Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (19 page)

After putting Isabel and the baby on a bus to Brownsville, Eddie had purchased all the material needed for his transformation: soft cowhide, which must feel like skin under his shirt; padding, which had to be firm yet pliable; a harness to round his shoulders; and finally the clothes of a beggar. He crossed the bridge into Juarez as a hunchback. Neither his wife nor Captain Brannon would have recognized him. Finding Petty Officer Yardman's trail hadn't been all that difficult. Concentrating on the GI hangouts and clip joints, Tapia quickly learned that Yardman had won a considerable amount of money and had stayed in Juarez for over a month. His winning streak was remembered by the dealers in the clubs he favored. There was talk that when he started losing. Yardman borrowed heavily to keep gambling, before dropping out of sight. Some people thought he was still in Juarez, hiding from a loan shark, while others reported he'd left town.

If he was still around, nobody knew where. After a long night, Eddie left the strip and walked through a working-class neighborhood. The casitas were small and packed tightly together along the street, but the sidewalks were clean and the houses well cared for. There were no whores, hustlers, or junkies in sight. He came to a small plaza with a gingerbread bandstand in the center, a wrought-iron fence around the square, and tall shade trees. He sat by the gate of an old hacienda with high, whitewashed adobe walls and watched the morning parishioners on their way to early mass. The church, with two tall spires and a bell tower, also painted white, gave the neighborhood a small-town feeling. Opposite the church, the largest building fronting the plaza was a converted general store that had been turned into a nightclub, restaurant, and gambling parlor. Lettered in Spanish on the door was the name of the establishment: the Little Turtle. It was open for business, and morning customers-mostly locals on their way to work-ducked in for a quick roll of the dice, a cup of coffee, or breakfast.

It was a relief to get off his feet. Eddie's muscles ached, and the straps around his shoulders had rubbed the skin raw. He wanted a shower, with lots of hot water and clean, dry towels. It would have to wait. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and checked the grime under his fingernails. Next to the gambling house was a boarded-up cantina. The two front windows were covered with plywood. On the sidewalk, padlocked to a streetlight, was a homemade food cart. It had automobile tires for wheels, a tin awning supported by metal brackets, and a screaming-pink paint job.

A stern voice interrupted Eddie's preoccupation. "Move on, jorobado. You cannot beg here." The policeman standing over Eddie had small eyes above full cheeks, thick jowls, and a head much too big for his body. A pencil-thin mustache under a fat nose drew attention to his crooked teeth. Eddie smiled, reached into his pocket for some bills, and held out his hand.

"Perhaps you would allow me to stay." The cop took the mordida. With the bribe transacted, he smiled at Eddie.

"What is your name?"

"Eddie."

"I am Dominguez." The cop was burly, broad chested and had a huge gut.

"You will not make much money this time of day."

"No matter," Eddie replied.

"I will rest for a while and be on my way." Dominguez nodded and rubbed Eddie's hump for luck.

"Don't stay too long," he warned, before lumbering away in the direction of the gambling house. Eddie watched Dominguez enter the nightclub. The door to the adjacent cantina opened and a man in a white apron hurried out carrying trays of food. He was a fair-skinned, blond gringo with a full beard that hid his face. Yardman was blond and the same size as the man in the apron. The man placed the trays in the cart and went back into the cantina. Soon a street vendor emerged, opened a compartment at the rear of the cart, and put a box inside. Then he removed the padlock and pushed the cart down the street. During the next half hour, carts arrived at the cantina on a regular basis and the same routine occurred.

The gringo brought the food, and the vendors stowed boxes in a compartment of each cart. To Eddie, it looked like the cantina was used to distribute more than just tacos to sell on the streets. He decided to get a closer look. He crossed the plaza, sat on the curb, and watched the next group of vendors. They stocked the carts with bags of marijuana and cocaine. "Get out of here, pendejo.

"The gringo was behind him. As Eddie hurried to his feet, the gringo kicked him in the butt and shoved him off the curb into the street, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. Keeping his temper, Eddie shuffled away, convinced the gringo wasn't Yardman. He decided to move on, find a telephone, and report in to Captain Brannon. Dominguez stopped him as he crossed the square.

"Did you have a problem with the gringo junkie?"

"Who?"

"Duffy. I saw him kick and push you." Dominguez shook his head. "That was wrong of him to do. I will tell Senor De Leon."

"Senor De Leon?"

"A very important man. Well connected. He owns the Little Turtle."

"Does he also own the cantina?"

"Of course. It is one of his businesses."

"There is no need for you to tell the senor," Eddie replied.

"You are wrong, my friend. If I do not tell him, someone else will, and I could lose a mordida I have come to depend on." Dominguez stopped at the corner.

"Will you come back?"

"Perhaps."

"I will look for you."

"I welcome your protection," Eddie said. *** Tom Curry sat at the conference table with Sara and an FBI agent named Johnson, a dour man with thin lips and a long, serious face, matched by a lanky frame. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie.

"Who found the body?" Johnson asked, tapping the tip of his pen on the desktop, prepared to take notes.

"An MP on patrol," Sara answered.

"He found tire tracks in a restricted area and followed them. Specialist Yazzi's body was in a cave, wrapped in a tarp. The back of his head was crushed. Possibly by a rock or some other blunt object. From the appearance of the body, Yazzi has been dead for some time. We have the area cordoned off." Johnson wrote a note and looked at his wristwatch.

"My people should be landing there right about now," he said.

"Was anything found with the body?"

"A sketchbook, his dog tags, and his wallet," Sara replied.

"Nothing else."

"I'll need those," Johnson said. Sara slid a manila envelope across the table. Agent Johnson picked it up and set it next to his elbow.

"Was there any indication that Yazzi was killed elsewhere and his body moved to the cave?" Johnson inquired.

"None that we could find," Sara answered.

"Weapon?" Johnson asked.

"We didn't find one."

"Suspects?" he inquired dryly.

"One possible," Sara noted.

"There was a vehicle accident in Rhodes Canyon yesterday. A state Game and Fish officer, Eppi Gutierrez, was killed by a rock slide He had been staying at an old ranch that's used by wildlife and conservation officers when they're on the range. It's approximately ten miles from where Yazzi's body was found." Johnson smirked.

"A dead suspect isn't much good. What do you know about Gutierrez?"

"The usual background information," Sara answered.

"He was a wildlife manager. Single. Never married. No military experience. No police record. No traffic tickets in the last five years. He held a degree in biology from New Mexico Highlands University. Started working for Game and Fish right after college. Had slightly over ten years on the job with steady promotions. I've ordered a deeper background check on him."

"Was anything found in the vehicle?" Johnson asked, writing in his notebook.

"We don't know that yet," Sara replied.

"His pickup is buried in rock from the slide. The site is under guard with instructions to leave everything as is until further orders. I'd like you and your people to look at it, if that's possible." Johnson nodded and closed his notebook.

"Be glad to."

"Excellent," Major Curry responded, rubbing a hand over his bald head. "Do you have any more questions. Agent Johnson?" Curry's eyebrows were almost an invisible white against his pale complexion, which made his eyes seem huge behind the reading glasses. There was no humor in his gaze. Johnson shook his head.

"Not right now." Curry stood up.

"Keep Captain Brannon informed."

"I'll be in touch," Johnson said, rising and reaching across the table to shake hands with the officers. As the door closed behind him, the smile dropped off Tom Curry's face.

"What in the hell are you doing. Captain?" Curry demanded, yanking off his glasses and leaning across the table.

"Sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me, Sara." He waved his glasses at her.

"I read the dispatcher reports every day, just like you do. Gutierrez's radio had the same locator chip that every MP unit on the base carries.

I know exactly where you were when you called and left that message for Sheriff Baca." She felt his rebuke like a slap across her face.

"Sir," she said weakly.

"You found that goddamn body. Do you know how serious it is for an officer to falsify official reports and order subordinates to lie for them?"

"Yes, sir, I do." She was numbed by Curry's criticism. He had every right to slam her.

"Will your people stick to the line of bullshit you fed to Johnson?"

"Yes, sir, they will." Tom got up from the conference table, walked to his desk, lowered himself into his chair, and stared at Sara across the room.

"I want to know why you did this."

She told him about the burglary, her conversation with PFC Tony, the phone call to Sergeant Steiner, and her suspicions about Meehan's involvement. Curry's look didn't soften.

"You would jeopardize your career because of some stupid rivalry with Jim Meehan, who doesn't have to operate by the rules? There'd better be more to this fuckup than that. Tell me exactly what happened at Big Mesa and Rhodes Canyon." Sara collected her thoughts.

"I can tell you how we found the body. Or I could start with Gutierrez's attempt to kill us." She paused. "But perhaps the major would like to hear about the two thousand gold and silver coins and the letters from President Grant we found."

Incredulity spread across Tom Curry's face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, stuffing the glasses into his shirt pocket.

"Start at the beginning. And just who in the hell is we?" *** "He had every right to jump down my throat," Sara concluded. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it and twisted her class ring. Kerney sat at the far end of Sara's couch, legs extended, feet crossed. His cowboy hat rested on the cushion, still dusty and slightly mangled-looking. He wore a collarless maroon pullover shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of blue jeans. Sara wondered if he owned anything but jeans. The shirt accentuated Kerney's well-formed upper body.

"I'm glad to see you're not feeling sorry for yourself." Gutierrez's inventory was in his shirt pocket, yet to be revealed.

"Don't be snide." Kerney blinked in surprise at Sara's reaction.

"I meant it as a compliment. What did Curry say?"

"I think my report dampened his enthusiasm to have me cashiered. I got off with an unofficial reprimand."

"Are you off the case?" In the act of taking a sip of her wine, Sara pulled the glass away from her lips.

"Um, no. Officially, the FBI has the ball. A special agent by the name of Johnson is heading up the investigation. Did you find anything in Santa Fe?"

Kerney grinned, took out the inventory, and waved it at her.

"Gutierrez mailed an interesting letter to himself. Care to guess what was in it?"

"Don't give me a hard time." She wiggled her fingers at him. "Come on, fork it over." Minutes passed after Kerney gave her the inventory before she peered at him over the edge of the paper.

"This is incredible."

"Three to four million dollars' worth of incredible," he replied. "I had an expert give me a rough estimate. There's more. I stopped at the historical museum in Truth or Consequences. They have archival material on the history of Fort McRae, a post that operated on the north end of the Jomada during the Indian Wars. According to the records, in the spring of 1873 a detachment left the fort with military supplies bound for Fort Stanton. The convoy was attacked as it entered the Tularosa Valley. Eight soldiers were killed, along with three scouts, and all the mules and horses were stolen."

Sara waited for Kerney to continue. He didn't. She prodded him.

"Is that all?"

"The entire supply train was sacked by a band of Warm Springs Apaches led by a chief named Victorio. Nothing was ever recovered."

"Does it match the inventory?"

"I don't know. That information wasn't available. The person I talked to said it was probably in old War Department records. But I think Gutierrez found the spoils of that raid."

"That's extraordinary," Sara said.

"If you're right, Gutierrez was moving the cache in stages."

"And we showed up during the last run," Kerney agreed.

She flicked the papers with a finger.

"But moving it where?"

"Gutierrez would need an agent to manage the sale. The best way to sell it without getting caught is to a foreign buyer."

"Where does that take us?"

"Juarez," Kerney said.

"We're only forty miles from the border. Mexico is too close not to be his first choice. Customs should be able to tell me who the big smugglers are. Chances are Gutierrez at least put out feelers in Juarez, trying to connect with somebody." Sara shifted position and started pulling at her ring.

"You're assuming the transaction hasn't been concluded."

"I am. The postmark on Gutierrez's letter is dated last week. His notes indicate that he sent some samples to a buyer to prove he was selling legitimate goods. Besides, why would Gutierrez have any inventory left if the deal had been consummated? It wouldn't make sense."