“Really.”
“But that aside, until now, at least, Señor Villanueva has been careful that his business is entirely legitimate and documented. But I must say, the friend standing beside the boy in the photograph…that would be a different matter. That was most interesting to receive that. I took the liberty of forwarding it to my colleagues, and they are most intrigued. His name is Manolo Tapia-and his relationship to the boy’s mother is somewhat in question. Perhaps he is a brother…”
“That would make him Hector’s uncle, then.”
“Yes. It appears that Señor Tapia goes by several names, you see, depending on the circumstances. But we have reason to believe that is his name at the moment.”
“And his significance?”
“Well, his significance,” and Naranjo drew out the word, relishing each syllable, “is that of all the people with whom we would most like to speak about various…matters…Señor Manolo Tapia is certainly near the top of the list.”
“Which matters might those be, Tomás?” Estelle asked.
“Ah. Just so. There is considerable evidence building that Señor Tapia may be involved in various solutions that his colleagues require.”
“Tomás, please,” Estelle said.
“Ah. Lo siento. You have become so American, Señora Guzman.” He chuckled. “How can I say it? We have cause to believe that this man is responsible for a number of deaths, particularly in Oaxaca and Chiapas. Perhaps other activities in Guatemala and El Salvador as well. There are almost certainly others about which we are not aware.”
“He’s an assassin?”
“That might be accurate. Something of the sort,” Naranjo said, as if loath to actually use the word. “I am surprised to hear that he is now in the United States. That is not his…turf? Do we say that?”
“It appears to be his turf now,” Estelle said.
“Yes, it would,” the captain said. “I may have something on the three victims before long.”
“Guillermo is a name,” Estelle prompted. “The boy says the older man’s name was Guillermo.”
“Ah. I will forward that. There is word on that in some channels. But I am most puzzled. I can’t imagine why Tapia would run the risk, the considerable risk, of flying with his victims to the United States. It makes something of a statement, of course. But…” He paused. “My guess is that other business calls him north. That is most unusual for this man, I should think. Most unusual. Find out his business, and you may well find him. That is what my colleagues say. Of course,” and he laughed gently, “my colleagues have not been so fortunate in their own efforts. They are very interested.”
“The boy has to be the link,” Estelle said.
“I should think so.”
“You’ll get back to me if you hear anything else?”
“Most assuredly. And you must call us, should you hear anything further.”
Estelle rang off and sat for a moment, staring at the phone. The killer is Hector’s uncle. That explained the boy’s confused efforts to protect the identity of the third man in the photo. And a favorite uncle, too…at least that’s what the fold in the picture indicated.
If the three Salvadorans were fleeing north with money that wasn’t theirs, she could imagine a man such as Tapia hired to resolve the problem. Traveling quickly, with contacts throughout the country oiled with generous payments, Tapia would overtake the family at his leisure. But why not just end it there, if that was the case?
In fact, this time, it appeared that he might have arranged the flight himself, baiting the three with what first appeared to be a quick, easy trip north, a flight directly to the safety of Socorro. But then what? Estelle ran a finger down the side of the telephone receiver, frowning. Why would Tapia hire his nephew, a mere youngster, to make the flight-and not without risk? Perhaps only because Rudolfo Villanueva would not, his high profile putting him immediately at risk.
And then, why Posadas? Why land at the gas company’s primitive strip in the middle of the night, and immediately execute the family, leaving them to lie in the desert?
Had the observant Robert Torrez, ever the hunter, not observed the playing coyotes, the incident might have gone unnoticed for weeks, perhaps months. And then a little piece of metal hangar siding out of place in the glare of a spotlight had led them to Hector Ocate.
Estelle pushed herself out of the chair and returned to her office. Gordon Urioste looked up expectantly.
“Gordon,” Estelle said, “I need to know who Manolo Tapia is.”
“Who?” The blank look on his face appeared genuine.
“Manolo Tapia,” Estelle repeated, enunciating the name distinctly.
“I don’t know that name,” Gordon said. “Unless you mean Mickey Tapia, the girls’ volleyball coach.”
“No. I don’t mean him. It’s Manolo Tapia.”
“Nope. Am I supposed to?”
“I hope not,” Estelle said, and abruptly left the room. She conferred briefly with Bob Torrez outside his office, then went in and repeated the same question, receiving the same blank response from Pam Urioste. A moment later, she sat down across from Hector Ocate-by now so worn and frazzled that he had difficulty keeping his eyes open.
“Hector, listen. When did your uncle first contact you?”
“My uncle?” The answer was unconvincingly evasive, and the sleepiness left his eyes.
“We know about Manolo Tapia,” she said. “Your uncle.” She laid the photograph down carefully on the table and tapped the image. “This man. Your mother’s brother. When did he first contact you about making a flight like this?”
“He…” Hector began, and just as quickly chopped off the thought.
“Exactly,” Estelle said. “He called you-or e-mailed you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“He e-mailed me some months before,” Hector said cautiously.
“Before what?”
“I mean some months ago.”
“When was the first time he contacted you?”
Hector frowned at the empty soda can on the table in front of him. “It was during the winter,” he said finally. “Some time ago.”
“You don’t remember when?”
“No.”
“Did you save the message?”
He looked up quickly at her. “No. Of course not.”
“Which computer did you use?”
“At home. At school.”
“Which one?”
“I…I don’t remember.”
“Listen, Hector,” Estelle snapped, “this is the time to see how smart you can be. Right now, you’re being held on three counts of accessory to murder.” She saw his eyes widen. “Three counts of conspiracy. Theft of an airplane. Illegal border trafficking. I can go on. Unless you cooperate with us, it will only get worse.”
“If I cooperate with you, agente, I will be killed,” Hector said, his voice a whisper.
She studied him for a moment, but he wouldn’t return her gaze. “Out at the airport, you were eager for our protection, hijo. You have it now.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing we can do for you. You’re of no interest to us.” She straightened up and walked to the conference room door, where she turned and looked at Hector. “You can rot in prison. Get used to that idea.” Opening the door, she regarded the boy. “And your anfitriones,” she said, using the formal word for “hosts.” “I’m sure that Señor Tapia will have little trouble finding them…all of them.”
“You must not,” Hector said, and bit his lip in frustration.
“And of course, the two children, your friends. Marty and little Lorietta, is it? Let’s draw them into this danger, too.”
The boy’s jaw bounced as if he were gnawing at his clenched lips, and then his head fell forward into his arms. Estelle felt a wrench of sympathy. She crossed back to the table and bent over, her lips close to his right ear. She kept her voice stern and unrelenting. “Is that what you want?” Hector pushed his head up and covered his face with both hands, elbows on the table. “Is that what you want?” Estelle repeated.