“Very good. What is the saying here? I heard another American police officer say it once years ago…Our goal is that we all go home at night.” He released her neck and transferred his hand to her headrest. “That is what we must keep in mind, no?”
“Maybe it’s not the same ‘we’ that you have in mind,” Estelle said. “Did Hansen know the Haslán family?” Those were pieces of the puzzle whose edges refused to mesh. Guillermo Haslán, his wife, and son had fled north, allegedly with cash belonging to someone else. Was it their intention to meet with Hansen? Was he to provide their safe house? Estelle doubted that. Chester Hansen’s mind had been on the race, not on wondering where the Hasláns had gone after their disappearance.
He regarded her curiously. “Now why do you think that I would tell you my life story?” he asked. “Of what advantage is that to me? And that is what we are about, is it not? Advantage? I think that it is better that you do not know, señora. I think perhaps that is ground where you do not need to walk.”
“We must not interfere with the business of the rich and powerful,” Estelle said. “Is that it?”
Tapia laughed heartily. “That would be it, exactly. You are very good.” Ahead of them, another set of winking lights approached. He handed her the mike. “Make sure there is no interference.”
“PCS, three-ten.”
“Go ahead, three-ten.”
“I want the area both east and west of the municipal airport cleared. You have an emergency vehicle westbound on Seventy-eight. Have them stop.”
There was a second’s hesitation on the radio. “Three-ten, be advised that unit is an ambulance. They’re responding to an assistance call from the race officials west of your location.”
Estelle looked across at Tapia, who nodded. “Be careful,” he said.
“Tell them to go ahead,” Estelle said. “Three-oh-three, did you copy?”
“Affirmative.”
“And Gayle,” Estelle continued, “call Jim Bergin and tell him that we’re on the way in. Tell him to remain in his office and not to interfere.” Tapia’s hand reached for the mike, and Estelle added quickly, “There’s nothing he can do.”
Almost gently, Tapia took the mike from her hand. “Very intelligent,” he said. “We must hope that the sheriff is now doing his part.”
“Why did you pull your son into all this?” Estelle asked. “He is a boy with so much promise. So much talent, so gifted.” A gifted little liar, she thought. “And yet you ruin his life. You had no right to do that.”
“We all gamble in different ways,” Tapia said.
“That is not a gamble. And what is to win? A few thousand dollars? His life is worth only that? Your life is worth only that? What did Hansen ever do to you that makes killing him so necessary? And the three Salvadorans-what did they do? Did the father embezzle a few thousand from the wrong people, and the entire family is killed for that?”
Tapia grinned at her. “Such passion, señora.” He sighed and watched the highway as she slowed for the airport entrance. “A few thousand is one thing. When the number is millions, that’s another thing, you see.”
“Why not just have the boy brought here?” she asked. “To this airport? Where the airplane is?”
“Ah, well,” Tapia said, and let another shrug suffice. “A little isolation is helpful, sometimes, no?”
“Three-ten, three-oh-eight.”
The sheriff’s voice was tight and his delivery uncharacteristically rapid. She could picture Robert Torrez hunched over the steering wheel, jaw clamped tight, his square, handsome face set with determination as he sought a way out from under the ultimatum. Tapia handed her the mike.
“Three-ten. Go ahead.”
“Two subjects will be southbound here in just a minute. Be lookin’ for a yellow ’64 Mustang. You know the one. Two occupants.”
“Ten-four.” What Sergeant Tom Mears jokingly referred to as his “pension,” the classic convertible saw the outside world in the evenings, when the sun wouldn’t blister its paint, or on an occasional weekend run. A yellow convertible, driven by a large woman with a flying yellow Heidi braid, accompanied by a darkly handsome Mexican youth-that would set tourists to gawking, Estelle thought.
The airport gate was open, and she drove in and turned hard right, skirting the FBO office. Jim Bergin stood in the doorway holding a cell phone. Estelle lifted a hand in greeting. The airport manager’s face was grim, and he pointed the phone at her.
Stay put, Estelle whispered.
“To the hangar,” Tapia ordered, and then a moment later, as they rolled down the tarmac to the last hangar, “Stop here.” Once more, his left hand encircled her neck, not hard, but a constant reminder. He twisted in his seat, surveying the area. No one could approach from across the airport without being seen-across taxiway, runway, and prairie, where the tallest cover was scrub creosote bush. When they had driven into the airport, the back of the hangars were visible, but Estelle doubted that anyone had secreted themselves there. Tapia’s plans were only now becoming clear, and no one had had the time to mobilize.
Satisfied, he turned back to Estelle, leaning so close that she could smell his breath. “Listen, now. And listen carefully. If you cooperate with me, no one will be hurt. I think you know this-I do not want to hurt you. But they are another matter. Do you understand me?”
“They?”
“There is always the temptation to do something heroic,” he said. “But you must think carefully. If you cooperate, my son and I will be gone from your lives in just a few minutes. That will be that. If you do not cooperate, then someone else will die. There is no doubt. You are all hoping that will be me.” His smile was tight. “But you must know that I will do all I can to assure that is not the case. You can choose which one of your associates will not go home to his family tonight. You will decide who, no?”
Keeping one hand on her neck, with the other holding the Beretta at a comfortable distance, he lowered his voice. “Let us do this without incident. You have a son as well, so you must understand.” He hesitated. “If mistakes were made, this is the time to make rectification.” He pronounced the word with heavy emphasis on each of the five syllables. Reaching across, he turned the ignition key and pulled it out of the lock.
He examined the ring thoughtfully for a moment, isolating the small handcuff key. Then, with a final look behind them to make sure that the police escort had not followed them into the airport, he opened his door and slid out of the truck. At one point, as his weight touched the bad ankle, he hissed between his teeth. Working his way around the truck, the hand with the Beretta on the hood for support, Tapia didn’t take his eyes off Estelle.
She watched him make his way around the front fender, and as he hopped awkwardly a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He stopped in front of the windshield post, left hand on the spotlight for support.
In the rearview mirror, Estelle saw one of the State Police cars ease around the FBO office and stop, three hundred yards away.
“There’s no reason for me to go with you,” she said. “You don’t need me.”
Tapia laughed gently. “Would that were so. Get out of the car now. And be careful.” He moved past the Expedition’s door, away from its range as a battering ram, and opened it. “Slide out now. As far as you can.”
She did so, right hand still shackled to the steering wheel, her body stretched awkwardly. He slid behind her, forcing her forward against the door. With one hand tethered, she was helpless to strike out in any effective way. He reached around and held out the keys so she could take them with her left hand. “Now is the time to think carefully,” he whispered, the bulk of his body pressed against hers. Even as she reached out with the cuff key, his right arm slid past her and he grasped the chain link of the cuffs. His left hand pushed the automatic into the back of her neck. “Open only the side on the wheel,” he said. “Leave them on your wrist.” He had covered her wrist and the lock on that side with his hand.