Blood Sweep (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

“I will cooperate completely,” Benedicte Mazón said. “This is so unnecessary.” Still, he didn't resist as Sheriff Robert Torrez loosened the cuffs from Mazón's left wrist and transferred the shackle to the heavy steel bar that ran under the rim of the table.

When Estelle had first seen the man who called himself her uncle, he had seemed wiry and strong…vital and sure of himself. Now, compared to Torrez's imposing physical presence, Mazón appeared frail, his olive skin sallow.

Earlier, he had grimaced with impatience when Estelle had presented the written Miranda form, reading it for him, indicating each box for an initial. His signature had been precise, even old-fashioned in its penmanship. He had handed the signed paper back to Estelle with deference, and now sat composed, his free left hand flat on the table surface.

Torrez ignored the man's comment and instead said to his undersheriff, “Naranjo says he's on his way?”

“He has a Beech Baron at his disposal, so he's already en route.”

“Let's get some preliminaries out of the way before Schroeder shows up and complicates things.” The district attorney, busier than usual with a full week of district court, would be nervous in Colonel Tomás Naranjo's presence. A born self-aggrandizer, the district attorney spent a good deal of energy trying to appear relaxed and in charge. But he was not as adept at cutting red tape as the Mexican colonel. Still, budgets being what they were, the district attorney might be willing to see this suspect released promptly into Mexican custody.

“What are you calling yourself now?” Torrez's eyes were heavy lidded, disinterested, almost bored. He looked as if he'd rather have been taking a nap. Estelle had briefed the sheriff in detail, relating the events that allegedly had taken place in Mazatlán, and even Mazón's version of the death of Estelle's family.

“My name is Benedicte Hernando Mazón.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Colonel Naranjo informs us that you go by the name of Hector Tamburro.”

“Well,” and the man shrugged his shoulders.

“So which is it?”

“My name is Benedicte Hernando Mazón. I suppose there are times when another name is of some convenience.”

Torrez regarded him silently, and Mazón met his gaze without flinching.

“And Miguel Quesada?”

“That is
not
a name I would use.” He smiled faintly at his jest.

“Did you kill him?”

“This Quesada? I think
not
, Sheriff. I did not know that he was dead.”

“Did you know him?”

Mazón shrugged. “Yes, I knew him.”

“From where?” Estelle asked, and he turned to look at her, taking his time as he examined her face as if seeing her for the first time.

“From prison.” He smiled tightly. “It is a place where you meet the most interesting people.”

“Why were you in prison?”

Mazón looked amused. “For violating the laws of México, Sheriff.”

Torrez raised one hand and turned it palm up, as if to say, “And?”

“They accused me in the death of another man.”

“So you were in for murder.”

“And never proven. But long ago, without what you might call an alibi? I enjoyed Mexican prison hospitality for a good many years.”

“The four of you,” Estelle said, her pencil pausing. “You, the Ortega brothers, and Miguel Quesada—the four of you hatched this plan to kidnap my son. And then…”

Mazón had already begun shaking his head vehemently, even before Estelle had finished the question. “What part of that is untrue?”

“I did not plan to kidnap my grand nephew,” he said, this time using the English term. “I went along, perhaps, so I would know what the plan
was.
You see, I had to know. There was a good chance that the Ortegas and I would perhaps be released at the same time…or nearly so. If I could not dissuade them, then I would do what I could to
prevent
them from carrying out the plan. To do that, I had to know.”

“What was Quesada's role in all this?”

“He…” and Mazón stopped short.

“He what?”

The Mexican stared down at the table, brow furrowed. “The man has certain skills, certain connections both in Mexico and his homeland. In fact, I came to know him far better than the brothers did. I knew that in all likelihood I would want to cross the border, perhaps permanently. Quesada had ways…”

“He was in prison with you all?”

“Yes. Before the Ortega brothers themselves were incarcerated, they worked for Quesada from time to time. Opportunists, you would call them.”

“Do you know why Quesada was shot?”

“I can guess.”

“And?”

Mazón hesitated, sliding the handcuff back and forth on the bar. “This is information that might have value to you.”

“Yep.”

The room fell silent.

“I do not wish to be turned over to authorities from my country.”

“I suppose not.”

“If you would help me avoid that…”

“Nope.”

Mazón shifted in his chair and looked across at Estelle. “If I go back to México, I will never again see the outside of prison…and that is if I lived long enough to be arrested.” He waited for a response and then added, “If I had not confronted the Ortega brothers…had I not responded the way I did, they would have kidnapped your son. I knew that they were planning to do that, but I had hope that something would interfere with their plans at the last moment. It did not.”

“And so you shot them.”

He sighed. “Had you been in that alley with me, you would have understood. These two brothers, they saw your son as the perfect opportunity. They tried the…” he hesitated, searching for the words…“the telephone business. That has become popular, and in some few cases, successful when the target is elderly and confused. I told them it would not accomplish what they thought, because
you, mi sobrina,
would be aware. As it turns out, I was right. Their plan was the foolish notion of amateurs.”

“So you shot them, and left the country.”

“I had to stop them that night. Here they were poised to slip into the theater and grab the boys. At that point, there had been no hints of trouble, and the theater's security, I confess, was not what it should have been. And the two brothers were armed. The risk was…” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I had to do something.”

Torrez grunted with impatience. “Afterward, you drove? Flew? What?”

“I flew to Juarez. I was fortunate. The police at the airport had not yet been alerted—and of course, even if they had been, they would not know who to look for. A simple what do you call it…a
commuter
flight. From Juarez, I drove across the border in a car borrowed from an old friend.”

“Where's the car now?”

Mazón held up both hands in surrender. “It is parked in the hospital parking lot in Las Cruces. A rather nice little Miata.
Azul,
like the robin's egg. It has been my experience that the gentlemen who work at the border crossing have little interest in them.”

“You've done this before.”

He smiled and didn't answer.

“How did you learn that I was at the hospital at Las Cruces?”

“Young master Carlos so informed me.” He held up a hand when he saw the anger flash across Estelle's face. “He is too young to be blamed,
mi sobrina,”
he added quickly.

“You were in Juarez when you called my home and talked with my son?”

Mazón hesitated just an instant, then nodded.

“So you drove from Juarez to Las Cruces?” Torrez's voice was nearly inaudible.

“Yes.”

“To meet with who?”

The Mexican took a long, deep breath. “I had hoped to speak face-to-face with my niece.”

“What for?”

Mazón looked puzzled at the sheriff's question, and he raised both hands as far as the cuffs would allow.

“After a lifetime, you want to know why I wished to speak with my only living relative?” He reached out and touched the corner of the photograph of his cell. “After all this time, this is the only proof I have, you see. I am hoping that Señor Guerrero might have memories of that night, the night of the tragedy that orphaned…” He shook his head. “So you want to know
why?”

“Yep.”

Mazón's laugh was sharp and cut off abruptly. “You are an amusing man, Sheriff. I assume you have no family of your own?”

“We ain't talkin' about me,” Torrez snapped. “Tell me how you know this Quesada guy.”

“At first, only in passing. He was more an acquaintance of the brothers' than of mine, and I will say that he wasn't a conversational man…not the sort with whom I might spent long moments in pleasant exchange. But later, we talked. I gathered that from time to time, he worked with
Señor
Olveda, a fellow Costa Rican—a man with grand plans for your country, I am told.”

“Why was he in prison?”

“Quesada?” Mazón frowned. “As strange as it may seem, I do not know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He was with the brothers briefly in Mazatlán. We met at a restaurant there, celebrating the good life
outside
of prison. That is when I tried to talk the brothers out of their plan to kidnap the two boys. Even Quesada told them that it was both foolhardy and dangerous to consider such a thing. I know they had asked him for help.” Mazón shrugged. “He refused.”

“They went ahead anyway?”

“Yes. I finally agreed to help them. But only as a way to find a way to stop them.”

“You came to this country because?” Estelle asked.

“I have said, and it is obvious. In Mexico, I am a wanted man. But more than that. I came to meet you, perhaps to see the family. And if I can find a way to avoid returning to Mexico, I will do so. With my record…it is easier for the authorities to look at the two killings as murder rather than self-defense.”

Estelle relaxed back, her eyes never leaving Mazón's face. “Especially when the Ortegas both died after being shot from behind. One of them had a gun, but never had a chance to use it. You must think the colonel is a gullible man.”

“That is where I need your help,
mi sobrina.”

“
I have only your word that you are my uncle. Whether you are or not,” and she paused. “There will be ample chance to discuss your case with Colonel Naranjo.”

Torrez rose and thumped the table with his knuckles. “NAA test is going to tell us a few things,” he said to Estelle. “And we got us a lot of prints to process. You're going to call the Las Cruces PD about his car in the parking lot?”

“You bet. There might be some interesting prints we can lift off of that, too.” She thought of Mazón's filleting knife that was now safely tucked in an evidence bag. “We'll see what other surprises we can find.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Colonel Tomás Naranjo relaxed in one of the plastic-padded group chairs in the hospital waiting room, hands hanging off of each of the chair's arms, legs crossed at the ankles. The room was early evening quiet, not yet geared up for the nighttime rush, a rush that reached its peak about the time the bars and saloons closed. Naranjo had traded his uniform for an immaculate linen suit with a muted blue patterned tie against a soft yellow shirt. The moment he saw Estelle, he rose and spread both arms out wide, then brought them together and grasped the undersheriff's right hand in both of his.

“How wonderful to see you,” he said, his cadenced voice favoring each syllable. “And you as well, Sheriff.” He pumped Bob Torrez's hand in turn, then relaxed back with his hands on his hips, spreading his suit coat as he beamed at the two officers. He lifted his right hand then, index pointing heavenward. “First, let me tell you—your son's concert series at Teatro Angela Peralta is
magnificent.
Such a triumph.” He glanced at his watch. “The one remaining concert, and then he flies home on Sunday, I'm told.”

“None too soon,” Estelle said.

“I'm sure it has been a worry for you, but no need. No need.” He raised the index finger again. “You know, should we be so fortunate as to finish our work efficiently, there would be yet time for you to attend the final concert tomorrow. I would be pleased to offer you that.”

“Don't tempt me.” Estelle glanced down the hall that led toward intensive care.

“Ah, but I will,” Naranjo said.

“I'm sure that the powers that be in the
Judiciales
might question me cavorting about Mexico in their aircraft, simply to attend private concerts.”

“But you see,” Naranjo persisted, “number one, you are vital to the
security
of this concert. You can't imagine how proud we are to have such an event in what is essentially a
regional
theater, however grand its stature. But perhaps more important, it is
my
aircraft, not my government's.”

Estelle regarded the Mexican policeman with amusement. Over the years, his invitations had been frequent and persistent for Estelle to accompany the colonel here or there, to restaurants or concerts or even his own home. Estelle had never accepted them, much as she was amused by his suave manner, much as she even
enjoyed
the colonel's presence.

“I would treasure attending the concert myself,” Naranjo added. “But first—you have had the chance to talk with this man of mutual interest to us?”

“At some length.” She was surprised that Naranjo had come to the point so quickly.

Naranjo nodded and bent down to retrieve a slender attaché case that was resting against the leg of his chair. Opening it, he retrieved a single document and handed it to Estelle. “Forgive me for not faxing this to you, but your office said you had come here, and I thought it simpler to hand-deliver it.”

Estelle turned slightly so that Bob Torrez could see the paper. Naranjo allowed a couple of seconds to pass, then asked, “I am so curious. Were you aware that Mazón was your family name?”

“No. I lived with the Sisters of Charity orphanage for the first year of my life. I've been told that. Then Teresa Reyes adopted me, but the sisters never divulged my past.” Estelle smiled. “That Teresa
wouldn't
know, in such a tiny town, is a little hard for me to believe. But the fault is as much mine as hers. I never pressured her to tell me. My home, my heart, was with her.”

“For whatever reason,
Señor
Mazón saw fit to adopt the Tamburro name more then thirty years ago.” He wagged his head. “Off and on, you see.” He touched one of the information boxes. “No
AKA
until this past incarceration. He will go back to prison for the rest of his life, no doubt. And he will do so as Benedicte Mazón.” The colonel smiled gently. “I'm sorry if that somehow causes you any discomfort.”

“Not a bit,” Estelle said. “He's done what he's done. My concern is what he
intended
to do. He killed the two amateurs who were trying to get to my son. Then what?”

“You mean by coming to this country?”

“Exactly. The risks are huge for him. And he wants me to believe that he took those risks just to see family?” She scoffed. “He claims that he saw the very moment when I was born. The first and last time that he laid eyes on me. And during brief moments when he was out of prison, he never chose to visit, to make himself known to me? How convenient that now he's captivated by the thought of his great nephew—if that's what he really is—when the boy has achieved some international acclaim as a concert pianist? Believing that his familial pride runs that deep is a stretch, Tomás. If he's playing with some kinky fascination, some sick preoccupation, then I don't want him within a thousand miles of my family.”

“We shall see.” Naranjo saw that Sheriff Torrez might be growing impatient, and the Mexican shook his head as if to clear it. “You've come to the hospital tonight to visit with our mutual friend,” he said.

Estelle pointed down the hallway. “He's been moved out of ICU. Next floor up, three eighty-two.”

“Well, then, maybe we should…” Torrez started to mutter, and Estelle slipped her arm through his just long enough to turn him away from the exit. “Yeah, okay,” he added.

They shared the elevator with a young man pushing a cart loaded with fresh blankets on the top and various toiletries on the bottom. Jet, if his name tag was to be believed, looked first at Estelle and offered a self-conscious smile, then glanced sideways at Bob Torrez. Although not in uniform, the sheriff's gun, cuffs, and other paraphernalia were clearly evident. As the elevator lurched to a halt, Naranjo held the door for the cart boy, and Jet scooted off without a word.

“His name is Anselmo Trujillo,” Naranjo said calmly. “Anselmo ‘the Jet' Trujillo. I'm glad to see that he is trying.”

They turned right toward the nurses' station. “How do you know him ?”

“For one thing, his name was on the clipboard schedule on the side of the cart. But in this small world, nothing surprises me anymore. He was seven when I arrested his brother—and his only guardian, I might add—in a sad incident in Juarez. Anselmo was sent to live with a cousin in El Paso. I haven't seen him again until today.”

“And yet you remembered him,” Estelle marveled.

“That is my curse,” Naranjo laughed. “Faces and names come, but they never go.” He laughed gently. “A curse I share with the gentleman in three eighty-two, it seems to me.”

They stopped at the nurses' station where a physician and nurse were conferring at a computer. The physician glanced up at the trio. He offered a tight smile that didn't crack the smooth mahogany of his face. Dark eyes centered on Estelle, and he nodded. “Undersheriff,” and his Indian accent buzzed both ‘r's. The nurse turned around at that, frowning. Estelle folded her hands on the maple counter.

“We need to see Mr. Gastner for a few minutes if he's not asleep yet. I hope now is a good time.”

“The patient is most definitely
not
asleep,” Nurse Schuyler replied, glancing back at the computer. “He wanted to sit up for a while.” She smiled brightly. “Such a determined gentleman.”

“And you are…?” Dr. Patel offered his hand to Bob Torrez.

“Sheriff Torrez, Posadas County.”

“And…” The hand was withdrawn before any lasting damage was inflicted by the vise-like grip, and offered in turn to Naranjo.

“Colonel Tomás Naranjo, a brother from the other side of the border.” He smiled indulgently at the physician.

“Ah,” Dr. Patel said, “well, then. Let's see just what's going on with our friend.” He adjusted the stethoscope around his neck, scooped up an aluminum clipboard, and nodded down the hall. “Just this way.”

The door of three eighty-two was ajar, and they could hear laughter interspersed with grumbles and the coaxing voices of nursing staff. Patel eased the door open, and saw Bill Gastner sitting on the side of the bed, both hands flat on the mattress at his sides. An aluminum walker stood just a tantalizing step away. One nurse stood at his right side, a hand on Gastner's shoulder, watching the second hospital staffer, a physical therapist, with hawk-like eyes.

“Just from the knees, now,” the swarthy youngster was saying. He had one hand on Gastner's left knee, the other on the older man's hip.

“My God,
flagrante delicto
,” Gastner quipped as he looked up at his visitors.

He nodded at the aluminum walker that was parked nearby. “You see the torture that they're planning? They promise that tomorrow I have to actually reach out and touch that damn thing.” He glared at the walker, then his face relaxed. “But my God, it feels good to be upright again.”

“Donald, perhaps you can give us ten minutes or so?” Dr. Patel asked, and the therapist stood and offered a radiant smile at Estelle.

“We're making such
good
progress,” he said. “I'll be back, sir,” he added, and Gastner grimaced.

“That's what I'm afraid of. That guy said he's going to charge me overtime for making him work in the evening.” He adjusted the hem of his gown daintily with thumb and index finger. “And here I am, held up for all the world to see, just in my fashionable nightie.” The nurse hovering at his side straightened an imaginary wrinkle in his gown. “Camille should be here any minute,” Gastner added. “You staying to see her?”

“You might be more comfortable resting back,” Dr. Patel suggested, but Gastner shook his head.

“Nah. I'd just have to sit up again when Torquemada comes back. I'll just perch here.” He patted the mattress. “I'm fine.” With care, though, he lifted his right hand and Naranjo stepped close to clasp it in both of his.

“It is good to see you,” the Mexican said. “Not here, of course…”

“A minor hiccup,” Gastner shrugged. “I have plans.” He winked at Estelle and traded grips, and as the nurse turned away, he let Estelle fuss over the tie of the gown that appeared to be digging into his neck. “And Bobby, what brings your ugly mug to Cruces tonight?”

“Couple things we need to check out,” Torrez mumbled. He turned to Dr. Patel. “Give us a few minutes?”

“Please assure that he does not move an iota from that position,” the physician said. “I will be just down the hall at the nurses' station.” He closed the door as he bowed out of the room.

“So, who brought the coffee and donuts?” Gastner said. “I don't know how they do it, but the coffee here is enough to trigger a relapse.” He frowned at Naranjo. “What pulls you away from your home turf?”

The Mexican, ever politic, looked first at Bob Torrez and then at Estelle, giving them a chance to lay the boundaries.

“Sir, a man has showed up who claims to be my long-lost uncle.” She quickly outlined the case, and Gastner sat quietly, his brows furrowed.

“And this Mazón character admits that he killed the two men outside the theater?” He turned to Naranjo. “This isn't just a friendly visit across the border for you, then. You want Mazón back.”

“Exactly so.”

Gastner reached out a hand toward the sheriff. “You think he had something to do with taking a shot at you?”

“Don't know for sure,” Torrez said, and that prompted a smile from the older man.

“‘
Don't know,'”
Gastner mimicked with amusement. “You found the shooter with his brains blown out and now with all this, you're starting to think Mazón is linked in somehow?”

“He could be.” Estelle held up both hands, and joined the fingers. “So much going on, I don't like the coincidence of Mazón surfacing on this side of the border.”

“And all the principals know each other,” Naranjo observed.

“What's your uncle say?”

“That he killed the two thugs in Mazatlán, and that he fled north to re-establish family ties.”

Gastner snorted and pushed himself more upright. “That's goddamn likely,” he said derisively. He settled some, and shrugged philosophically. “He ducked out to avoid the Mexican cops
,
you mean. But who the hell knows. He's either a totally infatuated stalker, or he's willing to do anything necessary to protect
la familia.”
He shrugged again. “Or he's up to something else.” He smiled quickly. “How's that for narrowing it all down?”

“What do you remember about Jerry Steward?” the sheriff asked, and the question was such a non-sequitur that Gastner sat like Buddha, gazing at Torrez as he worked to switch gears.

“
The
Jerry Steward we all know and love?” Gastner said finally. “The one who's working now for Miles out at the mesa project? The one who's running for sheriff this time around?”

“He's workin' gate security,” Torrez said.

“Good place for him. Give him a clipboard and a walkie-talkie to keep him happy.”

“He started out with Bernalillo County?”

Gastner turned his head and squinted into the distance. “Tried to. He never was a certified officer with them. Worked the Sheriff's Posse for a while. He moved down here to work with the mines, but
that
didn't work out for him. He tried to get on with Posadas PD back when they were active, and
that
didn't work out either.” Gastner sighed. “Poor old Jer. Kind of the village idiot in a lot of respects. For a while, it looked as if he'd get on with the Sheriff's Department—for some reason, Eduardo liked him. I didn't.” He grinned at Torrez. “Sheriff Salcido
often
liked people I didn't. You probably remember Steward better'n I do. He worked dispatch for a little while when you were a road deputy.”