Blood Sweep

by Steven F Havill

  “You do not need to tell the authorities, mi sobrina.” He held up his cuffed hands, then amended his remark. “The other authorities.”

  She didn’t reply, but turned around to face front. Pulling the car into gear, she maneuvered the cruiser to a spot under the Emergency Room portico, in the deep shade. Her husband answered his cell phone on the second ring.

  “Oso, I need to head back to Posadas right now.”

  “Did something come up, Querida?”

  “Oh, sí. Did you still want to ride back with me?”

  “I think…well, maybe. Are you going to be able to visit with Padrino before you go?”

  “I’ll call him. I really need to be on the road. I have a passenger in custody.” She glanced in the rearview mirror at Mazón, whose gaze seemed to be trying to bore holes into the back of her skull.

  “In custody? What, did somebody back into your squad car, or what?”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Under the ER portico, ready to go.”

  Frances let out a long sigh. “I need a little more time than that. Look, I’ll find somebody to run me back. Okay?”

  “Call me when you’re ready, Oso. I’ll come and get you. Maybe bring Carlos to see Padrino this evening.”

  “That would be perfect. Hang on just a second, though. I’m almost there.”

  Estelle ducked her head and saw Francis Guzman’s large blue-scrubbed figure approach the automatic doors. In a moment he was circling the car, and bent down at the driver’s side window. “Does Bobby know you’re headed back?”

  “He will shortly, Oso.”

  Unable to see clearly through the tinted rear windows, he bent down further and looked through the security grill.

  “I have never had the pleasure,” Mazón said.

  “And now’s not the time,” Estelle snapped, and then added for her husband’s benefit, “A Mexican national who shouldn’t be here.”

  “And he goes back to Posadas?” Francis continued to stare at the prisoner, and Estelle wondered if he had made the connection. The family features were strong.

  “As I said, it’s not a simple matter.” She patted the back of her husband’s hand, and with considerable contortions they managed a kiss. “Things are going well with Francisco, Oso. Naranjo is with him just now. I don’t know how he managed that.”

  “Maybe it’s one of those ‘don’t ask’ things, querida. But that’s good news. Stay in touch.” Francis straightened and took a step back from the car. “See you this evening.”

  By the time she guided the car out of the hospital’s parking lot, she had dialed Naranjo, missed him, and left an urgent message to return the call. As she headed up the interstate ramp, she had informed Posadas dispatch that she was inbound with a prisoner in custody. She had driven no more than ten miles westbound on the interstate before a State Police cruiser pulled within five car-lengths behind her and stayed there all the way to the Posadas exit. Through it all, Benedicte Mazón uttered not a word.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Estelle slumped in the chair and stared at the large schematic of the prairie, neatly drafted in colored markers on the white board. Straight lines marked the trajectories of the two bullets fired—one from Bobby Torrez’s hunting rifle eastward to the small cartoon representing an antelope, the other another perpendicular, coming up from the south. No extraneous detail cluttered the artwork—just small numerals indicating the distances, each lettered in Sergeant Jackie Taber’s draftsman’s hand.

  “Those are both very long shots,” she said.

  “Yup.”

  She glanced at Torrez, who lounged back, feet up on the conference table, chair tipped on its hind legs. “We’re glad he’s not as skilled a marksman as you are.” The sheriff didn’t reply. “You heard the shot?”

  “Yep.”

  “And saw no one running afterward.” He settled for a shake of the head. “And you saw no one following you out there.”

  “Nope.”

  “But you did see a pickup truck that turned out to be driven by Dominic Olveda shortly afterward?”

  “Yep.”

  “And nothing to connect him in any way to the shooting.”

  “He ain’t the type.”

  “He had some reason to be in that area, as I understand it.” The schematic showed the snake of the county road, and the sheriff’s pickup truck parked on the shoulder, and farther down the road, a question mark where Sergeant Taber had found tracks from a vehicle that could have been Miguel Quesada’s Jeep. To the west, a dotted line marked the boundary of the Miles Waddell’s astronomy park development.

  “Olveda has been there a number of times.”

  “He’s staying at the Posadas Inn?” The sheriff nodded. Estelle fell silent, hands clasped in front of her mouth. “Where you found Quesada is not far from there…just through the underpass.”

  “Little more than a tenth of a mile walkin’ it.”

  “I wish you’d called me,” she said after a moment.

  “I didn’t miss nothin’.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just should have been here. Another set of eyes. With some freak out there with a rifle…”

  “Not anymore.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Front door, back door,” she mused. “Do you actually have anything that directly links Quesada with the shot fired at you?”

  “Just the sniper’s rifle in his possession.”

  “No captured bullet, though.”

  “No.”

  “Lots of folks own what could be considered a sniper’s rifle, Bobby.”

  “Costa Rican nationals on U.S. soil? With a suppressor?”

  “You hunt prairie dogs with one.” She smiled at Torrez. “Did you find any paperwork with Quesada that registered the suppressor?”

  “Yep. He had it folded up in the rifle case with the gun. He was legal for that, if the paper’s good. Don’t know why he’d bother with it, kind of work he’s in.”

  “Interesting rig for a Costa Rican national to be lugging around the states. How odd.” She once more cupped her chin in her hands and closed her eyes. Torrez waited silently. “Why would Quesada shoot at you?”

  “I got no idea.”

  “And out there in the middle of the prairie? If he wanted to take you out, there are lots easier places to do it. You’re not exactly a shadow player in Posadas County.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “What if,” Estelle said softly. “What if…?”

  “What if what?”

  She opened one eye and regarded the sheriff. “What if he didn’t?” Torrez didn’t reply. “It seems to me that you have nothing that links him to that shot, Bobby. Not a thing. No bullet, no shell casing, no clear vehicle tracks, no witnesses. The same goes for Olveda. He was out there, too, true enough. But he didn’t make the shot, and why would he? You’re at the top of the list of people with whom Olveda would have to work carefully and closely with that airport development of his.”

  She straightened up a little and placed both hands together on the table, then moved them to one side as if pushing something out of the way. “What if Quesada and Olveda have nothing to do with the attempt on you?”

  Torrez pursed out his lips in thought. “You see your man involved in this?”

  “I don’t know. Naranjo thinks that Mazón is most likely linked to Quesada’s killing, but he hasn’t admitted to that. And if he did, we sure don’t know the why of any of it.”

  “But he does admit to killing the two guys outside the theater in Mazatlán.”

  “Self defense, he claims. And to neutralize the threat against the boys.”

  “Maybe so. And you brought him in without a SWAT team’s help.” Torrez actually smiled, then piled a frown on top of it. “Two down in Mazatlán—the Mexican authorities are going to shout for extradition, you know.” He studied Estelle for a moment. “So what do you want to do with him? Our guys will be
finished processing him here in a minute. Possession of a concealed kitchen knife ain’t much to hold him on.”

  Torrez pushed himself out of the chair, stretched, and then sat on the edge of the table, the fingers of his right hand idly pulling at a loose bit of stitching on his black boot. “We need to play this just right.”

  “You know,” Estelle said, “what I’d like to do is meet the colonel at the airport and hand Mazón over, no fuss, no bother. That’s what I want to do. The Great Wheels of Justice might have other ideas. Especially until we clarify any links he might have with the events involving you.”

  Torrez’s eyes appeared to be closed, but after a moment he shrugged. “Did you get all the family background you wanted for yourself?”

  The muscles along Estelle’s jaw tightened, and she didn’t answer for a long moment. “Right now, I don’t know what I want, Bobby. First, I need to hear everything that Mazón can tell us. What his role in all of this might be. If he assassinated Quesada, I want to know why.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t have a sense of him yet, Bobby. I don’t know if he did what he says he did—I don’t know anything about his motives.” She straightened up in the chair. “Why, why, why?”

  “We’re going to find out.” Torrez frowned and looked down at his hands. “And if this guy is your uncle, what then?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he’s my long-lost uncle or not. He goes to jail forever, regardless.”

  “After we pump him dry, you mean.”

  “Well, sure. I’ll find out what I want to know. He’s a blabby son-of-a-gun, and he has his own ulterior motives. He claims a large dose of family pride. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows what he’s been planning all these years, as he collects picture after picture? I’d like to know who’s feeding him that material from the outside. I can’t imagine that most Mexican prisons maintain a lending library and clip service.”

  Torrez stood up as the conference door opened. Lieutenant Tom Mears stuck his head in, and behind him, Estelle could see Mazón escorted by Deputy Tom Pasquale.

  “Give us a minute, L.T.,” Estelle said, and the door swung closed again. “He claims that he’s been following my son’s career for years, from inside prison. I don’t know what he wants, other than playing the part of a proud and protective relative. I don’t know, Bobby. Like I said, I can’t get a sense of him yet.”

  “Is anything he’s told you about your family true?”

  “I don’t know.” She stood up and straightened her suit. “Maybe something is wrong with me. You know, some people spend their whole lives trying to track down relatives. I know I lost my family somehow. I could have pressed Teresa for details years ago, but I didn’t…there was so much else to do. My life was on this side of the border, and I understood that early on. I have my own family, and Teresa is very much a part of that, and always has been. She’s ninety-nine now, and I can’t see upsetting her by pushing for painful details.” She smiled. “You know, with his sense of historical detail, I think Padrino would be more anxious than I am to dive into the genealogy.”

  Torrez frowned and held up a hand. “When are you goin’ back down to Cruces?”

  “I thought I’d run down this evening, if things break loose.”

  “I want to talk with Gastner myself. Let’s make it one trip.”

  “You got it.” She touched his arm. “And it’s not that I’m not curious, Bobby.

  “Along with Teresa, Bill Gastner is as close to a grandparent as Carlos and Francisco have. My husband’s parents are long gone, and that leaves just his Aunt Sofía. That’s it. It would be appropriate for the boys to know a little something about their lineage.”

  Lost in thought, she looked out through the window at the blocks of the annex next door. More than four decades had slipped by since the old pickup truck had been swept off the dirt crossing and into the torrents. She knew that much of the legend now, and the rest she could imagine—the Mazón family (was that actually her family name?) wiped out in the roar of chocolate-colored water. One bloody, limp body pulled to shore, the rain pounding the woman’s simple cotton dress hard against her awkward belly. Convulsions as death approached, and in one desperate, instinctive act, her body trying to save what it could.

  Old Juan Guerrero—Estelle had only known him as ‘old,’ even though at the moment of her birth he would have been but forty himself—stood drenched and terrified less than a hundred yards from the warmth and safety of his own home and family. A half mile up a dirt lane, well away from the choked arroyo, Teresa Reyes may well have been wrapped in one of her treasured afghans, rocking beside a small reading light, oblivious to the events outside that would change her world.

  Estelle knew that she would find Juan Guerrero, that she would talk with Teresa Reyes about that night, about the events during the year following, about Benedicte Mazón.

  She took another deep breath and pushed herself out of the chair. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “I will cooperate completely,” Benedicte Mazón said. “This is so unnecessary.” Still, he didn’t resist as Sheriff Robert Torrez loosened the cuffs from Mazón’s left wrist and transferred the shackle to the heavy steel bar that ran under the rim of the table.

  When Estelle had first seen the man who called himself her uncle, he had seemed wiry and strong…vital and sure of himself. Now, compared to Torrez’s imposing physical presence, Mazón appeared frail, his olive skin sallow.

  Earlier, he had grimaced with impatience when Estelle had presented the written Miranda form, reading it for him, indicating each box for an initial. His signature had been precise, even old-fashioned in its penmanship. He had handed the signed paper back to Estelle with deference, and now sat composed, his free left hand flat on the table surface.

  Torrez ignored the man’s comment and instead said to his undersheriff, “Naranjo says he’s on his way?”

  “He has a Beech Baron at his disposal, so he’s already en route.”

  “Let’s get some preliminaries out of the way before Schroeder shows up and complicates things.” The district attorney, busier than usual with a full week of district court, would be nervous in Colonel Tomás Naranjo’s presence. A born self-aggrandizer, the district attorney spent a good deal of energy trying to appear relaxed and in charge. But he was not as adept at cutting red tape as the Mexican colonel. Still, budgets being what they were, the district attorney might be willing to see this suspect released promptly into Mexican custody.

  “What are you calling yourself now?” Torrez’s eyes were heavy lidded, disinterested, almost bored. He looked as if he’d rather have been taking a nap. Estelle had briefed the sheriff in detail, relating the events that allegedly had taken place in Mazatlán, and even Mazón’s version of the death of Estelle’s family.

  “My name is Benedicte Hernando Mazón.” He bowed his head slightly.

  “Colonel Naranjo informs us that you go by the name of Hector Tamburro.”

  “Well,” and the man shrugged his shoulders.

  “So which is it?”

  “My name is Benedicte Hernando Mazón. I suppose there are times when another name is of some convenience.”

  Torrez regarded him silently, and Mazón met his gaze without flinching.

  “And Miguel Quesada?”

  “That is not a name I would use.” He smiled faintly at his jest.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “This Quesada? I think not, Sheriff. I did not know that he was dead.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Mazón shrugged. “Yes, I knew him.”

  “From where?” Estelle asked, and he turned to look at her, taking his time as he examined her face as if seeing her for the first time.

  “From prison.” He smiled tightly. “It is a place where you meet the most interesting people.”

  “Why were you in prison?”

  Mazón looked amused. “For violating the laws of México, Sheriff.”

  Torrez raised
one hand and turned it palm up, as if to say, “And?”

  “They accused me in the death of another man.”

  “So you were in for murder.”

  “And never proven. But long ago, without what you might call an alibi? I enjoyed Mexican prison hospitality for a good many years.”

  “The four of you,” Estelle said, her pencil pausing. “You, the Ortega brothers, and Miguel Quesada—the four of you hatched this plan to kidnap my son. And then…”

  Mazón had already begun shaking his head vehemently, even before Estelle had finished the question. “What part of that is untrue?”

  “I did not plan to kidnap my grand nephew,” he said, this time using the English term. “I went along, perhaps, so I would know what the plan was. You see, I had to know. There was a good chance that the Ortegas and I would perhaps be released at the same time…or nearly so. If I could not dissuade them, then I would do what I could to prevent them from carrying out the plan. To do that, I had to know.”

  “What was Quesada’s role in all this?”

  “He…” and Mazón stopped short.

  “He what?”

  The Mexican stared down at the table, brow furrowed. “The man has certain skills, certain connections both in Mexico and his homeland. In fact, I came to know him far better than the brothers did. I knew that in all likelihood I would want to cross the border, perhaps permanently. Quesada had ways…”

  “He was in prison with you all?”

  “Yes. Before the Ortega brothers themselves were incarcerated, they worked for Quesada from time to time. Opportunists, you would call them.”

  “Do you know why Quesada was shot?”

  “I can guess.”

  “And?”

  Mazón hesitated, sliding the handcuff back and forth on the bar. “This is information that might have value to you.”

  “Yep.”

  The room fell silent.

  “I do not wish to be turned over to authorities from my country.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “If you would help me avoid that…”

  “Nope.”