Blood Sweep

by Steven F Havill

  “Did he explain what he wanted? What was going on with the boy? Why would they be in Mexico?”

  Teresa looked distant again, and for a long moment didn’t answer. Estelle had long since learned to simply wait, not pushing her mother with impatient prompting.

  “I don’t know,” Teresa said finally.

  “But the eight thousand dollars? Did Naranjo himself request that?”

  This time Teresa nodded thoughtfully. “That was last week, mihija. That is the bail that is necessary. And I know that the two boys have concerts coming up.” A fleeting smile touched her lips. “They always do, those two. Maybe that’s what it is.”

  “Bail.” Her stomach felt as if it were full of lead. “Tomás asked you for the money? It was him, personally, who made that request of you?” How completely unlikely, Estelle thought. The colonel would never do such a thing.

  Teresa nodded. “I believe that is what your friend said.”

  “Por dios, whatever for?”

  “The captain explained it to me, but he talked faster than I could listen. But you’ve always trusted him, no?”

  “Of course.” Trusted him. “So he asked for the bail money, and you then agreed to send the cashier’s check?” Tomás Naranjo was a colonel, his most recent promotion not something that Teresa would remember. But he would not have tried to cajole money out of Mateo’s friends or relatives. Unthinkable. No, it would have been much simpler to order the boy’s release and—if Mateo had actually been in Mexico in the first place, had been caught with one hand in the Mexican cookie jar—send him packing back across the border. Anything serious enough to warrant custody, like an unlikely weapons charge, assault, auto theft, or a rough night at a cantina, wouldn’t be assuaged with a mere eight thousand dollars. Had such an improbable thing occurred, her son Francisco would have called immediately. At least she hoped he would.

  But a cashier’s check? That took a moment to digest, and then Teresa nodded slowly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have,” she whispered. “But the bank is so slow now, you know. I thought that this was something I could do. Without bother to you. He said I would have the money back promptly.”

  “No harm done,” Estelle said. “Mr. Mears has not cut the check yet.” And won’t. “I think I know what happened,” she added, and rose to give her mother a hug. She didn’t bother explaining the continual flow of telephone predators…and the phone scams trying to lever emergency money were common. “Let me check with Francisco.” She frowned hard. True enough, trying to force that kind of money from Atencio’s parents—his mother a nana like Addy and father a day laborer—would be a fruitless pursuit. But a ninety-nine-year-old woman might be an easy mark.

  As she dialed, she walked out into the dining room. Addy Sedillos was busy with four huge baked potatoes at the sink-side cutting board in the kitchen, and she glanced up as Estelle leaned against the counter, waiting on the phone connection. After four rings, Francisco’s cell went to messages. “Long chance,” Estelle muttered. “Francisco, this is Mamá. Give me a call as soon as you can, please? Love you.”

  She disconnected and then scrolled down through the catalog of numbers. Selecting Mateo Attencio’s cell, she tried that, and left another message. “Ay,” she said with impatience. “Wouldn’t you know.” She selected the landline to the Leister resident hall’s dean.

  “Dr. Baylor’s office. How may I direct your call?” The secretary’s voice was brisk, almost dismissive.

  “This is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman in Posadas, New Mexico. I need to speak with either Francisco Guzman or Mateo Attencio, please. It’s urgent.”

  The woman’s voice warmed instantly. “Do you have a number I might use to return your call? It’ll only be a moment. I’ll leave a short message at the Sheriff’s Department, if that will suffice.”

  “That will be fine.” Estelle rattled off the number and disconnected. “Nothing can ever be simple,” she said to Addy.

  “They’re responsible for a lot of talent,” the young woman offered. “Lots of adoring fans out there.”

  “I suppose. I haven’t gotten used to that yet.” She watched the seconds tick by on her watch, and sure enough, two and a half minutes later, the phone chirped.

  “Guzman.”

  “Estelle,” Ernie Wheeler said, “Leister Academy just called us to patch a message through to you. I gather you were expecting them to call.”

  “That’s great. What’s up?”

  “Dean Baylor’s secretary, Lucy Delfino, called to tell you that both Francisco and Mateo are in Mazatlán, Mexico. They left yesterday with two members of the faculty, and will return Sunday. End message.”

  Estelle stood silently, phone pressed hard to her ear, hoping that Ernie would add something else. The young man didn’t, but said, “That’s it.” When Estelle didn’t respond, the dispatcher gently nudged her. “You still there?”

  There was no point in asking Ernie to repeat the message, or to suddenly recall a vital detail that he had overlooked.

  “Thanks, Ernie.”

  “You’re welcome. By the way, the med-evac is fifty-five minutes out.”

  “Thanks.” Estelle disconnected and immediately redialed Leister. Her fingers flashed on the tiny keys, but her mind was deep in Mexico. Mazatlán…the fabled city with snow-white beaches, impressive and colorful historical district, and nestled in an area with one of the worst reputations for cartel violence in Mexico.

  “Dean Baylor’s office. How may I direct your call?”

  Estelle kept any pleasant deference out of her tone. “Ms. Delfino, this is Undersheriff Guzman again. Dispatch informs me that the two boys and two faculty members flew to Mazatlán for several days. They’ll be back Sunday. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct, ma’am.”

  “May I speak with Dean Baylor, please.”

  There was just the faintest hesitation before Lucy Delfino said, “Ma’am, Dean Baylor accompanied the boys on the trip this time. He and Dr. Lucian Belloit.”

  “This time?”

  “Well, I mean this trip. We take part in a fund-raising concert in Mazatlán every year. The Angela Peralta Conservatory is one of our sister schools. Just a beautiful, beautiful place.”

  “Have you heard from them today?”

  “In fact, Dr. Baylor calls here twice a day, Sheriff. Angela Peralta’s concert of greeting was last night, and a great success, he said. The two boys play tonight, and then on Saturday night, we have the combined concert as a finale.”

  “Sounds wonderful. I wish I had known about it.”

  “Ah, that’s our fault, and I apologize. If you look at the schedule on the back page of the July newsletter, you’ll see the concert series with Angela Peralta listed, but we neglected the follow-up contacts with parents—all the details. I’m not sure what happened, but it won’t happen again, rest assured. Your son didn’t inform you either, then?”

  “No, he didn’t.” A fourteen-year-old isn’t in charge of travel arrangements and details, Estelle almost added, but Leister clearly knew that. And parents were in charge of finding these things out, no matter what. That was the baseline.

  “Is there a number I might use now to contact Dean Baylor directly?”

  “You mean right now? In Mexico?”

  “Yes.”

  The secretary hesitated. “Would it be adequate if I have Dr. Baylor call you at this number? Or Francisco, if he’s handy?”

  Or even if he isn’t, Estelle thought. “If he will do so in the next ten minutes. I’m about to catch a flight, and I can’t guarantee how good the reception will be once we’re airborne. If you can’t reach them, I’ll need his contact number so that I might try later.”

  “I understand. Either he or I will be right back to you, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Estelle disconnected and let out a long breath. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. “The boys are in Mexico,” she said to Addy. “A three-day concert series in Mazatlán.”

 
Chapter Eight

  While she waited, Estelle first rummaged through the file of Leister material that they kept in the carousel in the living room. Sure enough, the July schedule of events listed a gig in Mazatlán at the Teatro Angela Peralta. Performers were listed as Guzman, Atencio, and guest artists.

  “It pays to read the fine print,” Estelle muttered, furious with herself. She used the landline to call Colonel Naranjo’s office in Chihuahua, her cell phone ready and waiting in the other hand. The colonel would rather have been covered in fine dust, with his kidneys jolted out of place by the rough country roads, than spend time inside behind a polished desk, puffing a cigar. On top of that, Mazatlán in Sinaloa was far from his home state of Chihuahua, no more in his jurisdiction than a San Diego cop trying to work in Albuquerque. But Estelle knew that he would have contacts. Naranjo was as much a walking gazetteer of northern Mexico as Bill Gastner was of Posadas County.

  She took a deep breath while circuits clicked. The officer who answered sounded about twelve years old, his Spanish rapid and melodious.

  “Colonel Naranjo, please,” Estelle replied to his greeting, and identified herself. The Mexican officer hesitated, and Estelle could hear papers shuffling.

  “Hmm,” he said as if coming to an important conclusion. “Agente, may he return your call, please? The colonel is, ah…somewhat indisposed.” He said the word indispuesto as if the situation possibly amused him—or as if the correct words would present discretionary complications.

  Estelle glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen clock. “Will he be able to do that in the next few minutes?”

  Again the hesitation. “I would think so, but I cannot be sure. Would you care to leave a message for the colonel?”

  “Just that I called, and that I need to speak with him.”

  “It is of some urgency, then?”

  This time it was Estelle who hesitated. “Yes, it is.” She gave the officer both her landline and cell phone numbers and disconnected. “Ay,” she whispered, and glanced across at Addy. “Am I being a suffocating mother?” Estelle smiled ruefully. “But Mazatlán?”

  “A beautiful place,” Addy offered without much enthusiasm.

  “Yes, it is, parts of it.” Hefting her modest overnight bag, she gave Addy a quick hug. “Thanks for staying tonight,” she said. “I’ll call from Albuquerque. If Francisco should call here…”

  Addy nodded quickly. “I’ll forward the message.”

  “Thank you.” In the living room, Teresa Reyes sat quietly, nestled in her afghan.

  “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  “Well, Mamá, we wait. I have my net out. I’m sure that if something really is wrong, the conservatory would have called before this. Or the director will call. Or Francisco. They gave a concert last night, and the dean said during his phone call to the school this morning that all went well. He’s going to call me as soon as he gets the chance.”

  A half dozen thoughts tangled in Estelle’s mind, and for a long moment she sat beside her mother, brows furrowed.

  “This worries you?” Teresa asked. Her withered right hand touched the back of Estelle’s, and her bottomless black eyes roamed her daughter’s face.

  “The whole thing. We could start with the two boys being down there in the first place. Mexico has changed so. I’m not sure Leister appreciates that.” She didn’t mention the fundamental improbability of Naranjo’s calling Teresa Reyes to ask for bail or bribery money…or anything else for that matter. And yet, Teresa had been suckered in.

  “I know that people fall prey to these scams all the time,” Estelle said gently. “It’s easy, because we’re concerned for the safety of loved ones.” Teresa frowned at that, looking as if she’d bitten into something sour.

  “I should know these things perfectly well.”

  “Yes.” Estelle patted her hand. “But there’s always this nagging doubt, Mamá. What if the boy is really in trouble. What if? What if? It’s hard just to dismiss it.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “Perhaps it is all a silly mistake. I have a call in to Tomás, so we’ll know soon enough.” She paused, but her curiosity held the upper hand. “You said the colonel was in a hurry when he called. Did he ask about the rest of the family?”

  Teresa shook her head slowly. “Most of the time, I could not understand him.”

  “Did he specifically ask for me?”

  “It surprised me that he didn’t,” Teresa said.

  “Yo tambien.” Estelle looked at her watch again. Was Naranjo’s supposed rushed phone call somehow related to his now being ‘indisposed’? “We’ll find out soon enough. I’ll call you from Albuquerque.”

  “Addy will be here?”

  “Yes, she’s staying until I return from the city.”

  Teresa nodded and closed her eyes. “She or Carlos can answer the telephone, then. It’s impossible, that thing.”

  That thing buzzed again just as Estelle turned the ignition key in her unmarked car.

  “Yo,” Sheriff Robert Torrez said by way of greeting—the single syllable unusual, since he was in the habit of simply starting the conversation without greeting of any sort. ‘What’s the deal with Bill? Do we know yet?”

  “A badly broken hip. We don’t know what complications, if any. I’m on my way to the airport to ride up with him to UNMH.”

  “How come you’re goin’?”

  Ah, Mr. Sympathy. “Camille won’t fly in from Michigan until this evening. I can catch a ride home with her. But he needs someone with him right now.”

  “Huh.” The line fell silent, and Estelle edged the gear lever into Drive. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Any luck on the hunt?” She was about to pull out of the parking lot when she saw the emergency lights, and she waited for the ambulance to pass.

  “Yup,” Torrez said again. “Tell Bill we got us enough antelope rack to make green chile stew for a year.” The sheriff’s sympathy was dished out in tiny bites, Estelle reflected.

  “That will cheer him up.”

  “Yup,” Torrez said. “You ever meet a guy named Dominic Olveda? Says he’s from Tucson.”

  “No. Should I know him? His name is on the county meeting agenda. That’s all I know about him.”

  “Just wondered. He’s talkin’ to the county commissioners tomorrow about some airport deal. Thought maybe you’d heard.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You’re not going to go to that meetin’, then.”

  “I really can’t,” Estelle said. “Padrino is in a bad way.”

  “Maybe I’ll go and see what he’s about.”

  “That would be good, Bobby.”

  “We’ll see.” He disconnected as abruptly as he had begun. For the eight-minute drive out to Posadas Municipal Airport, Estelle found herself clutching the phone, willing it to ring, willing it to carry her son’s quiet voice with the news that all was well, that the concerts were drawing huge crowds, and that the phone call to Teresa Reyes had been nothing but an empty scam by some opportunistic jerk who had been able to put all the numbers together.

  Even though she hadn’t paid as close attention as she might have, the concert would have been well publicized within the private circles of that world, and it would not have been difficult to pick up tidbits of information. Still…

  The lights of the ambulance outdistanced her, and by the time she pulled through the chain-link gate that accessed the airport’s office and apron, the EMTs were already lifting the gurney out of the vehicle. And by then she had reached no conclusions. How could the scammer know the Guzman’s family connections with Naranjo? How would they know enough to use his name? How would they know that Teresa would be the most vulnerable target?

  The med-evac aircraft, a jet-prop Beech King Air, was parked just off the fuel island donut, one of the crew conferring with Jim Bergin, the airport manager.

  Estelle parked beside Bergin’s pickup truck near the office and took a moment to organize her thoughts and her m
obile office before turning once again to the cell phone. Gayle Torrez was now working dispatch, and picked up immediately, and just as quickly informed Estelle that she had heard nothing.

  “We’ll be in that air here in a few minutes, and it’s about an hour to Albuquerque. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Is Bill hanging in there okay?” Gayle asked.

  “I’ll try talking with him in a minute,” Estelle replied. “I would expect that he’s so heavily sedated that he’s off in la-la land for the duration.”

  La-la land or not, Bill Gastner raised his head and regarded Estelle as she ducked into the crowded Beechcraft. He was strapped into narrow confines on the right side of the aircraft, the rig looking more like a high-tech torture device than a bed. A rack of tubed gadgets hung from the wall and ceiling above him, almost obscuring the most forward of the five windows. If the patient had been able to stretch out a hand, he could reach across the narrow aisle to touch either one of the two passenger seats. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was little more than a slurred whisper.

  “Making sure you behave yourself, Padrino.”

  “What a goddamned waste of taxpayers’ money.” He turned his head so he could see past one of the EMTs who was fussing with his IV tubes. “Did you hear from my daughter?”

  “We’ll be meeting her in Albuquerque,” Estelle answered, and nodded as one of the aircraft crew pointed to a small jump seat toward the rear cabin bulkhead. The undersheriff reached out and patted her friend’s arm. “I’ll get out of their way. You ride easy.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Gastner whispered.

  “It’s better than taking the ride in the back of a buckboard,” Estelle said.