by Rich Curtin
During the drive back to Monticello, Rivera found himself wondering about the two extra gunshots Bill Converse’s foreman had heard. Where had those bullets ended up? Rivera’s brain couldn’t produce a single theory that would answer that question.
10
RIVERA DROPPED LATHROP off at his vehicle, then drove to nearby Monticello High School and parked in the lot across the street from the school. The sun had disappeared behind the Abajo Mountains and the temperature was beginning to drop.
As Rivera approached the entrance to the main building, he was filled with vivid memories of an earlier time, of growing up in Las Cruces, attending high school there, and trying to act cool and in-the-know about life while at the same time feeling insecure about all the unknowns of impending adulthood. As soon as he pulled open the front door and stepped inside, images of those days flooded his mind—hurrying down the hallway to class, cutting up with the guys, playing right field on the baseball team, flirting with the girls, cramming for exams.
In high school, his senior class had taken a bus trip to Moab to visit Arches National Park. It was on that trip that he’d bonded with the red rock canyon country. The attachment had been instantaneous and strong, almost like falling in love, and he’d developed an intense desire to someday return. After college, the police academy, and four years as a city cop in Las Cruces, he’d learned of a job opening as a deputy sheriff in Grand County and jumped at the chance to apply for it. He was thrilled when he received a letter from Sheriff Leroy Bradshaw offering him the job.
He often wondered what course his life would have taken had he not signed up for that bus trip to Moab. Would he still be a street cop in Las Cruces? Would he ever have discovered the vast landscape of the Colorado Plateau? Would he have missed all the backcountry exploration he loved so much? Would he ever have camped out solo on the bluffs overlooking the Green River, lying on the ground in his sleeping bag on a balmy night, looking up at a bright, gaudy Milky Way splashed across a pitched black sky? Would he ever have met Gloria Valdez while working on a cold case that took him from Moab to New Mexico?
The trajectory of his life had brought him to this place at this time and he had no regrets. He liked his life—living in Moab, working as an investigator, exploring the backcountry, and most of all, spending time with Gloria Valdez.
He found his way through the maze of hallways to the principal’s office.
An unsmiling young lady sitting at the front desk looked up from her word processor. She studied Rivera over her half-glasses as he explained the nature of his visit. The focus of her gaze alternated between his face and the Grand County patch on his uniform shirt, the unasked question being: What’s a Grand County Deputy Sheriff doing in San Juan County?
“Please take a seat,” she said in a tired, nasal voice like she was already bored with life. She gestured toward a row of wooden chairs along the wall of the reception area. “Mr. Dryden is in a meeting with the principal, and I expect him to be out shortly.”
Rivera sat, oddly feeling a bit like he did that time in freshman year when he released a bagful of small toads in algebra class, then had to sit and wait outside the principal’s office for the inevitable reprimand and punishment.
Fifteen uncomfortable minutes passed by. A rumbling sound emanated from his stomach. He glanced at his watch. It was dinner time and he was getting hungry. Another rumble, louder this time. He glanced at the young lady and found her staring at him with an expression of disapproval. He smiled and nodded, wondering if she had heard the rumble.
Finally, the door to the principal’s office opened and a large man emerged. He was wearing a felt cowboy hat, jeans, a white shirt, and a bolo tie with a turquoise and silver tie clasp. He had a friendly face and a briefcase in his hand. He looked to be in his late sixties and was probably once athletic, before age and arthritis and extra pounds had taken their toll. Rivera recognized him as Sam Dryden from the photo in one of the newspaper articles in Emmett Mitchell’s Dryden Ranch file. He was surprised at how much the man’s face resembled that of his stepson Bobby, despite their not being blood relatives.
Rivera stood up. “Mr. Dryden, may I have a word with you?”
Dryden smiled. “You must be Deputy Rivera.” He extended his hand. “When I called Alicia, she said you were looking for me. Why don’t we go down the hall to the staff lounge and talk? It should be empty this time of day.”
They sat at a small table in the empty room.
“First let me apologize for my son’s behavior. Alicia told me how he acted while you were at the ranch. Needless to say, I’m very embarrassed. Do you have children, Deputy Rivera?”
“Not yet, but I’m hoping to someday.”
“Well, let me tell you, they’re a blessing, but they can also be a whole lot of trouble. I’m sixty-eight years old and Bobby is thirty-six. He’s spoiled through and through. Never had to work a day in his life. I’m too old to have a dependent son living at home, and Bobby is a grown man who shouldn’t be unemployed and living off my income. Actually, he’s my stepson. When I married Susan, he was twelve years old. Even then he was incorrigible. Susan was too easy on him, but she was the love of my life and Bobby was part of the package. That was twenty-four years ago. Then when Susan was diagnosed with terminal cancer four years later, she made me promise to take good care of him. I’ve kept that promise, and I’ve tried to teach him some manners, but never had much success. He just doesn’t listen.” Dryden looked embarrassed. He shook his head, dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. “But you didn’t come here to hear all that.” He smiled. “How can I help you?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the couple that was found dead near the old airstrip on your grazing lease.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Horrible thing to have happen in that beautiful country. Everyone is a little on edge about it. I mean, we all know how to take care of trouble if it comes, but you hate to see the peace and tranquility of the area disturbed. I don’t understand what in the world that California couple was doing there in the first place. That’s not exactly a tourist destination.”
Rivera shrugged. “I don’t know why they were there. Seems they were visiting some of the national parks and took a detour to that place for some reason. Were you at your ranch all day yesterday?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual yesterday or the day before.”
Dryden thought for a long moment. Shook his head. “No. Everything seemed normal. I can’t think of anything I’d consider out of the ordinary.”
“Hear any gunshots?”
“No, I sure didn’t.”
“How about that old airstrip on your grazing lease? Have you seen any planes flying in or out of there recently?”
“No, not since the DEA busted up that drug running operation a couple of years ago.”
Rivera felt like he was getting nowhere. Aside from the four gunshots heard by Slim Keegan, Rivera had acquired no useful information from anyone. Dryden must have read that in his face.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” the rancher said. “I’ll ask all my employees those same questions. The drilling contractor’s personnel too. It’d be hard for you to do that yourself because they’re scattered all over the ranch working on different projects at different times. It’s even hard for me to find them sometimes. Then I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I learn.”
“That’d be a big help. Thank you.” He gave Dryden one of his cards.
“Alicia said you’ve already visited Bill Converse. You might ask Bill to do the same thing.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“Bill and I are close friends. He’s always been like a big brother to me. I was eighteen when I came to live on the ranch with my grandfather. Bill was about six years older. He often came over to our place to talk with my grandfather and play chess with him. Some days Bill and his father Ralph would visit, and we’d all go horseback riding. I miss those days. Our families have
always been close.”
Rivera sat in his vehicle and called Bill Converse who seemed more than happy to help. He said he would instruct his foreman, Slim Keegan, to talk to every person on the ranch tomorrow and report back. Rivera wished that Converse would do it himself. He had an uncomfortable feeling about Keegan. Nothing he could put his finger on. Maybe it was just the man’s appearance—the cold expression, the dark eyes, the absence of a smile, the black clothing. To Rivera, he looked like a gangster dressed in cowboy clothing.
Gloria usually ate healthy meals and encouraged Rivera to do the same, but tonight, as he sat in a Monticello diner, his hunger pangs overrode his commitment to lose a couple of inches from his waistline. He ordered a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and extra gravy. A salad on the side assuaged his guilt about the slice of chocolate cake he planned to order for dessert.
After the meal, he called Nathan White, the retired DEA agent who had been part of the task force that broke the Mexican drug operation using the airstrip. The agent seemed happy to have some company. “Right now would be great,” he said. He gave Rivera his address in Bluff.
11
DARKNESS CAME EARLY on this February evening as Rivera drove into the small town of Bluff, a cozy hamlet nestled on the banks of the San Juan River. The sun had long since set behind Tank Mesa and Comb Ridge, and the feathery cirrus clouds hovering over the western horizon were losing their pink and orange glow. Rivera parked in front of the White residence, a small brick house with a front yard of sand and native cactus. The structure looked like it was vintage 1950s, and the trim was in need of paint.
When Nathan White answered the door, Rivera saw a stocky, overweight man with gray hair long overdue for a haircut and bushy gray eyebrows. He smelled of beer and cigar smoke and appeared to be in his early sixties. A checkered flannel robe hung loosely over his clothing. White was smiling and chewing on what was left of a fat stogie.
“C’mon inside where it’s warm, Deputy. I hate this cold weather.” He flicked the cigar butt out into the yard.
“Thanks for seeing me so late in the day.”
“No problem. Glad to have the company.”
The house was small and smelled of cigar smoke. White gestured Rivera into a modest living room and turned off the television. A small brown and white dog sleeping on a blanket in the corner of the room raised its head, inspected the visitor for a brief moment, put its head down, and went back to sleep. Unlike Herman’s dogs, this one made no attempt at a greeting.
White offered Rivera a beer which he accepted. They sat in the living room across from one another, each taking a swig. Rivera started with some preliminaries, talking about the weather, the town of Bluff, and asking what White was doing now that he was retired.
“Truth be told, I’m not doing much. I kind of miss my job. It gave me a reason to get up in the morning, get dressed, and get out of the house. But the DEA decided I should retire.” He laughed a humorless laugh. “I should have developed some outside interests, I suppose, but I was too involved in my work. I let my whole life go by without making time for anything else. Now I get up in the morning, have a bowl of cereal, and turn on the TV. I sit here and listen to the talking heads argue back and forth about political things that don’t matter to me, or I watch an old movie that I’ve already seen three times. I joined the Sierra Club so I could go on some of their hikes, but I’m too overweight and out of shape to keep up.”
As White spoke, Rivera let his gaze wander around the room. The furniture was comfortable, but it was old, mismatched, and worn. The blue leather recliner White sat on was aimed directly at an oversized television. On an end table next to White was a large bowl of miniature pretzels positioned within easy reach. Newspapers and magazines were piled on the floor on both sides of his chair. The bookshelves behind him were filled with novels. There were no family photos, no works of art, and no memorabilia. No sign of a woman’s touch. What Rivera was looking at was an old bachelor’s quarters. The sight saddened him. Even frightened him. He wanted to hold Gloria in his arms right now. He reached down and touched the velvet box in his pocket.
“Ever try a raft trip down the San Juan River?” Rivera asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “There’s an outfitter right here in Bluff that will take you. I’ve heard it’s a beautiful and relaxing trip. No serious rapids between here and Mexican Hat.”
“Yeah, I should try that someday. My next-door neighbor has a motorboat. Maybe I could get him to take me out.” He stuffed some pretzels in his mouth. “Where you from Manny?”
“Moab now. Originally from Las Cruces. How about you?”
“I’m from a small town in the Texas panhandle. Ever hear of Gruver?”
Rivera shook his head. “Gruver? No, I can’t say I have.”
“They say the population of Gruver never changes. Every time a baby is born, a man leaves town.” White roared with laughter at his own joke, slapped the arm of his chair, and accidentally knocked the pretzel bowl onto the floor.
The dog jumped from its blanket, sprinted to the pretzels, and began snapping them up as fast as it could. White collected most of the pretzels and put them back in the bowl before the dog could devour them. When the floor was cleaned of pretzel matter, the dog returned to its blanket. White returned the bowl to the table, grabbed a handful of pretzels, and stuffed them into his mouth.
Rivera laughed at the joke, but decided it was time to quit the chit-chat and get down to business before White had any more beer. First, he explained why a Grand County deputy was investigating a San Juan County crime. Then he told White about the dead couple, the clothing they were wearing, and the revolver in Matthew Mason’s hand. He explained that they were found at the end of a grass airstrip on the Converse/Dryden grazing lease. He ran through everything he knew about the couple’s travel plans and mentioned the four gunshots Slim Keegan had heard. “I understand you were involved in breaking a drug-running operation that was using that airstrip.”
A smile slowly appeared on White’s face. He nodded. “Yeah.” The smile became a grin. “Man, those were the good old days. We fixed those cartel lowlifes real good.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I can give you the history, but it’ll take awhile.”
Rivera sipped his beer. He could tell from White’s expression that he was delighted to have an opportunity to recount a tale from his professional past. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
White leaned forward, as if warming up to the task. “About four years ago, I was assigned to be part of a task force called Purple Talon. Our mission was to put a stop to a new breed of high-tech drug smuggling. The perps were a spin-off of the Sinaloa Cartel and operated mainly in the western U.S. They were very organized and very ruthless. Their M.O. was to divide the U.S. into territories as small as a county and franchise out the drug running rights for each territory. They were the exclusive supplier of all types of drugs to each franchisee. Local drug distributors would either agree to work with them or disappear. Lots of them did disappear and were replaced with more cooperative distributors.”
“What was high tech about the operation?”
“That’s the part that had us flummoxed for a long time. They used drones to get the stuff across the border. That wasn’t unusual. It’s been tried for years but there’s an inherent limitation on range. After a mile or so, the transmitter’s control signal can’t reach the drone any more. So the drone doesn’t get far enough across the border. The package it’s carrying is at risk of being spotted by a Border Patrol agent. And besides, we had receivers which could detect the control signal transmissions, so we knew when a drone was coming over and got in position to intercept it.”
Rivera nodded. “Yeah. I read something about that a while back.”
White held the pretzel bowl out to Rivera. “Pretzels?”
“No, thanks.” Rivera wasn’t about to touch those pretzels, given their recent history.
White stuffed another ha
ndful into his mouth. “So the cartel came up with a new approach. One that took us a long time to figure out. They got some genius south of the border to modify the drones. Manny, you’re not going to believe this. They added a GPS receiver and a microprocessor controller to the drones.” A grin appeared on White’s face. “Then the bastards added solar cells so the batteries could be recharged. The drone was pre-programmed to take off from south of the border late at night. Using GPS satellite signals for navigation, it would fly twenty miles or so into the U.S. to a pre-selected small clearing in the middle of the desert where it would land. With this technology, no transmitted control signal was necessary so there was nothing for our receivers to detect. The operation was totally autonomous. Then, during daylight hours, the drone would remain on the ground while the solar cells recharged the batteries. Are you following all this?”
“Sure.”
White laughed, slapped his knee with a meaty paw, then stuffed more pretzels into his mouth. “Tickles me every time I think about it.” He became more enthusiastic as he told the story, gesturing with his arms and laughing as he spoke. Pretzel particles flew from his mouth. “The next night it would take off again and head north another twenty miles to another pre-programmed spot in the middle of nowhere. Do that six times and you’re a hundred and twenty miles north of the border on the property of a rancher who’s paid to look the other way. From there the goods were flown to the franchisees who were distributing the stuff. After that, the empty drones were flown back to Mexico the same way they came. They would be refilled with product and sent north again.”
Rivera smiled. “Amazing. How’d you get onto them?”
“We identified a dealer in Grand Junction and painstakingly backtracked the route of the merchandise he was receiving. Backtracked one segment at a time, each one headed farther south until the route ended at a ranch east of Tucson and north of Interstate 10. The backtracking took over six months. Then we staked out the ranch.”
