The Sinister Pig - 15 (14 page)

George’s voice said: “Yes, sir.”

“Get Budge,” Winsor said. “Tell him to call me. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him to get the plane set for El Paso and then into Mexico. Then get me packed for four or five days. With walking shoes.”

“Yes, sir,” the houseman said.

Winsor sat back in his chair, shook his head, and muttered: “One damned thing after another.” He picked up his“congress” file, opened it, and reread the fax Haret had sent him. The congressman from Oregon causing trouble as usual, their bought-and-paid-for Midwestern congressman forgetting why Winsor had financed his campaign and saying nothing helpful, and the marijuana bill undefeated, merely tabled for further consideration. A bad time to be leaving Washington.

A flash of reflected sunlight caught his attention. It came from the glass eye of the Bengal tiger head in the trophy room. He shut the folder, picked up the photographs from New Mexico, and looked at the little procession of oryx Officer Manuelito had photographed. Scimitar-horned oryx, he remembered, and the horns they carried justified the name. He’d take a rifle along. If he had time to shoot that big one, he’d use it to replace the head of the lion he’d shot in Kenya. It wasn’t a very impressive lion and the trip hadn’t been one that produced any happy memories.

He didn’t expect any happiness out of this one, either. But he had to make it, to quit counting on others to get a [130] job done. He’d handle it himself, with Budge there to lend a hand if needed. No way to guess what he’d find at the Tuttle Ranch. But if things were going bad there, or at the Mexican end of that project, he’d have to fix them. Otherwise it wouldn’t matter much what happened in that congressional committee. Or at the bank.

Even before responding to Bernie’s “welcome home,” even while putting her overnight bag in the entry closet, Eleanda Garza was giving Bernie curious looks. Then she followed Bernie into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she said. “I heard you made a bust of illegals. All by yourself. And I heard you sort of bent the rules some by taking risks. Is that right?”

Bernie was not in the mood this morning for any sort of criticism. “Risks?” she said. “A mother, two kids, and an old man. And a brother-in-law. A citizen who came out to get them after the coyote dumped them.”

Eleanda raised a hand, laughed. “OK. OK. You did just what I would have done. I kept doing it until one day I got shot at. After that I’d call a backup even if it was an old lady in a wheelchair carrying a baby.”

“All right then,” Bernie said. “Sorry I sounded so grouchy. You think Mr. Henry will get on me about this?”

[132] “You betcha. But if this is the first time he got on you about something it’ll just be about a five-minute lecture. Little bit of finger shaking, and a couple of ‘Goddammits,’ and a ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ Will this be the first time on the carpet?”

“Well,” Bernie said. “I guess so. But he called me in about getting onto the Tuttle Ranch. I didn’t know we had that special deal with them.”

Eleanda’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t either. What deal?”

“Mr. Henry said they do our work for us on the ranch. You know, tipping us off if illegals show up. Sort of unofficially holding them until we come to the gate and take custody. And in return we don’t go in their hunting preserve, or get nosey if they have their rich Mexican business friends in there on hunting trips.”

Eleanda had taken orange juice out of the refrigerator and was pouring herself a glass. “Nobody told me about that,” she said. “But maybe because it’s sort of, shall we say, semi-illegal. Or an exception not provided for by the statutes.” She laughed. “One of those arrangements that takes days of writing reports if the wrong people hear about it.”

“Eleanda,” Bernie said, “why would Mr. Henry want to take a picture of me?”

Eleanda looked surprised. “I can’t imagine. When did that happen?”

“I took some photos out at the Tuttle place. Oryx, and the Mexican truck I followed in there, things like that. And Mr. Henry told me to turn them over to him. And then he said he had to have a photo of me. And he took one.”

Eleanda shook her head. “Maybe because he likes [133] your looks. You’re a good-looking woman. But, really, I don’t know. Didn’t he say.”

“Just that he needed it.”

Eleanda was studying Bernie over her glass of orange juice. “You’re worried about this?”

Bernie debated what to tell Eleanda, noticed the woman’s concern, decided to tell her everything.

“This man who was picking up the illegals. Delos Vasquez. The dispatcher said someone of that name might have worked for the dopers at Agua Prieta. He said he recognized me. That they had a picture of me at Agua Prieta.”

“Who had it?”

“He said people in the drug trade. Said he’d driven for them a while and then quit because he was afraid of them.”

Eleanda was thinking, frowning. She nodded. “He was trying to make a hit on you, Bernie. You’re a good-looking woman. Most likely, he just made it up. Or it could have been a picture of someone else.”

“He said he thought he recognized me right away, and then he knew it was me because of that little silver pin of mine. Big Thunder. I had it on my shirt collar. And I was wearing it when Henry took the picture.”

“On your uniform shirt?”

Bernie nodded.

“I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”

“Henry told me it was against the rules to wear jewelry on duty.”

“But you had it on yesterday.”

“It’s for good luck,” Bernie said.

Eleanda finished the orange juice. Looked pensive. [134] “Why would they hand your photo around among the coyotes at Agua Prieta. Did this Vasquez explain that?”

Bernie looked embarrassed. “He said they were supposed to be on the lookout for me. Be afraid of me.”

Eleanda considered this, abruptly reached a decision.

“Have you talked to Sergeant Chee about this? If you haven’t you should.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a cop with a lot better connection than us. See if he can find out what’s going on.”

Bernie didn’t respond to that.

“Have you told Henry about it?”

Bernie shook her head.

“I wouldn’t. He’s the one who took the picture, and I sometimes think ... Well, I’m not sure about him. Call your sergeant. See what he thinks.”

“He’ll think I’m silly.”

“He won’t,” Eleanda said. “And if you don’t call him, I will.”

Bernie stared at her, bit her lip.

“Honey, time to get smart. That man hurt your feelings. But he really likes you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bernie said. “He also likes stray cats, and retarded kids, and ...”

“OK, then. I’ll call him.”

Bernie grimaced. “OK then. But if you think it’s something dangerous we should know more about, call Joe Leaphorn. He’s retired, but he knows everybody. He’d do what he could.”

And so, Bernie gave Leaphorn’s number to Mrs. Garza.

Leaphorn was out in his driveway searching his car for a notebook he had left somewhere.

“Joe!” Louisa Bourbonette shouted. “Telephone.”

“Can you take a number. Tell ’em I’ll call ’em. I want to find these notes.”

“It’s long distance. A woman named Garza. From Rodeo, wherever that is.”

Leaphorn hustled up the walk, said thanks, took the phone, said, “This is Joe Leaphorn.”

“I’m Eleanda Garza. A Customs patrol officer with the Border Patrol. And I’m Bernadette Manuelito’s housemate. I think you’re a friend of hers.”

“I am,” Leaphorn said. “Is she all right?”

“Fine. Just homesick and lonesome. But she had some information she wanted me to pass along to you.”

Mrs. Garza thereupon started at the beginning. Bernie taking the pictures at the Tuttle Ranch of the exotic [136]animals and the work project. Ed Henry, her supervisor, telling her she had violated an arrangement Customs had with the ranch, described the arrangement, described Henry photographing Bernie, told of Bernie arresting the four illegals and their driver and how the driver had recognized Bernie—telling her that drug operators in Agua Prieta had copies of the photo Henry had taken, and they had the idea that Bernie was some sort of special agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency.

Halfway through this account Leaphorn sat himself on the car’s fender, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Any questions?” Mrs. Garza asked.

“Not until you’re finished,” he said.

“I am.”

“OK. How do you know Mr. Henry took the photograph?”

Garza explained.

“And these illegals, were they in the drug traffic?”

“The driver told Bernie he had been, in a minor way. Some driving for them but he’d been afraid, and quit.”

“How about the other four?”

She described them with names, and their reasons for immigrating after failing to find work at the old smelter.

“That smelter. At San Pedro de los Corralitos, I think you said. You know anything about that?”

“Not much. I think it was running all through World War II when the price was so high and then on into the 1960s until the price went down. And the old man, Mr. Gomez, said there were rumors it was reopening and hiring people. I had heard those rumors, too. My aunt wrote me about them way last year. She said everybody thought there would be jobs again, but nothing was happening.”

[137] “You have family down there?”

Mrs. Garza laughed. “I have family all over Sonora. Garzas, and Tapias, and Montoyas. I was a Tapia, and my great-uncle Jorge Tapia, he ran one of the furnaces there at San Pedro de los Corralitos for Anaconda when they had the smelter. But then they sold it to Phelps Dodge and he got laid off. But that was when I was a little girl. Now my aunt said another company had bought it, and everybody thought the mine there would open again and the smelter would be hiring. But no.” Mrs. Garza paused, inhaled, sighed.

“That didn’t happen?”

“She said a crew came in to dig up part of that old gas line and fixed it up. One of my nephews did some of the dirt moving. But they brought in their own pipeline people to do the technical work. And the jobs just lasted a few weeks.”

“All they were doing was fixing a pipeline?”

“He said they replaced some of the broken windows in a storage building. Cleaned up stuff. Things like that.”

“What can you tell me about the pipeline?”

“All I know about that is it must be the one that brought in the gas for the fires in the smelter. To melt down the ore. Or whatever they do. My aunt said people were happy about that. What would they need gas for if they weren’t going to get the smelter going again?” She sighed once more.

“One final question. Do you know I’m retired. Not with the police anymore? Why are you telling me this?”

“How do I answer that?” Garza said. “I guess I just tell you the truth. I told Bernie she should call her Sergeant Chee, her former boss, and see if he could figure out what [138] it was all about. But she wouldn’t call him. Said you knew everybody in law enforcement out here. You’d be better, and you’d be willing to help.”

“I will help if I can,” Leaphorn said.

“I also think Bernie would be happy if you passed all that information along to her sergeant.”

“I’ll do that,” Leaphorn said.

“Oh,” Garza said. “But don’t tell him I said Bernie said you’d be better.”

“I won’t,” Leaphorn said.

And that was pretty much the end of the conversation. Leaphorn slid off the fender and rubbed his ear.

Louisa reached for the phone.

“Thanks,” Leaphorn said, but he kept the telephone.

“You said you’d help if you could. How?”

“I don’t know,” Leaphorn said.

“And what do you mean, just saying ‘Thanks’? What was that all about? Is Bernie all right? From the way you were looking, it sounded pretty serious.”

“I don’t know,” Leaphorn said. “Maybe it is.” And he told Louisa why he thought so.

“I think you should do something about this,” Louisa said. “If you can think of what in the world you can do. At least tell Jim Chee about it.”

“Leaphorn was punching keys on the cell phone. “I’m doing that now,” he said. But he stopped dialing.

“Louisa, you’re good at finding the stuff I’m always misplacing. Now I’ve got to find what I’ve done with some old maps. U.S. Geological Survey, or Bureau of Indian Affairs, or maybe Bureau of Land Management, or Department of Energy. I remember having at least two that showed major pipeline routes and one of them even [139] included lines where the government had granted easements for pipeline rights.”