A Flower in the Desert (35 page)

“He probably lied, too, about receiving a message from Melissa. We know she sent at least two postcards toward the end of September, and probably both on the same day, the twenty-third. One to Cathryn, one to her mother.”

“And probably one to Edie Carpenter,” I said. “I think she was lying about not hearing from Melissa.”

“And probably one to Hatfield.”

“But if Hatfield already had a postcard from Melissa, if he already knew she was in Santa Fe, or at least in New Mexico, it doesn't matter whether Cathryn called him.”

“Of course it does. If all the card said was ‘
The flower in the desert lives,
' then it didn't tell Hatfield where Melissa might be. It told him only, from the postmark, that she was somewhere near Santa Fe.”

I nodded. “And there was a possibility that Cathryn might know more. So as soon as she called him, told him she'd heard from Melissa, she put herself in jeopardy.”

She nodded, sipped at her tea. “And let's not forget that Maria Vasquez and Father Cisneros were killed because someone informed on Maria. Someone notified someone in El Salvador that Maria was leaving.”

“But if was Hatfield, why didn't the death squad that went to Cisneros's house pick up Melissa, too? They never searched the place.”

“Perhaps Hatfield never mentioned Melissa's name. Perhaps he simply said that Maria Vasquez was preparing to leave.”

I shook my head, dubious. “I don't know, Rita.”

“All right. We'll forget about Hatfield informing on Melissa and Maria. For now. But you'll admit that he's most likely the one who informed on Cathryn.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He looks good for that. But why would he do it?”

“Who knows? Money, possibly. We don't need motive, Joshua. We're not a court of law. Let's suppose it went something like this—Hatfield receives a postcard from Melissa sometime toward the end of September. Then Cathryn calls him and tells him that she's heard from Melissa. Hatfield notifies someone in El Salvador, and they send up the two men you saw yesterday.”

She sipped at her tea. “Let's suppose that someone in the American government learns about this. Learns that Melissa has been located somewhere near Santa Fe, and that the Salvadoran government is sending up an assassination team. There are Americans all over El Salvador. Military advisers. Intelligence agents. Maybe someone in the Salvadoran government leaked the plan to one of them.”

“But if someone in the American government wanted Melissa removed, why didn't he just let the Salvadorans do it for him?”

“As I say, maybe they wanted only to contain her. Neutralize her somehow. Maybe they decided to find her before the Salvadorans tried to kill her. What if the Salvadorans botched the job? Then the American government would have not only the embarrassment of Melissa, but the further embarrassment of a foreign assassin attempting to kill an American citizen on American soil.”

“So they, whoever they are, send Stamford to L.A. And he gets there before the Salvadorans do, and he starts asking his questions.”

“And then Cathryn is killed, and the police find the New Mexico postcard, and Stamworth comes out here.”

“You're always telling me that I'm too easily inclined toward speculation, Rita. Isn't it pure speculation, all of this?”

“We're trying to construct a scenario that accepts all the facts as we know them. And this scenario, as you like to put it”—she smiled—“it fits.”

“Maybe. One thing's been bothering me. Why didn't the Salvadorans take the postcard from Cathryn's house, after they killed her? It was a lead to where Melissa might be.”

“From Hatfield's point of view, and probably from the Salvadorans', the postcard wasn't important. If I'm right, Hatfield knew that there were at least two postcards, the one he'd received and the one Cathryn had received. He had no idea how many others Melissa had sent. There could've been twenty or thirty of them.”

“Why didn't the Salvadorans go to Melissa's mother? She got a postcard from Melissa.”

“But neither Hatfield nor the Salvadorans could know that. And Hatfield couldn't contact her without drawing attention to himself. Neither could the Salvadorans. Melissa's mother lives a relatively public life. And she has servants. Cathryn lived alone.”

I sat back. “Okay,” I said. “It fits. So what do we do about it?”

Rita had an idea.

Twenty-Seven

M
R. HATFIELD
?”

“Yes?”

“This is Joshua Croft.”

“Sorry?”

“Joshua Croft. From Santa Fe. I've been trying to locate Melissa Alonzo?” I looked down at Leroy's little black box, beside the telephone. The green light was off. The line was tapped. But I'd already known that—I'd arranged for it myself.

“Yes, yes,” said Hatfield. “Of course. Croft. Good to hear from you. How are you?”

“Fine. I apologize for bothering you on a weekend.”

“Not at all, not at all. No rest for the wicked, eh? Back in New Mexico, are you? Had any luck with your quest?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have. I've heard from Melissa.”

“Good Lord. Have you indeed? Is she all right?”

“She seems to be.”

“Thanks heavens for that.” Hatfield was good. There was nothing in his voice but relief and pleasure.

But maybe that was all he felt. Maybe Rita and I were wrong.

“Where is she?” Hatfield asked me.

“She wouldn't say. She's nearby, here in Santa Fe, but she's being cautious. That's why I'm calling you. She won't meet with me unless I can prove I'm who I say I am. I need something from you, a piece of information, anything. Something I can give to Melissa to show her that I've been in contact with you, and that you're working with me on this. She trusts you. She'll be calling me back at two thirty.”

There was a pause. Then: “Well, you know, old man, no offense, but I'm not entirely sure I should do that. After all, I've only your word myself that you
are
who you say you are.”

He was good. Or Rita and I were wrong.

“Mr. Hatfield,” I said, “I can provide you with the name of a lawyer here in Santa Fe who'll verify what I told you in Los Angeles. I can also provide you the name of a high-ranking Santa Fe law enforcement official.”

“Well, look” he said. “Why don't we just do this. Why don't you tell Melissa to give me a jingle? That way, she and I can chat for a bit, I can get the lay of the land.”

“I suggested that. She wants to do it this way. I don't know why.”

“Hmmm. Puts me in a bit of a spot, doesn't it.” He was silent for a moment. “All right. You're on, Croft. Got to think of Melissa, don't we. Let's see … Hmmm … Got it. Perfect thing. Tell her about Jorge Mirandez. Tell her that Jorge Mirandez's second wife, Sophia, says hello.”

“She'll know what that means?”

He chuckled. “Oh yes. Mexican chap. Brought his wife and kids over, applied for a residence visa. Week later, his other wife shows up, with another set of kids. Turns out he was a bigamist. Both wives knew about each other. Took turns watching the children. Extraordinary. Melissa handled the paperwork. She and I had a laugh or two. She'll know what it means.”

“Fine. That's exactly what I need. I'm very grateful, Mr. Hatfield.”

“Not at all. Glad to help. Wonderful news. Give Melissa my love, would you? Have her get in touch when she can.”

“I'll do that. Thanks again.”

“Nothing. Bye now.”

“Goodbye.”

I hung up and turned to Hector Ramirez. “He bought it.”

Sitting across the room at the end of my sofa, Hector nodded. “A high-ranking law enforcement official? Who would that be, exactly?”

“You got promoted. When do the L.A. cops call you?”

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. He was in shirtsleeves again, a pale yellow shirt with thin gray pinstripes that matched his gray silk tie. “Soon as he makes a move,” he said.

“I hope the bastard doesn't call from a pay phone.”

“He may not call them at all.”

“Right. Look on the bright side.”

“All we can do is wait, Josh.”

“Yeah. I know, Hector.”

I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes after one.

It was Sunday. Yesterday afternoon, Rita had persuaded Hector to arrange all this. He'd spent most of the evening trying to persuade Sergeant Bradley, in Los Angeles, to go along. Bradley had been reluctant; there was no real evidence linking Hatfield to Cathryn Bigelow's death. But finally he'd agreed to look for a judge willing to sign a court order authorizing a one-day tap on Hatfield's phone. He'd found one this morning.

Outside, the sun was shining. The air was warm. Most of the snow had melted, but water still dripped from the Russian olive by the window.

“Cards?” Hector suggested.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I got up from the leather chair, walked across to the bookcase, lifted the small wooden turntable that held the cards and the chips, carried it over to the coffee table, set it there. Hector slid out a deck, began shuffling the cards as I maneuvered the leather chair to the table.

He said, “The whites are fifties, the blues hundreds, and the reds five hundreds.”

“And you're going to make good on your bets.”

“Got to,” he said. He smiled. “I'm a cop.”

The telephone rang.

I crossed the room, lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Sergeant Ramirez.” A gruff voice I didn't recognize.

I brought the phone over to Hector, handed it to him, sat down in the chair.

“Ramirez,” he said into the speaker. He listened for a moment, then said, “Right … Right. Let me know.”

He hung up the receiver, set the phone on the end table, beside the two radio transceivers. “Hatfield just left his house. Driving. He didn't make any calls.”

I frowned. “Terrific.”

Hector shrugged. “Someone's on him now. We'll see where he goes.”

“If he uses a pay phone, we won't be able to nail him on this.”

“We'll nail him,” Hector said. He spoke with the same certainty I'd heard in my own voice when I told people that I would find Melissa Alonzo. So far I hadn't found her.

He slapped the deck to the table. “Cut.”

We played five-card stud. After ten minutes, Hector was into me for three hundred and fifty dollars.

The phone rang. Hector handed it to me. I lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

“Ramirez.” The same voice.

I gave the phone to Hector. Once again, he listened. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks. Forget this phone number. Anything happens at that end, call it to the other number. They'll patch it through to me. And tell Sergeant Bradford I said thanks. Tell him I'll get back to him.”

He hung up the phone, returned it to the end table, looked at me. “He used a phone at a Seven-Eleven.”

“So we're on,” I said.

He nodded. He picked up one of the transceivers, fiddled with some buttons, held it to his mouth. “Diego?” he said. “You out there?”

A rattle of static, and then a thin voice came rasping from the transceiver's speaker: “Yo, Sarge.”

“It's a go,” Hector said. “You set?”

“Sure,” came the gravelly voice. “Hey, Sarge. How come we don't get to be like Alpha One and Charlie Two and like that? That's the way Schwarzenegger would of done it.”

“Diego?”

“I know. Cut the shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You got no sense of humor, Sarge.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“You got it.”

Hector fiddled with the buttons again. “Monahan?”

More static, then: “Got you, Sarge.”

“You heard?”

“Yeah. We're ready.”

“Okay.”

“Mendez,” Hector said.

“Yeah.” The voice of the state police officer sounded bored and flat.

“You people ready?”

“Yeah. This better work.”

“I'll let you know when Croft leaves.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Hector punched some buttons, put the transceiver on the end table.

Half an hour later, Hector was into me for $4300. He was showing a six of clubs and a three of hearts. I was showing a pair of tens and my hole card was the ace of hearts. “Pair of tens bets fifty,” I said, tossing a chip into the kitty.

“See that,” Hector said, and tossed in a chip.

“Hector,” I said. “You're already beat on the board.”

“And up fifty,” he said, tossing in another chip.

“Maybe you'd be interested in this bridge I've been trying to sell.”

“Deal the cards.”

I dealt. Ace of spades for Hector, three of spades for me. I tossed in two chips. “A hundred,” I said.

Hector picked up a red chip, tossed it into the kitty. “And up four.”