Heaven Is High (33 page)

Bailey glanced around, then said, “You know if the feds catch you in what they decide could be a lie, they like to nail you.”

“Tell me about it,” she said drily. She moved the rest of her toast out of his reach and spread jelly on a piece. “It looks like Marcos was the big cheese in these parts, that is, unless his body turns up with a bullet in his brain. Anyway, if he's running back to his base, it might really be over as far as this area is concerned. That's what I want to know. Is he flying south, driving south, holing up locally, or what? Keep it in mind.”

He nodded gloomily. “Right. I'll ask my paperboy first time I see him. For what it's worth, no more stakeouts. My bet is that those that got away are piled up in a van or SUV or something like that and driving as fast as the rig will go toward the border. And,” he added, “unless they have a private crossing point, they'll be nabbed when they get to the border. Just my guess.”

“I'd bet that there's a ranch in southern Texas, Arizona, or California that stretches right to the border where they'd be more than welcome and can cross at their leisure.”

Bailey's expression became gloomier and he nodded again. “I wouldn't bet against that.”

29

Barbara walked into the FBI office in the federal building that afternoon promptly at two o'clock. A plump, pleasant-faced woman seated at a computer smiled at her. “May I help you?”

“Barbara Holloway. I have an appointment.”

“Oh, of course, Ms. Holloway. One moment, please.” She picked up her phone, pushed a button, and announced her. “Very good, sir. Just go on in,” she said to Barbara, hanging up. “They're expecting you.” She pointed to a closed door and went back to her keyboard.

Barbara opened the door and entered the other office, where three men had already gathered. She recognized Lieutenant Hogarth of homicide. With his fading red hair receding fast, a very pink scalp, sharp blue eyes, and florid complexion, he was a memorable detective.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” she said.

He nodded without speaking. A tall, handsome man came forward with a smile. “Eric Heilbrunner, FBI,” he said, extending his hand. He was as elegantly dressed as any 007, and as good-looking. Mid-years probably, but it was hard to tell because he was so sleek and well built. His handshake was firm without that little bit of excessive pressure many men felt it necessary to exert.

“And Roger Dorman,” Heilbrunner said, indicating the third man, who did not offer to shake her hand. “Roger will take notes, if you have no objection.”

“Not at all,” she said, taking off her jacket.

Heilbrunner took it from her and went to the door, where he said, “Will you please hang this up for Ms. Holloway?” He handed the jacket to the receptionist and closed the door again.

The office was sparsely furnished with several straight chairs, a large desk with one file folder and a telephone on it, and a smaller desk with a computer. Dorman had already taken the chair at the computer desk. Heilbrunner motioned toward the straight chairs. Barbara suspected that this was not Heilbrunner's real office, but rather one he had borrowed for the occasion or possibly for the duration of his stay in Eugene. She did not think he was one of the local FBI agents. She would have seen him at one time or another, and women remembered such handsome, elegant men every bit as much as men remembered beautiful women.

“Please, Ms. Holloway, be seated,” he said. “Both the lieutenant and I have a few questions, but I don't want to take up a great deal of your time.”

The more charm he exuded, the warier she was becoming, she realized as she sat down. She placed her briefcase on the floor, returned Heilbrunner's smile with one of her own, and waited to see who would play good cop, who bad cop. He went to the big desk and perched on the corner of it with one leg swinging slightly.

“Ms. Holloway,” Hogarth said, standing in front of her, “how well did you know Dennis Linfield?”

“If you mean as Dennis Linfield, I met him one time along with Mr. Sokolosky and was in his presence less than five minutes in his office. I wouldn't say I knew him at all from that brief encounter.”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Under any name.”

She stood, and he frowned at her. “I find it awkward to have to crane my neck to see the person I'm talking to,” she said. “If you mean under the pseudonym he used, Jeffrey Nicholson, only slightly better. About five to eight minutes in my house, less than one minute at my front door, and a glimpse of him in Belize and, again, I wouldn't say that means that I knew him in the usual sense of the word.”

“Sit down,” Hogarth snapped. “Why was he in your house for any length of time?”

“I'll sit down if you will,” she said. “You go first.”

He yanked one of the other chairs around and straddled it. She promptly sat down again. “Lieutenant, this will all go a lot faster if I just tell you from the beginning how I met him and why.”

His face had become noticeably pinker, his eyes narrower as she spoke. “From the beginning,” he said. “All of it.”

“Of course,” she said agreeably. She started with the arrival of Martin and Binnie that rainy day. “They had a problem with our immigration service that I agreed to help with. I thought the matter little more than a misunderstanding,” she said, “until Jeffrey Nicholson came to my door, representing himself as an officer of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He was in my house for no more than eight minutes, probably more like five minutes, just long enough to give me a message to pass on to Martin Owens. He wanted him to become an informer for the DEA. I agreed to do so and he left.”

Before he had a chance to demand more, she said, “The next time I saw him was a day or two later, on the next Monday. I had advised Mr. and Mrs. Owens to go to a safe place out of sight, and they had done that. Nicholson came to my door to ask where they were, and I did not admit him that time. I told him they would get in touch when they had decided about his proposal. He left.” She held up her hand when Hogarth drew back and seemed poised to bark another question. “The third time was when I went to the Santos finca in Belize. Finca means farm, as you know. I caught just a glimpse of him that day. We did not exchange a greeting. And I already told you about my encounter with him when he was using the other name, Dennis Linfield. So I insist, none of those meetings constitutes what any reasonable person would interpret as my knowing him.” She smiled at him and spread her hands. “That's it, Lieutenant. All of it.”

“How well did you know Rondell Emerson?” he asked in the same barking manner he had used before.

“Never met him, never saw him that I'm aware of.”

“What does that mean, that you're aware of?”

“Well, you know Eugene is not a huge metropolis and we do pass people in the street, or in a restaurant, a mall. I can't swear our paths never crossed in such a way, but if they did, I'm not aware of it. I wouldn't know him if he walked in here. But, of course, he couldn't do that, could he, since it appears that he's been executed?”

Hogarth's face darkened even more and he all but snarled, “What do you know about his murder?”

“What Bailey told me he heard on the news,” she said. “For heaven's sake, Lieutenant, Nicholson said there's a big drug operation here in Eugene, there are hundreds, up to a thousand acres of marijuana being grown on that plantation in Belize. Nicholson represented himself as a DEA agent looking for a stool pigeon, and in his role as an immigration official he was trying his damnedest to get a legal heir to that plantation deported to Haiti. He failed to accomplish that, and he and another man ended up with bullets in the backs of their heads. Sounds like a gangland killing, an execution to me. How and why that other man got involved is something I don't know a thing about. That's your job to connect the dots, not mine.”

“How well do you know Herman Marcos?” Hogarth demanded in an abrupt change of subject.

“Never heard of him,” she said.

Hogarth looked disgusted. “Have you been to his import shop?”

“Marcos Imports? Yes, once or twice. If he was there, I wasn't aware of it. I wouldn't know him if I saw him.”

“Ms. Holloway,” Heilbrunner said before Hogarth could continue, “please tell us why you became suspicious of the man you met as Nicholson. And why you went to Belize, and what you know about the finca and Julius Santos.”

“Nicholson came within hours of the Owens' visit, and it was too soon, unless he had been spying on them. My investigator found the listening device in the restaurant, confirming my suspicions. I went to Belize because I didn't know the name of the man Anaia Santos had married, and I could not reach Augustus Santos by telephone. I had to get the proper documentation for my client and time was too short for anything other than having someone go there to find the family and get the birth certificate that was required. There, I learned that Augustus Santos had been murdered, his brother, Julius Santos, had been occupying the property, that Anaia Santos Thurston was in hiding in fear for her life, and that the plantation and the shipping company were involved in growing and shipping marijuana. And I learned that the man I had met as a DEA agent, Nicholson, was somehow involved with Julius Santos.”

A flickering smile crossed Heilbrunner's face and he nodded. He left the corner of the desk to go behind it and sit in the chair. He made it seem more a matter of comfort than asserting his authority. His easy manner did not change when he said, “Thank you for such a succinct summary. It gives us a few talking points, doesn't it? I understand that the misunderstanding with the immigration service has been straightened out, and there's no reason to go into it again. Instead, I'd like to focus on Nicholson or Linfield as the case may be. Why exactly were you suspicious of him?”

Hogarth had continued to straddle the chair he had pulled closer to Barbara. Abruptly he jerked out of it and swung the chair around to where it had been, some five or six feet away. He sat down again, with his legs stretched out.

Barbara was thinking furiously. Apparently Heilbrunner was telling her that he had already talked to Sokolosky. And he was taking command of this interview, probably explaining Hogarth's evident frustration, since he wanted to talk about two murders, his department, and the FBI agent was more interested in the drug connection and organized crime.

She explained her reasoning for distrusting Nicholson, and Heilbrunner went on to the next point. It was all easygoing, no bluster or disgusted expressions, just a gentleman asking a lady a few questions very politely.

How had she managed to get out to the finca on such short notice? She told him about the broncos and their photographer. Why hadn't she brought up the subject of Mrs. Owens if that had been her reason for going out there? She had not liked or trusted Santos once she met him. On and on over each and every point she had made.

“I never saw any marijuana,” she said, answering one of his questions. “That was hearsay. I heard about it and Mrs. Thurston confirmed it.”

“Will you speculate just a little,” he said with a smile. “How do you suppose a man like Julius Santos from Central America found Dennis Linfield in a city like Eugene?”

She shrugged. “No idea. Anaia Thurston said Julius returned to Belize about three years ago after years of absence. What he was doing in those years is anyone's guess. He might have spotted Linfield walking around with a dollar sign on his back for all I know.”

“You're sure he was there in Belize?”

“Absolutely.”

“More speculation. Do you assume that he was working for Julius Santos?”

“I believe he was doing a job that Santos wanted done, at least attempting to do it.”

Finally Heilbrunner had no more questions and before Hogarth could begin again, Barbara said, “I would like to be able to reassure my client that she is no longer at risk, that she and her husband can return to a normal life. I can't do that unless I know if those men who acted as stakeouts, and later were in the building here or in parked cars nearby, if they have left the scene or have been apprehended.” It was not a question, but it was directed at Eric Heilbrunner.

“I quite understand your concern,” he said. “In any homicide investigation there are always a number of leaks, no matter how much the investigators try to prevent them. There are neighbors who see things and talk about them, and within every department at every level there are always a few people who can't resist mentioning things to friends, relatives, sometimes even to reporters. I trust your discretion, Ms. Holloway. Two of those men were indeed apprehended. And there are multiple signs that a number of people have been coming and going in the Marcos house in the past few weeks, and signs of a hasty departure. Except for two dead men, the house was empty when a housekeeper arrived there early this morning.”

Hogarth made a choking sound and jumped to his feet. “If we're through here,” he said in grating voice, “I'm going back to my office. I've got work to do. Ms. Holloway, I'll get back to you in a day or two.” He nodded to Heilbrunner and stalked out.

Heilbrunner rose and came around the desk. “Thank you, Ms. Holloway. This has been helpful. I appreciate your cooperation.”

They shook hands. She retrieved her jacket in the outer office and walked through the lobby out into the fresh air. She had a very strong feeling that Heilbrunner knew that this whole affair was bigger than just the Eugene connection. How much more she couldn't guess, perhaps the whole story, perhaps not, but something. She also suspected that Hogarth had sensed the same thing, that both she and Heilbrunner knew things he was not to be told. As she walked to her car she thought that it was possible that she herself had been tested, and that she had passed. She was discreet enough to be told some of the truth.