“No.”
“Then talk to me. When did you first hear from Tapia?”
“In late January.”
“How do you remember so clearly?”
“Because school had started again. I had just returned from home.”
“You went to Mexico for Christmas, then?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see your uncle when you were home?”
Hector hesitated long enough that Estelle knew his answer before he managed to voice it. “Yes.”
“Did he ask you to do this thing then?”
“No. He asked only for my e-mail address. I gave it to him.”
Estelle slid a pad across to him, along with the pencil. “Write it for me.” He did so, and slid it back. She turned to Sergeant Tom Mears and handed him the pad. “I want the hard drive from the Uriostes’ computer, and then I want the administrator for the school’s system to open up that drive as well. If you have to go through Judge Hobart, get that process started. I want those messages.”
Not knowing whether what she asked was actually possible or not, Estelle was gratified that Mears simply nodded and left the room, as if such requests occurred every day.
“Then what?” she asked. “When did your uncle next contact you?”
“It was in March, I think,” Hector said. “Just before spring vacation. Yes. He wrote to ask if I was coming home for that vacation, too. I replied that I was not. He asked for my telephone number.”
“The Uriostes’ number, you mean?”
“No. My cellular phone.”
Of course you have one of those, Estelle thought. “When did he call you?”
“That night. He told me to call him when I could be assured that I was alone. That is all he said.”
“And you did.”
“Certainly. Later that night. I went outside for a walk, and that is when I called him.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if it would be possible for me to secure an airplane. Without anyone knowing. He said that at small airports, there are always airplanes that sit unused for months at a time.”
“And you knew of such an airplane, of course.”
“Yes. But I told him that I could not do it.”
“Apparently you could, after all.”
“He said that my…my father had refused such a flight. And that it would be bad for him…and for me…” Hector nodded back tears. “If I could not do it.”
“Why did your uncle want to come to Posadas?”
“I don’t know if that’s where he wanted to go,” Hector said. “Maybe just because that’s where I am living.” He wiped his eyes. “He was most persuasive. He told of passengers at Culiacán who would pay a great deal for a short plane trip across the border. He told me how easy it would be. That I could fly right up the highway, and that if I remained…” And he held out his hand palm down toward the table.
“Low?”
“Yes. Low. The radar would not see us. It would be easy. And you see, I am a good pilot, agente, I know that.”
“I bet you are,” Estelle said. “I bet you are.”
Chapter Twenty-one
As if the mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had opened a floodgate, Hector Ocate’s recitation of events poured out in a babble of fatigue, and Estelle probed for something that would point her in the right direction.
“When you landed at the Posadas airport,” she said, “in the early morning hours on Wednesday, your uncle was still with you?”
“Yes, he was,” Hector said vehemently.
“But when you became engaged in putting the plane back in the hangar, he simply disappeared?”
“Yes. I turned my back, and he was gone.”
“You never saw him again? Not since then?”
“No.”
“And he hasn’t contacted you?”
“No. Never.”
Estelle fell silent, regarding the boy. He shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. In a rural county, Manolo Tapia’s choices would be limited. He couldn’t simply hail a cab. Stealing a car would be risky without urban cover. He could hitchhike, trying to blend in with the many strangers in town for the bike race. He might attempt to rent a car from Chavez Motors, if they had any left to rent. Or, he could simply find a place to stay and hole up until an opportunity presented itself to skip back across the border. There would be no rooms available at the two local motels, or at the one bed and breakfast, but an enterprising person could always find shelter.
“Where do you think he went?” she asked.
“I…I don’t know.” Hector didn’t sound convincing.
“He could as easily be back in Mexico,” Estelle offered, waiting to see if Hector jumped at the possibility. He nodded quickly. “During the entire time that you were with Tapia-beginning that night in Culiacán when you picked up the passengers and met with him-he never mentioned another destination or…job? Other than the passing mention of something up in Albuquerque?”
“Nothing.” Hector rubbed his face again. His skin was pale and a sheen of sweat had formed on his face from the effort of trying to stay awake.
“Are you hungry?”
“No, I…” Hector began before the question actually sank in. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I could eat something.”
Without being asked, Eddie Mitchell rose and headed for the door. “How about you?” he said to Estelle.
“No, thanks.” She turned back to Hector. “Tell me what you know about the Salvadorans.”
“I know nothing,” he replied. “Really. They talked, but in the airplane, it is not so easy to hear. The woman, she…” and he made a yak-yak motion with the fingers of his right hand. “I could not hear much of what was said.”
“But each carried a money belt? You knew about that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Your uncle paid you with one of them. That’s five thousand dollars, Hector. A lot of money. And he promised the possibility of another payment?”
“If a return flight was necessary. Yes.”
“You say if…Señor Tapia wasn’t sure?”
“He did not say.”
Estelle’s cell phone chirped and she pulled it off her belt.
“Guzman.”
“Ah,” Captain Tomás Naranjo said. “I am sorry for the interruption. But I thought you should know what we have discovered. Are you free to talk now?”
“Certainly,” Estelle said, fascinated that the mere mention of Manolo Tapia’s name had set the ponderous wheels of Mexican law enforcement in motion. That phenomenon, all by itself, told her that fortunes stood to be won or lost, depending on Tapia’s actions and connections.
She held the door for Eddie Mitchell, returning with the box of not-so-fresh donuts that had graced the dispatch desk, then slipped out into the hall and stepped into her own quiet office.
“The three victims are from Santa Ana, a city of no particular distinction in El Salvador,” he said. “Guillermo Haslán-the victim referred to by name-he is an accountant for PDC. Do you know of them?”
“I don’t think so,” Estelle replied. The world of corporate initials was so cluttered that any combination would sound familiar.
“Yes,” Naranjo said. “Let me see.” She could hear the rustle of paper. “A mining consortium with a regional office in Santa Ana. Most interesting. Ah, here it is. Pemberton, Duquesne, and Cordova.” He pronounced each name slowly, as if he enjoyed the musical sounds. “Are you familiar with them? Construction, mining, and other undertakings.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“There’s no reason you should be, I suppose. They are headquartered in New Zealand, but there are offices worldwide, I’m told. My sources profess to know little more than that, other than that it appears that Señor Haslán may have disposed of some funds that were not his. Certainly not an unusual story, I’m sure you’ll agree. I suppose that the powers that be are perhaps justifiably irritated.”