Final Payment
Page 28
“I’m sorry that you go through all this,” she said.
“Yo también,” Estelle whispered.
“There are many people thinking of you right now,” Teresa said. “When you want to see the cards, there’s a whole big box over there on the table with the roses. They just keep coming. And you should see the newspaper. The one from home.”
“Ay.” Frank Dayan would have had a field day, no doubt. “There will be time for that.” Teresa released the envelope, but kept her other hand on Estelle’s forehead.
By flexing her elbow with infinite care, Estelle was able to draw her hands together without pain, and she was delighted with that progress.
The envelope was heavy, expensive paper, perhaps even handmade. Most interesting was that Teresa had been correct, in an old-fashioned sort of way. The envelope was sealed, its flap secured with a single wax seal that featured an ornate crest. “¡Qué elegante!” she said.
“I’m not sure that I trust this man.”
“Mamá, por favor.” She turned the envelope over, but the address side was blank. She rubbed her thumb on the elegant paper. “How did this arrive?”
“How do you think,” Teresa grumbled. She gave Estelle’s hair a final affectionate pat and pushed herself away from the bed. “He brought it here.”
“Really.” Not only was Capitán Tomás Naranjo’s office in Buenaventura a long way from Albuquerque, it was an awkward long way. “When?”
“He came one day.”
Estelle turned her head so she could see her mother more clearly. “Mamá, I love you. You know that?”
“Of course I know that.”
“Which ‘one day’ was it?”
“Friday, I think. After he called—and not just once. That afternoon, he stayed until he had the chance to talk to Dr. Francis. You were in ICU recovery. He and your husband spoke at some length. And he talked with others, too, I think. Then he left you these roses and the card.”
“Did he say that he planned to return?”
“I don’t know such things,” Teresa said. “You want me to open that for you?”
“No. I can manage.”
“Good, because I’m tired.” She pushed her walker out of the way and lay down on her side, curled up on her bed like a small child. One hand clawed the white afghan up on her shoulders.
With a thumbnail, Estelle popped the wax seal. She recognized the paper, selected from the display in Bianca Naranjo’s upscale gift shop in Chihuahua. Estelle had met the captain’s wife on two occasions, and had liked her instantly. At the same time, she could see that Bianca Naranjo had a complete hold on her husband’s heart, despite his gallant and sometimes even seductive mannerisms. Perhaps she had even chosen this particular stationery.
Naranjo’s handwriting was as old-fashioned as his courtly manner—broad black strokes with a fountain pen, perfectly straight and even, planned carefully to fit the small space. The message began on the inside, and then continued on the back of the card, entirely in formal English, never slipping into the familiar Spanish of their native tongue:
As you read this, know that Bianca and I wish for your prompt and complete recovery.
With apology, but knowing that work will occupy your mind and speed your recovery, let me pass on this news to you: By the time you are able to read this, we will have secured permission to exhume the remains of Donnie Hansen, the brother of Chester. As you may be aware, his remains—and those of his wife—were not returned to the United States after the tragic “accident” two years past. That in itself is unusual. As soon as paperwork is complete, we will find the site near Quemada. Of course, I will let you know the results the moment they are made clear to me.
If circumstances permit, I will call on you when you are well enough to receive casual visitors. If not, feel free to call me the moment that you are able.
You should know that there is some relief in various quarters with the news that Manolo Tapia is no longer employed.
Writing to that point in English, Captain Naranjo had reserved Spanish only for the salutation at the end: Estoy a su disposición…I am at your disposal. His signature was formal and reserved—it would have looked at home sealing a government document.
Estelle read the message again, then folded it neatly. If evidence had not been destroyed by fire during the violent car crash, or later during the hasty preparation for burial, the exhumation might yield something. Manolo Tapia’s signature would be a 9mm bullet still rattling around inside Donnie Hansen’s skull.
Had Chester Hansen paid to have his brother killed? It was a possibility. He had turned over his construction company to Donnie Hansen when he took the lieutenant governor’s position. What Donnie had then done with the company—what direction he had tried to take it—would make for an interesting investigation in itself.
If Chester Hansen had paid to solve his problem with Donnie and then reneged on a portion of that payment to Tapia, as the killer himself had suggested, then the balance sheet was closed. The Hansens were dead, Tapia was dead. The three Salvadorans were dead, too, the link to their killers eliminated. If there was a connection between Hansen and the Salvadoran money, the attorney general might be interested in an examination of bank accounts.
But Estelle found that her thoughts kept circling back to the boy. There was nothing she could do to keep Hector Ocate within the jurisdiction of Posadas County. When federal authorities had exhausted their bag of tricks, Mexican officials would want their due, and there was nothing that the undersheriff of Posadas County could do about it.
All of his talent, all of his potential meant nothing now. Estelle tried a deep breath, drawing in to the point where the first stab threatened. If the boy had chosen to create a pastel of a leaping horse, or a portrait of his mother, or a thousand other subjects, he might never have been caught. But one soaring airplane had attracted admiring attention. He had wanted so badly to impress his father—and had managed to do it.
The door opened and her husband slipped into the room. For the first time, Estelle noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “We’re going to have to start charging admission,” he said, taking care to close the door securely.
“¿Los dos?”
“They’re with Padrino. He said he’d keep ’em busy for a little while longer.” Francis Guzman crossed to the bed, taking a moment to straighten Teresa’s afghan. “You look cozy,” he whispered to the old woman. He turned to Estelle.
“How’s the pain?”
“None at the moment, oso,” she replied. “You do good work.”
“I wish I could take credit for every stitch,” Francis said, and took her hand. “Two big events today, querida. They’re going to see how you do on your feet for a few minutes, and a little later we’re going to see how food tastes to you.”
“Oh, joy. I already know how hospital food tastes.” She squeezed his hand as hard as she could. “Can I see the boys before this hiking business?”
“You bet. And there’s a couple of cops outside who keep pestering to talk with you.”
“Bobby?”
“He said he was going to call you later. Maybe tomorrow. No, this is a couple of suit types. Feds. They’re getting impatient.”
“Ah. Let’s get rid of them now, then,” Estelle said. “First the suits, then the boys…and then the hike.” She squeezed his hand again. “When does home fit into all of this?”
“We’re lookin’ at maybe Wednesday for a transfer.”
“Just a maybe?” She noted his use of the word transfer, rather than release, but even a view of Posadas County through the hospital window on Bustos Avenue would be a relief.
“Yep.” He turned at the shrill sound of a child’s voice out in the hall. Estelle recognized Carlos’ cackle, and her husband squeezed her hand again. “You sure you want to talk with the suits first?”
Estelle nodded. “Oh, sí. Let’s get that over with,” she said. “Once hijos take over the room, I won’t have time for cops.”
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