Steven Havill - Final Payment

“We have tire tracks. The wheelbase indicates that they’re made by a single-engine, most likely.”

“But I am confused. How is the airplane tied to the incident? Did you tell me already?”

“An assumption,” Estelle said. “There are no vehicle tracks other than the airplane’s. There’s no trail across the prairie from the state highway to the south.”

“That’s in the neighborhood of a mile, as I remember.”

“Exactly so. The sheriff could find no evidence of a trail.”

“If he could not, then no one can,” Naranjo said. “So…by plane. A plane comes and goes. Someone must have seen it.”

“Maybe.”

Naranjo drew in a great sigh, and Estelle could hear the rustle of papers. “I assume that time is of the essence? What was the time of death? Have we established that?”

“Not yet. It appears to be days. Perhaps two or three.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, sir.”

“And how were the bodies found? That is a remote area…and it’s gated off, as I recall.”

“The sheriff found them. We’re having a bike race here this weekend, and he was down in that area making sure the route to Bender’s Canyon Trail was marked. He saw a couple of coyotes playing, and started watching them through binoculars. What they were playing with drew his attention.”

“Ah. If you are right-that the victims flew in across the border-I wonder why all the complications to accomplish that. And the risk of unwanted attention. Three bodies dumped in a deserted canyon somewhere in our Mexican wilderness would certainly go unnoticed long enough for those coyotes to clean up the remains, disappearing never to be seen again. But in your backyard? It would seem from all this that the killer is more likely to be in your neighborhood than mine. And the victims as well.”

“That may be. I’m trying to cover every avenue, sir. You know so many people from such a wide area, it made sense to call you immediately.”

“I appreciate that,” Naranjo said, and he leaned on each syllable as if he truly enjoyed the sound of the word. “I will make enquiries, Estelle. You have no names, I am to understand.”

“They carried no ID.”

“And no other detail beyond what you have told me.”

“None. Not yet, anyway.”

“And the erstwhile Border Patrol…they have nothing? Nothing on radar, no visuals?”

“Not yet.”

“How does the saying go…don’t hold your breath? You know,” Naranjo said with resignation, “I believe that our border is considerably more…how could we say… porous than we like to believe. Human ingenuity and resourcefulness being what they are.”

“Perhaps we can talk later today, then,” Estelle said, seeking a polite way to cut the conversation short.

“I look forward to that. How’s your wonderful mother?”

“She’s fine.”

“And that talented and fortunate husband of yours?”

“Also fine. Too busy, but fine.”

“Yes,” Naranjo said quietly. “We are all too busy. You must come down for lunch sometime,” and then he promptly added, “the both of you.”

“We would enjoy that.” She glanced at her watch impatiently, but the captain needed no reminders that time could be of the essence.

“I have both your cell phone and office numbers. I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Estelle rang off, pleased that she had been able to reach Naranjo on the first try, and disappointed that he hadn’t said, Of course I know these people. But Mexico was twice the size of New Mexico and Texas combined, and there was no more reason for Naranjo to hit on a random face from a city across the country than for Estelle to know someone mentioned at random from Dallas or Houston.

Homicides were often untidy affairs, exploding in the heat of the moment, with witnesses and weapons and motives. More often than not, the victim was a family member or friend. More often than not, alcohol was the catalyst. But not this time. The bodies found at the airstrip reminded Estelle of a precise, calculated mob hit. A large piece of the nagging puzzle remained Posadas County itself- location, location, location .

“You sure walked into the middle of something,” Dr. Alan Perrone observed. The assistant state medical examiner regarded Estelle from across the stainless steel table. The corpse between them had had the worst of the cactus thorns removed from his face, but he looked anything but peaceful. Startled, Estelle thought. Completely and utterly surprised.

Perrone watched as Estelle examined the skull X-ray. “A 9mm is no hotrod,” he said. “But under most circumstances I’d expect more damage than we have here.” He reached across, then traced a line with his latex-gloved finger. “It entered low in the back of the skull, didn’t veer from the straight and narrow, and stopped just after punching into the back of the orbit. Not a lot of explosive fragmentation. More like a motorized ice pick.”

“He could have managed a few steps after being hit?”

Perrone looked skeptical, his thin, aristocratic nose wrinkling. “Ah, I don’t think so. Separate the medulla from the system and everything stops, right then. There’s enough stippling from hot gas and unburned powder on his neck that I’d guess the gun was just a foot or two behind his head.”

“So if the three of them were walking in a line in front of the killer, this one would be right in front of the gun,” Estelle said.

“That would make sense.”

“The young man was second in line,” she said. She looked across at the sheeted figure on the table behind Perrone.

“He turned, then,” Perrone said. “Right behind the ear, but the trajectory is more crosswise. That bullet didn’t exit, either. Full metal jacket, low velocity. Maybe subsonic. I don’t know.”

Estelle waved the X-ray that Perrone offered aside. She turned around, looking at the bulky form of the woman.

“Same thing,” Perrone said. He moved around the end of the table and flipped the sheet back. The woman had been strikingly handsome, with raven black hair in a tight bun in the old-fashioned style, proud nose, and strong chin. Her mouth was slack, revealing strong, even teeth. For a long time, Estelle stood quietly, letting the image burn itself into her memory. “She turned to face the killer.”

Perrone pivoted and pointed at the older man. “Right behind. Bang . The son-that’s what I guess-he hears the noise, maybe a little gasp, and starts to turn. That positions his skull a little bit sideways, and bang . Down he goes. The woman has stopped by this time, and she turns. Bang .”

Estelle bent a little to examine the bullet hole through the bridge of the woman’s nose. No stippling there, just a nasty, bludgeoning impact as the jacketed slug burst through the thin nasal bones and into her brain.

“The sheriff tells me that no one has a clue where these folks are from,” Perrone said. “Just brought here and executed.”

“Exactly right.”

“I’m not going to be much help,” the physician said. “The full autopsy might reveal something, but I doubt it. If I had to guess , I’d go with south of the border.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Little things. And I could be wrong, too. Whoever their dentist was leaned heavily on gold-and that’s not an absolute, you know. But the tendency in this country is toward porcelain now, especially for the teeth that are readily visible in the smile. They’ve all had good dental care, but even the boy has his share of heavy metal on board.” Perrone stepped forward and pulled the sheet far enough down to expose the woman’s large torso.