The Emperor's Treasure

by Daniel Leston

  “Hard not to. Somewhat surprising considering his position in town—unless, of course, it was intentional.” He paused, waiting a long moment. “Was it?”

  The officer appeared to weigh the question before replying.

  “Sooner or later you’re going to start hearing wild rumors of what happened that night at Angie’s Desert Bar where he died, so you might just as well get the facts from me. Truth be told, it was more of an embarrassment for the town and department than anything else. Understand that it wasn’t my intention to withhold information from you, but since you never asked I simply didn’t see that it was in any way pertinent to your investigation.”

  “Fair enough, I suppose. Yet I’d like to know.”

  Torres acquiesced, calmly laying out a story filled with lurid details. While doing so, he kept his eyes on the road and monitored the trip odometer.

  He finally concluded by saying, “I’m no expert, but even I pegged it as a sudden coronary event. I had Doc Farbie called out, of course, who confirmed it while I questioned the bar’s owner, Angie.”

  “Coronary event meaning basically a heart attack?”

  Torres nodded.

  “According to Doc, he was a walking heart attack waiting to happen. He’d been warned about his weight and blood pressure for years. From the physical position of his body—plus his exposed state of undress—it was obvious what was taking place when it hit him. Angie was close to hysterical, as you can imagine, and admitted their weekly dalliances. It had been going on for several years, a long-standing arrangement.”

  “Angie was a prostitute?”

  “No, at least not in the traditional sense. She was quite adamant that he never gave money for her services and she never asked. I questioned several of the bar’s regular clientele, and they all said that selling sex was never a part of her business. However, the infrequent holding of illegal gambling parties in her back office was another matter entirely.”

  “Something Patch chose to ignore, I take it.”

  “Apparently so . . . plus also overlooking various other complaints and minor infractions incurred by her establishment.”

  “I see.”

  David was definitely forming an unpleasant image of the late Sheriff, one he thought Torres likewise shared—and probably had for a considerable period of time. It was evident in his voice and manner; a traditional cop who personally did everything by the book, working under a superior officer whose standards were, at best, highly questionable.

  He also believed Torres was wrong in his earlier assessment that the circumstances surrounding Patch’s death held no relevance to David’s investigation. In actuality, it did. Whether it was Patch or Angie who initially proposed their clandestine arrangement was irrelevant, for what it demonstrated was a man clearly open to taking bribes.

  Torres now braked and pulled off onto the narrow shoulder.

  “Eight miles it is,” he said, shutting off the car’s engine. “This should be the spot. And if not exactly, then at least damned close.”

  Both men got out.

  David appreciated Torres’ location dilemma as he gazed full circle at the bleak landscape. It was the same for several miles in all directions; a seemingly endless flatness with the only visible interruptions being occasional reddish stone outcroppings of varying heights, none of which appeared in any way distinctive in this otherwise empty setting. Now he wondered just what, if anything, he’d hoped to accomplish by being here.

  What the hell could’ve brought Peter to such a Godforsaken place?

  While pondering this mystery, an interesting thought came to him as he absently looked back up the empty, gravel road—an observation that he probably should’ve noted sooner. If memory served, since pulling off the paved highway eight miles back they’d not seen a single car. No vehicles of any kind. It might mean absolutely nothing, of course, but at this moment it was a curiosity that deserved to be explored.

  He turned to Torres now leaning back against the cruiser’s hood.

  “When you read through Patch’s notes,” he asked, “did he say how Peter’s body initially came to his attention? Unless he personally happened upon it—which would be very strange this far from town—then some local must’ve made the discovery and reported its location, right?”

  Torres’ eyebrows narrowed slightly.

  “I can’t say for certain,” he replied, “but it seems there was something jotted down about his having received an anonymous phone tip. Presumably from a passing local who didn’t wish to get involved. We can look again when we go back.”

  He paused.

  “Where are you headed with this?”

  David gave an innocent shrug.

  “It may be nothing, but according to Doc Farbie’s autopsy report he estimated Peter’s body was lying here on the shoulder for no more than eighteen hours when he examined it in situ. That’s not very long. Not even a full day.”

  “Your point?”

  “Only an observation, but it strikes me that traffic of any kind along here seems almost nonexistent. We’ve seen none so far.” He jerked his head toward the west. “So how much further does the road actually go?”

  “Another four or five miles. It ends at the county line where it intersects with a strip of state owned property bordering the Rio Grande River.”

  “Any local residences, farms—whatever—between here and there? Anyone who might conceivably use this road on a daily or even weekly basis?”

  “None,” acknowledged Torres, an appreciative smile building on his tanned face. “What you’re suggesting is that if Patch really did receive a tip over the phone, then it likely wasn’t from a local passerby, anonymous or otherwise. It would’ve probably come from those responsible for Peter’s murder.”

  “Exactly.”

  Torres’ smile deepened.

  “If you’re all done here, Mr. Manning, I think we should head back and dig deeper into those case notes. You know, for an archaeology professor claiming no police experience, you really do pose some interesting scenarios. Perhaps you’ve missed your true calling.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Once back in Patch’s closed office, both men reviewed the loose, handwritten notes in the late sheriff’s file, eventually finding the brief notation that confirmed Torres’ vague memory. In it, Patch stated he’d received an anonymous call at his home on the early evening of May 16, informing him of a body left on the shoulder of a gravel road. After going out to verify this, he followed standard procedure and placed a call to Doc. Farbie on his cell phone.

  “Which closely corresponds to Doc’s records,” said Torres. “According to his case file, he took Patch’s call at 6:20pm and drove out to meet him at the location. It was there he made his determination the body had lain there for approximately eighteen hours after time of death. If accurate, your friend would’ve likely been deposited there around midnight the previous night.”

  David reflected for a moment before responding.

  “That brings up something else I’ve been meaning to ask. Help me out here. In your professional experience, what possible motive would there be for the perpetrators to place Peter’s body where it was sure to eventually be found?”

  Torres opened his hands in speculation.

  “Only one reason comes to mind,” he said. “If it was genuinely drug related, then it was likely intended as a public warning to others not to mess with them or infringe on their territory. I can appreciate your firm opinion against this, but there’s also a very real possibility it all came down to a simple case of mistaken identity on their part—Peter just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who can say at this point? Maybe he simply stumbled upon something he wasn’t meant to see and paid the price.”

  “Does Trayle County currently have a serious drug problem?”

  Torres shook his head.

  “Actually, no. From what I’ve learned, the last incidence of anything like this happening around here goes back a good twenty years, o
r so. Say whatever you want about Patch—and God knows I had issues with him myself during the period I’ve been here—but in his prime he was apparently damn effective. That’s probably the main reason he kept getting re-elected.”

  “I see . . .”

  “Do you? Enid is much like any small, rural town in Texas—meaning ultra conservative in both its traditions and local politics. Once an elected official proves his worth to everyone’s general satisfaction, he’s almost assured of keeping his job for as long as he wishes, regardless of advancing age.”

  “Like Patch?”

  “For good or ill, that’s just the way things are here.”

  “So it would’ve been to Patch’s direct benefit to present Peter’s death as being drug related, whether he actually believed it not. That explains much, don’t your think? The missing toxicology report. Doc Farbie's comments.”

  “I never said Patch wasn’t an opportunist, Mr. Manning. But let’s be fair about this. Despite all of his character flaws, we’ve really uncovered nothing to say he went beyond this into actual criminal malfeasance. Borderline, at most. Now I’m sure you disagree due to his sloppy handling of Peter’s case, but any hard evidence simply isn’t there. I readily sympathize, believe me, but unless something new breaks in this case, I don’t see what more can be done to help you.”

  Torres was now being purposely patient with him—and perhaps rightly so.

  With reluctance, David signaled his agreement.

  In truth, he’d run out of fresh ideas. The biggest obstacle to further pursuing his investigation was with the continuing mystery of Peter himself. Not even Richard had the slightest idea of what brought the young man here to west Texas in the first place. Nor did he have any knowledge of what had sparked his sudden interest in ancient native petroglyphs. The only clue of possible relevance, of course, was the final drawing so distinctly unlike all the others. Aztec? Certainly intriguing—but ultimately no more telling than the others. Unless he was willing to devote months searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack, nothing remained to be done.

  More as an aside than anything else, he then asked, “Just curious, but was Patch up for re-election any time soon?”

  “This coming November—though rumor has it a special election will probably be called in the next several weeks to formally fill the job.”

  “Are you going to run?”

  “No, I don’t see it in the cards. Like I say, Enid is a small town with entrenched, conservative values that resists change of any kind. Having a Hispanic Deputy Sheriff is one thing—but putting him in the top spot would definitely rub far too many people the wrong way.” A grim smile crossed his lips as he jerked his head toward the outer office. “Even after five years working here, I seriously doubt I could even count on getting Marge’s vote. ”

  “Really . . .”

  “Afraid so. If I were a betting man, I’d say she’s likely to throw her considerable influence with the powers that be in favor of her nephew. Now I have nothing against Deputy Hadley, mind you, save for his inexperience, but that’s just the way of things.” He paused for a long moment. “And what about you? What are your immediate plans?”

  David shrugged, still undecided.

  Giving up on anything important wasn’t a part of his nature. Yet having the wisdom of cold pragmatism when necessary was a valued component. As things now stood, when he returned back east he could only provide Richard with a copy of the toxicology report showing Peter was completely free of any drug use—though it had never really been in doubt. Beyond this he’d nothing significant to show for his efforts.

  Watching him, a sympathetic Torres appeared to read his thoughts.

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to assist more in your investigation,” he said. “If it helps, I intend keeping the case open. Give me a number to reach you and I’ll certainly keep in touch should anything new break.”

  This done, Torres stood.

  “You’re an interesting fellow, Mr. Manning. It’s unfortunate we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.” He took a quick look at his wrist. “Since it’s already past noon, I suspect you’re probably getting as hungry as I am. If you’ve nothing better planned, there’s a respectable diner across the street where we can perhaps talk some more. My treat.”

  “Fine by me, so long as you drop the Mr. Manning. It’s David.”

  Their leisurely lunch conversation lasted well over an hour, both men eventually exchanging considerably more information on their personal backgrounds than either probably intended. With all the disappointments David had incurred in the past few days, he found the time spent a therapeutic diversion from his constant focus on Peter’s case. Too, the more he learned about Torres, the more it reinforced his already favorable opinion of the man.

  His was an interesting story, one that remained in David’s thoughts even as he drove back to the Clarion Hotel.

  Raised in semi-poverty along with a younger sister, Torres had spent his first year after high school moving from one low paying job to another, never finding anything the least bit fulfilling. When his sister eventually married and took an apartment in Austin, he decided it was time to seek more for himself in life.

  Always a loner by nature and inclination, he chose to leave Enid and enlist in the Army, there serving two hitches and eventually advancing to the rank of Sergeant—which was as much as any non-com could reasonably hope to achieve.

  The time and training was well invested, but not the career he sought.

  After receiving his honorable discharge, he then took advantage of the educational assistance provided by the Veteran’s Association and enrolled at Langley University in San Antonio. Two years later, he earned a degree in Law Enforcement—an honorable profession he’d always believed would best satisfy his admitted predisposition for order and regulated discipline.

  Overall, thought David as he walked up to his room, it made Torres an admirable man on several levels—and this besides being so personable.

  Too bad it was now all for naught.

  If new facts were to eventually arise, he understood that it would have to happen damn quickly if he was ever to be informed via long distance. By Torres’ own admission, in as little as several more weeks he’d no longer be acting Sheriff. Someone else would then be in charge. A complete stranger with no direct interest in the case.

  Perhaps the likes of another Patch?

  Depressed at this real possibility, he accepted the inevitable. At this stage there was no persuasive reason to even contemplate remaining in Enid.

  What would be the point?

  He began to mentally draw up a list of things to do. Putting a call through to inform Elizabeth of his decision would wait until his flight arrangements were made. No sense in—

  A hesitant knock at his door distracted him.

  Puzzled, he walked over and opened it, finding a slim and slightly disheveled young woman dressed in an over sized shirt and frayed blue jeans—clearly someone not on the Clarion’s housekeeping staff.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Appearing to be in her early twenties—and perhaps even younger—she wore no discernible makeup, her oval face and large eyes disarmingly attractive. But what became most readily evident to him, however, was the distraught and weary expression on her otherwise charming features.

  “Are—are you Mr. Manning? Professor David Manning?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her response was a look of immediate relief.

  “Thank God,” she murmured in a soft and halting voice. “I—I wasn’t sure it was really you. I prayed it would be. There is so much I have to tell you. May I come it?”

  “Please. And you are—?”

  “You don’t know me, but I know all about you through Peter.” She paused, swallowing hard as a spill of tears now ran from her eyes. “My name is Pilar Martinez—and it’s because of me he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Though her fatigue was undeniabl
e, the agitated young woman told her story to David over the rest of the afternoon, her apparent anguish such that at times he felt a growing concern for her ability to continue.

  His fascination only increased as the hours slid by.

  By her own admission she’d lost track of the number of days gone without adequate sleep—yet her determination to finally unburden herself to a member of Peter’s family outweighed all other considerations. Alternating between sitting and random pacing, it was obvious that her resolve to do so verged on desperation.

  Thus he patiently allowed her all the leeway and uninterrupted opportunity she required, for how could he do otherwise? The emerging details of her story came as a complete—and definitely unexpected—revelation. Now he understood the motivation behind Peter spending the last months of his life here in West Texas.

  Quite simply, the young man had fallen in love.

  When Pilar eventually concluded—not unlike a child’s windup toy suddenly spent of all energy, he recognized the toll this emotional release had taken on her fragile condition. As evidence, she appeared physically exhausted, now only keeping her eyes open and focused with the greatest of effort.

  If she was to be believed—and David had no reason to doubt her veracity—then it offered an entirely new scenario to explain the young man’s murder. It all pivoted on the last petroglyph drawing sent to Richard—and she held no doubts that it was the sole reason behind his tragic fate. As stunning as David found her conclusion, she was adamant in her belief that Peter was slain while in pursuit of an ancient Aztec treasure.

  Despite still having a multitude of questions—for Pilar’s story was often disjointed in sequence and at times confusing—he yet instinctively knew that her immediate needs now took precedence over his own desire to learn more. With little to no convincing on his part, she was soon curled up on the couch and sound asleep.

  To facilitate her rest, he dimmed the influx of late afternoon lighting by closing the drapes leading out onto the balcony—then began quietly jotting down only the key particulars of her story as they related to Peter, putting everything into a proper time frame as best he could recall.