Final Payment

by Steven F Havill

  “PDC funds? Do we know?”

  “We do not know that. The disappearance of Señor Haslán and his family was something of a local incident, I’m told. One day, they are home, well-regarded in the community, a pleasant family. The next day, their house stands empty. This happened sometime last week. The exact time of their disappearance seems to be something of a mystery.”

  “Who remains behind?”

  “I will endeavor to find out for you. Perhaps there are more relatives. We don’t know. Suppose I have someone from Santa Ana contact you directly?”

  “That would be good, Tomás. I appreciate your assistance.”

  “Most assuredly. This boy pilot has no idea where Señor Tapia might have gone?”

  “He says not. We’re looking under every rock, believe me.”

  Naranjo sighed with commiseration. “I wish you well. This is a big country, of course. And we are so few. I have issued orders of my own. We will do what we can.”

  “We appreciate that.” Estelle harbored no illusions about the efficiency of efforts—on either side of the border, for that matter. She wondered what Naranjo’s orders actually had been, but had the courtesy not to ask.

  Walking back to the conference room, she was reminded by the quiet ambience of the Public Safety Building of how tired she really was. Hector Ocate would be just about comatose, unable to think clearly, even with the sugar jog from the donuts. More important, he would be too tired to guard his answers.

  When she pushed open the door, the young man sat with his head down on the table, and she could tell by the slump of his body that he was asleep. The donuts had not been enough of a boost.

  She nodded at Mitchell and he reached across and shook the boy by the shoulder. His head rose slowly and he tried to blink, but his eyelids sagged to half-mast.

  “Hector, listen to me,” Estelle said. “We have to know where your uncle is. You must tell us. That is the only way that we can protect you and your family.”

  “Please,” the boy murmured. “I do not know.”

  “He did not walk away at the airport, did he?”

  “But of course he…”

  “Please, joven.” She let the heavy sarcasm hang for an instant. “We are not stupid. The airport is seven miles from town. What’s he going to do, walk cross-country? Hitchhike?” She saw the look of confusion on his face, and she held out her thumb for explanation. “I don’t think so.”

  “He…”

  “You said that you put the plane away, and as if by magic, your uncle disappeared. That’s what you want us to believe. But that’s not what happened.” The questions swirled in her own tired brain, and she turned quickly toward Eddie Mitchell. The captain had been waiting silently, and now raised an eyebrow in question. Estelle nodded toward the conference room door.

  Out in the hallway, she lowered her voice to little more than a whisper.

  “We need to check Reynaldo Estrada’s place,” she said. “I should have thought about that sooner. It’s perfect. An empty house, and handy transportation whenever Tapia needs it.”

  “You think so?” Mitchell said. “The Uriostes next door wouldn’t notice the truck being used?” He shrugged philosophically. “Of course, they didn’t notice when Hector used it. Why change?”

  “We need to ask them,” she said. “But at night? Maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. With curtains drawn, the television on, why would they? And,” Estelle added with a weary shake of the head, “would they care if they did notice?”

  “Well, it isn’t night now,” Mitchell said. His eyes narrowed. “Trouble is, the trail’s most likely stone cold, Estelle. They flew back here when, Wednesday early in the morning? That’s more than seventy-two hours ago. Why would Tapia be lounging around? What would he be waiting for?”

  “It doesn’t make sense that he would,” Estelle said. “He’s got work to do. That’s what Hector claims. Maybe up north. But it’ll fill in a square if we can find traces…if we know Manolo Tapia stayed in that house for a bit. Even one night. That’s another little piece to all of this.”

  “Well, we need some clear thinkers,” Mitchell said. “If there’s any chance at all that Tapia is in that house, I don’t want somebody who is half asleep busting in on him.” He looked at his watch. “Let me round up some good hands, and we’ll go check the place out.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tom Mears said, but the captain shook his head. The sergeant had appeared out of the patrol office, a cup of coffee in hand.

  “We need you here with the kid,” he said, and turned to Estelle. “You’re going to talk with the family again?”

  “I’ll call them in now,” she said.

  “We don’t want to wait for that. I’ll get things moving out at Estrada’s. Give me a call if you find out anything I need to know.” Mitchell paused. “A couple things don’t jibe. The kid says that Tapia mentioned Albuquerque? If that’s the case, he’s long gone. Somehow, he got himself a set of wheels, or hitched, or caught the bus out of Deming. Any of that’s possible. But if he didn’t do that…what’s the point of him staying around here? That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “We’re missing something,” Estelle replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Each time that she stepped out into the hallway, Estelle had glanced toward the foyer of the Public Safety Building, where Gordon and Pam Urioste had taken up residence as they awaited the fate of their houseguest. The undersheriff was convinced that the couple had no knowledge of Hector Ocate’s escapades. Each time the Uriostes caught her eye, their expression were both hopeful and apprehensive.

  Now, she beckoned them toward the conference room. “We need to talk,” she said, but offered no other explanation as they entered. She closed the door behind them. Hector sat up a little straighter when his host family appeared. Sergeant Mears remained a fixture at the far end of the table, perched on the corner with his hands relaxed on his lap.

  “Mr. And Mrs. Urioste,” she said, “we will be detaining Hector on a variety of charges. This is complicated by his alien status, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I’m sure that the district attorney will be conferring with the Mexican consulate when we have a clearer picture of what has happened. But because he is over eighteen, and was over eighteen when the incidents in question occurred, he’s on his own. He is legally an adult. As his host family, you are under no legal obligations to retain counsel for him, although you may do so if you wish—and I would recommend that you do. We’ll be contacting his family and the various agencies involved later this morning.”

  That in itself was something of a conundrum, she reflected. A Sunday was never a good day to try and force bureaucracy to jump through hoops.

  “Right now, our main concern is for his safety, and yours,” she said, sure that the Uriostes were well-meaning, almost certainly innocent of anything other than an overdose of blind trust.

  “Ours?” Gordon asked.

  “We are quite certain that the killer of the three Salvadorans rode with the victims on the plane with Hector, and then flew on into Posadas with him.”

  Gordon Urioste sat down hard, jarring the long conference table. “Did you do what they’re saying you did?” he demanded of Hector. The boy shifted slightly in his chair but remained silent. The face that stared back at Gordon was one of an exhausted, resigned teenager—hardly reflecting the steely nerved derring-do required of a pilot flying an overloaded plane at night through rugged country.

  “Right now, it isn’t what he did that really matters,” Estelle said. “We think that he’s just the taxi driver, so to speak. What more he might have done is still unclear.” She let it go at that. Whether Hector had been a willing participant, or had been forced by threats against his family or his American hosts—or both—would come clear with time, she was sure.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Urioste, at any time did you see activity at the Estrada place next door to you? We’re talking about the period of
time from early Wednesday morning until today. Did you notice lights, or activity around the truck? Anything that was out of the ordinary?”

  Gordon Urioste grimaced, his rubbery face twisting into a caricature. “Look,” he said, “I knew that Hec took the truck a time or two, but it was just when he was going over to see his friends. Stuff like that. See, when the old man was alive, he said that he was going to give that truck to my son when Marty was old enough to drive. In the past couple of years, old Ray didn’t drive anymore. He couldn’t see good enough to make it out of the driveway.” Gordon shrugged. “I didn’t see the harm in letting Hec use it now and then. He’s careful. Old Ray kept it licensed and all, so it was legal.”

  “So to speak,” Estelle added dryly.

  “Well, he’s old enough to take care of himself. He’s got lots of friends here now, you know. You can’t keep a high school senior on a leash, for God’s sakes.”

  “Much as we might like to,” Pam said.

  “I mean, there’s a lot to see and do in this country,” Gordon added. “This year is the chance of a lifetime for Hector.” He stopped, and the righteous expression on his face told Estelle that he didn’t realize how inane he sounded. That chance of a lifetime could offer itself in many guises.

  “Three people thought that they had the chance of a lifetime,” she said quietly. “Did you see lights on next door any time this past week? In the house?”

  “Oh, no,” Gordon insisted. “Hec wouldn’t go inside that house.” He turned toward the boy. “That’s not what happened, is it? You weren’t inside over there. No wild parties, nothing like that.”

  “We’re not talking about wild parties,” Estelle said. Hector didn’t respond.

  “You know,” Gordon said, undeterred, and he twisted his head back to look up at his wife, who was standing behind him, hand on his left shoulder, “I don’t even know where the key to that place is.” He looked at Hector. “Do you? La llave?” he added unnecessarily.

  “Yes.”

  The direct answer startled Gordon.

  “It is hung by the back door. Up high,” Hector said.

  “You showed him how to get into the old man’s house?” Estelle asked. “Is that where you uncle stayed?”

  “It is possible,” Hector whispered.

  Tom Mears rose quickly. “I’ll alert the guys,” he said, and left the room, pulling his radio from his belt as he did so.

  “It’s possible?” Estelle snapped. She bent down close to the boy, close enough to smell his fatigue, his fear. “Hector, listen to me. You’re helping this man. That makes you an accomplice. Do you understand what that means? Un cómplice?” She saw his eyes close a little, and saw the moisture at the corners. “Un cómplice, joven. Un cómplice en todas cosas…los tres asesinatos incluidos.”

  Once more, Hector’s head settled into his hands. Estelle pulled one of the chairs over and sat down, so close that she could hear Hector’s breathing muffled in the palms of his hands.

  “Tell me, Hector,” she whispered. “This isn’t something that you’re just going to walk away from, hijo. Tell me what we need to know. There must be no more killing.”

  “He will, you know.” Hector’s voice was so soft that she could hardly hear it. She rested a hand on his arm and turned to the Uriostes.

  “Will you wait outside, please?” As if now anxious to distance themselves from Hector and what he might have done, the couple left the conference room without hesitation or argument. When the door clicked shut, she tightened her grip on the boy’s arm. “Tell me, Hector.”

  A long silence followed, and Hector’s breathing became so regular that at first glance he appeared asleep. “When we met in Culiacán,” he said finally, “he said that he had some unfinished business here.”

  “Here? You mean in the United States, or specifically here, in Posadas.”

  “He did not say. But I think he went somewhere the next day.”

  “Do you mean Thursday? Or yesterday?”

  He looked up, confused. “What is today?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Then it was Friday. Yes, Friday. He helped me put fuel in the airplane when we were finished with it that night. The night of the flight.” Hector snuffled what might have been a stifled laugh. “He thought it was funny, being able to take the airplane so easily—and then to be able to use the…tank? The gasoline tank at the school. After that, he spent the night in the home of the old man. I let him in.”

  “Did he use the old man’s truck later on?”

  “No. There was a motorbike in the shed behind the house. I never saw it, but he said it was there.” His eyes flicked to one side as if to say, I’m lying now.

  “Who said it was there?”

  “My…my uncle. He said so. He explored the house after I let him in, and then he went outside, he said. Outside to look into the little barn. It is behind the house. I did not go with him. My uncle, he said he would use the motorcycle, if he could make it run.”

  “And did he?”

  “I don’t know.” Again the sideways flick of the eyes intrigued Estelle. “He insisted that I go to school, each day—that I do not remain at home while he was there.”

  Estelle reached for her cell phone at the same moment that it buzzed, and the electronic noise was startling and harsh in the quiet room.

  “Guzman.”

  “Estelle, we’re seeing evidence that someone stayed in the house.” Captain Eddie Mitchell’s voice was clipped and businesslike. “Slept here, probably. Had a little bit to eat…looks like convenience store pizza and chocolate milk. Nothing else.”

  “Hector says that his uncle stayed there, Eddie. And he may have used a motorbike or motorcycle that’s in the back shed. Will you check on that?”

  “Been there, done that. It isn’t there,” Mitchell said. “Just some oil stains and tire marks on the dirt floor. The kid says the bike was still there last he remembers?”

  “Yes. But he says that he never saw it.” She watched Hector’s face as she talked. It was hard to tell if he was listening, or if he had drifted off to sleep. “He doesn’t know what condition it might be in. Or so he says.”

  “It probably runs just fine. You remember about Cody Roybal? The crash out at the old drive-in theater?”

  “Ah,” Estelle groaned. Mention of the bike hadn’t stirred the memory immediately, but now the name brought the episode back to the surface. Cody Roybal had received the motocross bike from his grandfather, Reynaldo Estrada—perhaps for a birthday, maybe high school graduation. Estelle couldn’t recall. But she did remember the tragedy at the theater, where Cody had been riding across the abandoned parking lot, lost control on one of the berms, and crashed.

  The bike had slid harmlessly in the dust, barely scraping the paint, its knobby tires gouging the dirt. Cody had tumbled headfirst into the remains of one of the old drive-in’s speaker posts, the helmet he should have been wearing left at home to protect the end post of his bed. That had been two years before. Old Man Estrada had kept his grandson’s bike in the shed, unable to part with it.

  “You there?” Mitchell asked as the silence grew.

  “Yes.” Her mind raced with the possibilities. “Tapia isn’t going to Albuquerque,” she said. “Not on a dirt bike.” A myriad of doors opened, each one a new possibility. The motorcycle would open those doors for Tapia—and he had enjoyed three full days to find his way. “Who is with you, Eddie?”

  “Abeyta and Taber.”

  “Ay.” She closed her eyes, running down the dwindling list of available deputies.

  “State Police and the Forest Service are giving us all the help we need up on the mesa,” Mitchell said. “I was going to send Taber back up that way for the time being. All the riders are on the course by now.”

  “We need a description of the motorcycle,” Estelle said. “I’ll get that from records.”

  “Lemme know,” Mitchell said. “We’ve got some boot tracks here that might help. Tony and I will see what
we can do with those.”

  She switched off. Hector slumped, head down so that his chin touched his chest.

  “Why did he need a motorcycle, Hector?” Estelle asked. When he didn’t respond, she rose, crossed around the table, and once more sat beside him. “The truck was licensed. No one would have noticed. Why the bike?” She gave him to the count of ten to answer, then said, “We can make all this go away, Hector. We really can.”

  Again, he remained silent.

  “When did he contact you to actually make the flight, hijo? When did he actually set the date?”

  Hector took a deep breath and sat up. “In April, I think it was early. He told me that he would visit this weekend. That is when I should secure the airplane.”

  “You mean he gave you specific dates for the flight?”

  “He said that the opportunity should come during this week. That he would call with the specific time, if that was possible.”

  “What was so special about this week?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you made sure that it was possible when he called, didn’t you?”

  “Well, the airplane, agente—it was parked waiting. Any day was possible. I discovered that Señor Bergin had the meeting on his calendar, and I told my uncle. He agreed.”

  “For Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, then?”

  “Yes. It happened that the weather was with us.”

  “And the route?”

  “My uncle contacted me on the e-mail Sunday night. We made the final arrangements. I would fly to Culiacán on the night of Tuesday, late. Almost into the morning. If for some reason I could not, I should call him right away on the cell phone.”

  “The number,” Estelle said, and slid the pad toward him.

  “I do not know it now,” he said. “It is on my computer at home. I can get it for you, of course.”

  “But you did not have to call, did you?”

  “No. It was easy.”

  “How long is the flight to Culiacán, Hector?”

  “Just three and a half hours. It could be done faster, but there was no need.”