“State Police and the Forest Service are giving us all the help we need up on the mesa,” Mitchell said. “I was going to send Taber back up that way for the time being. All the riders are on the course by now.”
“We need a description of the motorcycle,” Estelle said. “I’ll get that from records.”
“Lemme know,” Mitchell said. “We’ve got some boot tracks here that might help. Tony and I will see what we can do with those.”
She switched off. Hector slumped, head down so that his chin touched his chest.
“Why did he need a motorcycle, Hector?” Estelle asked. When he didn’t respond, she rose, crossed around the table, and once more sat beside him. “The truck was licensed. No one would have noticed. Why the bike?” She gave him to the count of ten to answer, then said, “We can make all this go away, Hector. We really can.”
Again, he remained silent.
“When did he contact you to actually make the flight, hijo? When did he actually set the date?”
Hector took a deep breath and sat up. “In April, I think it was early. He told me that he would visit this weekend. That is when I should secure the airplane.”
“You mean he gave you specific dates for the flight?”
“He said that the opportunity should come during this week. That he would call with the specific time, if that was possible.”
“What was so special about this week?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you made sure that it was possible when he called, didn’t you?”
“Well, the airplane, agente-it was parked waiting. Any day was possible. I discovered that Señor Bergin had the meeting on his calendar, and I told my uncle. He agreed.”
“For Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, then?”
“Yes. It happened that the weather was with us.”
“And the route?”
“My uncle contacted me on the e-mail Sunday night. We made the final arrangements. I would fly to Culiacán on the night of Tuesday, late. Almost into the morning. If for some reason I could not, I should call him right away on the cell phone.”
“The number,” Estelle said, and slid the pad toward him.
“I do not know it now,” he said. “It is on my computer at home. I can get it for you, of course.”
“But you did not have to call, did you?”
“No. It was easy.”
“How long is the flight to Culiacán, Hector?”
“Just three and a half hours. It could be done faster, but there was no need.”
“Three and a half down, and three and a half back. You refueled at Culiacán?”
“Yes.”
“Did your uncle arrange for that, too?”
“Yes.”
“That’s only eight hours at the most, joven. Mr. Turner says that the airplane was used for nearly eleven. Would you like to tell me about the other three hours?”
Hector shrugged in resignation. “That night…that night was not the first time I used the plane. I could not take that risk.”
“Ah…you practiced.”
The boy nodded. “On two occasions. It was easy.”
Estelle shook her head in wonderment. “As long as you brought it back, no one would notice.”
“That is true,” Hector said, a trace of pride in his voice. “No one.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Hector Ocate was too tired to appreciate that he was the sole occupant of the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department detention facility-five small cells on the second floor. He practically dove onto the cot in the first cell. His eyes had been closed when he buried his face in the pillow, but when the door clanged shut, he rolled onto his side and his eyes flickered open, staring at the concrete block wall.
Estelle watched him for a moment, then turned away and walked back downstairs.
Dispatcher Gayle Torrez met her at the landing and handed the undersheriff a slip of paper. “That’s the motorcycle,” she said. Estelle glanced at the description of the late Cody Roybal’s 2003 Yamaha dirt bike. Like a myriad of others, there was nothing unique about it-a bright red, high-fendered, knobby-tired machine designed for ramping up rough trails or sand dunes. “I put the information out.”
“Thanks, Gayle. I don’t think anybody is going to find Manolo Tapia motoring down the interstate,” Estelle said. “But we never know. Maybe someone will notice a burly Mexican wearing a Rolex and Bermuda shorts riding a dirt bike.” She could picture the bike headed south now, kicking up sand after vaulting the loose barbed-wire border fence, but she did not understand the point of that risk. Captain Naranjo was right-there was a good reason for not simply dumping the victims’ bodies in the bleak Mexican desert. There was a reason for herding them north, other than the perverse joy taken in watching their excitement and hope evaporate in a moment of panic and desperation.
“I shooed the Uriostes home for a while,” Gayle said. “I told them I didn’t think there was much chance of Hector being released any time soon. I told them I’d call if there was anything they could do. They were going to talk to his parents in Mexico.”
“There’s no chance at all of him going anywhere,” Estelle agreed. “We’ll give him a couple of hours’ sleep and then wake him up. Maybe he’ll remember something that he wants to tell us.”
“And the county manager is waiting in your office.”
“Ah.” It seemed like days or even weeks, rather than hours, since she had chatted comfortably with Leona Spears.
“And…” Gayle started to say, and hunched her shoulders as if in apology. “When the metro TV and newspaper folks call, I didn’t mention that we have Hector in custody, or about the involvement of a local aircraft. Three dead illegals don’t stir the scoop juices much anymore, it seems. It’s right up there with a local mountain bike race in news ignored.”
“Just as well,” Estelle said. “But if we can avoid a circus for just a bit longer, that will help. No one asked about the airplane?”
“I told them that we’re investigating the apparent theft of an airplane. The reaction is always the same-whoopee.”
“Frank’s on it?” The publisher of the Posadas Register would be sitting and sleeping with fingers and toes crossed, hoping that the story didn’t break until his paper came out on Wednesday afternoon.
“Frank’s luck is holding.” Gayle laughed. “He wanted to know if he could take a picture of Hector, and I told him no-unless he happens to catch him when we ship him over to Judge Hobart’s for arraignment tomorrow morning.”
“Happens to.” Estelle smiled. “Be sure to tip him off,” she added. “Sometimes we need Frank as much as he needs us.”
Perhaps hearing their voices, Leona Spears appeared in the hallway outside Estelle’s office. The large woman looked ready for the bush, with khaki trousers, dark green work shirt, and heavy hiking boots. Her long blonde hair was striking in a single, long Heidi braid reaching the small of her back.
“Perfect timing,” Estelle said to the county manager.
“Oh,” Leona said with a theatrical wave of the hand, “my goodness. For what? Are we making progress? You, my dear, look as if you’ve been up all night-which you have. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I’ve spoken with Captain Naranjo,” Estelle said. “We know who the victims are now.” The anticipation on the county manager’s face couldn’t have been more palpable, and she clasped her hands together under her impressive bosom as if preparing to sing an aria. Estelle said, “We think they’re from El Salvador. One of them-the father, I think-was an accountant for an international construction company.”
“Oh my,” Leona said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “An accountant? There’s lots of ways to go wrong there. But what’s that have to do with us, for heaven’s sakes. How are we so lucky?”
“I wish I knew,” Estelle said. “Perhaps we’re just a convenient dumping ground. That’s happened before. And I don’t know anything about the company, other than a name that Captain Naranjo supplied. I was going to ask you about them, but don’t misunderstand. I don’t know if they’re somehow involved, or what. At this point it’s just a name.”