An IV for saline was quick and easy, and Mazón was strapped in and transported downstairs and out into the ambulance. That’s what dispatcher Sands and jailer Benny Montoya related, and the EMTs corroborated. It was simple, really. Mazón couldn’t break out of jail. But an ambulance was far from high security, even though, now without any other prisoners to supervise, jailer Montoya had gone along for the ride. The ambulance reached Posadas General Hospital: Benedicte Mazón did not.
EMT Matty Finnegan had been stunned. One moment she was working every angle she could to keep her patient alive during five blocks of transit, and the next she was caught around the neck by one of the cables yanked from one of the monitors, Mazón’s saline drip swept to one side, a free hand popping the clasps of the gurney restraints. Both Matty and Barbara Carl remembered Mazón’s single line clearly as he twisted the cable, speaking directly into Matty’s left ear.
“Stay off the radio and the phone.” It was spoken with such polite command that Barbara almost collided with one of the portico pillars outside the emergency room doors. With a certain amount of loyalty, no one wanted to discuss Montoya’s performance. A small, chubby man, Montoya had frozen—and maybe that was a good thing for Matty’s welfare.
And then, moments before Deputy Pasquale arrived, only minutes before Sergeant Taber and Lieutenant Mears had responded as well, Benedicte Mazón was away into the night.
“Did he have any other weapon in his possession?” Estelle had asked, and Matty shook her head. She had been close to tears, but more angry than frightened.
“I remembered what you guys always say,” she had whispered. “What’s important is to be able to go home at the end of the shift.” Her eyes were steady as she met the officers’ gaze. “I’m no hero and neither are the others. If he wants to run off into the night…” Matty Finnegan shrugged. “He convinced me that he was sick, I mean really sick. That’s why I didn’t wait for Tommy to arrive with cuffs. I really thought there was a better than even chance that we were going to lose him. And you know, I still do. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if we find him in a puddle on the sidewalk just a few blocks from here. If he was faking it,” she shrugged, “then he’s a hell of an actor. But where’s he going to go?”
If Mazón was unlucky, officers would be able to follow the trail of barking dogs as the escapee worked his way through the village. So far, that lucky break hadn’t materialized.
Because it was the one of only two logical connections, Deputy Thomas Pasquale had been assigned to the Guzman home on Twelfth Street. It was hard to imagine that Mazón would escape jail only to settle in the Guzmans’ living room, to chat amiably with Teresa or Carlos, waiting for Estelle to return home to slap the cuffs on him once again. But it was one obvious connection, and Lieutenant Mears had made sure that doorway of opportunity was slammed shut.
On the off chance that some unfinished business remained between Mazón and Olveda, Deputy Brent Sutherland, inconspicuous in jeans and t-shirt, was dispatched to the Posadas Inn near the interstate where Olveda had taken a room.
The murdered hitman, Miguel Quesada, had been an associate of Dominic Olveda, the developer. If Mazón had popped Quesada, there Olveda himself might be in danger.
Deputy Sutherland caught sight of Dominic Olveda in the Inn’s modest dining room, sharing a late dinner with county commissioner Tobe Ulibarri and county manager Leona Spears in a booth toward the rear of the restaurant. Leona’s laugh boomed out, and Ulibarri leaned forward as if to repeat the hilarious punch line. Sutherland could not see Olveda’s face, but the man turned slightly sideways in the booth, one arm companionably draped over the back of the booth behind Leona. The lateness of the hour was a nod to Olveda’s habits, no doubt—not to mention Leona’s love of the continental good life.
Sutherland slipped back out of view, and a moment later, the sheriff answered the deputy’s cell phone call.
“Olveda is here, sir. He’s having dinner with the county manager and one of the commissioners.”
“Keep him in sight. We’ll be down in a minute. If Mazón shows up, shoot his ass.”
The deputy settled in a booth on the other side of a center island that had become a plant jungle, more than a little nervous after the sheriff’s blunt instructions. Out of sight, he could see the back of Commissioner Ulibarri’s head, and a vague shadow of the other two. He had a clear view of the motel entrance.
Sutherland had time to relax and take two sips of iced tea when he heard Olveda say, “No, really. There’s more square footage on that site than you might think.” They weren’t whispering in conspiracy, that was clear. Olveda slid out of the booth and stood up, and Sutherland could see his face through the fronds. “You know, I have an architect’s rendering out in the truck. Give me but a moment. You will be astounded.”
The deputy waited until Olveda had reached the restaurant’s double doors before rising himself. By the time he reached the lobby, Olveda was just stepping outside. As he stood just inside the entrance by the small Community Attractions bulletin board, Sutherland could see the dapper little man walk diagonally across the parking lot. The destination was a white Ford F-150, and a kaleidoscope of lights flashed as Olveda clicked the remote. His movements now shielded by a large van, Olveda opened the driver’s door, and then the back “suicide” door, effectively blocking what little view Sutherland had. Moving shadows hinted that he might be sorting through the documents on the backseat. For a heartbeat or two, Sutherland could see the man’s right hand on the door frame.
A young couple slipped out the front door past Sutherland, the girl giving him a pleasant smile and nod of greeting. “Waiting on a hot date?” Tory Hastings had been in several of Sutherland’s community college classes. He had always thought her too pixyish for a career in law enforcement, and sure enough, she’d switched to cosmetology, finding happiness with her current boyfriend—who gave Sutherland a quick, dismissive up and down glance.
“Long wait,” the deputy replied. Their walk across the parking lot took them to a dark blue Camaro several spaces down from the van and Olveda’s truck. On a weekend evening, the lot was gratifyingly full, and Tory, who was driving the flashy Camaro, had to wait for an incoming Toyota sedan to pass by. The Toyota headed for the modest entrance portico. As the car parked, Sutherland shifted position so he could keep the tailgate of Olveda’s pickup in view. Five or six spaces down toward the lot entrance, an older model sedan backed out. Its taillights winked as it reached Grande Avenue and turned left.
Olveda’s cab lights still glowed, but it wasn’t obvious where Olveda was. Toyota man, looking road-weary and scruffy, entered the motel without so much as a glance at Sutherland. The deputy ducked outside, taking the sidewalk that paralleled the building. From across the tarmac, he could see no sign of Olveda. His heart started to pound.
Sutherland’s own vehicle was parked ten spaces down, nosed in toward the building. One of the older, unmarked Crown Victorias, it looked exactly like what it was. Staying clear of it, Sutherland ambled across the parking lot, aiming for a battered Suburban to the right of Olveda’s truck. The white Ford now appeared to be empty.
The Posadas Inn parking lot fronted the interstate right-of-way, in this case the westbound entrance ramp. The pavement of the parking lot angled upward to the concrete bumpers, and then the prairie beyond was cut in a moderate drainage channel, completely weed-and litter-choked. Seeing no sight of Olveda, Sutherland crossed quickly to the Ford. The cab was empty.
“Oh, shit,” Sutherland whispered. He snapped on his flashlight and swept the area ahead of the pickup—had Olveda moved toward the rear of the truck, Sutherland would have had a clear view of him. The harsh beam probed the litter of plastic bags, beer cartons, diaper wraps, and drink cups in the small field across the concrete bumpers. It was Dominic Olveda’s silver belt buckle that caught the light first. A few steps brought the deputy close enough to see the surprised but dead eyes staring up into the heavens.
Chapter Twe
nty-nine
The lone figure stood out of the circle cast by the generator-powered spotlights, away from the swarm of people who had reason to be inside the yellow tape or who wanted to be. A group of several people, including the county manager and the county commissioner, stood by the motel’s front door, all trying to talk at once.
Estelle Reyes-Guzman set out across the parking lot after exiting through the motel manager’s outside office door, accompanied by Colonel Tomás Naranjo. They had managed to sidestep the ebullient and now white-faced county manager. Estelle had also avoided Frank Dayan, the publisher of the Posadas Register. Frank had parked on the other side of the building, and blended with shadows until he worked his way close enough to include himself.
Earlier, Estelle had grilled Deputy Brent Sutherland, as had Bob Torrez—the sheriff’s brief encounter with the deputy guaranteed to contribute to a sleepless night for the young man.
Even as the search for Benedicte Mazón intensified, even as two State Police helicopters headed toward Posadas and ground troops established roadblocks on both the interstate and State 56—and even as Mexican police tightened security at the border crossings, Estelle had sent Deputy Sutherland off by himself, to seek a quiet corner, and think. That had been forty minutes ago.
In that time, she’d examined Dominic Olveda’s corpse, and listened to Coroner Alan Perrone first pronounce him dead, which he obviously was, and then attribute death to two wounds. One was a disabling upward knife thrust deep through the diaphragm, immediately at the base of the sternum. Olveda could have managed a gasp, even a few seconds of consciousness and perhaps a feeble cry as severed great arteries gushed blood into his chest cavity. He would not have been able to lift his hands to ward off the second wound, a smooth, deep slash across the left side of his throat forward from under his left ear almost to the tip of his chin.
Copious blood splatters on the inside of the truck cab indicated that Olveda was either sitting in the truck, or standing beside it with the door open, when attacked. Then, perhaps to gain a few precious seconds, Olveda’s body had been dragged away from the truck, off into the ditch. Both the little “suicide” door and the van parked alongside the pickup had blocked the deputy’s view.
And Benedicte Mazón—for that’s who Estelle was sure had orchestrated the attack—had slipped away into the night. Like the two murders in Mazatlán, the killer had struck with confidence and precision. Mazón. If he was indeed the killer, he’d made the most of brief moments after his escape. Where did Mazón find yet another knife? A steak knife from the motel’s dining room? A quick stop at the HandiMart? There were any number of possibilities. The knife had yet to turn up. After racing half a mile through the darkened village from hospital to Inn, how long had Mazón waited at the motel for an opportunity to strike? The questions swirled.
“Are you doing all right?” She waited until she was whisper distance from the young deputy. Sutherland looked over at the crowd, his fingers latched onto his belt. He watched apprehensively as Sheriff Torrez and the Mexican colonel conferred near the bloody pickup truck.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I ought to be over there, workin’ the scene.”
“You are needed here, Brent,” Estelle said gently. “We need to know what you heard, what you saw. Everything. That’s why I wanted you isolated and reviewing everything that happened in your own mind. Without distractions.”
“I’ve thought it through a hundred times, ma’am.” He grimaced. “I couldn’t see what was goin’ on, so I shouldn’t have waited. I should have run over there.” He shook his head in disgust. “The sheriff’s going to have my ass.”
“I’m sure you have thought about it, and that’s just what we want. You arrived at the motel at 9:20. That’s what you told me before.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And…”
“I walked in, glanced in the restaurant, and saw Mr. Olveda having dinner with Ms. Spears and the commissioner.”
“So 9:21 or so. Maybe 9:22.”
“Yes. After a couple of minutes, Olveda stood up and said something like, ‘No, really, there’s more square footage than people think.’ He said he wanted to go out to the truck to get some map or something.”
“He never saw you?”
“No, ma’am. Then I followed him out. I waited out of sight in the foyer. I saw him walk to his truck, but that big van there? Parked beside his like that, it blocked my view. That and the way the doors are?” With both hands, he imitated a clam shell opening. “It’s a 4x4, and he wasn’t very tall, anyway. See, I should have gone over there right then. Right then.”
“The vehicles that left the parking lot around that time…you’re sure what they were?”
“Yes, ma’am. A brown older model Chevy Caprice with a spotlight on the driver’s side windshield post, like an old cop car. The sheriff said that he knew who it belonged to. He was going to go check it out.”
Estelle turned and surveyed the crowd. Sure enough, Sheriff Bobby Torrez had shifted into his normal hunting mode, sinking into the shadows, leaving the talk and the confusion behind. Colonel Naranjo stood beside Leona Spears, his hands in his back pockets. Leona was animated, Naranjo listening politely.
“That guy left just about the time that Tory did. Tory Hastings and her boyfriend. They were driving her fancy Camaro.”
“And the older sedan…you’re sure about that one?”
“Yes. A dark Caprice. Brown, I’m pretty sure. A cop Caprice.”
“At that distance?” and she turned to gaze down the lot toward Grande Avenue.
“Yeah, I could tell. They’re all roundy, you know. The old chief of police used to drive that custom black one, the one with the chrome wheels. The sheriff knew who it was. Probably.”
“Okay.” Of course Torrez hadn’t mentioned the owner to anyone else, but the information wouldn’t be long in coming.
“Who drove out first, Brent? The young lady in her Camaro, or the Caprice?”
“Ah…she was second. The Caprice backed out, and was close enough that Tory had to tap the brakes. Then she went out. And there was a Toyota comin’ in. It’s that one parked over by my unit.”
“She may have had a look at the driver.” She watched Sutherland’s mobile face as the frustration touched his features. “They both turned left, toward town? The Caprice and Tory?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Did you watch the highway after that? After you saw the cars leave?”
“No, ma’am. I was concerned because I had lost sight of Olveda. I mean, his truck was lit up, and the doors were open, but it had been a little bit since I actually saw him.”
“So the Caprice could have turned around and headed south on fifty-six.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sutherland said uncomfortably. “It could have. I was focused on Olveda’s truck.”
“Before all this with the cars leaving the parking lot, you could actually see Olveda near his truck? You could see what he was doing?”
Sutherland shook his head. “No, ma’am. I could see the top of his head sometimes. That’s all.”
“But he didn’t close the doors,” Estelle said.
“No, ma’am.”
The timing, Estelle thought. So very like our Señor Mazón. More talking to herself than to the flustered deputy, she said aloud, “He escapes from the ambulance, into heavy dusk when light is so tricky. How does he manage the Chevy Caprice, if that was him? If he did, is that just opportunity? Say he does. He drives down to this motel. He might know that Olveda is staying here, he might know what vehicle Olveda is driving. But he could not know Olveda was having a fashionably late dinner with local politicos.”
“They do that down south, don’t they?” Sutherland asked. “Eatin’ late and stuff?”
“They do. So very cosmopolitan and Mexican.” She turned and regarded the motel, its design flat and angular, trimmed with neon. “And by chance, Mazón slips into the motel, just as you did, Brent, and sees Olveda. He waits for him o
ut by the truck…expecting to see either Olveda or his dinner companions leave, or both. If Leona and the commissioner left by themselves, Mazón would know with reasonable certainty that Olveda is either inside at the bar, or back in his room. But while he waits, there’s nothing to tip off the cops…the Caprice has to be local.”
“We don’t know if he took the Caprice,” Sutherland added. “I mean, we don’t know that.”
“Nope. But he’s a master opportunist. If he didn’t, he could be on foot.” She pointed off to the southwest. “Either up to the interstate and hook a ride, or cross-country somehow down to the border.” She shook her head. “I bet on the Caprice. From the hospital, he’s on foot. It’s so easy to find a useful car in the village. Somewhere between the hospital and here.”
“And if that’s true, he’s at the border by now.”
Estelle gazed back toward the motel. Yes, he’s at the border, she thought. Naranjo smiled at something Leona said. Mazón is on that side of the border, and you’re marooned over here, Colonel. She turned back to Sutherland. “Ask the lieutenant what he wants you to do, Brent. And don’t waste another second beating yourself up over this.”
“I just let him walk out and get killed, right under my nose.”
“You’re not the first who’s been outfoxed by this man, Brent.” The thought crossed her mind that in all likelihood it was a fortunate thing that the young deputy and Mazón had not been forced into a confrontation. With a chill, she realized that had fate operated a little differently, she could have lost two deputies and a jailer this evening—and an ambulance crew at risk as well.
She reached out and took his elbow. “Talk to L.T. now. See what he wants you to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Estelle watched him jog off and then she turned her attention to Naranjo. As she approached, she saw Leona’s face brighten, but Estelle held up a hand to halt the gush. Leona understood perfectly, but it appeared that she was literally biting her tongue.
Blood Sweep Page 23
