Blood Sweep

by Steven F Havill

  “Make sure we find the empty casing,” Torrez said. “The way the gun was held, it might have gone right out the window. Or if he had it twisted, bounced off the door.”

  “Maybe the shooter picked it up?” Sutherland asked.

  “Bettin’ not. Why bother, and then leave the gun behind?”

  “Right there.” Linda Pasquale had been leaning in the passenger side documenting the recovery of the gun, and she pointed at the crease between the carpet and the transmission hump where a single brass cartridge case had lodged.

  “Huh,” Torrez muttered. He made a pistol out of his right hand, index finger extended. Mimicking the assassin, he turned sharply left, ramming the gun hand into the air, barrel upward. “Bang,” he said. “Shell kicks out and up if it’s held the one way. Gonna bounce off somewhere up above him.” He twisted his hand, as if holding the gun upside down, a natural enough position. “Holds it like this, the shell goes down, bounces off his chest, and onto the floor.” He bent down and aimed the flashlight beam at the inside of the canvas roof.

  As soon as the casing was safe in an evidence bag, he beckoned to the EMTs.

  “Before you zip him up…” Torrez said, but Tom Sharpe, a tall and angular man with a shock of white hair, waved him off with an air of impatience.

  “I know, I know,” Sharpe said. “You can have all the time you need.”

  Sharpe and his partner, Doug Baca, a morbidly heavy young man whose girth tested his uniform buttons, levered the corpse sideways from the Jeep. Baca studiously avoided examining the victim’s face as Sharpe bent to disentangle the uncooperative feet from the pedals. With the black body bag spread out on the gurney, they lifted and swung, settling the corpse on the bag with an undignified thump.

  “He’s going to want to do the pockets before we zip him up.” Sharpe’s tone was officious, odd since Baca had been an EMT for ten years longer than the former pastor. He made a point of noting the sheriff’s gloves. “Always a smart thing to do,” he said. Torrez ignored him.

  “No robbery.” Sutherland looked at the wallet Torrez retrieved from the man’s right hip pocket…the sort of long, slender accessory that would be more at home in the inside pocket of a suit coat than in the jeans. The wallet bulged with money, and the sheriff thumbed through it.

  “All right,” he said, and pulled out a laminated card. “Arizona. Issued to Miguel Quesada. Tomorrow’s his birthday.”

  “Some present,” the deputy offered.

  “Yep.” The wallet yielded nothing else. “Two grand and a license.” With no further comment, Torrez accepted the large evidence bag from Sutherland. Except for a tube of lip balm, the man’s other pockets were empty. He handed the bag to the deputy, and gently lifted the tail of the sweatshirt, drawing it up the torso. The fabric was soggy with blood, some of which had soaked through the loose weave. “Linda,” the sheriff said, and she stepped forward quickly. “Just one to show there’s nothin’ there.”

  No fresh wounds marked the beefy chest, although a puckered scar just below Quesada’s right collarbone drew a brief “Huh,” from the sheriff. “He collected that one a while ago.” With Sharpe assisting, they rolled the corpse over far enough to expose the back, pocked with a far larger scar high up, just below the crest of the shoulder.

  “In and out,” Sharpe said.

  No other wound marked the back of the victim’s neck or marred the skull. Blood had gushed from the blasted chin, the mouth and nose.

  “You can have him,” Torrez said.

  “Do you have the State Police Crime Unit coming?” Sharpe asked. His implication was clear, but Torrez instead turned to his deputy.

  “You need to call that in to Doc for his paperwork,” Torrez said to Sutherland. “He’ll want the DOB and stuff when he tags the corpse. And you might as well give Stub Barnes a shout so we can get this thing to impound.” He glanced at his watch. “And it ain’t long until Taber is on shift, so have her out here. And then…we got two names I want run by the NCIC. This guy, and our friend from this afternoon—Olveda. Let’s see what kind of story these Tucson boys can tell.”

  “And the rifle case,” Linda added.

  “And that,” the sheriff echoed. “Let’s see what he’s hidin’ in there.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman startled as a hand gently shook her shoulder. She looked up into the concerned face of Blanche Johnson, LPN. “Your gadget is going nuts.” The nurse nodded at the little chair-side table where Estelle’s cell phone was vibrating itself in a slow circle on the Formica tabletop.

  “I don’t know what she’s got against a nice, comfy motel room,” Bill Gastner said. His voice was strong. “Better yet, home.”

  Estelle drew herself up, untucking her legs. It used to be easy, sitting curled up on top of her feet. It still was, save for the uncoiling. Her watch said 6:10. The phone continued dancing, and she retrieved it, feeling a wash of relief as she viewed the international number.

  “Guzman.”

  “Ah, most fortuitous,” the smooth, quiet voice said.

  Nurse Johnson had started her morning pre-surgical ritual with the patient, and appeared to be in no hurry to leave the room. Estelle rose from the chair and tried to rotate the kink from her neck. “Colonel, I am so pleased that you called,” she said. The hallway outside Gastner’s ICU room was empty, and she rested her back against the cool block wall, waiting for the knots to release.

  “I hope this isn’t a nuisance,” Colonel Tomás Naranjo continued. “Your officers tell me that you are standing guard, so to speak.” He laughed in quiet sympathy. “But this time, our good fellow is not so likely to walk out of the hospital on his own, no?”

  “No.” She sighed. Gastner once had done just that, albeit with her assistance—perhaps complicity was a better word. And of course, Naranjo remembered. He and Gastner had always been neck and neck in the human gazetteer race.

  “How is he now? I am told that it is a badly broken right hip, no?”

  “Yes, and we can add to that his spending more than a day lying on the concrete floor of his garage, unable to move. But he sounds stronger this morning. He just barked at me for spending the night here.”

  Naranjo chuckled. “Of course.”

  “Surgery is here in just a few minutes. They’re prepping him now.”

  “Oh, my. That is such a trial at any age, but at his…Should you have the chance, will you extend my fond regards?”

  “I’ll do that.” She knew better than to push the Mexican colonel toward the central point of his call. With some amusement, she remembered her mother’s description of Naranjo in a hurry, speaking too fast for her old ears to follow…and how unlikely that would be.

  “You sound tired, Sheriff.” His voice was as soothing as a piece of warm velvet.

  “An uncomfortable chair for the night,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to go find myself a nice cup of tea here in a moment.”

  “Ah.” The brief silence that followed meant that Naranjo was searching for the open door. She knew it was coming before he said, “And how is your mother?”

  “She is well, although I confess that at this moment, she is confused. She had every reason to think that you had called her personally with some most distressing news, Tomás.”

  “She believed that she was speaking to me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How puzzling. I should call your mother more often, but we know how life’s little interruptions keep us from doing those things that are most important.” His cadence, his caressing of each syllable, reminded her of the late, great Puerto Rican actor Raúl Juliá. Years before, when she had watched the video, Presumed Innocent, she had leaned close to her husband’s ear at one point in the film and whispered, as Juliá engaged another character, “He sounds exactly like Tomás Naranjo.”

  “I was certain you hadn’t called, Tomás. Not about this.” She quickly told him of the telephone scam and the request for money.

  He was sile
nt for some seconds. “But she has not responded to this request?”

  “No. She went so far as to ask our bank for a cashier’s check. Fortunately, the bank president intervened and discussed the matter with me before proceeding.”

  “Ay. All of this is most unfortunate. But the most important question, then. Have you heard from Francisco?”

  “He called earlier yesterday evening, Tomás. I did not mention anything about the phone call to Teresa because I didn’t want my son to start worrying. If he already had reason to think that something was wrong, I know that he would have said so.” She sighed. “The news of Padrino’s injury is difficult enough. He is more than padrino for the boys. He is also a close and cherished friend for them.”

  “I understand that, Señora,” Naranjo said. “I am told that the first concerts went very well indeed.”

  Told by whom? Estelle wondered, but she knew that Naranjo’s contacts were both efficient and wide-ranging. “They did. Francisco is most excited.”

  “I should think so. And of course, we send our very best regards to all of our friends north of the border.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In addition, I wanted to alert you to a possible situation.” He accented each syllable of the word for emphasis. “It appears that two men were killed in Mazatlán yesterday.” Estelle heard papers rustling. “The Ortega brothers. José and Hector. I can’t imagine that you have heard of them.”

  “No.” Estelle’s fingers grew cold holding the phone. “Where and how did they die?” Two men wasted, Francisco had reported.

  Naranjo paused. “Their bodies were found in a small courtyard not far from the conservatory where your son is performing. Both had been shot once in the head with a small-caliber weapon of some sort. There was no effort made to hide the bodies. They lay on their backs, I’m told, side by side. As if arranged, you know. We—actually, let me be accurate. Metropolitan authorities are following several promising aspects of the case.”

  “Such as?”

  “One of the men had in his possession an envelope on which he had written several phone numbers. One of the numbers was underlined. I think you might recognize it.” He read off the number, complete with area code—the Guzmans’ landline in Posadas.

  Estelle said nothing, but realized the crashing she heard was her own heartbeat.

  “That would be the telephone that your mother would answer, I would think.”

  “Yes. She will not use a cell phone. They make no sense to her.”

  “Something was planned, then,” Naranjo said. “It appears that way. We—they—do not know who might have interrupted whatever plan was in progress. Perhaps a kidnapping if the phone calls produced no results.”

  “I don’t want to think about that.”

  “I know you don’t, and I don’t blame you. But this is a time when we must face all facts, my friend. Security around the venue was doubled and tripled after the discovery of the bodies, let me assure you. It was made very clear…very clear…that nothing would interfere with concert programs, or with the musicians themselves. Honored guests in our country will remain so, safe and secure so that all may appreciate and applaud their performances.”

  “Thank you, Tomás. But I must tell you the curious thing. We received a telephone call. Carlos happened to answer and talked with a man who claims to be an uncle of mine. He used the name Benedicte Mazón.”

  “Most interesting.” Naranjo had not hesitated.

  “Yes. He asked to speak with no one else, but just called to deliver a message. He told Carlos that there was no cause to worry about Mazatlán. The implication was that if there had been any issues surrounding the concert venue and the boys, they were no longer a worry.”

  This time, it was the Colonel who fell silent, and Estelle waited patiently. Finally, Naranjo said, “One more time, his name, please?”

  “Benedicte Mazón.” She spelled it for him, wondering if he was having second thoughts now about recognizing the name—or admitting to her that he did.

  “And this Señor Mazón said he was an uncle of yours? That is curious.” Naranjo had heard the story of Estelle’s life journey from the tiny, isolated border town of Tres Santos to her career in the United States, and he had had the opportunity to engage Estelle’s stepmother, Teresa Reyes, in conversation on many occasions. Both enjoyed reminiscing about quieter, simpler times in the border country.

  A central character of those stories and times had been Teresa’s uncle, Reuben Fuentes—a character well known to both Naranjo and Bill Gastner himself. When Teresa had sent her then sixteen-year-old daughter Estelle to the United States to finish high school, the teenager had lived for two years with Reuben, in itself something of a gamble. The sixteen-year-old had prospered, however. Never had Estelle heard the name Benedicte Mazón mentioned.

  “We will see,” Naranjo said simply. “Kindly allow me some time to pursue this. In the meantime, I will make sure that a contingent of the very best men is assigned to the two musicians and their troupe.” He chuckled. “But please…we will be ever so discreet, believe me.”

  “I appreciate all you can do, Tomás. I really do. I am more in your debt than I can repay.”

  The dismissal in his tone carried clearly. “You know, over the years,” and he paused, “over the years, we have worked closely on so many things.” He laughed gently. “I believe we both are beyond counting who owes what debt to whom. To work as one—that is what we must do.”

  One of the nurses, assisted by a candy striper, pushed a mobile bed silently down the hall toward Estelle, then turned and eased it into Gastner’s room.

  “They’re transferring Padrino now, Tomás. I should go.”

  “Word from us soon, then, Sheriff. And please, rest well.”

  “Please give my love to Marta.”

  “With pleasure,” the Mexican policeman said. Eschewing the social circles that might seem appropriate for a colonel’s wife, Marta Naranjo instead presided over their exquisitely appointed hacienda and exclusive gift shop outside the tiny village of Alegre, itself a destination for well-heeled shoppers from both sides of the border. “How do they say…‘when the dust settles,’ we must all meet in Alegre. It has been too long.”

  “I look forward to that,” Estelle said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With its position photographically recorded half a dozen ways, Torrez lifted the heavy plastic rifle case out of the Jeep. A search had turned up nothing else in the rear compartment—no clothing, no maps, no food, not even a candy wrapper.

  He snapped the latches and opened the rifle case. For a long moment, he knelt quietly, one hand on the case cover, the other relaxed on his knee.

  “You think that’s the one?” Sutherland asked. Torrez didn’t reply. He slipped a gloved index finger under the barrel and raised it until he could bend down and sniff the aroma—rich and recent, a tangy odor as yet uncut with solvents or oil. The muzzle itself was threaded for half an inch to accept a suppressor, and that ten-inch black tube lay in its own nest in the foam case liner.

  Without touching anything else, he lowered the rifle back in place. He knew ranchers who routinely used suppressors on their varmint rifles—whether the suppressor was legally owned or not wasn’t a concern. More effective with sub-sonic ammunition, the suppressors still muted the rifle’s report enough that the whole prairie dog town wouldn’t dive for cover from a shot fired from four or five hundred yards away. Torrez had heard the one shot aimed at him, however. The shooter hadn’t bothered with the suppressor—perhaps saving it for other jobs where the rifle’s loud report mattered.

  Further lab work might change his opinion, but at first glance, there was nothing unique about the Sako rifle.

  Nestled beside the suppressor was a box of premium grade hollow point hunting cartridges. Torrez lifted one corner of the box just far enough to remove it from the case, and using his pen as a stylus, opened the box flap. The Styrofoam innards slid out, revealing nineteen rounds re
maining.

  “So,” he said, and rocked back on his haunches. The Sako was by no means an unusual gun—not a high-priced assassin’s tool, but a most competent hunting rifle. Some machinist or gunsmith had taken but a few moments to thread the barrel to accept the suppressor. Chambered in the venerable and common .223 cartridge, ammunition choices were abundant anywhere around the world, military or otherwise.

  “Nice rig.” He glanced up at both Sutherland and Linda Pasquale. “Get Mears on this,” he said. “Every little thing. Might even get some trace DNA off the stock.” He lifted his right hand and aligned it close to his nose as if sighting a rifle. “Gonna be something touching somewhere, unless he wiped it down already. Might not have had the time.”

  With a creak of leather and crack of his right knee, Torrez stood up. “And see what the state can do for us,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Adams can call their van down here. Maybe they’ll find some fiber or something. Who knows? They ain’t going to be happy we got a start already, but tough shit. We ain’t got all day.”

  “You don’t want the rifle to go to them, Sheriff?”

  “No, I don’t. Sign it in to Mears. It and the forty-five both. If there’s somethin’ there, he’ll find it.” He turned as an approaching vehicle slowed. The county unit eased into the lane and parked behind his own. Sergeant Jackie Taber’s blocky figure appeared. The dawn was just burning cracks through the deep indigo of the eastern sky, and Taber walked carefully head-down until she was within a few feet of the sheriff. She looked up and touched the brim of her Stetson with two fingers. “A perfect morning, sir,” she said.