“What’s the company? Do I know them?”
The question was more than idle curiosity. Leona’s twenty-plus years with the New Mexico Highway Department, working in design and contracts, meant that she pretty much knew who was having tea with whom. There were few large construction projects in which the state agencies weren’t involved somehow, however tangentially.
Estelle skimmed the notes she’d taken while talking to Naranjo. “Pemberton, Duquesnes and Cordova. And they’re not Salvadoran…He says that the parent company is headquartered in New Zealand.”
“Yes, they are,” Leona said. “Multinational. Into everything, everywhere. Even once in a while on our shores. Anyone in the construction trades who isn’t just a local contractor knows them, my dear,” Leona said with satisfaction. “That’s if we’re talking the same PDC, and how many can there be? If you want a highway built or mine dug in the middle of the Congo or whatever that little country is called now, you arrange the bid so PDC wins it, believe you me. Or in El Salvador, for that matter. In fact,” she warbled, “I know one instance where they built an ice road-can you imagine that? Up in Alaska by the Arctic Circle somewhere, for one of their subsidiaries. An ice road. Most remarkable.”
“That’s a long way from El Salvador or New Zealand.”
The county manager held up an admonishing finger. “You just ask the former lieutenant governor about them, this PDC company. Remember our border fence highway…that grand master plan that never flew? Chet Hansen was stung by that particular bee.”
“You worked on part of that, as I remember,” Estelle observed. On paper at least, the idea of having a modern multilane highway paralleling the entire Mexican border, from the California coast to the southern tip of Texas, with a fancy and generally ugly security fence running the entire distance, had appealed to those folks who wanted a less porous border-and, Estelle supposed, to those folks who wanted to grow stinking rich on the construction of such a project.
One of many problems with the project was that the actual border-that thin black line on the map-passed through terrain that was hardly conducive to road building. Mountain removal was expensive. And perhaps that was the whole point, Estelle thought. Expensive put the money in the right pockets.
“Don’t remind me that I wasted time on that project,” Leona said. “But I’m sure that Mr. Iron Man wanted a share of those contracts as much as anyone else.”
Estelle laughed. “Mr. Iron Man. I like that.” If it could be biked, run, swum, or climbed for competition, Chet Hansen undertook the challenge.
“You should talk to him, if you catch him. He can tell you more, I’m sure.” Chester Hansen, now two years out of office after a controversy-plagued brief stint as lieutenant governor, was the closest thing to a celebrity visiting Posadas for the race.
“That’s interesting,” Estelle said.
“The operative word,” Leona said. “Interesting. I should look him up and talk to him myself,” she added. “I don’t know what he’s doing now, other than racing, obviously. But whether our former lieutenant governor is in office or not, he’s all in favor of hiring someone like PDC to complete the project in one mammoth push, someone with the contacts for this culvert and that bridge and this fence and that strip of pavement. And I think I agree with him.”
“And put a bike path along the border at the same time,” Estelle said. The former lieutenant governor’s intense interest in all things physical had been in noted contrast with the habits of the governor himself, a dedicated couch potato.
“Well, you ask him about PDC-if you can catch up with him,” Leona said. “There was a goodly contingent who thought the lieutenant governor was looking to line his own pockets with that highway deal. Even when he gave up his company to go into politics-not that that worked out very well, either.”
“Of course they would think the worst,” Estelle said. “That’s the nature of things, not to trust politicians. And that’s part of our problem. It’s just that the politicians we may have to work with are Mexican, rather than our own.” She turned at the approach of an older-model state pickup truck. Bill Gastner eased the vehicle into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot and pulled into the spot reserved for the district judge. “I have to clear the cobwebs. Do you want to ride up on the mesa with me for a while?”
“Mercy, yes. I’d love that,” Leona said. “I was hoping to catch a ride with someone.” She held out her arms theatrically, modeling her clothing. “I’m ready for the wilds!”
“Let me talk to Bill for a minute. Maybe he’ll come along.”
The aging lawman wasn’t in any hurry dismounting from his pickup, and he paused when he saw Estelle approaching.
“Hey,” he greeted. “You had a long night?”
“Unending,” Estelle said. She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I expected to see you out at the site.”
They both knew what she meant, and Gastner shook his head. “Nah. You don’t want more big feet walking over everything. And I sure as hell don’t need any more of that.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Quite a concert, by the way.” He regarded Estelle speculatively. “Talk to the kid yet? You been home?”
“Oh, yes.”
He grinned at her reticence. “Only seven years old, and it’s starting,” he said. “I noticed that Francisco was cozy with the Clarke girl-Rosy and Cameron’s daughter?”
Estelle was impressed, as she frequently was, but not surprised by Bill Gastner’s observations. ‘That’s about exactly right,” she said. “For whatever teenaged reason, Miss Clarke has a grudge against Miss Mears. Maybe Melody is too cute, too talented, too much in love with the world to be sufficiently cool.” Estelle shrugged. “Who knows why. Pitney tried to talk Francisco into some sort of musical practical joke at Melody’s expense. Mijo didn’t bite.”
“I see,” Gastner said. “What was the joke, do you know?”
“She asked Francisco to play the same selection that Melody was to play. Show her up, I suppose. Embarrass her.”
“Jangle her confidence,” Gastner added. “Gotta love ’em, these kids.”
“Well, I was proud of Francisco. He was still up, sitting at the piano, when I got home. Still wound up like a little spring. Still composing in his head.”
“So no one else got any sleep either.” Gastner laughed.
“He wasn’t playing. Just sitting and thinking, apparently.” She tapped her own forehead. “It all goes on up here, anyway. Listen,” she said, and took him by the elbow again with the urgent need to think about something else. “Ride up on the mesa with us?”
“Us? Brunhilde and you, you mean?” He waved at Leona, who waited by the sheriff’s Expedition.
“I was thinking about going around on the back side, over by Jackman’s Wells, to watch them come down off the top.”
Gastner looked at his wristwatch critically. “I really should, but I really can’t, sweetheart. I have an appointment with Herb Torrance coming up here at one. If that doesn’t take too long, maybe I’ll swing up that way after a bit. You eaten anything yet today, by the way?”
“I think so.”
Gastner barked a laugh. “We’ll have to fix that.”
“I’m not sure there’s going to be time, sir. Let me tell you who we have in jail.”
The older man leaned back against his truck, eyebrows arched in surprise. “I pick one night not to stay up all hours, and look what I miss,” he said. “Who?”
She told him quickly about Hector Ocate, Manolo Tapia, and the night flight. Gastner listened without interruption. When she finished, he frowned at her.
“You and Bergin flew the same route in the middle of the night, just to see if it could be done?”