"I do not like the notion that I was so easily duped."
"Can we do business?"
"It depends. What is it you require?"
"I need the names of people who smuggle endangered animals to the Asian trade. Specifically for compounds used in medicines sold by folk healers and herbalists."
"Is this a police matter?"
"Yes."
"Does your investigation extend into Mexico?"
"No."
"Can you pay my fee?" Posada asked.
Posada charged a minimum of five thousand dollars for information.
"Not all of it up front," Kerney admitted.
"But I'm willing to trade. I'll give you a thousand dollars cash and provide advance warning when we plan to shut down the pipeline. If you move quickly, you should be able to corner the market and turn a tidy profit from the last shipments that cross the border."
Posada's eyes narrowed.
"You know my fee is not negotiable. I see no reason to put my trust in you, given your past performance. It gives me great pleasure to refuse you, Senor Kerney, Please do not come back here again. Juan, would you show Senor Kerney out?"
Kerney got to his feet and bowed in Posada's direction.
"Goodbye, senor," he said gravely.
"I am sorry we were unable to do business."
"Old enmities die hard," Posada replied flatly.
Juan walked Kerney through the grand vestibule to the front door.
"Senor Posada will not live much longer," he said.
"What will happen to you when he dies?"
"I hope to continue in the trade," Juan answered.
"But the senor has severely cut back on his workload, and does not seem inclined to turn over the business to me. He has a niece who will inherit."
"I would welcome the opportunity to do business with you," Kerney proposed.
Juan made an empty gesture with his hands.
"A thousand-dollar fee does not suffice, Mr. Kerney.
Unlike the senor, I do not have the resources to act on the information you proposed as a trade."
"The expenses of starting out can be considerable," Kerney noted.
"Is there something else that might satisfy you?"
"I would welcome the opportunity to have a permanent American visa. I would like to offer my services in the North American market without fear of legal entanglements."
"I believe that can be arranged. I know a customs agent who could be very helpful." Kerney held out the thousand dollars. The money disappeared into Juan's shirt pocket.
"Call me in two hours," Juan said, giving Kerney a phone number.
"Senor Posada will be resting. We can exchange information then."
Kerney's contact in the El Paso U.S. Customs office was very interested in Juan as a potential longterm informant. After advising Juan on how to get in touch with the agent, Kerney wrote down Juan's information and hung up. He had a short list of three smugglers: two in El Paso and one in Deming, New Mexico, a small city thirty miles from the Mexican border. According to Juan, the market was highly specialized and controlled by only a few people operating in the States.
The motels in Silver City, mostly mom-and-pop businesses mixed in with a few budget franchise operations, were concentrated along the state highway that ran north from Deming. Cornelia Marquez was registered at a motel on the main drag fairly close to downtown. The establishment boasted a restaurant that looked out on the highway and featured a daily radio talk show aired by a local station.
Kerney stopped in for a light meal. His stomach was grumpy-the norm rather than the exception with half of his gut shot away-and he had to eat judiciously in order to keep it functioning properly.
The talk-show host, at a table with a microphone and two telephones, sat by the large plate-glass window taking calls about a small group of environmentalists who had used the courts to stop timber sales in the Gila. Loudspeakers let the customers listen in on the conversations.
One caller phoned in to say that the members of the group had better stay the hell out of Catron County, since they were nothing but a gang of radicals who didn't know a damn thing about the west or its people.
The customers, mostly working men in for a coffee break, applauded in agreement.
Kerney finished his meal as the subject of repealing the Endangered Species Act was introduced by the host. The first caller to respond wondered why the government thought spotted owls were more valuable than people. It kicked off a diatribe against Washington politicians.
Cornelia Marquez opened the motel-room door immediately after Kerney knocked. A matron in her fifties, of average height with a thickening body, she wore a plain tan dress and a pair of sensible flats.
Her eyes were puffy and red and her mouth was drawn in a tight, sad line.
Kerney identified himself and showed the lady his badge.
"Nurse Perez said that you found my father," Cornelia said, sniffling.
She stepped aside to let Kerney enter.
"I am most grateful."
"It was nothing," Kerney replied. Something about her made him take a formal tone.
"Would you rather I came to see you some other time?"
"No." Cornelia's smile was thin-lipped.
"I would welcome some distraction. My husband cannot join me until this evening. He was in Argentina on business and is flying in from Buenos Aires."
She sat at the small table in front of the window and asked Kerney to join her. The room was a standard motel box with a queen-size bed, television, and dresser. A mirror and several silk-screen prints of desert flowers were securely fastened to the walls.
"Have you found who killed my son?" she asked.
"Not yet. If I knew why your son and father came here it might be helpful."
"How would that be helpful? The state police investigator who spoke to me at the hospital said that Hector was shot by a stranger. A poacher."
"That is probably true," Kerney allowed.
"But other possibilities cannot be ignored. Yesterday, I spoke to an older gentleman who said that he might have known your father many years ago. His name is Edgar Cox."
"The name is not familiar to me."
"Is there some reason for him to believe he knows your father?"
"It's possible. My father was born here. In the Mangas Valley. His ancestors settled the area. But he has lived in Mexico most of his life. Ever since he was a young man in medical school."
"Dr. Padilla seemed to have had a specific destination in mind. Do you have any idea why he went to Elderman Meadows?"
"I never heard of Elderman Meadows until today."
"How about a place called Mexican Hat?"
Cornelia frowned.
"I have heard him speak of such a place."
"In what context?" Kerney asked.
She toyed with the band of her diamond wedding ring and wet her lips before answering.
"My father has an obsession. He believes his father was murdered at Mexican Hat."
"What gave him that idea?" Kerney inquired.
"When my aunt died last year, he was the executor other estate. She had many of the old family papers.
Among them he found official letters from the American government to his father questioning the legal title to the land."
"What suspicions did those letters raise?"
"I'm not sure. He was very secretive about it."
"Why?"
"Because it opened an old wound between my parents. Long before I was born, my grandfather died and my parents traveled to New Mexico to attend the funeral. An argument developed between them. My father wished to drop out of medical school and remain in Mangas. Mother threatened to leave him if he did. They were newly married.
She was also a medical student, and they had planned to go into practice together. But she hated New Mexico. It was not her world. It was too isolated and unsophisticated. She was a city girl.
She made my father promise never to take her there again."