After checking himself in, he picked up the Enid weekly newspaper dated four days earlier and a city map for later perusal. While doing so he noted what appeared a passable restaurant and breakfast bar situated just off the front lobby. Also, there was an unpretentious pool visible through the tinted glass doors, one already fast filling up with travel-weary children. The hotel’s main clientele was clearly comprised of families merely stopping for the night on the way to other—and doubtless more interesting—destinations.
He was given a suite on the second floor, where he immediately ordered up a pot of coffee from room service and began unpacking.
When it arrived, he poured himself a cup and spent several minutes standing on his balcony, gazing out at the unremarkable landscape. The pale blue sky was almost entirely empty of clouds, the afternoon warmth rapidly dissipating under a light breeze. He knew this particular section of Texas was relatively flat and dry, the only indication of a change in topography being a barely visible line of hills rising off to the west; at most, thirty miles away if his geography was correct. Beyond it was the Rio Grande River defining the border with Mexico—which again brought to mind his sole reason for being here. It was in that area where Peter’s mutilated body was found.
This gloomy thought drew him back inside.
It was too early to phone Elizabeth, and likewise too soon to sample the restaurant’s fare. With a few hours to kill, he adjusted the air-conditioner and closed the drapes leading onto the balcony; then stretched out on the bed with the Enid Times and began casually leafing through it. No surprise, it offered little beyond a few articles of purely local interest. Certainly nothing to catch and hold his attention—that is until he came to the last page reserved for obituaries and memorials.
So casual was his initial glance that he almost missed it.
What the—?
He bolted upright and swung his legs off the bed, reading through the death notice twice with disbelieving eyes. According to the obituary, it was ‘with deep regret’ that the paper announced the passing of Enid’s lifelong resident and longtime Sheriff, P.T. (Patch) O’Malley, who died suddenly in the early hours of Saturday at the age of sixty-four. Predeceased by his wife a decade earlier, he left no children. Beyond this, no hard information was offered. His funeral was set to take place at St. Vincent’s Church on Tuesday morning, the thirtieth of April.
Yesterday!
Stunned at this surprising development, he set the paper aside, now wondering what ramifications this would have on his investigation. This changed everything!
After a brief period of pacing and mental debate, he picked up the city map and again glanced at his wristwatch. It was now 5:45—probably past regular business hours. Hell, he thought, grabbing his briefcase and keys. Why wait until morning?
The Enid Municipal Sheriff’s Department occupied a two-story, brick building similar to a dozen others along the main street—not exactly of recent construction, but seemingly well maintained and functional. Interestingly enough, the exteriors of all of the adjoining buildings were similar, which somehow struck David as vaguely reminiscent of the old movie set from The Last Picture Show.
He parked out front beside a late model pick-up truck and walked inside.
The glass security doors took him into an open area that at first glance appeared empty. Whoever normally occupied what apparently served as the reception desk was at the moment nowhere to be seen.
“May I help you?”
David turned to see a uniformed man now standing up inside a modest, open sided office cubicle.
“I hope so,” responded David.
He stepped over and introduced himself.
Extending his hand to the broad shouldered officer, he felt the natural strength behind the return handshake. Dark-complexioned and shorter than David by a few inches, the man’s rugged facial features and closely cropped black hair indicated at least a partial Hispanic background. As for age, it was difficult to judge. A best guess was somewhere in his middle thirties.
“Are you the senior officer here?”
“Well,” the man replied with a tight-lipped smile, “let’s say for the time-being, at least. I’m Deputy Sheriff Russell Torres. And just what is it I can do for you?”
“This should best explain,” said David as he produced an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it over. It contained a typed sheet given to him by Richard Andrews on his personal stationary. To facilitate its acceptance—and desired purpose—their signatures were both witnessed and officially notarized with a raised seal. He studied the officer’s expression as the man silently read through it, looking for any sort of negative reaction. None was forthcoming. If the document alarmed him in any way, his face gave no indication.
After a thoughtful nod, Torres said, “Yes, a recent case. But before we go any further, Mr. Manning, I’ll also require some personal I.D.—only to verify your signature, understand. Your driver’s license will suffice.”
As David obliged, a heavy-set woman in her late fifties returned to the reception desk from a back room, a stack of folders cradled in her arms.
“Russ, these should really be looked over sometime in the next few—” She stopped, only now realizing he wasn’t alone. “Oh, I didn’t know you were with someone.” She paused for a second. “Tell you what, maybe I should set up Ryan with these anyway. New as he is, it’ll give him a chance to begin familiarizing himself with our office procedures.”
Torres nodded agreement.
“There’s still coffee in the pot if either of you wish to—”
“Nothing for me, Marge. Unless—”
David shook his head.
“I guess we’ll both pass. However, I’ll need a few copies run off before you leave, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a problem,” she replied pleasantly. “I’m here for another half hour.”
Torres passed her the sheet and David’s drivers license.
“Three of this, plus one of the license should do it,” he said. His eyes then shifted to the cluttered metal desk in his cramped cubicle. After only a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Once you have them, put a copy of each in the Peter Conner file and bring the rest to me in Patch’s office. I suspect this could take a spell, so I think Mr. Manning and I might as well get comfortable.”
Though the woman’s eyes noticeably narrowed in disapproval at his decision, he left her no opportunity to object, instead directing David into what was obviously the former abode of the late Sheriff. As offices went, it bordered on being huge. Torres then closed the door firmly behind them—something that didn’t escape David
’s notice—and gestured toward two, padded leather chairs facing a sizable oak desk.
“Have a seat.”
David did so as Torres occupied the sheriff’s equally impressive chair.
“You’ll have to excuse Marge,” he then said. “She’s—how shall I say—under an understandable amount of stress. Her loyalty to Patch goes back close to thirty years when he first hired her to manage the office. To say she’s highly protective of anything pertaining to him would be an understatement.”
“I can well imagine.”
“For good or ill, the only thing keeping her going of late is her desire to help the new man, Deputy Hadley, get settled in and up to speed.” He suppressed a smile. “It helps that Ryan is also her nephew.”
David chose not to comment.
“This said, Mr. Manning, am I to assume that you’re a private detective of some sort hired by Mr. Andrews to investigate his grandson’s death?” He lifted his hands in speculation. “A lawyer perhaps?”
“Neither. Just a close friend of many years. Not only with him, but also with Peter Conner.”
“I see. Only curious, but exactly what is it you do for a living? Something in a related field?”
“Not hardly. I’m a professor of archaeology.”
“You don’t say?” Torres sat back in his chair. “Forgive me, but is there some sort of correlation here that I’m missing?”
David saw he’d have to clear up the officer’s growing confusion before they could progress any further. Something he should’ve anticipated.
Thus he spent the next several minutes explaining his long relationship with Richard Andrews. By choice, he included nothing more detailed than what he felt necessary, yet enough to justify his commitment to learning all he could about Peter’s death.
It was encouraging to him that Torres appeared genuinely interested in not only this, but also in the copies David then retrieved from his briefcase showing what scant information Richard had received from Enid’s police department. If anything, after reading through the latter he now looked authentically perplexed.
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