The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  The ranch was, and always had been, a mother cow operation, and over the years their cattle had been bred to deliver good strong calves. Bovine TB had hit the ranch last year, and a small part of the herd had to be isolated and destroyed. That probably contributed to the unusual “rustling” losses Grass had mentioned to Del. Chances were good GSR didn’t know about the TB outbreak, and I wondered what their reaction would be if they learned of it. That, of course, came under the heading of none of my business.

  Nothing Del had provided got me any closer to Liver Lips, so I decided on another visit to Officer Garza at the Deming Police Department. I was in luck; he was in the station. Still only semifriendly, he nonetheless told me a little about one of the bit players in my little drama—Paco Rael. Sometimes Rael came to DPD’s attention alongside his buddy, Bert, but he was perfectly capable of stirring up things on his own. Drunk and disorderly, speeding, and fistfights were his thing—no DWIs. He probably let Bert handle the driving.

  “I understand he helps out at the Lazy M during roundups… uh, gatherings, but what does he do the rest of the time?”

  “I’d surely like an answer to that question.” Garza removed a toothpick from between his lips and pointed it at me. “You find out, you let me know.”

  “That’s a promise. What do your compadres from across the border say about him?”

  “Not much. I got a guy over there on the Palomas police force who usually exchanges some tidbits with me, but he’s mum on Rael.”

  “That’s interesting. Any known associates other than Bert Kurtz?”

  “He went to school in the Deming school system down on the border at Columbus, so he knows lots of folks around here.”

  The Columbus Elementary School was part of the Deming Public School District and prided itself on its nondiscrimination policy. A fair percentage of its students lived across the border.

  “He knew that guy you asked about the other day. Martinson.”

  “Liver Lips? Did Rael run around with him?”

  “Not exactly. Got him into trouble is more like it. He used to talk the guy into doing stupid things that got him a bang on the head or a night in the pokey. Him and that kid, Lopez—they used to keep Liver Lips in hot water all the time.”

  Aha. An across-the-border connection with ties to both the Lazy M and Martinson, but that alone didn’t mean much. In this remote part of the country, most people were probably interconnected. Nonetheless, it was something to check out.

  Just before leaving, I remembered the woman who had answered Liver’s door the day he died. Garza’s face remained blank when I asked about her.

  “Don’t know who that coulda been. He didn’t have no woman in his life. Anything he got, he bought at one of the meat houses over across the border. And that description don’t ring no bells. Course, it’s not much of a description. No scars, tattoos, moles? Nothing like that?”

  “No, at least not visible ones. Nothing stood out about her except she was very pretty and once had a great figure. I wondered at the time if she could have been pregnant. Sort of a round face. Mestizo features. Hazel eyes and long black hair hanging below her shoulders.”

  “I’ll ask around.”

  After talking with Garza, I phoned the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Office as I drove toward Las Cruces to take another look at the crash scene where Liver Lips died. Deputy Nap O’Brien informed me Kurtz had no record and no reputation as a brawler, which led me to believe Bert went “off the reservation” to do his mischief. O’Brien knew Rael because of an arrest for fighting outside a local bar a few years back. The dustup involved no weapons of any sort, so the charges were dropped after an overnight stay at the jailhouse. The Lordsburg PD reported roughly the identical information.

  There wasn’t much to see at the crash scene, and I didn’t think Detective Montoya’s sharp eyes had missed anything. Nonetheless I pulled over, put on my flashers, and walked the area. Sometimes a crime scene—and this was one—talks to you. Martinson’s didn’t, but I took out my Minolta and took a lot of shots anyway.

  As I got back into my car, my cell phone rang. I answered and heard a familiar voice ask if this was a bad time. My heart rate soared.

  “It’s never a bad time to talk to you.”

  Paul chuckled. “Maybe if I distracted you while you faced down a bad guy, that might be a bad time.”

  “Nope, I’d just tell him to hold on a minute. I had to talk to the greatest guy on earth.”

  “Yeah, right. How’s it going? You ready to come home?”

  “Not quite, but I hope it’s not long now.”

  “Damn, this is a lonely place when you’re not around. At night I just sit around listening to noises. Did you know your house creaks?”

  “It’s talking to you. Letting you know you’re welcome.”

  “God, I miss you, Vince.”

  “Me too, guy. Me too.”

  The loneliness and the yearning in his tone almost set me on fire. I let him talk for a bit as I headed on to Las Cruces. The temptation to catch I-25 and keep right on going almost overwhelmed me. As the city traffic got heavier, I reluctantly closed the call.

  Since my big breakfast had now been digested, I hunted up a restaurant and had a quick meal before finding a motel. I checked into the local Traveler’s Inn and had just completed a rough sketch of the Lazy M Ranch headquarters from memory when Hazel called to tell me she’d sent a detailed e-mail report with the information I’d requested. Then she told me Charlie had completed a sensitive surveillance job on a member of APD for an attorney whose client claimed the guy had planted felony assault evidence on him. Nothing Charlie turned up supported such a contention.

  After being out of the office for a protracted period of time on the Bisti Wilderness missing-persons/murder case near Farmington last year, I’d invested in a USB device that gave me access to the Internet on my laptop regardless of the availability of Wi-Fi. I opened Hazel’s report and whistled. She’d been busy.

  Although there was a host of material, it merely filled in blanks in my knowledge of the people I had interviewed—with the exception of a single item about Martinson. Hazel had come up with a nebulous contact for him across the border. A man named Hector Acosta. Apparently Acosta was a Chihuahuan rancher Liver Lips worked for in the past and used as a reference on a few job applications. Thorough as usual, Hazel provided contact information for Acosta. The address was in Palomas, Mexico, a town not far from Columbus.

  A valid New Mexico driver’s license gained a tourist entry into border Mexico—although beginning in June of next year, a passport would be required—but taking a car across the international border involved some preparation.

  It proved unnecessary. When I phoned the number Hazel provided, the speaker informed me that Señor Acosta was in Las Cruces visiting two of his sons at NMSU. How convenient of him.

  Chapter 7

  I COULDN’T decide whether the TownePlace Suites on Telshor Court in the City of Crosses emulated a Swiss chalet or went for a look all its own. Nonetheless, it was a place worthy of the Marriott name once I stepped inside. A desk message from Hector Acosta—prompted by an earlier message I’d left at his hotel—invited me to join him on the first tee of the NMSU golf course or for a late dinner in the dining room of his hotel that evening.

  As I wrote an acceptance of the dinner invitation, a uniformed bellboy with a sprinkling of pimples across the bridge of his nose came in search of my luggage. I allowed him to carry the overnight bag but kept a grip on my laptop. I tipped him and went directly into the bath to freshen up. Whether I traveled fifty miles or five hundred, I always felt scroungy upon arrival.

  I had once served in the Marine Corps with a light colonel named James Guerrero, who came from the El Paso, Texas area. Upon retirement he had earned a PI license in case he got bored being a man of leisure. Colonel Guerrero had called me for assistance a couple of times, so I phoned him to ask for reciprocation.

  He knew of Hector Acosta but wa
nted to get an update on him, promising to call before my meeting that evening. I also fed him the names of the rest of the people involved in the case and gave him an idea of my interest. I went a little defensive while telling him the case revolved around a kidnapped duck, but he didn’t fall off his chair laughing. Maybe I was a tad oversensitive on that point.

  I devoted the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon to seeing what I could learn about the players in the “Quacky Affair.”

  Guerrero got back to me later that afternoon. “Hector Acosta y Roybal is a heavy hitter.”

  “Roybal?”

  “That’s his mother’s maiden name. Acosta is his father’s name. You want physicals?”

  “I’ve never met the man, so they might help.”

  “He’s fifty-five, stands five ten, and weighs in at around one eighty, one ninety. Black, wavy hair, hazel eyes. The only known distinguishing mark is a round brown mole on his left cheek. Born in Ciudad Juárez, just across the border from where I sit. He comes from an old ranching family that went bust backing Pancho Villa in the civil war. Things got bad for the family after that, but apparently Acosta found a backer, because he earned a business degree from New Mexico State. Shortly after graduating, he ended up in Brazil, where they say he made a lot of money in emeralds.

  “When he came back home, he had enough money to buy a spread called Rancho Rayo. It’s a couple of hundred thousand acres west of Palomas, just across the border from the New Mexico Boot Heel. Somewhere along the way, he met and married an American girl, about ten years younger than he is, named Frances Simpson. They have four children—a daughter and three sons. The twin boys, Juan and Jesus, are at NMSU.”

  “He’s supposed to be visiting them now,” I said. “Rancho Rayo. That’s something to do with lightning, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, the Lightning Ranch. I gather his brand is a big lightning bolt.”

  “So everything sounds on the up-and-up?”

  “Everything I told you is pretty much public record. When I tapped some sources in the local and federal police forces, I got a clean bill of health.”

  Something in his voice put me on alert. “But it doesn’t feel right?”

  “I’m not sure, but it looks too clean, like a whitewash. One of my best sources over there is a commander in the Federales. He’s given me the scoop on some pretty big names, but he came damned close to denying even knowing Acosta. I don’t believe it. That doesn’t mean Acosta’s dirty, but it sure put me on my guard. One other thing—I don’t have an estimate of net worth, but I can tell you it is serious money. And that’s unusual too. Most of the time there are records, or at least estimates of the worth of major players like Acosta.”

  Colonel Guerrero told me Paco Rael had no serious record—bar fights mostly—and was not presently wanted by the authorities. He apparently earned a living as an itinerant cowboy, including work on Rancho Rayo.

  THE MAN who rose from an immaculately set table in the corner of the dining room that evening mirrored the mental picture painted by James Guerrero, right down to the mole. He wore a pale blue silk Guayabera shirt with sharply creased tan slacks and shiny, tasseled, cordovan loafers. The glittering pin affixed to his shirt collar was a platinum or white gold zigzag set with diamonds. His cattle brand.

  “Mr. Vinson,” he said in a deep voice.

  Strong grip; soft palm. This rancher didn’t ride the range with his vaqueros. He did his business in a comfortable office. Acosta was pudgier than I expected and a little shorter. He must fudge his official profile a little. Still, he was a handsome and impressive man, exuding an air of competence and confidence.

  “Mr. Acosta. Thank you for making time for me.”

  “How could I not? When a private investigator wants to interview you, who can resist? I must admit, curiosity earned you the invitation.”

  I smiled. “It often does.”

  “It works well, no? Your targets either succumb to your call or run away from you, I imagine.”

  A curious remark. I had not mentioned Martinson’s name when asking for the interview, but Liver Lips had done just that—run away. Based on Acosta’s speech patterns, I would have thought him born on this side of the border. He spoke with no accent, merely the Latin custom of tacking on the word no to make a question out of a statement.

  “I think you have my game figured out. Are you certain you aren’t a licensed investigator?”

  “No, although there have been times when I felt I was one. You know, trying to figure out men, motives, and maneuvers. At the moment I am engaged in something of the sort—a problem with one of my sons attending the university here. It seems there was a girl….” He lifted his palms in exasperation.

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “My sons are identical twins, you see. And sometimes they like to play games with the unwary. The young lady predisposed to favor Jesus didn’t take it well when Juan took his place. That occasioned some trouble, but it is all working out well. But enough of that. Here is our waiter. Do you need time to review the menu, or may I suggest a plate?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  He ordered two filets mignons, rare, with potatoes lyonnaise and a vegetable, which he left to the chef’s discretion. He ordered a pricey bottle of Bordeaux but had coffee in the meantime. I settled for hot tea and lemon.

  “How was your golf round this afternoon?” I asked.

  “I played up to my usual mediocre standards. A shame you could not join us. But you have piqued my curiosity. What could possibly be your interest in me, Mr. Vinson?”

  “Please call me BJ.”

  “Gladly. I am Hector.” He pronounced it the Spanish way with the H silent and the accent on the second syllable. “Of course, when I went to school here, I was most often called Heck. You know, I kind of miss that. Not too many of my associates deal with such familiarity.”

  “Well, Heck, I am investigating the theft of some valuable property by a man named Richard Martinson.”

  “Ah, poor Liver Lips. I heard of his accident.” The name came out as “Leever Leeps,” but I understood it to be a parody of his vaqueros’ pronunciation of Martinson’s name. “You’re looking for Mud Hen’s duck, no? Let’s see, what did she call the bird? Quacky, was it not? Quacky Quack the Second.” A glint of amusement lit his eyes.

  “Exactly.”

  He shook his head. “Only Mud would go to the extreme of hiring a private investigator to find a duck.”

  “The insurance company hired me.”

  His eyebrows twitched. “She insured a duck? ¡Dios mío! Am I missing the boat? I have some roosters on the ranch I should insure.”

  “I take it you know Mrs. Muldren.”

  “Ah yes. We have been neighbors for a long time. For years we bought and sold cattle at the fence line dividing our ranches—and our countries. Alas, those days are gone forever, I’m afraid.”

  “I came across your name while looking into Martinson’s background. He used you as a reference on a couple of occasions.”

  “Yes, I allowed him to list me as a previous employer.”

  “What sort of work did he do for you?”

  “A cook. A decent one, as a matter of fact. He used to take the chuck wagon out on the range to feed the vaqueros, uh… cowboys. At first he drove a mule wagon, but as time went on, we modernized and used a truck.” Acosta laughed. “I think he rather preferred the mules.”

  “How long did he work for you?” I thought about the Immigration and Control Act of 1986 Millicent had mentioned, but that only covered hiring undocumented workers on this side of the border. Did Mexico have a similar law? I decided not to ask.

  “Off and on for a number of years. He was merely a skinny kid when his uncle first sent him to me. I knew the uncle from various business dealings, so I hired Liver as a favor to him. But he earned his keep. He usually came around in the spring and again in the fall.”

  “For the gatherings?”

  He n
odded. “And sometimes at other moments. If things got too bad for him up here, he’d show up on my doorstep, and my foreman would give him something to do for a few days—whether I was in residence at the hacienda or not. I had the feeling he was perhaps fleeing the law when he showed up at those odd moments.”

  “The law?”

  “Liver was not a bad man. Not a desperate criminal, but easily manipulated by others. He often found himself in your lawmen’s sights, so to speak. Drinking. Fighting. That sort of thing.”

  “Why didn’t he stay in Mexico if he had a ready home there?”

  “He could take the solitude for only so long at a time. And even though he spoke our language well, in truth he was never completely at home in my country. He always went back to Deming when the pressure eased up.”

  “You mentioned an uncle?”

  “Yes. An old Texas cowhand named Charles Martinson. He passed on a few years back. Shame. He was the only family Liver had.”

  “Can you think of any reason why he would steal Mrs. Muldren’s property?”

  Acosta shifted in his chair as the waiter delivered our order, the chef himself in tow. The two men made a production out of our simple meal. The platters were blue-and-white glazed pottery. A stemmed goblet rang when the waiter’s ring accidentally touched it. Acosta greeted the chef by name. After introducing me, the two spoke briefly, reminiscing about other meals.

  The filets were extraordinarily thick and so tender and delicious we both forgot to speak for a few minutes. As good as the beef was, the potatoes were better. They were done to perfection. The wine was full-bodied and went down smoothly, but I couldn’t discern much difference between it and the ten-dollar Cabernet I usually drink. A connoisseur of wine I am not.

  “You can order for me anytime,” I said.