The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  After the door closed behind him, I looked at Millicent, seated at her desk opposite me. “Do you believe him?”

  “Of course. Why would he lie about his instructions? Besides, he did exactly what I told him to do. I assure you that Maria and Luis are both entirely loyal.”

  “Why? They’ve known Acosta—hell, they worked for him—long before they came here.”

  “They have never done or said anything to violate my trust. They are discreet, faithful friends and employees. Heck or Paco must have called the girl and told her to go straight to the airport. Why is this such a big deal, anyway?”

  “Acosta knows we’re putting two and two together, and he’s still hoping we’ll come up with five,” I said. “My investigation turned up the fact Paco knew Liver Lips, but it appeared to be no more than a casual acquaintance. The presence of Paco’s fiancée at Liver’s house on the very morning he died ties her—and by extension, him—to the murdered man. And that leads us closer to the idea that Acosta had the duck stolen. It’s possible he’s responsible for Liver Lips’ death.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I’ve known Heck since we were children. At one time… well let’s just say that at one time everyone thought we might get married.”

  “But you didn’t, and there was a reason for not marrying the man. Like maybe you sensed he wasn’t what he pretended to be.”

  “You think he’s involved in the drug trade, don’t you?”

  “I thought you reached the same conclusion when I told you about the emerald mine suit.”

  A retort formed on Millicent’s lips, but she let it go and leaned back in her chair. “I guess it would explain why he’s so hell-bent on getting the Lazy M.”

  “Gives him back-to-back properties spanning the border. Total control of what’s rapidly becoming a four-lane highway for drugs and illegals.”

  “Undocumented workers, you mean.”

  “Okay, undocumented workers. Call it what you want, the act itself is illegal, so they’re illegals in my book.”

  “Humans aren’t illegals,” she said.

  “By that logic there are no felons, just people who perpetrate felonies. Millicent, if this does nothing else, it ought to put some starch in your backbone.” My choice of words went down wrong, but I ignored the skin tightening around her eyes. “It ought to make you put aside your pride and announce to the world you’re not going to honor the bet with Hammond. If he wants to sue, fine. Go to court with a good lawyer, and you’ve got a shot at coming out all right on the other end. To put it crudely, these people are planning on screwing you.”

  She came around—partially. “I’ll consider it, BJ. I’ll think about it.”

  The thwack of the helicopter drew us to the window. Bert had been called to one of the more remote pastures to look at a sick animal, and Paul decided to tag along for the ride. He had been impressed by our flight to Deming that morning, but now I wondered if Bert had engaged in enough aerial antics to dampen his appetite. Apparently not. The two men got out of the machine laughing. Millicent opened the outside door and invited them into the office.

  “Vince,” Paul said, “that was a hoot. That contraption’s better’n any roller coaster I’ve ever been on.”

  “Paul flew the bird,” Bert said.

  “Yeah, for about two seconds. Bert had to save us from landing upside down.”

  “This guy knows a little about cowboying, Mud.”

  “Great, when we turn up shorthanded we’ll know where to look.”

  It was good to see Paul so pumped. I’d been worried he’d be disappointed because we hadn’t headed north for some golfing, but he clearly enjoyed himself in this environment.

  Bert turned serious. “What do you figure that was all about? You know, spiriting Madelena off and keeping her away from BJ?”

  We all found seats as Millicent settled behind her desk. “It looks as if Hector might be behind all of our troubles, including the loss of Quacky,” she said.

  “What do you mean? I thought this fellow Hammond was the one. He stands to gain a quarter of a million bucks now that she’s disappeared. How does Heck figure in?”

  His mother directed her gaze at me, so I answered the question. “We know Acosta has a piece of that bet.”

  “Ten percent,” Bert said. “And just this morning he offered to surrender it. In fact, he offered to get Hammond to forget about the whole thing.”

  “Our investigation has picked up some kind of rift between the two men. According to one source, it concerns the bet. We’re not exactly sure what the problem is, but I believe Acosta wants a bigger share now that Millicent can’t meet the terms of the wager.”

  Bert waved away the comment. “So he tried to get a bigger share to surrender. Tried to put himself in a position to deliver on his promise.”

  “But remember, that promise is conditioned on your mother selling him the ranch. Are you in favor of selling?”

  His eyes bugged. “Hell, no! I grew up here. I like running this ranch.”

  “Maybe Acosta will let you run it for him,” Paul suggested. “You know it better than anyone, other than your mother, that is.”

  “I don’t think so.” I shook my head.

  “Why not?” Apparently, Bert had given that possibility some thought too.

  Millicent straightened up in her chair and answered with a question. “Why do you think he wants the Lazy M?”

  “That’s easy,” Bert said. “It’s the best working ranch in this part of the country. We’ve made money in years when other people have lost it. Good climate. Good land. Decent water. But most of all, we’ve developed a herd of prime mother cows. It takes years to do that.”

  “The Lightning is half again as big as we are. And Heck runs a yearling operation. He doesn’t know squat about a cow-calf ranch,” Millicent said.

  “And what’s a good way to get into that business? Buy the best one around, that’s how.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “If ranching is his real interest.”

  “Of course it’s his real interest. I know he’s into lots of other things, but what else would he want with the Lazy M?”

  “Think about it, Bert. You’ve been having a lot of trouble with drug gangs crossing your territory. Where’s the trouble coming from?”

  “Mexico. Oh, I see. It’s the Lightning over there. But that argument says Heck’s in the drug business.” The room went dead silent until he shifted in his chair and gave each of us a pointed look. “You think he’s in with the cartels?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “Things make more sense if he is. When he gets the Lazy M, he controls both sides of the border. And the highway bisects the ranch, so he would have undisputed control of a drug- and alien-smuggling route from Mexico into virtually any point in the US. And don’t forget, the Lazy M has a landing strip as well. That makes dispersal of the goods even easier.”

  “Mud, this is the guy you grew up with. From what I hear, he was almost my papa. Come on!”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing everything I had learned. I took them step-by-step through the investigation, considering and then dispensing with each of the other possible reasons for the theft of Millicent’s prize duck. I led them through the Brazilian emerald mine business as a probable money-laundering scheme and the murder of one of the owner’s sons, as well as the subsequent killing of the accused murderer. Inevitably we came back to Liver Lips and his fatal wreck.

  After I finished, Bert sat with his elbows on his desk, his head cradled in his hands. Finally he lifted his chin and fixed me with a stare. “You haven’t answered my original question. About spiriting Madelena away like that.”

  “I have. You just haven’t heard it.”

  He recoiled as if struck by a rattler. “You mean you think she and Paco are mixed up in this? You think they work for a cartel?” He shook his head. “No way! Paco’s been my buddy since grade school. He wouldn’t do something like that to me.”

  I sh
rugged. “You mother’s been pals with Acosta since she was in grade school. Doesn’t look like that’s given her much protection. And who does Paco work for?”

  Bert went red in the face. “You’re nuts, BJ. Hell, we’ve worked cattle together, slept out under the stars together, gone hunting. Man, we’ve romanced women and got drunk together.”

  I caught Millicent’s look of despair and saved her the effort of responding. “Grow up, Bert. Not everyone shares your moral and ethical standards—or your definition of friendship.”

  For a moment he looked like an overgrown kid about to take on a schoolyard bully. Then he blew air through his nostrils. “I know that. It’s just that….”

  “I understand. You hear about things like this every day, but when it happens to you, it hurts.”

  “Hurts like hell!” Then he squared his shoulders. “Where’s your proof? This is all speculation.”

  “It is speculation. But it’s informed speculation.”

  “So you think Acosta sent Madelena to check out Liver’s shack after he was killed in a wreck.”

  “Just so we’re clear on this, Sgt. Manny Montoya of the New Mexico State Police considers it death by vehicular homicide. And yes, she went to make certain Liver hadn’t left anything lying around that tied them to the theft of your mother’s duck.”

  “Why her? If Paco’s mixed up in this, why didn’t he go?”

  “My guess is she’s not as well-known in Deming as Paco. Every time I described her to anyone, they came up blank. Only two things really stood out about her—she was very pretty, and she was carrying too much weight around the middle, probably meaning she was pregnant. Unfortunately—from their standpoint—I was already on Liver’s trail and got to his place while the state police were still considering his death an accident.”

  Bert took the same approach as his mother. “I gotta sleep on this. But for argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. What do we do now?”

  “First, you and your mother have to be careful. Very careful.”

  “You’re saying they might try to hurt us?”

  “Haven’t they already tried? You’ve gone hunting with Paco. How good a shot is he?”

  “Very good.” Bert’s complexion mottled. His hands on the desk clenched. “Are you saying Paco tried to shoot me out at the City the other day? You’ve gone off your rocker. This is the guy who’s watched my back in a dozen fights. Hell, he faced down a thug with a big-assed knife for me once.”

  “He had no reason to turn on you then. He does now.”

  “You’re insane or else you’re some kind of racist.”

  My own gorge rose, but I held it in check. “My partner at APD was Hispanic, about one generation removed from Mexico. I’d trust him with my life. In fact, I have, more than once.” I nodded toward Paul. “And the man I chose to make the most important person in my life has Mexican blood. No, I’m not insane or a racist. I’m a realist.”

  Bert glanced at Paul. “Sorry. But this is a shock to the system. It’s like being told a member of your own family tried to kill you.”

  “After the sheriff’s men found where he’d set up his ambush, O’Brien said the shooter appeared to be a small man or a woman. Paco’s, what? Five eight? Slight build. Good shot. Knows the layout of the ranch.”

  “Yeah, but if he was the one meeting Mud at the City that day, then everything would have come out in the open.”

  “Maybe he just watched someone else’s back.”

  “Did O’Brien find any sign of anyone else out there?”

  “No, but the area was pretty windblown.” A thought came to me. “And consider something else. The BP agents couldn’t figure why the traficantes didn’t simply back off when we challenged them at the City. Although I didn’t catch it at the time, one of the agents said something significant. He said the traffickers might have thought we had binoculars. If I’d had a pair, I could have easily seen their features, enough to identify them later.”

  “So you think Paco led them to the City because he couldn’t afford to be identified.”

  “Right. It didn’t take him long to figure out we weren’t BP, so we had to be locals. Someone from the ranch.”

  Bert’s face closed up. “Oh my God, you shot the guy in the shoulder, and….”

  “And right after that, Paco had the riding accident that broke his arm,” Millicent finished.

  Bert looked like he’d been clubbed. His features sagged. “All right, same question. What do we do now?”

  “I haven’t been to Miami in years. You up for a quick trip, Paul?”

  Chapter 25

  AS SOON as we broke through the cloud cover, Paul glued his nose to the 747’s window to stare at the massive metropolitan complex spread out beneath us. “Man, that’s big. What’s all that green over there?”

  “That’s the Everglades.”

  “Where all the alligators are?”

  “Not all of them. The Biscayne National Park is over on the east side. Did you know Miami’s the only major city in the United States founded by a woman? A local citrus grower, I believe, named Julia Tuttle.”

  He turned to me with a grin. “You and your trivia. When’s hurricane season around here?”

  “Right about now. The rainy season is roughly the same as the hurricane season.”

  “Shoulda brought my raincoat. I’ve got my bathing suit, sunglasses, and sweats. That’s all I need.” He turned back to the window. Paul never went anywhere without a swimsuit. I, on the other hand, would have to purchase one.

  I had spoken to Cohen yesterday afternoon, and when he confirmed Hammond was in Miami, Bert got us to El Paso in the chopper. We had to charter a flight to the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport and then wait half the night before boarding the American Airlines jet that deposited us at Miami International. We’d grabbed sleep when and where we could.

  As we prepared to land, I glanced at my father’s Bulova strapped to my wrist and moved it ahead two hours to five thirty local time.

  We only had carry-on luggage, so we immediately started off in search of our ride. As we hiked to the American Airlines counter, I heard my name on the loudspeaker. A nearby white courtesy phone connected me to the message center, where they steered me to Bob Cohen. He stepped forward with his hand out and introduced himself.

  “Nice to meet you in the flesh,” I said. “This is my friend, Paul Barton.”

  He offered his hand to Paul as well.

  Cohen had a thick torso, but his limbs seemed a bit foreshortened. Steel-gray hair at the sideburns thinned out on top. His eyes, also gray, had a no-nonsense glint above loose pouches of flesh. His husky voice and the nicotine-stained fingers of his left hand confirmed my opinion he was a heavy smoker.

  “My car’s outside. Where are you staying?”

  “The Ritz-Carlton in Coconut Grove.”

  “Nice choice. It’s close to the financial district. Hammond’s office is on Brickell. You have an appointment with him tomorrow morning at ten thirty.”

  “Good. Did Hammond put up a fuss?”

  “I never spoke to him. I dealt with his executive secretary, Josefina Morales. She asked the purpose of the visit, of course, but I said exactly what you told me. You’d been referred by Mrs. Millicent Muldren.”

  It was overcast, but no rain fell as we exited the terminal and made our way to the short-term parking area. We stowed our bags in the trunk of Cohen’s black Malibu sedan and sat back as he maneuvered his way out of the sprawling airport. Keeping to the left, he took the on-ramp of SH-953 south toward Coral Gables. After that I quit paying attention. Paul rode in the back seat, craning his neck this way and that.

  “Man, it sure is flat down here,” he said.

  “About the highest it gets is around forty feet above sea level, and that’s over on the west side,” Cohen said.

  “Sounds like one good wave would drown us all. And this is hurricane country too.”

  Cohen laughed. “Sure is. Although we’ve
never had a serious hurricane strike the city. Affect us, yes, but not hit us directly. And with the warm Gulf Stream to the southwest and the cold Atlantic current to the east, you’d think we’d be ground zero.”

  “Is it always so hot here?”

  “Muggy, but not really hot. The temperature doesn’t hit a hundred very often, but the humidity makes it seem hotter than that. By the time you get settled into the hotel, we’ll get some sea breezes, and things will ease up.”

  I spent the rest of the twenty-minute drive bringing Cohen up-to-date on the situation. He listened without interruption. When I finished, he chewed his upper lip before speaking.

  “Kenny’s a cutthroat bastard, but he’d only cut your financial throat. I’ve never believed he had that damned duck stolen. I can see him taking advantage of it by showing up with a bird that couldn’t beat a crippled snail in a foot race. But that’s about as far as he’d go.”

  “Would a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar loss hurt him?”

  “A quarter-of-a-million-dollar loss would hurt anyone. Especially now. Construction’s in the tank around here. I imagine he’s hurting some, and a loss that size wouldn’t be easy to swallow.”

  “So the threat of a serious lawsuit might make him stop and think?”

  “Maybe. Is that your strategy?”

  “It might come to that before the interview is over, but I just want to see his reaction when I mention a couple of related murders.”

  “Murders? Who got iced besides the fellow who took the duck? I know about the emerald mine owner down in Brazil, but that one’s a little far-fetched to tie into this mess, isn’t it?”

  “A friend of Liver Lips Martinson named Elizondo Lopez was fed a drug overdose right after he was seen talking to me.”

  “Somebody’s serious. This Acosta fella?”

  “That’s what I believe.”

  “You want me to come with you to see Hammond tomorrow?”

  “No, but I’d appreciate any feedback you can get from Jackman after my interview. I’ll touch base with you later in the day.”