“I have no desire to relive ancient history,” Estelle snapped, but even as she formed the words, she knew they rang false. How could she not be drawn into this?
But one issue, of even greater importance, loomed. “What do you want? Here and now…what is it that you want?”
Mazón took a deep breath and did not reply, perhaps searching for a strategy to draw her into his story.
“You are wanted by Mexican authorities on at least a double murder charge, maybe other charges as well,” Estelle persisted. “You are obviously a fugitive in this country. I could arrest you now, and in short order, you would be in the hands of Mexican police. So.” She paused expectantly. “I will do this one favor and grant you about thirty seconds. What do you want?”
Mazón looked pained. “The two men who died near the theater in Mazatlán,” he said softly. “I knew them in prison.” He grimaced and looked down at the table. “I talk too much there, to anyone who would listen. My pride is…” and he sat up straight, swelling his chest and holding his hands out as if presenting his heart to her. He lowered one hand to touch the folded paper, then both as he smoothed it out. “Of course you realize what a gift this young man, your son, brings to the world.”
“I realize it very well. What do you want?”
“As worthless a life as I have led, still I recognize the treasure that mi gran sobrino represents. I do. And over some time, I came to understand that I had done a dreadful thing.” He rested his hand on the pictures. “Displaying all this, talking with such pride…” He closed his eyes, hand still protecting the photo. “I provided a target for the unscrupulous predators.”
“The men who tried to coerce money from an old woman?”
“That was one silly plan, and I told them so—these two silly Costa Ricans. An opportunity presented with this concert is all it was, and they jumped at the chance.” Mazón fell silent for a moment. He had turned the photo and examined it. “When money wasn’t immediately forthcoming, they began thinking. Conspiring.” He sighed heavily. “Do you recall when the prominent woman reporter came and interviewed you a couple of years ago?” He bent forward, squinting, and touched the photo near the upper right. “Here is the very article. The reporter talks about Teresa, that remarkable woman. And here…” He moved his finger to another larger photo. “This concert was in your village of Posadas just this year, and one of the portraits of the audience, enthralled, shows you and your family.” He looked up at Estelle. “A glorious time. And I could not keep it to myself. I reveled in the experience, even though I could not be there. And I certainly talked to the wrong people. For that, I must make amends.”
“And your cohorts hatched a plan when it became clear that extorting money from us, through Teresa Reyes, obviously wasn’t going to work.”
“That is correct. We were never sure, of course, when our release would actually happen.” He smiled with resignation. “Perhaps you know something of the administration of Mexican prisons. But first thing you know, the three of us are free once again. And so the plan went forward. Although I beseeched them to abandon the conspiracy, I remained close. I saw it as the only way open to me to protect the artist.”
“This kidnapping never would have worked either.”
“As I said, that much became obvious very quickly. But they had heard of it working before, in other times, other places, this telephone game. Sometimes just for a thousand or two…trifling amounts. In their greed, they settled on a larger sum. As I said, a silly plan. Equally obvious was that there might be far more money to be gained by holding your son for some sort of ransom. They came to believe that. The Mazatlán experience provided the opportunity. I could not let them pose such a threat, so I…” He shrugged.
Air froze in Estelle’s lungs. “When they first contacted my mother, they used Colonel Tomás Naranjo’s name.”
“They spoke of that scheme. At least one of the photographs includes the colonel’s image as a family acquaintance, so I suppose they assumed…”
Two hospital employees entered the snack bar, and he fell silent. The men took their time pouring coffee and selecting just the right pastry before heading for a two-top in the corner. No matter how quietly Estelle whispered, they would be heard. And if Mazón had plans other than conversation, they could be at risk.
“Come outside with me.” She kept her voice pleasant.
“Of course I would rather not do that,” Mazón said.
“It was not a choice.”
For a long moment he regarded her, and then smiled as he glanced over at the two other men. “I see so much of my brother in you.” He shrugged. “As you wish.”
In the relative anonymity of the hallway, Estelle dialed quickly and in a moment Naranjo’s voice came on the line, overlaid with static and the click of other circuits.
“Can you hear me clearly?” she said, avoiding using his name.
“Let me call you back, my friend. I am at the airport in Mazatlán right now. Be patient but a few moments.”
“I’m waiting with one in custody.” She switched off before Naranjo could reply. She led Mazón out one of the staff exits that was prominently marked Authorized Personnel Only. The small courtyard fronted on utility parking, a chain-link fence defining the perimeter. As Mazón passed, she nudged a fist-sized rock between door and jamb.
“This looks like home,” the Mexican said wryly.
“It’ll work for some privacy,” Estelle said. “Before anything else, give me a simple answer. Did you kill the two men in Mazatlán? The two found near the theater?”
“Yes. I had no choice. They were armed and determined. Most dangerous men. I was forced to act quickly, without mercy.”
“And Mexican authorities know that you killed both men?”
“Yes.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, there was a witness who provided them with a useful description. The Mexican police can be most efficient when they want to be, what Hollywood says not withstanding.”
Her phone vibrated, and she saw the international number. “Guzman.”
“Everything is secure in Mazatlán,” Naranjo said. “That was first and foremost my major concern. One of the officers assigned to the teatro happens to be an aficionado of performance music, and is aware of your son’s astonishing career. Francisco’s safety is now a personal crusade with the captain.” Estelle’s heart pounded. “But tell me…I wasn’t sure I understood your message. We were somehow cut off.”
“Mazón is here,” she said. If Mazón felt threatened, he gave no indication. In fact, he walked over to the chain-link fence with its locked exterior gate and curled his fingers in the fencing, gazing out at the empty space beyond.
The phone was silent, and Estelle kept her eyes on her companion as she waiting.
“I had information that he was headed to New Mexico for other reasons,” Naranjo said carefully. “It surprises me that he has found you in the hospital. Be very careful with this man, my friend. He is most resourceful and can be a dangerous adversary. He will almost certainly be armed.”
“He admitted to killing the two men outside the theater. He claims self-defense.”
“You mentioned custody just as the connection was broken. Is that the case?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“If he is not, then he should be. We have discovered that he has other business. Have you heard of a man named Miguel Quesada?”
“No.”
“He was a companion of the two men who were murdered. In fact, I have a photograph, of less quality than I would like, of all four men photographed by a friend shortly after the brothers and Mazón were released from prison. The fourth man in the photo is Quesada. None of them are Mexican nationals, you know.”
“Mazón mentioned something about Costa Rica.”
“That is a possibility.”
Mazón appeared to be occupied tracing the perimeter of the chain-link square with his index finger as he gazed at the parking lot beyond.
“This
Quesada…do we know where he is?”
Naranjo didn’t reply for a moment. “You haven’t been in communication with Sheriff Torrez?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Naranjo let out a small breath, almost a chuckle cut off before it formed. “It is a challenge keeping track of both of you,” the Mexican colonel said. “I have information that Mr. Quesada may have also headed north. It is interesting that both he and Mazón should do that.”
“And Bobby knows this?”
“He does now, my friend. Your office faxed mine a gruesome photo of an apparent homicide victim. This Mr. Quesada, it would seem. He has run afoul of someone more dangerous than himself in your quaint village of Posadas.”
“Mazón, you mean?”
“That is exactly what I mean. I do not believe that this man who claims to be your uncle is in the United States to attend a family picnic.”
“I’m out of that loop at the moment,” Estelle said. Bobby doesn’t talk, and apparently I don’t listen.
“Our belief is that Mr. Mazón may be responsible for Quesada’s murder. A falling out among thieves, so to speak. When two rival groups argue, there is often a single man who mediates the problems, whatever they might be.”
She avoided looking across the courtyard at the man who claimed to be her uncle. If what the Mexican colonel said was true, Mazón had been busy man—he would have had to travel from Mazatlán first to Posadas, then to Cruces. And his plans now?
“Please follow my advice, Señora. Take Mazón into secure custody right now, if you can do so safely. Call for assistance, I beg of you. And then we will find out all of the connections.”
“All right. I’ll be in touch.”
“Be careful. I will be there late this evening or in the morning.” Let no border be a barrier, Estelle thought. The colonel’s red tape scissors was legendary.
“I’ll let you know.” She switched off and took a deep breath. Mazón turned away from the fence, his left hand lingering on the chain-link.
“So…” he prompted.
The sun was hot, bouncing off the plastered cinderblock walls, and Estelle unfastened the last button of her light jacket. She walked over to Mazón, her hands relaxed as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“There is so much…” the Mexican started to say, but he was totally unprepared for the speed with which Estelle moved. His right arm was vulnerable, and she drew the cuffs and smacked them over his wrist in one fluid motion, then slapped the other side through the chain-link down low, pulling his hand hard below waist level. As the cuff’s lock ratcheted closed, she was already stepping back. Mazón made no move to test the strength of the handcuffs. Instead he regarded them with bemusement, tugging just enough to flex the fencing toward him a bit.
“This is so unnecessary,” he said softly. His dark eyes held only puzzlement, and then darted toward the entranceway. Estelle heard the door swing away from the rock, and she turned to see a white-shirted security guard, half shielded by the heavy door. He hesitated to step outside.
“Everything all right here?” An older, stout fellow who at one time would have been powerfully burly, gave Estelle a quick once-over, his eyes then flicking to the fence.
“I need to borrow your cuffs,” Estelle said.
“You want me to call someone?”
“Right now, I want your cuffs.”
He withdrew them slowly from the leather belt holster, but hesitated. “You have some I.D.?” His eyes strayed to the badge on her belt. Slipping the small wallet from her hip pocket, she held it out so he could see the certification card.
“Posadas County,” he said. “Huh. Your legendary old sheriff is in ICU.”
“Yes, he is. The cuffs?”
“Oh, sure.” He looked as if he wanted to say, “They cost $29.95, you know.” He handed her the cuffs, and then backed up a step, once again commanding the door. “What’s the deal here? I seen this fellow earlier, come to think.”
“If you’d just secure the door, sir.”
“You want backup? I should be calling the city.”
“No. That’s not necessary. This man is wanted in Posadas County, and that’s where he’s going.”
“If you’re arresting him, Las Cruces PD ought to be here, you know. This sure ain’t your turf.”
“He’s not under arrest. The cuffs are preventative only—for his own safety.”
The security guard looked puzzled, and watched as Estelle approached Mazón.
“Back up to the fence,” she ordered. Docile and cooperative, Mazón swung his right arm back so she could easily cuff that wrist, and then secure it to his left. With him properly restrained, she keyed the second pair from the fence and snapped them closed on both wrists, freeing the security guard’s set. “Do you have a key to this gate?” she asked as she tossed the extra set of cuffs back to their owner.
“Sure.” Steering well clear of Mazón, the man fumbled out a large wad of keys and selected the wrong one. Estelle waited patiently, a hand on Mazón’s locked wrists, while the search for the proper key continued. Finally, the lock clattered free and the gate swung open with a dry howl.
“Thank you.” The parking lot was sizzling in midday. Her car was parked around two building wings, not far from the Emergency Room portico, and by the time they reached it, her hands were sweaty.
“Turn around and lean against the car, feet spread,” she ordered.
Mazón vented a mighty sigh. “This is so unnecessary. I am no threat to you, mi sobrina.”
“Your record says otherwise, sir.” She pushed him tight against the car, then frisked him, running her hands up his sides under the loose shirt. With one hand hard against the small of his back, she knelt and none-too-gently continued the search. The slender knife was in a sheath on the inside of his left thigh, two sheer straps binding it in place, so thin that the weapon would remain well concealed by the loose khaki of his trousers—doubly hidden since the handle would not show if he bent over.
With a flick of her wrist, she snapped open her own knife, pinched taut the fabric of his trousers, and sliced the fabric with a single stroke. She fished out the knife, a slender weapon with a white ceramic blade…a chef would have cherished it. “I see. Absolutely no threat at all.” She opened the car’s back door, using it as a shield between herself and Mazón. “Kick off your shoes.”
“Ah,” he exhaled loudly. “A strip search right here in a public parking lot?”
“It could come to that. The shoes.”
He toed them off, stepping gingerly on the hot asphalt. Estelle ignored the footwear, but held the door securely. Mazón himself drew up as if he might refuse to duck inside the car.
“I will just vanish,” he said. “The men in Mazatlán are dead. They were not even Mexican citizens, Sheriff.”
“And so certainly worthless.”
“Their account has nothing to do with you. Release me, and you will never see me again. You have my word.”
“That’s not the way it works.” Rounding the door, she grabbed his right shoulder hard and spun him around, forcing his head down. He slid inside and she slammed the door. Picking up the shoes, she gave them a cursory inspection, including ripping out the sole pads. The shoes were just that—shoes, hiding nothing.
After sorting through the trunk to find what she needed, she slipped the shoes into a plastic evidence bag, and placed them in a cardboard box. When she returned to the cab, she started the engine and pushed the air conditioning to maximum. Mazón leaned forward. “Your mother gave birth to you on the bank of the river. It was Juan Guerrero who tried to save her, but the injuries were too great. He managed to save the newborn daughter. That was you.”
With a sigh, Estelle twisted in her seat, looking long and hard at Mazón through the heavy-gauge security screen. “That’s supposed to give you a free ticket to kill two men, maybe more? That’s supposed to make me embrace you somehow, welcome you back into my life, protect you from the other men who no dou
bt are going to be coming after you?”
Mazón shook his head. “You misunderstand me, mi sobrina.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I had to do what I did to protect mi gran sobrino. That is my sole ambition. You must understand that. I’m not sure you appreciate the…” He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, pressing back hard against the seat and the headrest with his eyes closed. “The magnitude of your son’s accomplishments. The accomplishments that now bring such…such pride, such honor, to the family. I have ruined my own life. But now, please understand my motives.”
“Oh, but I do. And he’s safe. Thank you. I owe you nothing.”
“Ay, you are a hard woman. So like your father in so many ways. Listen to me. That night is carved into my memory. A road crossing washed away, the mud so slick and impassable. He and the townspeople—myself included—stood on the bank the next day, looking at the wreckage down below.”
He brought his hands up to his face, and the cadence of his speech increased until the words gushed in a torrent. “You see, I had been living in Ganos with my aunt since the loss of my parents…your grandparents…to the influenza. We were poor, you see. Desperately poor, as most of the families there are. After the crash, after your miraculous birth and rescue, as the only survivor of the tragedy, you were delivered to the church, to the convent. My aunt, in failing health herself, could not take you. A year later, just before her death, I heard my aunt say that you had been adopted by the school teacher, the widow. Señora Reyes.”
Estelle sat quietly, watching him struggle with memories.
He shook his head with impatience. “You may want to know more about the years that followed, and your foster mother—the Señora—can certainly tell you. Yet there are other threats as well to your life here…to the life of your family. I have done what I can.” He managed a wan smile. “There is some satisfaction for me in just the knowledge that your family now knows about me. I am alone now, you see. The knowing is important to me.”
“You will be going to prison, you know that. Either here or in Mexico. For the rest of your life.”
Blood Sweep Page 19
