Flash Flood (21 page)

“Juan Jose Rodriguez. Are you sure that's the man? It's been seven years. You could be mistaken.”

“I wouldn't forget.”

“You're right about one thing, he is Billy Roland's lawyer.”

Eric had gotten up to lean against the sink.

“The fact that he's using a different name should tell you something.”

“I only have your word for it.” That seemed to slow him down, Dan thought, then added, “That's probably our biggest problem in all this, your insisting on staying undercover.”

“Got to. I have more leverage this way.”

“I'm not so sure anymore.”

“I wouldn't last one day without protection. You forget I was shot at? That someone wants me very dead. I'd need round the clock protection. And nobody's going to give me that until I have the evidence and it would have to be big time. And if I have the evidence, I'll be able to put a little pressure on Billy Roland myself, get my money and be out of here and won't need anyone's goddamned protection.” He kicked back against the sink with the heel of his boot.

Utter frustration, not that Dan could blame him; didn't he feel the same way? He waited a moment and then asked for what he should have demanded their first meeting: a play by play account of what happened seven years ago.

“I know you've heard this before, but don't leave anything out. I'll be the judge of whether it's useful information.” Then Dan lowered his voice. “And don't fucking lie to me.” He knew there wasn't any hope of using a tape recorder, so he got a couple legal pads out of a drawer, put the date and Eric's initials in the top right hand corner, and sat back down at the table.

“Ready?”

Eric hadn't moved, just stayed standing by the sink. He nodded in the light from a streetlamp that came through the open miniblinds above the sink.

“Give me the circumstances around the bust. What you were doing, and for whom.”

“I was returning from Venezuela. I had flown three yearling heifers to Senor Enrico Garcia, stayed two nights on his
finca
outside Caracas, and returned with an empty plane on a Friday afternoon.”

“Did you ever check the plane before takeoff?”

“I kept an eye on mechanical things, personally checked gauges, that sort of thing. I handled the refueling.”

“Did you file a flight plan?”

“Not always.”

“I mean that trip.”

“No.”

“I take it Mr. Garcia had an airstrip.”

Dan looked up as Eric nodded, then continued, “Was there anything that made that trip different?”

“Nothing. I've thought about it a lot. It was routine. I'd probably flown down there a dozen times over a four-year period. Nothing. Absolutely like any other trip.”

“Was there live entertainment provided the last night you were there?” Dan thought Eric hesitated before he answered.

“The usual. Girls, a few drinks, just the fringe bennies of working that kind of job.”

Dan bit back a comment about the wife and eleven-year-old waiting for him at home.

“So, you didn't bring anyone back with you that trip?”

“No stowaways, if that's what you mean.”

Dan let the term go. If that's what Eric called his occasional imports, that was his business. “Would it be safe to say you were a little hungover on the flight back?”

“Maybe. What are you getting at?”

“That anyone could have had access to the plane before you took off. You wouldn't have necessarily noticed anything.”

“I wouldn't have been looking for anything.”

“That's true, too. But it would have been easy to put something on board. How was the stuff packaged?”

“The usual. Clear plastic inside paper bags wedged into the panels separating the stalls, buried in the padding.”

“So you were brought down at El Paso, at the border?” Eric nodded. “Then what happened?”

“Didn't take them long to find what they were looking for. I always thought the border guards had been tipped.”

“And they took you into custody there? In El Paso?”

“Yeah. But this Jonathan guy was there. Met with me the first night. Said he was my lawyer, needed to talk with me and would see about bail in the morning.”

“Didn't you think it was odd that he was almost waiting on you to be busted?”

“Not at first. Lots of those guys just work the borders. Always around waiting for a quick buck.”

“So when did he say he represented your employer?”

“The next morning. And, funny, that's exactly what he said—he represented my employer. Even told me my employer would remain unnamed. He never mentioned Billy Roland.”

“Let's go back to your first conversation. What was said?”

“That my employer felt badly about what had happened and wanted to make a deal with me. You know the rest.”

“Tell me again.” Only this time, I'm taking notes, Dan thought.

“He, this Jonathan representing my employer, offered two million deposited in the bank at Tatum if I would say that I had initiated the whole thing. My greed, my need for big time money.”

“And you said yes, just like that?”

“I didn't think I'd get any time. Clean record. Impress the judge with my background. That's when Billy Roland stepped forward. Said he'd pull every string to get me into Milford if it should come to that. Told me he would pray for me and that he'd forgiven me. Said he understood the seven deadly sins.” Eric laughed. “I bet he did. But all this was done in front of an audience. Made him look good.”

“And you got seven years?”

“Reduced from twelve.”

“And you checked with the bank before the trial?”

“Bet your life. Talked with some twit who gave me the account number and verified the amount.”

“Did the twit have a name?”

“Ed.”

“Just Ed?”

Eric nodded.

“Did you sign any papers? Anything at all to verify what you had agreed to?”

“Sure. The wording sounded a little like a confession. I agreed to accept sole responsibility for my actions, which included piloting a plane found loaded with cocaine, and the amount of two million would be deposited in Midland Savings and Loan to gather interest while I was in prison. The reason I knew it was Billy Roland, besides the fact that he would be one of the few people around here with that kind of cash, there was a stipulation that the money would be left to Elaine in case of my death. She was always a favorite of his.”

“I don't suppose you have a copy of the papers?”

“My copy was on file at the bank. But, I have this.”

Eric unfolded a much worn yellow sheet of lined paper torn from a legal pad. Dan could see nothing in the near darkness of the kitchen. Then Eric struck a match and he saw black pencil tracings that outlined the signature of what looked to be a Jonathan James Reynolds beside a date in April seven years ago.

“How…?”

The match went out. Eric sat opposite him at the table.

“Funny to think that proof of any of this comes down to a copy of a signature that I'm lucky to have. Lucky because some asshole who wasn't who he said he was pressed hard enough with a ballpoint to leave a replica on the pad underneath. And I was smart enough to save it.”

“I need a copy.”

“Already thought of that. Look at these.”

Again, match light flickered over a much more distinct black on white copy of the signature. No mistaking the Jonathan James Reynolds now.

“What are you going to do?” Eric asked and watched him as the match burned down to his fingers, and he blew it out.

“Don't know yet. But, one more thing. The monthly updates. Who brought them? You got one a month?”

“That was slick. I got to give that to them. That took some planning. Every month I'd receive copies, pages cut out of investing magazines, or stock updates, supposedly, the ones in my portfolio. Then, like clockwork, Mr. Reynolds would call with that month's figures. I had received a bank book and I recorded the figures, sometimes a gain, sometimes a loss.”

“So, your only point of contact was this Jonathan?”

“Yeah.”

“These calls. Would they be recorded somewhere in prison records? Like who called and when?”

“White-collar time is a little more lax. You forget I was low risk. Don't think anyone cared who called or who didn't.”

“Do you have these pages on stocks? What did you call them?”

“Pages torn out of
Value Line
or
Standard and Poor's.
Any schmuck could have gotten them at a library. No, I tossed them.”

“Were they mailed?”

“All postmarked Tatum, envelopes part of bank stationery.”

“And you're telling me this Jonathan Reynolds, maybe a.k.a. J.J. Rodriguez, called every month for seven years?”

“Kept me quiet, didn't it?”

Dan didn't answer. All he had was a copy of a signature but it might be fun to run it by old J.J. just to see the reaction. Or better yet, compare it with a recent signature, and he thought he had one of those on the deposition he took over the Cisco Kid.

“How would you describe your working relationship with Billy Roland Eklund?”

“Good. Really good. He was like a father. Had helped me out a couple times.”

“No apparent reason he'd want to screw you out of a promised two million?”

“I always considered him a square shooter. I always knew he spent money like water but I never thought drugs was behind it. That really shocked me. Guess when he asked me to take the fall, I thought I owed him one. And he's apparently stayed clean the last few years.”

Clean or never dirty, Dan thought. It was also hard for him to imagine the old man into anything illegal.

“You ever meet Iris, the second wife?”

“After my time. I didn't even know the first wife very well.”

“Anyone else who would have liked to see you behind bars? Out of commission for a while?” Dan didn't know what he was fishing for; it just seemed like a logical question to ask.

“Can't think of anyone.”

“Maybe a client who thought you screwed him?”

Eric slowly shook his head. “I wasn't the best lawyer, but most of my work was done for corporations, not private parties.”

“Think about it. Maybe you'll come up with something.”

***

Dan stopped by the Roswell office in the morning to check his mail. Nothing urgent. Then he dialed information for Dallas. Byers, Northmore and Reynolds had a number. Was he surprised? He was more surprised when he found himself holding the line for a Jonathan James Reynolds. What was he going to say?

“Jon Reynolds, how can I help you?”

“Dan Mahoney here, investigator for United Life and Casualty out of Chicago. I'm trying to locate a Jonathan James Reynolds who represented an Eric Linden arrested on smuggling charges a few years back in El Paso, Texas.”

“Eric Linden? Name doesn't ring a bell. Don't think I'm your man though, I specialize in divorce. Should I have my secretary check our records?”

“Yes, if you don't mind. And one other thing that would help clear this up, would it be possible to get a copy of your signature?”

There was a pause. Uncertainty? Reluctance?

“I suppose so. I'm not sure I understand.”

“We have documents signed by a Mr. Reynolds supposedly from your firm, but have reason to believe the signature is forged. I would appreciate it if you could send that copy to my office in Roswell along with a sample of your letterhead.”

The man finally agreed. Dan had only to wait. This certainly made things interesting. Billy Roland's lawyer impersonating a lawyer from Dallas. He left instructions for the secretary at United L & C to call him the minute the letter came in. Then he called the office in Chicago and asked that secretary to fax a copy of the deposition that had the signature of J.J. Rodriguez. When he had them together, he'd check with a crime lab expert. It could prove interesting. In the meantime it was back to the ranch and time to start that inventory.

***

The Double Horseshoe was quiet. Billy Roland was off to Chicago accompanied by Hank for an international symposium on worldwide cattle markets. Dan left a message at the barns that he would be ready to begin the inventory in the morning; Jorge just needed to give him a time. He wasn't looking forward to the days in the saddle, but it would be good to get away.

He asked a visiting farrier to check out Baby Belle. He'd be putting her under a lot of stress for a few days, subjecting her to mixed terrain, some rocky. He didn't need to be out in nowhere with a lame horse.

Hank had shown him where the overnight equipment was kept, sleeping bags, utensils squeezed into canvas carrying cases, plastic slickers, pup tents that folded to no bigger than a Sunday newspaper made of a material to withstand hurricane-force wind and rain. He was in charge of packing his own gear. And as he collected the items and signed them out, he felt the beginnings of something like excitement. More than a look forward to something new, this was adventure. For a few days he would be matching ear-tags to computer lists and enjoying the countryside, not worrying about crooked lawyers, or drug busts gone awry and errant husbands showing up unannounced.

He would be roughing it, sleeping in the open, eating in the open. A chow wagon would meet them at designated dinner spots. Breakfast and lunch, something in packages, would be handed out for the next day at each stop. Billy Roland left a flask of scotch on the dining room table with a note that it might be appreciated. Dan slipped it into his pocket.

They were taking two pack animals but carrying space was limited. The laptop computer would stay with him, the extra batteries could be transported separately. Modern technology meets the Old West. Or something like that.

Jorge came up for dinner that night. Iris decided to cook steaks on a grill outside, sort of a prelude to their trip. It wasn't like she prepared anything. Thawed steaks and left them on the counter in the kitchen and warmed a pot of beans. The potato salad was in the fridge, fixed before the kitchen help took off for the evening.