Mexican hat (19 page)

IN DEMING, Kerney went looking for a smuggler. South of town, along the state highway, in view of the Tres Hermanas Mountains twenty miles distant, he found a mailbox with the right numbers at a roadside business that had gone under. The old farmhouse, bordered by cotton fields on three sides, had a front yard filled with rows of sagging wooden bins that once contained rocks for sale to the tourist trade. Signs at either end of the yard, the painted letters faded by the desert sun, welcomed rock hounds to the defunct establishment. There was a Keep Out sign posted on the front door of the house. Kerney parked and looked in the windows as he walked around the building. The rooms were empty except for some litter and a thick carpet of sand on the plank floors. Nobody had been inside for a good long time.

The wire strands to the back fence were filled with fluffs of raw

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cotton from the last harvest. In front of the fence was a level spot of sand and gravel near a utility pole with an electric meter attached to it. A dented propane tank sat on the other side of the site. It was clear that a house trailer had been recently moved off the property. The tracks of the truck that had hauled it away were barely filled in with drifting sand.

Kerney kicked at the sand with the toe of a boot, pissed off at himself for taking too long to follow up on Juan's lead. It was another dead end, and he was getting tired of running into walls. He looked down the road. About half a mile away, at the intersection of the highway and a county road, was a farm equipment and supply business. Beyond that, cotton fields gave way to desert that ran up against the dark groundmass of the Tres Hermanas.

At the dealership, a metal-skin building with a large plate-glass window that bounced the sun into his eyes, he stood next to a hundred-thousand-dollar tractor and talked with the owner. Clancy Payne was in his sixties. He had a cheerful smile and a trace of a west Texas twang. He shook his head and said he didn't know much about the man up the road. Kerney learned that his target, Leon Spence, had sold the house trailer and moved to Tucson. Other than that, and a belief that Spence was a traveling salesman of some sort, Mr. Payne knew nothing more.

"When did Spence move out?" Kerney asked.

"I don't know when he left, but they hauled the trailer away over the weekend," Clancy replied.

"Were you open for business on Saturday?"

"I sure was, but I didn't see Spence, if that's what you're wondering."

"What kind of car does Spence drive?"

"He's got two vehicles. One of them is a Toyota four-by-four

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sport utility and the other is a four-door Chevy. A Caprice, I think it is. The Toyota is a dark blue and the Chevy is white."

"New Mexico plates?"

"Yeah, but don't ask me for the license numbers. I can't even remember my own."

LAID OUT ON A GRID, Deming ran parallel to the interstate until it petered out at both ends of the main street. On a smooth desert plain, broken only by low sand mounds and shallow arroyos, the locals fought the starkness of the land and lost the battle. There would never be enough greenness, no matter how many trees were planted or lawns were sodded, to combat the sparseness, dryness, dust, and wind that constantly wore at the town.

With all of that going against it, Deming had been discovered by working-class retirees on limited pensions, and new, inexpensive subdivisions were pushing back the cotton fields, as the city touted its resurgence with billboards and bumper stickers.

On the outer limits of Deming's main street, in the air-conditioned comfort of a restaurant that gave customers a great view of the interstate highway and the railroad tracks, Kemey called the BLM officer, who agreed to meet him for a cup of coffee. While he waited he borrowed the phone book and called the electric and phone companies, hoping that Spence had left a forwarding address. No such luck. He called mobile home movers. None had hauled Spence's trailer. The BLM cop arrived, and Kerney sat with him in a window booth, the sun's glare cut by a thick plastic shade that made the outside world look dark brown.

"You did the ibex investigation in the Florida Mountains," Kerney said, after the small talk concluded.

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Mike Anderson, a man with a blocky face and fat earlobes, took his sunglasses off and wiped some dust out of the corners of his eyes. "That's right. Couldn't get anything definite on it. I called a state police buddy of mine to help out, but we couldn't get a damn bit of hard evidence other than the tire tracks. That didn't pan out either. The impressions didn't take. Not enough tread depth."

"So, what have you got?"

"Two days before I found the kill site, I stopped a kid on a four-wheel ATV. He was on state land outside of my jurisdiction, but I gave him a butt-chewing anyway. Said he was camped at Rock Hound State Park with his family."

"Did you ID the kid?"

"Got a name," Anderson said, pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket. "The kid was maybe twelve, thirteen years old." Anderson thumbed through his notes. "Here it is. Ramon Ulibarri. Said he was from Reserve. I called up there after I found the trophy kills, just to check it out. There was only one Ulibarri listed in the phone book and the telephone had been disconnected. So I called the Catron County sheriff."

"And?" Kerney prodded.

"I talked to the sheriff. He didn't know any kid by that name, and nobody matched the description I gave him. I figured in a town that small, the sheriff would know."

"You talked to Gatewood?"

"Sure did."

"Describe the boy to me," Kerney asked.

Anderson gave him a rundown. Four-six or -seven, slender build, wearing floppy jeans and a baseball cap with the bill turned backward. He closed the notebook and put it away. "The kid told me that he was camping with his family at the state park, but later

7 6 ■ Michael M c G a r r iIy

when I talked to the manager he said there was nobody registered from Reserve during that time."

"So the kid lied to you."

"Appears that way."

"Do you know a man named Leon Spence?" Kemey asked. "Used to live on the highway to Columbus."

Anderson suddenly got busy stirring his coffee. "Doesn't register."

Kerney pushed a bit. "He had a trailer behind a vacant house that used to be a rock-hound shop. You must have seen it."

"I've seen it," Anderson allowed. "Didn't know who lived there."

Kemey picked up the check for the coffee. "Thanks for your time."

"Hope I didn't waste yours," Anderson replied. He put some change on the table for a tip, shook Kerney's hand, and wished him good luck before putting his sunglasses back on and pushing his way out the door into the simmering desert furnace of the day.

As he paid the bill, Kerney pondered Anderson's behavior. The man had gone from one extreme to another. He'd been more than willing to talk about poachers, but went into a complete shutdown when Leon Spence had been mentioned. That was damn interesting.

Anderson hadn't left much of a tip for the waitress. Kemey went back and put more money on the table.

"READING WITH ONE EYE isn't easy," Jim said. "And I don't do it very well."

"Maybe you shouldn't try," Kemey replied.

Jim sat in the chair next to his hospital bed, a pile of papers in his hand. The dressing covering his eye had been replaced with a patch and his left arm was in a sling.

The bed was occupied by a very pretty, blue-jean-clad, blond-headed young woman with a dimple in the center of her chin, who sat cross-legged with a laptop computer balanced on her knees.

"That's Molly Hamilton," Jim explained. "My research associate. When she gets desperate, I'm allowed to date her."

"Shut up, Jim," Molly said sweetly, looking at Kerney, "Hi."

"Hello."

Molly held out a modem cord to Kerney. "Plug this in the phone jack, please. State archives is sending me some confirming information."

Kerney did as he was told. "Where did you find such good help?" he asked Stiles.

"Molly's the chief research librarian at the university," Jim explained. "I can't get her to quit her job, marry me, and have my babies."

"Shut up, Jim," Molly, said, her fingers busy at the keyboard. "Don't listen to him, Mr. Kerney. Want to hear what we've got so far?"

"I'd love to."

Molly punched a few more keys and put the laptop on the pillow behind her. "Okay. Before statehood, Thomas Catron owned most of the land west of Magdalena to the Arizona border. What he didn't own, Solomon Luna controlled, along with the Padilla family. Don Luis was kind of a junior partner. They pooled their resources and formed a limited partnership called the American Valley Company. There were a few more partners, but Catron bought them out except for Luna and Padilla. The venture never made a profit. Catron was overextended financially and couldn't raise the money for de-

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velopment. In his day, he was just about the biggest landowner in the country. He held title to, or controlled, millions of acres in New Mexico. When beef prices plummeted in the 1890s and the drought hit, it was all he could do to hold on to the land."

"That's interesting," Kerney said, "but it doesn't get us very far."

"What's interesting, Mr. Kerney," Molly said, arching her back in a stretch, "is what Catron did. He recruited a new partner with working capital: William Elderman."

"My granddaddy," Jim added proudly. "A real scoundrel."

"True enough," Molly replied. "After the American Valley Company dissolved, Catron and Luna walked away from the venture, leaving Elderman and Padilla the biggest landowners in the county, but with a binding agreement that gave each of them first option for a buyout."

"So did Elderman exercise his option for the land with Padilla?" Kerney asked.

"Padilla wouldn't sell, even though Elderman hounded him for years. It took the Great Depression to bankrupt Padilla."

"Did Elderman get the land for back taxes?"

"Don't jump the gun," Molly said, waving a censuring finger. "The only entity buying land in the valley during the Depression was the federal government. The feds wanted to expand the Datil National Forest. That's what it was called back then. And the land they wanted was owned by Padilla. Elderman knew it. Padilla didn't. It was pure discrimination. The feds didn't want to deal with the His-panics."

"Is this speculation or fact?" Kerney inquired.

Molly tilted her head in Jim's direction. "Fact. Most of what we know comes from an unpublished autobiography written by Woodrow

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Stringhorn, the first park superintendent. His family donated the papers to the university after his death. Stringhorn consummated the deal with Elderman to buy the land for the national forest. He wrote in his autobiography that he was ordered by Washington to have no dealings with Padilla, and to wait until the land came under Elder-man's control.

"There's even a letter from Elderman to Stringhorn, in which he writes that Padilla probably wouldn't be able to meet his obligations to the bank when his note came due. Seems that old William had an inside source on Padilla's finances."

"Who owned the bank?" Kerney queried.

"Another scoundrel," Jim replied. "Calvin Cox. Karen's grand-daddy. Is this a good story, or what?"

"A very good story," Kerney agreed. "So Elderman got control of Padilla's land through Calvin Cox, turned around, and sold a chunk of it to the feds."

"Right," Molly agreed, "Elderman Meadows. There was no tax auction. We think Calvin Cox covered the tax liability until the proceeds from the land sale came through. Elderman probably paid through the nose for the service, but he walked away a rich man after selling out to the government." She glanced at Jim. "Are you rich?"

Stiles grinned. "No, but my grandparents were, and my parents are well off. I guess that makes me part of the landed gentry."

"Dirty money," Molly said, wrinkling her nose.

Stiles nodded his head enthusiastically. "It's how the west was won."

Molly wrinkled her nose again, in disgust at the idea.

"I don't like it any more than you do, really," Jim said.

Michael McGarrily

Molly's smile returned. "You'd better not." She turned her attention back to Kerney. "That's about it. What I asked for from state archives should fill in some of the blanks."

"Did you find any reference to a place called Mexican Hat?" Kerney asked.

"Nothing," Molly answered. "It could be one of those local place-names that never got recorded."

"How about the Cox family? I've haven't heard one word spoken about Eugene's wife."

"Be patient, Mr. Kerney," Molly replied. "Research takes time." She uncrossed her legs, slid off the bed, and kissed Jim on the lips. "Gotta go. I'll pick up my laptop when I stop by to see you tonight."

"See ya," Jim said. "And thanks."

"It's going to cost you."

"I certainly hope so."

"Shut up, Jim," Molly said sweetly as she waved and left.

Jim smiled, his eye fixed on the empty doorway.

"Nice-looking younger babe," Kerney noted.

"I knew you were going to say that," Jim replied with a laugh. "Doesn't she do good work?"

"Is that what you like about her?"

"No comment."

Kerney and Stiles spent the next ten minutes going over what they knew.

"Old Jose Padilla may have been right about his father's death," Jim said. "It's too bad he didn't make it."

"He may have left us enough to work with. Let's see what Molly digs up."

Mexican Ha

Jim nodded enthusiastically. "She's something, isn't she?"

"A gem," Kerney agreed. It was clear Jim was in love.

The car that had been with him since he left Deming followed

at a discreet distance as Kerney pulled out of the hospital parking

lot.

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8

The campus of Western New Mexico University, a tidy complex of buildings situated on a hill near downtown Silver City, was quiet and nearly deserted. At the administration building, Kemey learned that no information about students could be released without written parental permission. In the business office, he had better luck. After a little cajoling, a billing clerk agreed to pull up financial information on a computer screen and let Kemey read it. None of the Lujan kids, including the oldest one who had graduated, had received student loans, and all payments for tuition, housing, and fees had been made in full and on time by checks written against the account of Steve and Yolanda Lujan. Kerney found