Steven Havill - Final Payment

“How so?”

Torrez hefted the bag. “Every empty case we’ve found was within a fifteen-foot circle. Like he stood in one spot and just pivoted with the target.” He hefted the bag thoughtfully, then reached out a hand toward Linda, touching her lightly on the shoulder as if to make sure that she was listening. “I need pictures of the brass locations,” he said. “Follow me over.”

“Yep,” Linda said, and dropped her voice an octave, rending a fair impression of the sheriff. “Pictures.”

“Oh,” Torrez said, stopping in his tracks. “No belts.”

“Belts?”

“None of ’em had belts on.”

“Were they tied with them, maybe?”

“No evidence of that. They just weren’t wearin’ ’em. Maybe they were, at one time. You can see the upset in the loops on their pants. But no belts now. The boy not wearin’ a belt don’t surprise me. Maybe even dad. But mama’s got a little belly…. She’s gonna need something. Think on that.” He shrugged. “Where you headed now?”

“Sarge is going to swing by the airport to talk with Jim Bergin. Maybe there’s a profile of the aircraft we can conjure. I’m going to put together a pack of faces.” She gazed across at the bodies. “Someone knows these people, Bobby. They’re somebody. You can’t just pluck them out of the world and not have somebody notice.”

“They ain’t wetbacks,” the sheriff said. “That’s for sure.”

“Someone knows them. And that’s an advantage for us. The faster I can get a set of faces online, the better.”

“See what Naranjo thinks. My money is on Mexico.”

“Exactly.” Capitán Tomás Naranjo of the Mexican Judiciales could probe far more dark corners south of the border than the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Location, Estelle thought. Did the pilot see the landing strip far below, deserted and inviting? Not at night, he didn’t. Did he know beforehand that it was there? If he could read an aeronautical chart, yes.

“I need the faces ASAP, Linda,” Estelle called, and the young photographer lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Someone, somewhere, would know who these three people were, and how their lives had tangled to bring them to this empty, lonesome place.

Cabo primero Emilio Rojas of the district Judiciales, speaking in the clipped, certain tones of command, informed the undersheriff from across the border that Capitán Tomás Naranjo was not available. The capitán was busy, doing what only the capitán knew, the corporal said.

The border between the United States and Mexico was far more than barbed wire and empty desert, Estelle knew. A great bureaucratic gulf existed, a fundamental difference in approach-to life, to language, and certainly to law enforcement.

She lowered her voice another notch and slipped into the Spanish of her childhood in Tres Santos, speaking differentially, and still making it clear that she was imparting a confidence intended for Rojas’ ears only. “Agente,” she said, “I’m sending a series of photographs via e-mail. It is important that el capitán sees them as soon as possible.” She almost added, “within the hour,” but knew that Agente Rojas wouldn’t accept any form of ultimatum from a female. An hour was impossible anyway, if Naranjo was out in the hinterlands riding one of his favorite horses-his preferred prescription for blowing out the cobwebs of the bureaucracy in which he worked.

“Ah,” Rojas said in English. “Photographs of what, Sheriff Guzman?”

Before Estelle could elaborate, the phone clicked sharply, and the corporal’s stonewall was removed, replaced by a voice so soft and genteel that Estelle had to press the phone tightly to her ear, covering the other with her hand, in order to hear.

“Estelle, how are you?” Captain Tomás Naranjo asked, speaking in faultless English. “I apologize for interrupting, but mention of your name always demands my complete attention.”

“Good morning, mi capitán, ” Estelle said with polite deference. “I hope my call finds you well. And Bianca as well.”

“To be sure. What a pleasure to hear from you. It has been too long, you know.”

“Yes, it has. I’m calling to ask for your agency’s assistance.”

“Name it, señora. ” His seductive avoidance of title wasn’t lost on Estelle. She had learned over the years to treat Tomás Naranjo with professional distance, being careful not to open unintended doors.

“I’m sending you an attachment…a series of photographs. We have had an incident that is most puzzling, and I need your help.”

“I see.” He sounded almost disappointed.

She turned to watch her computer screen. “The first three are morgue photos. The victims came into the country by air-we think. In all likelihood, the plane landed at a private airstrip west of Posadas, and the victims were shot there, apparently by someone else also riding on the airplane. No signs of confrontation or struggle.”

“You’re referring to the gas company’s modest runway west of your town?” Naranjo said, once again demonstrating his complete command of the geography on both sides of the border.

“Exactly,” Estelle replied. “Off the west end, half a mile from the county road. There was no identification of any kind found on any of the bodies. The clothing is of quality, but there isn’t any labeling that tells us much.”

“Everything is made everywhere these days,” Naranjo said. “What tells you that they came from Mexico?”

“A hunch. But we’re putting the photos through NCIC to hit everyone.”

“Ah. Well.” And he chuckled softly. “Hunches are important. You have learned to pay attention to those in the past, no?”

“It’s just that nothing else makes any more sense. The three victims appear to be Hispanic, perhaps even Indian or mestizo. They are not laborers. And the killing was execution style. One neat shot in the head for each.”

“Tell me more,” Naranjo said.

“Well, I wish I could. It’s this simple-we have three victims, dead of gunshot. We think they came here by airplane-from where is just a guess.”

“And that’s the sum total?”

“Nearly so. The murder weapon was a 9mm. We’re fairly sure that the killer stood in one spot, like shooting in a gallery. Even in daylight, that’s a stunt. If this happened at night, it’s even more so.”

“But you don’t know when it happened.”

“No, we don’t. And there’s this little tidbit. Sheriff Torrez thinks that they might have been wearing belts, but that those belts were removed. Why or when we don’t know.”

“So interesting. Could it have been robbery, perhaps? Were they wearing money belts, and somehow, someone got wind of that?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“And of course, we have no witnesses,” Naranjo said. “Otherwise we might not be talking at this moment. What did the people at the saloon have to say? Airplanes, shooting…someone must have heard something.”

“One of the deputies will follow through with that. In the meantime, I wanted you to see the faces.”

There was a pause, and Estelle could hear the clatter of a keyboard in the background. “Ah, I have mail,” Naranjo murmured. Estelle waited while the officer opened the photo attachment. “I see,” Naranjo said. “An interesting gallery. It would certainly appear to be a family, more or less.”

“That may be the case.”

“I will see what I can do, but of course, I would prefer to have more to go on.”

“Unfortunately…”

“I understand your position,” Naranjo said. “But what of the airplane? You said there was evidence that an airplane was involved.”