by Don Travis
While Montoya hauled us from the restaurant to District Four headquarters on East University, I got Millicent on the phone and let her know what had happened in Florida. I also told her I was on my way back to the Lazy M. She agreed to try to reach Bert and call him back to the house.
As we entered the SP headquarters, another officer hailed Montoya. “I heard you were trying to run down a girl named Orona. I may know her. Hey there! It’s Mr. Vinson, isn’t it? Remember me?” I recognized the fresh-faced rookie who’d stopped me the day Bert was shot. “I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Hank Dorman. Hope you made it to the ranch and everything worked out okay.”
“Close, but it worked out.”
Montoya waved a hand impatiently. “How do you know her?”
“I used to go with a girl named Elena Corazón over in Deming. She had family and friends in the Palomas, Mexico area, and one of them was a girl named Madelena. Madelena Orona. I remember because I’d met lots of Coronas but never an Orona, and I always wondered if somebody just forgot to put the C at the front end.” The young officer colored as he caught Montoya’s exasperated look.
“Can you describe her?”
“Sure. Pretty as a picture. Tall, maybe five nine or so. She’d be about twenty-five now. Wore her hair long the last time I saw her. Black or real dark brown. No distinguishing marks.”
“When is the last time you saw her?” Montoya asked.
“Couple of years ago. I broke up with Elena last year, and Madelena hadn’t been around in a year or so.”
“The Corazón family over here legally?”
“Elena and her brother are natural-born citizens. I don’t know about their folks. I saw Elena a month or so ago, and she said her parents were back in Mexico. I didn’t ask if it was permanent or a visit.”
“That might be the girl Madelena went to visit in Deming,” I said. “Do you have an address?” He cited one that matched the street number Luis gave me. “Tell me about her brother.”
“His name’s Latido Corazón.” Dorman chuckled. “That’s a play on ‘heartthrob.’ You know, Latido means throb and Corazón—”
Montoya interrupted. “Yeah, Corazón means heart. I get it. Age, occupation, description?”
“About a year older than Madelena, say twenty-six. Five ten, one fifty. Clean-shaven. Black hair, brown eyes.”
“He have a record?”
“I wasn’t an officer back then, so I never checked them out.”
“Do it. What does this Latido do for a living?”
“He’s a mechanic. Worked at a place called—”
“R&S Auto Repair,” I said. “Does he still work there?”
“That’s the place. No idea if he’s still there.”
“Find that out too,” Montoya said. “And be careful how you do it. Don’t scare anyone off. Get in touch with Captain Masterson in Deming and have his people do it.”
“Before you go, do you know of any connection between the Corazóns and a man named Paco Rael?” I asked.
“Paco? Sure. He used to date Madelena. As a matter of fact, he used to date Elena too. He’s a real ladies’ man, that Paco.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Played ball against him when we were in school. Knew him as well as anyone, I guess.”
Montoya leveled a glare at the officer. “You know of any connection between him and Liver Lips Martinson?”
Dorman looked as if he’d just figured out his sergeant might believe he held out on a murder investigation. “Just a casual one. We grew up together down in the Deming area, so we all knew one another. That’s all there was to it. If there was anything else, I’d have come to you, Sarge.”
“Okay. Go take care of those two things for me.”
Dorman all but saluted before rushing off.
Montoya exhaled and led the way to his office, where I read and signed the transcription of my tape.
Dorman rapped on the door and handed a file to Montoya. “Latido does have a record. Got busted a couple of times with marijuana, but it wasn’t enough to charge him with a felony. He claimed personal use.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Drunk and disorderly. Public fighting. That kind of thing.”
“Gang activity?”
“No indication, sir,” Dorman said.
“He do any time?” I asked.
Montoya browsed the record. “A couple of overnight stays in jail.” He looked up at Dorman. “Is this address current?”
“It’s the one where I used to pick up Elena. They’ve lived there for years.”
Montoya handed the sheet to me. The mug shot, now a few years old, showed a slender young man on the rough edge of being attractive. He would have relished being called “Heartthrob.” His profile shot revealed a prominent nose and Adam’s apple.
Montoya asked Dorman if he’d contacted Deming.
“Yes, sir. They’re working on it for you.”
“Come on, Vinson, let’s pay Heartthrob a visit.”
I intended to go on to the Lazy M after we interviewed Corazón, so I trailed Montoya’s cruiser on the sixty-mile drive back to Deming. He turned on both lights and siren, dragging me along in his wake at something like ninety miles an hour. He must have radioed ahead as a matter of protocol, because another unit waited for us at the Corazón residence. A DPD cruiser with Garza filling up the front seat sat directly in front of the state police unit. Montoya acknowledged the other officers but didn’t bother with introductions. I gave Garza a nod.
The house was rough stucco painted a lively pink. No cars occupied the driveway or sat in front of the house. While the other lawmen marched up and banged on the door, Dorman headed to the back. I followed him behind the house. While he peered through windows to the house, I found something more interesting. A detached, single-car garage. Three small rectangular windows spanned the door, which faced an alleyway in the back. The glass panes, set about eye level, were useless for anything except admitting a little light. I rattled the Yale padlock securing the door before cupping my eyes and trying to see inside. I made out a dark shape. There was a car in there, but I couldn’t tell what kind.
“Manny,” I yelled. “Do you have a flashlight in your unit?”
“I’ve got one,” Garza called. A minute later he and the other officers rounded the corner and handed over a big five-battery torch. The light barely penetrated the accumulation of dust on the inside of the glass, but it was enough.
“Bingo!” I said.
Chapter 33
WE PEERED in every window of the house but saw no one. The place had an abandoned air. Either Latido and his sister were gone, or they were doing a superb job of hiding inside. The state patrolman from the Deming office took off to get us a warrant to examine the Corazón house, the garage, and the Firebird locked inside. While we waited, Montoya and I brought Garza up-to-date. His interest was the Lopez murder, but since everything began to tie together, he was entitled to all the facts.
Garza went on the computer in his cruiser and came up with a license plate number. “According to DMV, the only car registered to any Corazón at this address is a green 2004 Chevy Camaro. It’s registered to Latido.”
“Let’s get a bulletin out on it,” Montoya said. “And we need to check the records for the house phone or any other telephone listed to the Corazóns. I want to know if there were calls from the cell number BJ gave us.”
As Garza radioed in those requests, Montoya shook his head. “If only I’d talked to Dorman earlier.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. We didn’t have enough information to piece this all together before today. I’d say Dorman was a lucky break for us.”
He looked at me through tired eyes. “The Corazóns are across the border by now. They headed out as soon as Latido torched Martinson’s place this morning.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “He couldn’t risk neighbors identifying his personal vehicle for the firebombing, just as he cou
ldn’t chance driving the Pontiac on his run to the border. So he had to switch cars back and forth. Maybe he’s the one who drove the Pontiac the night somebody ran Liver off the road. Or maybe he just provided a hidey-hole. Perhaps we’ll find something in it to tie Liver and Latido together besides R&S Auto Repair.”
“I’m sure Bill’s going to jump on that one quick enough,” Montoya said.
“You bet your ass,” Garza rumbled. “This might be what I need to get past Rybald’s armor.”
I glanced at my watch. Coming up on three o’clock. “Latido’s had plenty of time to get to the border. I wonder if his sister was in on it too.”
“The cultural tendency is not to involve females of the family,” Montoya said. “I know Paco Rael slightly. I’ve been at roadhouses when he and Bert Kurtz were drinking and womanizing—and fighting. It’s hard to see Paco mixing up his fiancée in this, but she seems to be involved in some way.”
Garza agreed but suggested perhaps she was already involved by the time they got together.
After the warrant arrived, the three law enforcement officers asked me to wait on the porch until they’d gone through the house. When Montoya finally called me inside and gave me free rein, there was little to see. The family had lived quite comfortably. The furniture, an eclectic mixture of thrift shop and upscale, gave the place no real style, although they apparently favored heavy Mexican pieces. Everything was neat and stowed in its proper place, no doubt a testament to Elena’s housekeeping skills.
We hit pay dirt in the garage. Not exactly a mother lode, but enough marijuana and meth rested in the trunk of the Pontiac to earn someone a stretch behind bars. All this made Bill Garza happy. He might finally get a look inside the R&S Auto Shop. Montoya was more pleased by the crumpled passenger-side door and front fender of the Firebird. He called for forensics to perform their magic and perhaps come up with some paint from Liver’s pickup on the vehicle.
Montoya answered a blast of static on his car unit and returned to inform us Latido Corazón’s Camaro had passed through the border station at Santa Teresa an hour ago. We’d found Acosta’s muscle on this side of the border, but it had shut down before we arrived.
After extracting a promise to keep me in the loop, I headed west on I-10, anxious to get to the ranch where the greater danger lay. Ten miles outside of Deming, I thought of a better way and pulled off onto the shoulder to phone the ranch. Bert agreed to come get me in the chopper. I couldn’t get the image of all that earth-moving equipment on the western side of the Rayo out of my head and wanted another look at it.
I turned in the car at the rental agency and lugged my travel bag to the flying service across the field from the airport tower. Before the ranch helicopter put skids to the ground, I learned from a quick phone conversation with James Guerrero in El Paso that the rumor mill had Acosta crossways with some of his associates. Bert filled the machine’s twin saddlebag fuel tanks, and then we lifted off before exchanging anything more than perfunctory hellos.
When we were well clear of the town, I spoke into the headset. “Bert, I want another look at the area where Acosta was moving all that dirt. You game?”
Bert nodded and turned south, staying low enough so as not to attract the attention of Border Patrol radar installations—or so we hoped.
The trip wasn’t worth the risk. The entire operation had been shut down. The only sign of life was a ranch pickup headed west on one of the dirt roads. The gaping black hole in the side of the bluff, now devoid of equipment and men, gave us no clue as to what the project had been.
We circled the place once while I took photos and then made straight for the Lazy M. Millicent stepped out of the house onto the patio as we touched down. She came forward and gave me a big hug when I got clear of the chopper’s slowly spinning rotors.
“BJ, thank you for coming. I was afraid I’d chased you off with my behavior.”
“My skin’s thicker than that, Mud.” She seemed to enjoy being called that by her familiars, and I felt like one of them now. “Where’s Linus?”
“I had to send him to the field when I called Bert back in. But I stayed close to the house and kept my .30-30 handy while Bert was gone. And I’ve got my babies.” She indicated Bruno and Hilda. The Dobermans sat on alert a hundred feet away. “Of course, the real tiger’s inside. If somebody gets past the Dobermans, they won’t be able to set foot inside the house without Poopsie letting me know. Let’s go to the office, and you can tell me everything that’s happened.”
We followed her into the great room, where the feisty little terrier ran circles around our feet while giving excited yips and yaps, some of them so shrill they came out as squeaks. After grabbing coffee, we retreated to the office. Bert paced the floor, and Millicent clicked her amber worry beads while I laid out everything that had happened since we last spoke.
“Acosta’s run into some bad luck. James Guerrero, the PI in El Paso I work with, told me a few minutes ago the word is Acosta’s on the hot seat. He got arrogant and made a few mistakes. It started with the lawsuit from the Brazilian mine owner and the murders of the owner’s son and his killer. Our snooping around in his affairs hasn’t helped his situation any. There’s talk over there of a project gone wrong that’s put him at odds with others in his cartel.”
“Some project with Kenny?” Millicent asked. “Is that why they killed him?”
“In a way, but not the construction ventures they shared. I think the project that went wrong was the bet Hammond canceled, the bet that gave Acosta the leverage to pry you off your land. You and the Lazy M are right in the middle of Acosta’s troubles. And we’ve seen how he takes care of his problems.”
I gulped coffee. “This ranch has become tremendously important to Acosta and his associates. His next logical step is to try to buy the ranch for a reasonable price.”
“No way,” Millicent and Bert answered in virtual unison.
“Have you heard from him?” I asked her.
“No, nothing since he left in a hurry that day.”
“Then he’ll eliminate you two and allow Penelope to inherit.”
“That won’t be so easy,” Bert declared.
“But not impossible. Desperate men do desperate things. Acosta’s recent moves feel like desperation. There was no real reason to kill Hammond—except for revenge—unless he was afraid their stateside affairs were about to come under scrutiny. Hammond may have known something Acosta didn’t want to come out during formal interrogation. Millicent, you need to tell your daughter and her husband what’s going on, if you haven’t done so. He’s a lawyer—maybe he’ll have some ideas.”
“He’s a tax attorney,” Bert said. “He’s not going to help much.”
“Nonetheless, they need to know the details.”
One of the Dobermans let out a bark.
“That’s Hilda.” Millicent got up and went to the window.
Bruno’s deeper voice echoed the other dog. They stood at the fence beyond the helipad, barking and dancing.
“Acosta’s making his move quicker than I thought,” I said.
“I don’t think so.” Millicent moved to the french doors. “That’s not an alarm, it’s a greeting. They recognize whoever’s coming.”
“They’d recognize Rael, wouldn’t they? And Acosta too. Mud, get away from that door.”
She ignored me. “I see them. Two people walking.”
Bert and I joined her. I could make out distant figures.
“Mud, where are your binoculars?” Bert asked. She indicated a case hanging on the wall. He fiddled with the lenses. “Hell, it’s Luis and Maria.”
“Walking across the desert? Get the pickup and go get them, Bert.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “It may be a trap.”
“Not those two. They wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t, but Acosta wouldn’t have a problem using them as bait.”
Millicent gave her son a scorching look. “If you don’t
go, I will.”
“Lend me a rifle, and I’ll go with you,” I said.
“There’s one in the pickup. Come on.”
“Mud, arm yourself. And no matter what happens, don’t leave the house. In fact, call O’Brien when we leave.”
She didn’t answer as I followed Bert on his dash to the pickup parked in front of the house. I piled in as he kicked over the starter and sprayed gravel getting around to the back of the house. He ground to a halt at the rear gate and had it open before I could react. The Dobermans dashed out, but he ordered them to stay and put them on guard.
Bert about tore the springs out of the pickup covering the quarter-mile to the Rael pair. He bathed us all in dust as he skidded to a halt ten yards in front of them.
“Bert! Oh, Señor Vinson! ¡Gracias a Dios!” Maria appeared distraught and disheveled but didn’t seem to be suffering from what must have been a miles-long walk across the Boot Heel desert.
“Get in,” Bert ordered. “We need to get out of here fast.”
“But Paco needs—”
“Get in!” He grabbed her elbow and shoved her into the cab.
“Bert,” Luis said, “you must listen—”
“When we get back to the house.” I pushed him into the truck and piled into the bed, hanging on for dear life as Bert whipped around in a big circle and drove like a wild man. He halted at the gate and yelled for me to lock it behind us. As soon as I jumped out of the truck, he raced to the house. I turned and faced the two Dobermans he’d put on guard. Had I made a gigantic mistake? I froze. Bert gave a whistle, and the two brutes trotted away to settle in a patch of shade on the patio.
Dragging along in their wake, I itched to run but feared the dogs might take it wrong. With every step I expected to hear a shot. Would I feel it when my head exploded? On second thought, I probably wouldn’t even hear the shot… if it came.
