Blood Sweep (18 page)

Adams stopped, his back to the security chief and the contractor.

“Miles, you got to ask yourself why Quesada would take a long-range shot at the sheriff.”

“You're shitting me.” Waddell's surprise was not feigned.

“No. Our antelope hunter damn near got bagged himself. One rifle shot, from three or four hundred yards out. Missed Bobby's head by inches. Then the shooter takes off. Later, the S.O. finds the shooter dead, executed with one bullet through the head. The victim is our friend,
Señor
Quesada.” Adams clamped a hand on Waddell's shoulder. “
None
of this goes any further than the three of us here. We know
who
fired at Bobby. We don't know
why.
But later that morning, here's the victim's buddy, Olveda, at a county commission meeting, cool and collected as you please. Either he didn't
know
that his associate is in the morgue with his head blown apart, or he's about the smoothest act this side of any border.
”

Torrez watched Waddell's face, and saw nothing but incredulity twist his features.

“Jesus. But you're okay?” He looked anxiously at Torrez.

“Yep.”

“And you think the shooter was this Quesada fellow?”

“Most likely. About ninety-five percent likely.”

“But why?”

When Torrez didn't respond, Adams said, “That's why we're here, Miles.”

“We should be talking with Rick Bueler.” Waddell glanced back at the truck where the two men waited.

“Nope,” Torrez said quickly. “Not yet. Bueler works for a private security company, and we don't know yet what
he's
up to.”

“And double that for your contractor, and
triple
it for your guy down at the gate,” Adams said.

“You mean
Steward
?”

“That's who I mean. Until we know some agendas in all this,” and he mimed a button-the-lip gesture.

“So what now? Christ, Sheriff,
this
is the sort of thing I can't afford.”

“Just keep your eyes open.” He took a deep breath. “And we need to know exactly when Olveda was here the past few days. Exactly. Steward keeps a log sheet, right?”

“Right. He does meticulous work.”

Torrez nodded.

“So you think that Olveda and this dead guy are in this together somehow?”

“Got to be. Why would they drive out here together if that wasn't the deal?”

“Well, sure,” Waddell nodded. “Of course. You're telling me that this Olveda isn't exactly who he seems to be, then. Not if he's traveling around with some heavy muscle body guard or something. Some hit man sort of deal.”

“You said that, not me,” Adams said easily.

“Well, that's how it looks. Is that the direction you're going with all this?”

Torrez almost smiled. “If I knew what direction I was goin', I wouldn't be standing here in the hot sun talkin'.”

“Look,” Waddell said. “I'll talk to Steward. I'll be discreet.”

“Don't bother. I'll just look at his log on the way down the hill.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

“It ain't gonna be a problem,” Torrez said.

Waddell started to turn back toward the truck. He stopped abruptly. “Bill is doing all right?”

“Far as I know. He's got a phone in his room. Give him a call.”

Waddell nodded. “I'll do that today.”

“Give him something to think about,” the sheriff said.

“You bet.”

To Torrez, it sounded as if Waddell thought that an old broken man in a hospital bed a hundred miles away was just the ally he needed.

Chapter Twenty-two

“How does a medical records company make enough money to afford a transcontinental corporate jet?” Bill Gastner's eyes were closed, but obviously his brain wasn't. Face ashen after a “therapy” session commanded by a jovial young man intent on torture, a session that included nothing more than stretching the patient's toes, foot, and knee through a narrow, careful range of movements, Gastner lay quietly with his hands folded on his belly.

Estelle Reyes-Guzman pushed herself out of the chair in which she'd been curled for the past hour, and the patient opened one eye.

“What are you still doing here?”

“We can't afford an officer posted in the hall, sir.”

Gastner grunted. “You didn't answer my question.”

“About the jet?”

“He stores medical records for people, and that earns enough to be a jetsetter? Enough to have a flight crew on stand-by out at the airport? To run a whole Goddamn company?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,
Padrino.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He finally opened both eyes and regarded the ceiling, his heavy brows frowning. “What's this fancy hip going to cost me…fifty grand?”

“If you're lucky.”

“If my insurance is lucky, you mean.” He reached back and bunched his pillow forward. “They're going to give me hell for not going to a VA joint, you know.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “So if this hospital sends my records to Joel for safe-keeping, stored away in that great cyber-file in the sky, what do you suppose they have to pay for that privilege?”

“It's certainly not eleven ninety-five plus tax,
Padrino
.”

He huffed a laugh. “That fancy jet sucks that much jet fuel in thirty seconds.”

“If his firm has contracts with hundreds—maybe thousands—of medical centers around the world, and an equal crowd of physicians, dentists, maybe even veterinarians, then the jet will dine well.”

“Remember the days of those nice long brown lines of patient file folders in the doctor's office? How simple that was.”

“Until the doctor dies, or moves, or retires,” Estelle said. “Or until there's a fire or flood or who knows what that destroys the files. Then it would be pretty nice just to click a button and draw on that cyber-library.”

“Sure…until
that
all collapses. Does Francis do this cyber stuff at the clinic?”

“He has cloud storage—I don't know with whom.”

“Now I'm curious,” Gastner said, and Estelle was pleased at the color that was creeping back into his cheeks. “Maybe he'll tell me what he pays for that archival service, and we can extrapolate from that.”

Estelle stepped close to the bed, rested a hand on Gastner's pillow and leaned down until she was looking him square in the eye, their faces six inches apart.

“
Padrino,
why not just talk with Joel?” she whispered. “I'm sure he'll tell you anything you want to know.”

Looking vexed, Gastner examined the IV feed in his arm. “I can't do that.”

“Whyever not ?” She straightened up, drawing back a little.

“Has Francisco or Carlos ever asked you questions that you can't—or won't—answer?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you're a lucky lady, sweetheart.” He nodded at the nurse who had appeared in the doorway. “And I know I should be smarter than I am about all this. He's my goddamn son, after all. I should be able to ask him anything.” He beckoned to the nurse, adding as an aside, “Even about his ‘partner.'”

“I know you,
Padrino.
And I know you haven't made an issue of that. You wouldn't.”

“So you're saying that I'm a goddamn closet liberal?”

The nurse hovered near the end of the bed, and Estelle lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just talk to him,
Padrino.”

“Sheriff Guzman?” The nurse sidled around to the side of the bed, uncharacteristically reticent about intruding on a private conversation.

“Yes, Melina?”

“Sheriff, there's a gentleman who would like to speak with you. He asked if he could meet with you down in the Coffee Corner?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'll be right there.” She patted the back of Gastner's hand. “Naps are good,
Padrino.
Indulge yourself.
”

He grunted in mock desperation. “Especially with Camille on the way. I want to be running laps by the time she gets here.”

“
Sin duda, Padrino.”

Down the polished tile floors beyond the ICU waiting room, past radiology, beyond a fleet of other offices and departments, the Coffee Corner nestled in a corner room with enough space for four small tables, a counter, and a rack of ultra-smarmy post cards. The smell of coffee that had been on the hot plate for too long overpowered any fragrance that might have escaped the wrapped baked goods provided by the hospital's auxiliary. An elderly hospital aide in pink stripes worked the counter, at the moment refilling the coffee cup dispenser, her back to the door.

The sole customer at the moment was a middle-aged man who sat at the table nearest the single window, hands cradled around a paper cup. Estelle watched him for a moment, his profile softened by the window light. He did not look up. Unbidden, a flood of intuition played games.
I know this man,
she thought, then immediately dismissed the notion. And although the man was alone in the coffee shop, he might not have been the one who had sent the messenger.

Whatever remained in the man's cup held his interest. Simply dressed in a white linen shirt with dark brown slacks that molded over a small but powerful body, the man peered through scholarly wire rim glasses. A physician on holiday? One of surgeon Barry Cushman's associates, perhaps, although he didn't favor those two ubiquitous badges of office—a white lab coat or a stethoscope around the neck.

He picked up the cup and gently swirled the liquid, his manner not the least bit animated or impatient. His hair, most likely jet black years ago, was neatly trimmed salt and pepper, zipped cleanly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Although clean shaven, the ghost of pale skin remained
where a full mustache had once shaded his face.

The motion of drinking from the Styrofoam cup drew attention to his aquiline nose, the gently arched, almost bushy eyebrows, the slight pursing of his full lips. Estelle sucked in a ragged breath, realizing that she'd been frozen in place. She was wearing a trim, summer weight pants suit, and her left hand loosened the last button on the tan jacket, her right hand sweeping the jacket back. As her fingers touched the holstered Sig-Sauer, an electric shock ran up her arm, raced across to her neck and twinged through her jaw. There must be no confrontation in this quiet place.

She let her jacket fall back into place and touched the door with her left hand. Although she had made no noise, had not actually moved the partially open door to enter the shop, the man looked up as if the wild thudding of her heart had roused him. The coffee cup returned to the table. His bottomless eyes locked on hers, and the flicker of what might turn into a smile touched his lips. He rose slowly, as if intentionally giving her time to watch his every move.

“Sheriff Reyes-Guzman,” he said, and bowed his head deferentially. He did not extend his hand. Estelle did not reply, but forced herself to take the time to inventory his person from head to toe. If he was armed, the weapon—knife, pistol, who knew—most likely would be concealed in the small of his back, easily covered by the loose shirt. His hands, a deep smooth olive, were unmarked, and she saw no tattoos on his neck or revealed by the V of his shirt.

Amused by her scrutiny, he set the coffee cup aside and spread his arms and hands out wide. He turned a full circle in place as if to say, “See…look at me. I am harmless.” At that, the aging hospital volunteer behind the counter looked up. Unsure about what this strange ballet of body language might be about, she settled on hospitality.

“May I get something for you, honey?”

“Not just now. Would you excuse us for just a moment?” Estelle swept aside the tail of her jacket just far enough to expose the heavy county badge that rode on her belt.

Not slow to put two and two together, the lady had a heroine's streak. She lowered her voice a notch, but remained cheery. “Should I fetch someone?”

“No. No one. We're fine.” A crinkling around the man's eyes reminded her of the same expression she'd seen not long ago when she'd examined her own tired features in the restroom mirror, and then laughed at the image. She'd washed her face then, but the crows' feet hadn't disappeared.

But she refused to acknowledge what she already knew—what she could feel running rampant through her emotions. This man whom she was sure that she had never seen before had called her by title and name. And his features called out to her. The coffee shop volunteer waddled out a side door, closing it silently behind her. She would mention the encounter, surely. Perhaps they had five minutes of privacy.

“How may I help you, Mr.…?”

He didn't move from his spot by the table, didn't offer a hand. When he spoke, it was in Spanish, his rich accent combined with rapid, sharp-edged delivery completely devoid of the Spanglish so common along the border. “You do not know me,” he said. “We have never met, I regret to say.” He smiled gently. “Actually, that's not true. We did meet, once—a lifetime ago. You a newborn, myself an impressionable twelve-year-old.”

He appraised her frankly from head to toe, shaking his head as he did so. “Amazing.” He held his hands an infant's length apart. “There you were, crying with all the lusty strength of a newborn, bathed in rain, naked and bloody and battered—but still astonishingly beautiful. So perfect.”

Estelle remained silent. The man lifted his hands as if in appeal. “And now look at you. As beautiful a woman now as you were a perfect infant then.”

When she again did not reply, he added, “I did speak briefly on the telephone with your younger son, Carlos. Perhaps he told you? Just in the few seconds we conversed, I could tell that he is a remarkable child.” He ducked his head and extended his right hand. “My name is Benedicte Mazón.”

The undersheriff regarded the man as her emotions ran the gamut. She ignored his offered hand, keeping the round table between them. Since old enough to think on such matters, she had come to regard Teresa Reyes as
Mamá
. Once old enough to understand, Estelle had known that she had been adopted by that gentle, childless widow, but that at some point in the distant past, of course she had had another family. If this man now facing her was somehow a part of that distant past—and worse, if he had some odd connection with the possible threat to her son in Mazatlán…

Her words felt as if she were forcing them through molasses. It seemed somehow important for this man to know that she had not been taken completely unaware by this encounter.

“Colonel Naranjo knows you as Hector Tamburro. Which am I to believe?”

The man smiled. “Ah, the good colonel. He is something of a legend, you know. A force of nature. It is astonishing that he has survived so long in these turbulent times.”

“That could be taken as a threat.”

“By no means,” he said quickly. “Just an observation. The colonel is the reason I must be so careful now. He is a shadow in so many respects. But now I am here, safe in your country, and you are my concern.” He lifted an instructing finger. “This
Tamburro
business—it is just a convenience. If you were to…to
mine
the records of Our Lady of Sorrows in Janos, you would find an entry for Mazón—Hector and his good wife Dulce, and their two children, Bernice and Teodoro. Their third child had yet to be born…but was promised in a matter of hours on that tragic day.” He beckoned toward one of the white straight-backed chairs. “Will you consent to join me? Please.” He remained standing until she had taken her place. She sat askew, right hand resting on the holstered handgun.

He once more folded his hands. “Would you care…?” and he nodded at the snack bar. “I know she has left us, but…”

She shook her head, refusing to be baited.

He regarded her, eyes bright. “You have grown into an astonishing young woman.” When she did not reply, he continued, “I have caught sight of your husband, but only fleetingly. He is a busy man. A handsome man. Your children as well, I would wager. I have only seen Francisco in photographs and most of the time, those are taken from a considerable distance. But a few…”

“What do you want,
Señor?”
Do not take the plunge,
she told herself, and let the blunt question suffice. She could feel the weight of the handcuffs, now looped over her belt behind her jacket. She knew that's what she
should
have done—taken this man into custody immediately, and let all the questions and revelations follow. He was certainly wanted by Mexican authorities—Naranjo had warned her about him. But she sat quietly. Mazón leaned forward, both hands still clasped together, the right cradling the left.

“Do you remember a man by the name of Guerrero from Tres Santos? Juan Guerrero?” Estelle said nothing, which Mazón took as assent. “He was a man of modest means, as are most in that village. A good wife, seven children. He still lives, although he is now in his late eighties. Perhaps older. His wife has long since passed, the children have moved away, save for a son who earns a living as a laborer and takes care of his father. His son and I were close at one time.”

“What do you want,
Señor?
” She forced her tone to stay abrupt, official, disinterested. But her curiosity wanted to pull her into this strange man's story, a man who obviously knew something of her past that even she had never probed. And, in one of those rare moments of crystal-clear intuition, she recognized the electricity between herself and him—two people destined to meet. She forced up a wall of stiff authority, even though he was trusting her at this moment simply to
listen.