“Features? What does he look like?” Mitchell repeated patiently.
Hector frowned. “Nothing to notice. A small scar is at the corner of his right eye.” He flicked a finger to his own face. “Here, like so. Just a little one. Black hair. Brown eyes, I think.”
“What was he wearing?”
The boy grimaced. “I did not…do not…remember. A black jacket, I think. And blue jeans.” He circled his left wrist with his right hand. “A large gold watch.”
“Did the three passengers appear to know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And he paid you?”
“Some. And promised more when we were safely in the United States.”
“Between Culiacán and Posadas, you didn’t see any relationship between this Manolo and the other three? Did they talk?”
“No. Manolo sat in the front seat. The others in the back.”
“What did you think?”
Hector shrugged hopelessly. “I thought that…I don’t know.”
“Why did you choose to land on that little strip by Regál? That could not be where the three wanted to go originally.”
“No. I was to take them to Socorro. It is easy to fly low up the valley of the river, and that is where this Guillermo and the talking woman had a relative. That is what they said. They were most excited.”
“So what happened? Why the change of plans?”
“We had been in the air for only a few minutes, and Manolo ordered me to go to Posadas-not the airport, but this one.”
“He used your map?”
Hector shook his head. “He already knew the way. I agreed. How could I not? I could see that he had a pistol.”
“Ah. Now he has a weapon. He threatened you?”
“No. But in the airplane, the pistol was obvious, so.” Hector leaned back and jabbed his hand in his waistband, on the left side.
“Did he say anything to the other passengers? About landing near Posadas? About the change of plans? About not going to Socorro?”
“No. He did not speak to the others. He sat in the front, with me. I believe they thought he was with me, somehow.”
Torrez leaned back, expression skeptical. “They-Guillermo or any of the others-didn’t talk like he was the one who arranged their flight?” he asked.
“No.”
“But that was your understanding…that he had made the arrangements.”
“I…I think so. But maybe not.” The boy looked at each of the officers in turn, as if trying to judge who was his ally.
“So you landed here, and everyone bailed out,” Torrez said.
“Not right away. I land, and we are…taxi? Is that what you say? We taxi down the pavement, and this man demands that they give him the money. Each. He took them all.”
“Them all what?” Mitchell asked.
“The…the cinturones? Con dinero.”
“Money belts,” Estelle prompted. “They were each wearing a money belt?”
“Yes. Each the three of them. He used the pistol to threaten these people. I think that he kills them if they do not agree. I think at that time, they think about robbery, and that they were going to be abandoned there, in the desert.”
“They gave up the money without a struggle?”
Hector shrugged. “He had the pistol, señora. They did not want to give him the belts. But they had to.”
“What kind of weapon? Do you know?” Mitchell asked.
“Yes. A large pistol with a…” and he made a round shape with one hand, screwing it onto the invisible pistol in the other.
“Silenciador?” Estelle offered. “A silencer. A suppressor?”
“Yes.”
“That would convince a lot of people,” Torrez said.
“Guillermo said they would give the money, if they were not to be hurt. Manolo took all the belts, and ordered the people out of the plane. He gave one of the belts to me.”
“Tom, would you get the effects?” Estelle said, and Sergeant Mears disappeared for a moment, returning with a brown manila envelope. He dumped it out on the conference table: ninety-seven cents in change, a wallet, a small pocketknife, sunglasses, and a heavy leather belt.
Hector reached across the table and touched the belt’s tooled leather. “There is money, I think.”
“You know damn well there is money,” Torrez snapped. “Try four thousand five hundred in hundred-dollar bills. That’s what I counted.” He lifted the inside fold and spread the belt, revealing the tightly folded bills. “Five grand and ninety-seven cents, counting the change and the money that’s in the wallet. Not bad pay for a night out on the town.”
“He said that if I had to take him home, sometime, that he would give me another.”
“If,” Estelle repeated. “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No. Only north.”
“How did this Manolo know that the people had money?” Mitchell asked.
“I think that is why he came here,” Hector said. “I don’t know so much, but I think the men he works for…I think they would know.”
“And how do you know that?” Estelle said softly. “The men he works for. Did he actually tell you that he worked for someone?”
“Well, that is what I think. This kind of money-”
“This is Salvadoran money coming north?” Estelle asked. “Is that what you think?”
“I am not so sure. But I think so. That is what I guess.” He gulped as if his throat were full of cotton. “I did not ask. He had the pistol. And he seemed like a man to use it. That is all I know.”
“I bet,” Torrez said. “What do your parents do?” The change of subject was jarring, and Hector coughed violently until his eyes teared. Mitchell left the room and returned promptly with a can of soda. The boy sipped eagerly, and they waited until he had regained his composure. “Your parents?” Torrez repeated.
“He…” And Hector stopped abruptly. Estelle could see that it wasn’t any lack of facility with English that made him so hesitant. Eventually, he said, “My father flies the charter out of Acapulco. Sometimes it is the tourists, sometimes…others.” Quickly, he added, “He does nothing against the law. Nothing.”
“You learned to fly from your father?” Estelle asked.
“Yes. I learned to fly with the big Grumman. He used to…what is the word…to spray?”
“He was a crop duster?”
“Yes. He doesn’t do that now. I have flown since I was ten. I am licensed now.”
“Whether you have a license or not is the least of your problems, joven,” Estelle said.
“I am licensed.” His eyes strayed to the wallet, and the watchful Mitchell leaned forward, took the wallet, and examined the contents.
“This?” he asked, holding up an official certificate. Hector nodded. Mitchell handed it to Estelle, who read both sides.
“Is this accurate?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It says your date of birth is April of 1989. That makes you eighteen, doesn’t it?”
Estelle turned to one of the chairs, pulled it forward, and sat down beside Hector Ocate. “It’s hard to believe anything you say, señor.” She emphasized the salutation, and its obvious contrast with joven, the generic greeting for a teenager.
“You landed, got out of the plane, and popped those three. Is that what happened?” Torrez asked. “There ain’t no goddamned fifth passenger.”
“That is not what happened,” Hector said, a trace of panic creeping into his voice. Despite the circumstances, it was still hard to look at the young man’s round face, his expressive brown eyes, and think him a killer.
“What did?” As he asked the question, Eddie Mitchell leafed through the remainder of the wallet’s contents, finally tossing the scant documents back on the table.
“I landed the plane as you say,” Hector pleaded. “That is all. Manolo ordered everyone out, and he followed.”
“You had to get out of the airplane as well,” Estelle said. “There’s no passenger side door on the right side of the cockpit. For Manolo to exit the plane, you had to get out first-to get out of his way.”