“Yes. That is so. Then I climbed back in.”
“And waited.”
“And waited, yes.”
“You knew what he was going to do?”
“Yes.” The single word was nearly inaudible.
“You saw what happened, then?”
“No, I did not,” Hector said quickly. “I was inside the airplane. What happened was…was behind me. I could not see.”
“But you knew,” Estelle said, and Hector nodded.
“Who are these folks?” Mitchell asked. He held up a photograph that had been framed in one of the wallet’s plastic inner pockets. The photo had been folded, a crease running through the picture between the boy in the middle and the man on his right. “This is you in the middle.” He held out the photo to Hector.
“Yes,” the boy said. He took a deep breath.
“The others?”
“That is my father, just so.” He touched the photo, indicating the man standing to his right, isolated by the crease where the photo had been folded. “Rudolfo Villanueva. But he is not my father. He is padrastro. I do not remember the word in English.”
“Stepfather,” Estelle prompted.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And this?” Mitchell tapped the photo. The third figure, a heavy-set man with black curly hair, stood with one arm draped around Hector’s shoulders. The man, perhaps fifty years old, wore only a pair of bright yellow shorts-and a lot of muscle. His left foot rested on a cooler, and his calf muscle looked like a football. Estelle examined the photo. The family resemblance was striking.
Once again, Hector hesitated. “He is…a friend of my father.”
“His name?”
“I…I do not know.”
“Shit, you don’t remember,” Mitchell snapped. “You two are standing there like old buddies.”
“Really. He is just a man we met that day. We were fishing, and when we posed on the boat, my mother, she took the photo.”
Estelle fingered the crease.
“He’s a lyin’ little shit,” Torrez said affably.
“He is just a friend. Mira,” he added. “My father knows nothing of this. Please…”
“You’re lying, Hector,” Estelle said abruptly.
“No,” he said.
She held up the photo again so Hector could see it. “This is the man who flew north with you, isn’t it?”
“I…I…he was just there that day. We were fishing,” he said lamely.
“He’s the one, isn’t he?” When Hector refused to answer, she grimaced with impatience and turned to Eddie Mitchell. “We need to bring the Uriostes in. Both of them. I don’t believe that all this went down without them knowing something. While you’re doing that, I’ll see if I can reach el capitán Naranjo. He may have contacts that will be useful. We’re going to need to talk with this alleged padrastro.” She picked up the photo. “And we have this. This other face.” She leaned close, examining the photo. The man wore a heavy watch, perhaps a Rolex. All three men were relaxed in the photo, not a moment among strangers.
“I…” Hector said, and put his head in his hands.
“I’ll do it,” Sheriff Torrez said. “You want ’em both? Mom and Pop?”
“Yes.”
“No, please,” Hector said from behind his hands. “They know nothing of this. And…”
“And what?”
“Please…”
Estelle nodded at Torrez. “Go ahead. Give me a minute with him.” When the door had closed, she leaned closer to Hector. “So tell me, señor. You waited for this Manolo to finish his business?” When the boy looked up at her, confused, she added, “You waited in the airplane, and after a little while, Manolo returned to the airplane? You got out so he could climb back inside?”
“He entered through the big door. The cargo door in the back.”
Estelle pictured the tight confines of Jerry Turner’s Cessna. “There’s no easy way from there to the front seats,” she said, and looked at the photo again. “And he’s a big man, Hector.”
“No, no. He remained in the back.”
“And the two of you flew where?”
“Here,” Hector said. “We flew to the airport. I parked in front of the hangar, and got out to open the doors. When I returned to the airplane, he was gone.”
“Sure thing,” Mitchell scoffed.
“He was gone,” Hector insisted. “I do not know where.”
“You just locked up and went home?”
“Yes.”
“What time was it by then?”
“Perhaps two or three in the morning.”
“Your host family-the Uriostes-they knew nothing of any of this?”
“Nothing.”
“What time did you leave the house that night?” Estelle asked, as if “that night” was a time in the distant past and not just days before.
“Eight in the evening,” Hector said promptly. “Maybe a little earlier. The Señor Bergin had a meeting. I know that. The…I don’t know what it is called, but the businessmen of the town all meet.”
“The Chamber of Commerce?” Estelle prompted.
“Yes. That is it.”
Tuesday evening’s dinner meeting of the Chamber had been an important one, by all accounts-and well-publicized. “How did you know that?”
“He told me,” Hector said.
“Ah.” Estelle looked across at the others. “Jim Bergin told you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“Yes. Several times. He came to school once, and I have visited the airport.”
Estelle turned to Mitchell. “See if you can reach Jim, will you?”
“You got it,” Mitchell said, but he paused before turning to the door. “What did you tell the Uriostes when you left the house?” he asked Hector.
The boy ducked his head, as if loath to reveal the subterfuge. “I go to study with one of my friends,” he said. “He lives just a short distance.”
“But instead, you went next door and took the old man’s truck,” Estelle said. “You park in the rest stop along the highway, just east of the airport.” She relaxed back in the chair, regarding Hector Ocate. His story included some grains of truth, no doubt. Her flight with Jim Bergin, over rough country at night, had surprised her. What to the uninitiated might seem suicidal or at best foolhardy was hardly that; they had managed the flight with comfort and ease.
“What time did you return home?”
“It was nearly four in the morning,” Hector said.
“Your host family doesn’t mind that you’re gone all night?”
“They are sure that I’m with the Grahams.”
“Your study partner.”
“Yes.”
Captain Mitchell reappeared at the door, cell phone in hand. “Jim’s on his way in.” He beckoned to Estelle, who joined him outside the conference room.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Bizarre, is what I think,” Estelle said.
“He’s a real piece of work,” Mitchell said. “Woulda been nice to run an NAA on his hands. But it’s been too long now.”
“I don’t think he fired the gun, Eddie.”
“I don’t either, but it was a thought. At the same time, I’m not sure I buy all this Manolo shit, either. But it’s a fact-we’ve got somebody who is as cold-blooded as they come. Like some shootin’ gallery. Pop, pop, pop. And in the dark, even with a laser sight, it ain’t easy. It ain’t something that a kid does. And that’s what bothers me. Here’s a kid who’s a hot-dog pilot. All right, I can buy that. Motorcycle, four-wheeler, airplane, it doesn’t make any difference. Kids are immortal and know it.”
“The flying is one thing,” Estelle said.
“That’s where I’m going,” Mitchell agreed. “He knows what went down out there in the desert, and he still flies back, calm as shit, makes a perfect landing, puts the plane away, remembers to fuel it…Shit.” He shook his head. “Don’t jibe. That’s cold.”
“The money troubles me,” Estelle said. “Three money belts, and maybe five thousand in each. That’s petty cash, Eddie. You don’t run those kinds of risks for fifteen thousand dollars. Not in this day and age.”
“Well, now, I don’t know. We have people walking across the desert every day and every night without a peso between ’em.”