Scavengers (23 page)

The state policeman frowned as he examined the grim images of Rafael Smith and Lolo Duarte. Again and again he shuffled between the two, and then laid the two photos on the hood of the car, resting his chin on the heel of his hand as he studied them. “Who identified them for you?” he asked finally.

“The rancher who hired them to cut wood.”

“This man in Grant County?”

“Yes. They worked there for the better part of a month before heading back toward their homes in Mexico.”

“Then it shouldn’t be so hard to discover where they lived,” Naranjo said. He rested his index finger on the photo of Rafael Smith. “This man…” He tapped his finger. “I’m sure that I have seen him, you know.” He held up the photo, scrutinizing it. “But he is not someone with whom I am familiar. Maybe he simply reminds me of someone.” He sighed and laid the photo down. “I would think that after all these years, I would know every solitary soul in all of Chihuahua, no?” He shook his head.

“There are a lot of strangers left in the world,” Estelle said, and Naranjo laughed.

“And at my age, with my memory…how does that old joke go? I meet new faces every day, even among my acquaintances.” He picked up both photos. “We have the names and a face. I should think we can find out for you by this time tomorrow. Unless something unforeseen intrudes.” He tapped the photos once more on the hood and handed them back to Estelle. “And now tell me what surprised you so.” He grinned at Estelle’s guarded expression. “When I first mentioned Mr. Osuna’s work on the fountain, I could see the spark in those wonderful eyes of yours.”

Estelle laughed good-naturedly and shook her head in resignation. Her mother hadn’t missed a thing…and certainly not the occasional, interested glances from Tomás Naranjo. Teresa’s
five o’clock meeting
had been the gentle reminder of the habitual chaperone.

“We have two other names that interest us, too,” Estelle said. “And they were last reported living in Asunción as well.” She gathered up the photos. “And what you’ll find most interesting is that at least one account reported that they had jobs working on the plaza fountain project in Asunción.”

The flirtatious look of pleasant attentiveness vanished from the state policeman’s face. “Two names?”

“The Madrid brothers. Benny and Isidro Madrid. They’re handymen of sorts. For a period in January, they were in Maria, doing a roofing job for their father.”

“Wally Madrid.”

“Yes.”

“An unusual circumstance. You see, my men would have talked to them in the course of this investigation. There was nothing to prick their curiosity.”

“Well, they’ve pricked ours, sir. What is most interesting is that when Smith and Duarte stopped in la Taberna Azul in Maria on the way north to cut firewood, several witnesses place the Madrid brothers at the saloon at the same time.”

“But not when they stopped on the return trip?”

“That we don’t know.”

“And the connection that makes you so uneasy?”

“The son of the tavern owner purchased a heavy caliber carbine in December. We’re certain that a weapon of similar caliber was used in the Smith-Duarte murders. We learned this morning that the son, Eurelio Saenz, lied about the purchase of the weapon. We have evidence that suggests that the rifle was probably fired, at least once, from a vehicle that was being used, or had been used at some time, by the Madrid brothers. There’s a connection there that we don’t understand fully.”

Naranjo’s eyebrows drifted up. “Ah. What does Mr. Saenz have to say?”

“I wish I knew. He denied any information of the rifle, but that was before we had evidence that he was lying. Unfortunately, we had nothing solid enough to hold him on. Early this morning, Eurelio Saenz fled to this country in the company of two men. His mother witnessed the incident, and said that some coercion was involved. She also thinks the two men could have been the Madrid brothers.”

“
Could
have been?”

“That’s correct. She wasn’t sure.”

“And Mr. Saenz hasn’t been seen since, I’m willing to wager.”

“That’s also correct.”

Naranjo studied Estelle for a long time, but there was none of the suave, gentle Don Juan in his expression this time. “It seems to me that another trip to Asunción is in order,” Naranjo said. He looked at his watch. “You have a previous commitment at five, I understand.” He almost smiled when he said that, and quickly added, “And your mother is tired and needs to go home, I’m sure. Let me look into this. Perhaps there are some simple answers after all.” He reached out a courtly hand for Estelle’s elbow. “I’ll pay my respects to Don Roman, gather my purchases, and be on my way. Expect to hear from me this evening. Will that be satisfactory?”

Estelle nodded. She let herself be escorted back into the house. Fifteen minutes later, with the dust from Tomás Naranjo’s Toyota long dispersed, Estelle walked her mother out to the car for their return to Posadas.

As they drove out the lane, around the high adobe wall that marked the Diaz hacienda’s grounds, Teresa sighed. “This is a nice little village,” she said. “But you know…” She waved a hand, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“I hope we didn’t pull you away from visiting your place too soon,” Estelle said.

“No, no. I saw what I needed to see.” She turned slightly in her seat, arranging first the pleats of her skirt and then the coils of oxygen hose. “You gave information to the captain that was of interest to him. I could see it on his face when he left.”

“He has a case that’s related to one of ours, I think,” Estelle said.

Teresa nodded. “He left in a hurry. You, too.”

Estelle eased the car up out of the arroyo, and turned on the single lane dirt road that lead north to the border crossing at Regál. “We both have five o’clock meetings,
Mamá
.”

“Oh, okay,” Teresa said. She covered her mouth with two arthritic fingers to stifle the smile.

Chapter Thirty

The leisurely drive back to Posadas included a brief stop at the small mission in Regál. Estelle had been surprised at the request, since her mother had shown no interest in visiting the church in Tres Santos. The original mission in Tres Santos had burned in 1960, and had been replaced with a conservative frame building, its sharply peaked, metal roof somehow incongruous in a village of flat-roofed adobes. Perhaps it was that design that offended Teresa.

In Regál, it took Teresa Reyes more time to get out of the van and walk up the three steps to the mission’s cool interior than she spent inside. Once inside, what brief conversation she had with the various saints was a concise and private one.

La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora was without electricity or plumbing. The thick, immaculately white walls rose uncluttered to the heavy beamed ceiling, and the twelve stations of the cross were represented in small
nichos
around the perimeter. Other than the soft, distant knocks and pings of the roof as it cooled in late afternoon, the hush of
la Iglesia
was powerful.

Estelle stood just behind the last pew, watching her mother commune with the spirits. When after three or four minutes Teresa began the process of lifting herself from her knees, Estelle stepped forward to offer assistance.

“This is a good church,” Teresa said. She didn’t clarify whether it was the building that was stout and true, or whether she meant that the saints harbored in its cool silence were especially receptive.

“Yes, it is,” Estelle said, and her mother nodded with approval that her daughter understood.

Back in the car, Teresa sighed with contentment and readjusted the oxygen tube without reminder. As they pulled back onto the asphalt of the state highway, she turned to her daughter to relate the decision after her consultation with the higher powers.

“What you’re doing is a good thing.”

Estelle glanced across at her mother. “Which thing that I’m doing is good,
Mamá
? ”

“You know, I’m eighty-two years old. In all that time, you’re the only policewoman I’ve ever known.”

“You’ve lived a sheltered life,
Mamá
. That’s why the word
policía
is feminine.”

“That’s true. That’s true. But I’ve decided it’s a good thing—what you do.”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure,” Estelle replied.

“The farmer says that, too, when it doesn’t rain as often as he likes.”

“I suppose.”

“The devil knows more because he’s old than because he’s the devil, you know. And I’ve been around for a long, long time now.” She gazed out the side window as the van wound its way up through Regál pass. “I’m glad we didn’t wait until summer to visit the house. Do you remember how hot it would get in July and August?”

“For sure. We spent most of our time in the water holes,” Estelle replied.

“Maybe you should take the boys down. This summer, I mean. Roman and Marta would like to see them—if you have the time.”

“We’ll make time,
Mamá
. Francis would enjoy that too. By then, he’s going to need a break.”

“Sometimes it seems like it’s a hundred miles away, doesn’t it?”

“Or more.” As if it had been waiting patiently for them to clear the rise of Regál Pass, the cellular phone interrupted. Estelle thumbed it open.

“Guzman.”

“Ma’am, this is Collins,” the deputy said. “Are you back in the country?”

Estelle smiled and glanced at her mother. “We’re just coming down off the pass, Dennis. We’ll be back in town in about twenty minutes.”

“Oh, good. Look, I talked with George Enriquez of National Mutual Insurance. His agency is the one who held Eleanor Pope’s auto insurance. I got the insurance card from the glove box of her car? And her son’s, too, what’s left of it. I figured that maybe she’d have all her insurance with the same place. But Enriquez says that Mrs. Pope didn’t have home owner’s, at least not with NMI.”

“Maybe with another company, then.”

“He doesn’t think so. He said that he’d tried to talk her into home owner’s before, but that she didn’t want it. He said that he tried pretty hard to convince her that she should have it.”

“She didn’t have a mortgage on the place, then.”

“Why is that?”

“A lender would require insurance, Dennis. They’ve lived on that property forever, though. I suppose it was paid off long ago. Did you happen to ask about a life insurance policy?”

“No dice,” Collins said. “She didn’t have that either.”

“At least not with NMI.”

“Right. But Enriquez said he’d talked to her about that, too, on more than one occasion. She never mentioned that she had coverage with someone else. She just told him that she wasn’t interested in more insurance.”

“So, no life insurance, and no home owner’s insurance,” Estelle said, more to herself than Collins. “Unless she had it with another company. That’s interesting.”

“Kind of makes you wonder what old Denton had in mind when he decided to blow things up,” Collins said. “Maybe it was just his way of winning the award for the most complicated suicide of the decade.”

“Stranger things have happened. Did you happen to locate Mrs. Pope’s checkbook, by the way? That’s sometimes a good record of payments.”

“I think Taber was going to go that route. And the Popes also had a safety deposit box at Posadas National Bank. Taber was going to see about getting a court order from Judge Hobart to have a look-see. Maybe there’ll be something of interest hidden away, but I don’t know if she did that yet or not. She might still be out in no-man’s land, for all I know.”

“That very well could be.” She didn’t bother to add for the high-octane Collins’ benefit that persistent, dogged diligence sometimes uncovered things missed in the first, quick pass. “Who else did you talk to?”

“Ah, nobody, yet. I was kinda going on what Enriquez said.”

“That’s okay, but you need to make a quick run down the list of agents in Posadas, Lordsburg, and Deming,” Estelle said. “Find out if Eleanor Pope was a customer. She might have been doing business with somebody else, and just didn’t want to have to explain to Enriquez. And when you find out what bank she used, have a chat with them, too.”

“All right.”

“And then get together with Jackie to see about payments. Not very many people pay things like their monthly bills with cash. She would have been writing checks if she had insurance.”

Collins grunted something Estelle didn’t catch, then added, “I don’t know about that…Tom Pasquale sure does. Cash or money orders.”

Estelle laughed. “But that’s Tom,” she said. “If the whole world operated the way he does, the global financial system would be in chaos. You need to check with the other agencies.”

“Will do. Everybody’s closed now, though, so I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”

“There’s always…” Estelle stopped herself, the memory of a casual comment flooding back into her mind. “Have you talked to Linda Real about this?”

“Why her?” Collins asked.

“She mentioned that she’d talked to Eleanor Pope while they were sitting in the insurance office. Maybe she said something in that conversation that would be useful to us.”

“I think she went home for a while.”

She had been about to remind Collins that even after hours, there were home phones to contact, but she thought better of it. She knew that several of the deputies—herself included—didn’t bother documenting overtime. Others—Dennis Collins included—turned in every minute over the standard forty hours, perhaps on the not uncommon assumption that they had a life, and the county’s intrusion into that life was going to be a commensurate cost to taxpayers. She made a mental note to talk with Linda herself as soon as she had the chance.

“We’ll see what develops,” she said instead. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Collins replied.

She switched off the phone and glanced at her mother.

“You know, my mother remembered Pancho Villa,” Teresa said. “She met him once, less than a week before he was killed.”

“I would have liked to have been there.”

“Just another
bandito
, my mother said. Nothing more.”

“History has given him some stature, then,” Estelle said.

Teresa nodded. “These men you chase,” she said. “The ones who left the two boys out on the desert to die. No such stature in them, is there.”

Estelle looked back at her mother with surprise. It was easy to assume that an elderly woman, dozing in a rocking chair, wouldn’t hear the conversations around her, or if she did, might not understand them or ruminate on them. “What do you think about it all,
Mamá
? Why would they do such a thing?”

“Because they have nothing else,” Teresa said. “Tomorrow holds nothing for them. It is only what they can gain
today
that counts. Nothing else. And they are young, and that makes them dangerous. No wisdom.” She grimaced and shook her head. “They are
young
devils,
Estelita
. They don’t know anything about tomorrow. And that makes them dangerous.” She took a deep breath through her nose, drawing in the oxygen. “As long as they don’t know that you’re coming up behind them, you’ll be okay,” she said.