“Enough to send Manolo Tapia to retrieve the funds, minus administrative fees,” Estelle said.
Naranjo chuckled. “Just so.”
“PDC funds? Do we know?”
“We do not know that. The disappearance of Señor Haslán and his family was something of a local incident, I’m told. One day, they are home, well-regarded in the community, a pleasant family. The next day, their house stands empty. This happened sometime last week. The exact time of their disappearance seems to be something of a mystery.”
“Who remains behind?”
“I will endeavor to find out for you. Perhaps there are more relatives. We don’t know. Suppose I have someone from Santa Ana contact you directly?”
“That would be good, Tomás. I appreciate your assistance.”
“Most assuredly. This boy pilot has no idea where Señor Tapia might have gone?”
“He says not. We’re looking under every rock, believe me.”
Naranjo sighed with commiseration. “I wish you well. This is a big country, of course. And we are so few. I have issued orders of my own. We will do what we can.”
“We appreciate that.” Estelle harbored no illusions about the efficiency of efforts-on either side of the border, for that matter. She wondered what Naranjo’s orders actually had been, but had the courtesy not to ask.
Walking back to the conference room, she was reminded by the quiet ambience of the Public Safety Building of how tired she really was. Hector Ocate would be just about comatose, unable to think clearly, even with the sugar jog from the donuts. More important, he would be too tired to guard his answers.
When she pushed open the door, the young man sat with his head down on the table, and she could tell by the slump of his body that he was asleep. The donuts had not been enough of a boost.
She nodded at Mitchell and he reached across and shook the boy by the shoulder. His head rose slowly and he tried to blink, but his eyelids sagged to half-mast.
“Hector, listen to me,” Estelle said. “We have to know where your uncle is. You must tell us. That is the only way that we can protect you and your family.”
“Please,” the boy murmured. “I do not know.”
“He did not walk away at the airport, did he?”
“But of course he…”
“Please, joven.” She let the heavy sarcasm hang for an instant. “We are not stupid. The airport is seven miles from town. What’s he going to do, walk cross-country? Hitchhike?” She saw the look of confusion on his face, and she held out her thumb for explanation. “I don’t think so.”
“He…”
“You said that you put the plane away, and as if by magic, your uncle disappeared. That’s what you want us to believe. But that’s not what happened.” The questions swirled in her own tired brain, and she turned quickly toward Eddie Mitchell. The captain had been waiting silently, and now raised an eyebrow in question. Estelle nodded toward the conference room door.
Out in the hallway, she lowered her voice to little more than a whisper.
“We need to check Reynaldo Estrada’s place,” she said. “I should have thought about that sooner. It’s perfect. An empty house, and handy transportation whenever Tapia needs it.”
“You think so?” Mitchell said. “The Uriostes next door wouldn’t notice the truck being used?” He shrugged philosophically. “Of course, they didn’t notice when Hector used it. Why change?”
“We need to ask them,” she said. “But at night? Maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. With curtains drawn, the television on, why would they? And,” Estelle added with a weary shake of the head, “would they care if they did notice?”
“Well, it isn’t night now,” Mitchell said. His eyes narrowed. “Trouble is, the trail’s most likely stone cold, Estelle. They flew back here when, Wednesday early in the morning? That’s more than seventy-two hours ago. Why would Tapia be lounging around? What would he be waiting for?”
“It doesn’t make sense that he would,” Estelle said. “He’s got work to do. That’s what Hector claims. Maybe up north. But it’ll fill in a square if we can find traces…if we know Manolo Tapia stayed in that house for a bit. Even one night. That’s another little piece to all of this.”
“Well, we need some clear thinkers,” Mitchell said. “If there’s any chance at all that Tapia is in that house, I don’t want somebody who is half asleep busting in on him.” He looked at his watch. “Let me round up some good hands, and we’ll go check the place out.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tom Mears said, but the captain shook his head. The sergeant had appeared out of the patrol office, a cup of coffee in hand.
“We need you here with the kid,” he said, and turned to Estelle. “You’re going to talk with the family again?”
“I’ll call them in now,” she said.
“We don’t want to wait for that. I’ll get things moving out at Estrada’s. Give me a call if you find out anything I need to know.” Mitchell paused. “A couple things don’t jibe. The kid says that Tapia mentioned Albuquerque? If that’s the case, he’s long gone. Somehow, he got himself a set of wheels, or hitched, or caught the bus out of Deming. Any of that’s possible. But if he didn’t do that…what’s the point of him staying around here? That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.”
“We’re missing something,” Estelle replied. “It’s as simple as that.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Each time that she stepped out into the hallway, Estelle had glanced toward the foyer of the Public Safety Building, where Gordon and Pam Urioste had taken up residence as they awaited the fate of their houseguest. The undersheriff was convinced that the couple had no knowledge of Hector Ocate’s escapades. Each time the Uriostes caught her eye, their expression were both hopeful and apprehensive.
Now, she beckoned them toward the conference room. “We need to talk,” she said, but offered no other explanation as they entered. She closed the door behind them. Hector sat up a little straighter when his host family appeared. Sergeant Mears remained a fixture at the far end of the table, perched on the corner with his hands relaxed on his lap.
“Mr. And Mrs. Urioste,” she said, “we will be detaining Hector on a variety of charges. This is complicated by his alien status, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I’m sure that the district attorney will be conferring with the Mexican consulate when we have a clearer picture of what has happened. But because he is over eighteen, and was over eighteen when the incidents in question occurred, he’s on his own. He is legally an adult. As his host family, you are under no legal obligations to retain counsel for him, although you may do so if you wish-and I would recommend that you do. We’ll be contacting his family and the various agencies involved later this morning.”
That in itself was something of a conundrum, she reflected. A Sunday was never a good day to try and force bureaucracy to jump through hoops.
“Right now, our main concern is for his safety, and yours,” she said, sure that the Uriostes were well-meaning, almost certainly innocent of anything other than an overdose of blind trust.
“Ours?” Gordon asked.
“We are quite certain that the killer of the three Salvadorans rode with the victims on the plane with Hector, and then flew on into Posadas with him.”
Gordon Urioste sat down hard, jarring the long conference table. “Did you do what they’re saying you did?” he demanded of Hector. The boy shifted slightly in his chair but remained silent. The face that stared back at Gordon was one of an exhausted, resigned teenager-hardly reflecting the steely nerved derring-do required of a pilot flying an overloaded plane at night through rugged country.
“Right now, it isn’t what he did that really matters,” Estelle said. “We think that he’s just the taxi driver, so to speak. What more he might have done is still unclear.” She let it go at that. Whether Hector had been a willing participant, or had been forced by threats against his family or his American hosts-or both-would come clear with time, she was sure.