ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Page 4

  "Why don't you just report it to the local police?" Zack said. "Let them deal with it."

  "You still don't get it. If I report Manuel missing, they start askin' questions about who he is an' where he came from. One thing leads to another and first thing you know I got no workers."

  "I still––"

  "I think it all ties together somehow," Rufus said. "A worker gone, another in his place, a whole batch of 'em real tired one day––it feels like some kind ‘a plan goin' on. I'm real worried about Manuel. I know you can't do nothin', I'm just lookin' for advice."

  Zack sighed. He looked at his phone and brought up his schedule. "Tell you what. I don't leave until tomorrow. Dr. Apgar said she didn't need me any more. Suppose I pay a casual visit to the police in––where did you say? Santa Lupita? I'll pose a hypothetical scenario; see what they say. Give me a telephone number so I can call you and tell you what I learn. Fair enough?"

  "Hell, yeah. That's more'n I expected. Don't mention no names, though. George Barnard––he's the Chief over there––he knows me pretty well. If he finds out it's me he'll feel obligated to come down to the farm and start checkin' papers."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Zack used the GPS in his rental to find the Santa Lupita Police Station. It was on the corner of 10th and Obispo Street. He parked along the curb and followed the concrete walkway through a well-watered emerald lawn to a heavy hardwood door.

  Inside, the patrolman working dispatch checked his notes, nodded Zack right into the Chief's office.

  In the office, a man behind a desk stood to greet Zack. It took a long time to get his entire 6' 4" frame to his feet. The Chief was an older man, maybe late fifties. Despite a bit of middle-body spread, he looked strong and capable.

  Chief George Barnard frowned at Zack. "Hello, FBI Special Agent Zack Tolliver. What brings you to my little town all the way from Arizona? It's been my experience when an FBI agent from some other state ends up in my office, I got a boatload more work ahead of me."

  Zack grinned. "You can relax. I'm not here on official business."

  Barnard traded his frown for a smile and offered his hand. "In that case, have a seat. What can I do you out of?" He gestured toward a chair.

  Zack sat. His eye roved the room. He saw a framed series of black and white photos of historic town buildings on one wall. On another was a diploma from the police academy and a certificate for distinguished marksmanship with a rifle. A large map of Santa Lupita hung behind the desk.

  "In a way, I guess I'm on a mission to help out a local man," Zack said. "Just some questions, a fact-finding sort of thing."

  Barnard dropped into his chair. "Go on."

  "My questions concern farm workers."

  Barnard's chin came up. "You're not one of those bleeding hearts come to cure the migrant worker situation, are you?"

  Zack put up a palm. "I've got no agenda. It would help me to know how you handle workers out here."

  "How who handles workers? Each farm is a little different from the next. Everyone does it his own way."

  "Is there a standard in terms of pay or hours or benefits?"

  "Benefits? You mean like health insurance and stuff?"

  "For a start."

  Barnard laughed. "For a guy without an agenda, you go right for the jugular." He stood and walked to a file cabinet. "As it happens, I've got some recent numbers from a survey authorized out of Sacramento." He removed a thin booklet from a file. "I can tell you one thing before I even look. The answers to your question will differ. It depends on one factor: are the workers documented or undocumented. Here, for instance, it says 30% of documented male workers have some form of health insurance but only 15% of undocumented male workers have it. Only 17% of documented workers have employer-provided insurance."

  "So what do they do if––"

  "What do they do if they get sick? They can visit a clinic provided by California's Emergency Medi-Cal program or a program called WIC, a federally funded health and nutrition program. They'll take the undocumented ones, too."

  "Why don't employers have to cover all the workers?"

  "Because most of 'em work part time. The farms hire them for one specific job, say picking tomatoes. That job might last three months, if they're lucky. Then they move on to the next farm, the next crop, the next job, if there is one. Each employer hires them as part-time workers, so they aren't required to provide health insurance."

  "But 17% of them get it?"

  "Like I said, you got good bosses and you got not so good bosses. Some of the good ones work extra hard to re-train workers and keep 'em on for another crop or another job around the farm. Those bosses cover their health."

  "What about pay?"

  Barnard slapped the folder shut and returned it to the cabinet. "Well, most farms contract workers one of two ways: either by the hour or by the number of buckets or bags or whatever they pick that day."

  "Is there a minimum wage?"

  "Sure, but the worker seldom sees it. Say an onion producer offers eighty cents a person per sack. Working hard, a family of three can earn maybe sixty bucks a day. Divide that by three, its only twenty bucks a person. That's way below minimum wage, but the workers contract to do it that way, thinkin' they can make more money. They seldom do."

  Zack was mystified. "Are these owners just cruel? How can they do this to people?"

  Barnard walked to his chair, sank into it with a sigh. "It's the system. You try to keep the costs low to maintain or increase consumption so you can compete abroad. The costs to a farmer are set. They're consistent across the board, all except one–– the workers. They're the weak link in the chain. The lower the farmers can keep those wages, the lower the selling price, the better their chance to sell their product."

  "The workers don't protest? They don't strike?"

  Barnard's laugh was bitter. "Most of them don't speak English and half of them aren't educated beyond fourth grade. If you're undocumented, you don't want to draw attention to yourself. I'll guarantee you half of 'em don't even know who Cesar Chavez was or what he did." He glared at Zack. "So tell me, why this interest in farm workers?"

  Zack smiled. "I met a farmer this morning with a curious complaint. On the basis of what you just told me, I'd say he's one of the good bosses. At any rate, he knows his workers and cares for them. That's why he knows when things aren't right, and right now they're not. "

  "What do you mean not right?"

  "He's noticed that a worker disappears occasionally for a short time, yet the number of workers stays the same. No explanation, no reason. They seem to think the farmer won't notice."

  "Most farmers wouldn't," Chief Barnard said.

  "Yeah, that's what this guy implied. He lets it go because no one wants to explain it. He also said he has days when several of the workers arrive dead on their feet, again no explanation."

  Barnard jotted something down. He nodded for Zack to continue.

  "What's got him worried, a worker disappeared for a couple of weeks now. He happens to be a guy this farmer knows better than most. The man's wife is real upset. This farmer doesn't know why his workers disappear like they do but worries it's some kind of risky business. He thinks Manuel––that's the missing guy––may have come to harm."

  Chief Barnard glanced at his notes. "So what does Rufus think you can do about it?"

  Zack looked sheepish. "Guess I gave it away, didn't I? In answer to your question, I don't think he knows. I guess he hopes I'll come up with something."

  "And here you are."

  "Here I am."

  Barnard stood up behind his desk. "I know very well why Rufus didn't want his name mentioned. First, he doesn't want me rounding up his illegals. Second, he knows what's going on."

  Zack lifted an eyebrow.

  "He's set you up," Barnard said. "This is his way to get me to work on his problem." He turned to the map on the wall. "Look. This is Santa Lupita, where we are right now. Over here are hills with deep canyons
and steep cliffs leading down to the sea. Nobody goes there much, which makes it a good place to land a panga full of drugs from Mexico. I'll bet a year's wages that's where his workers go at night. They unload a boat and move the drugs to a safe place. No wonder they're tired in the morning."

  "And the missing guys?"

  "My best guess they may work as couriers or the like."

  Barnard's finger slid east across the map. "Say a Mex national comes up from Mexico in a panga. Now you got an illegal you got to hide. Where do you hide him? You hide him in plain sight, in the field with all the other Mexicans. Who's to know? At the same time, you pull one of the other workers to do other jobs for you."

  Zack whistled soundlessly. "That's impressive. Rufus noticed only because he's small and concerned about his workers."

  "You got it."

  "Now he's worried about Manuel, so he sets me up to report it to you."

  "Right again."

  "What will you do?"

  "Nothin'." Barnard shrugged at Zack's look. "It's outside my jurisdiction and Rufus damn well knows it. Even if it weren’t, I wouldn't find anything. Nobody would talk to me. They know they could expect swift retribution from the cartels."

  "The county sheriff?"

  "Got more important things to do than beat the woods for missing illegals." Barnard had a head of steam up. Time to go, Zack thought. He stood and offered his hand. "Thanks, Chief Barnard. I've taken a lot of your time. You've been straight with me, and I appreciate it."

  "What're you gonna do?" Barnard demanded.

  Zack laughed. "If all this is outside your jurisdiction, it's way, way outside mine. I'll just poke around a little in an informal way. I'm scheduled to fly home to Arizona tomorrow, so I can't do much. I just want Rufus to know I did what I could."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zack accepted Susan's invitation to dinner at the Inn. The weather was warm and the patio was open. They lingered over drinks before ordering. Zack was scheduled to fly to Las Vegas at nine the following morning. He'd left his truck in long-term parking at the airport there. He would drive several hours to his home near Page, Arizona.

  Susan would stay on. Her next lecture was at the University of California, Santa Barbara.

  "I wish you would help me with one or two more lectures," she said with a small beguiling pout. "You add reality to my abstract presentation."

  Zack smiled. "You don't need me. All I do is add a note of controversy."

  "It's important to move beyond the theoretical. These students have heads stuffed with theory; they simply snooze through mine."

  "I watched those kids today," Zack said. "They sure as hell weren’t snoozing."

  Susan looked amused. "You are a sweet man, but transparent. Yes, I know how much you want to get back to your family. How is Libby, by the way? And the little one?"

  Zack's expression warmed. "They're both fine. Libby would love to be out here with me, but little Bernie keeps her busy."

  "That's wonderful," Susan said. "You must be very happy."

  "Oh, I am. Libby's had her own kids before, but this is my first."

  Zack was about to say more when his cell phone rang. He glanced at it.

  "Sorry, Susan, I should take this."

  Zack was glad for the interruption. He felt awkward when Susan asked after his child, as she always did. Susan and Libby had become pregnant within months of each other. For Susan, the news seemed miraculous, a gift from her murdered lover, a final expression of his love from beyond the veil. But it didn't last––Susan miscarried in her third month.

  Zack stood and walked to the foyer. "Hello?"

  Chief Barnard's brusque voice sounded in his ear. "Thought you'd like to know they think they found the missing Mexican worker, Manuel."

  "Oh, that's good."

  "Well no, it's not. They found him dead."

  "Where?"

  "Some hikers stumbled over his body up in Los Padres National Forest. They reported it."

  "How did he die?"

  "He was shot."

  "Was it drug related, do you think?"

  "Yeah," Barnard said. "I'd say so. They found him in the middle of a marijuana grow."

  "I'm sorry for the man's family," Zack said. "But at least they know what happened now. Thanks for the info." Zack prepared to sign off.

  "Whoa there, partner," Sheriff Barnard said. "There's more."

  "Yeah?"

  "There's other blood near the scene. A lot of blood, but in a different place––so much blood that whoever left it couldn't have walked away."

  "No body?" Zack was fully engaged now.

  "If there is one, they can't find it."

  A dark memory stirred in far regions of Zack's mind, he pushed it away. "Sounds like you boys have your work cut out."

  "Agent Tolliver, when we met this afternoon you neglected to tell me the reason you came out here. I've done some back checking. I know what your, uh...specialties are."

  "Oh?"

  "I thought this case might interest you."

  Zack hesitated. "It does sound interesting, but there are a number of reasons a body might be missing."

  "Zack, here's the thing. Rick­­­­––that's Rick Malden, the forest ranger––knows his stuff. He found one set of tracks, the ones he followed to the blood pool. That's it."

  A distant warning bell sounded again in Zack's mind.

  "Agent Tolliver, you still there?"

  "Yeah, I'm still here. What does the ranger think happened?"

  "He's got no idea. It doesn't make sense to him." Barnard hesitated for a moment. "I know you got a flight in the morning. I'm headed up there right now. I could swing by the hotel and pick you up if you like..."

  "Uh, sure, why not? How soon?"

  "See you in twenty minutes." Barnard hung up.

  Zack grew excited despite himself. His mind buzzed with possibilities as he walked back to the table. When he reached it, Susan's chair was empty. He found a short note:

  "Sorry, Zack, I must prepare my presentation for tomorrow. Thanks for dinner. Please come by my room later tonight, I'd like to discuss more cooperative presentations.

  XXX Susan"

  Back in his room, Zack changed into a pair of jeans and trail shoes. He threw a jacket, water bottle and flashlight into a pack and went out front to wait for the sheriff. Five minutes later a patrol car with a City of Santa Lupita shield on the door pulled up. The car window rolled down.

  "Get in," commanded Barnard.

  Zack climbed into the seat and at once the cruiser accelerated. Chief Barnard flipped on the flasher lights.

  "We'll have no more'n a couple hours of daylight left," he explained. "Once it's dark, we can't do much."

  "No work lights at the crime scene?" Zack said.

  "Not where we're going. We'll have to walk the last half mile just to get there." He glanced at Zack. "Got a jacket with you?"

  "It's in my pack."

  "Good. It's 80 degrees now, but in another hour and three thousand feet higher it's gonna be a whole lot cooler."

  Zack leaned back in the comfortable seat. "Tell the truth, Chief," he said. "If I hadn't come to talk to you today, would you go to this crime scene?"

  Barnard gave a tight smile. "No. I got plenty to do in Santa Lupita. After our chat today, I feel it's important you understand where the illegal immigrant and drug trafficking problems meet." He gave a sidelong look at Zack. "That's not to say we don't help each other out around here. With cutbacks and all, there're not enough of us to do our jobs. No one's gonna be surprised when I show up." He grinned across at Zack. "You might surprise them, though."

  The patrol car roared over a highway bridge and at once the city streets evaporated, replaced by endless fields.

  "What happened to the city?"

  "Without these fields, there's no city," Barnard said. "You're looking at the life’s breath of the region, agriculture. This is Betteravia Road. It runs the length of the Santa Maria River valley, from Santa Lup
ita through Santa Maria and up the valley there. Betteravia Road may look like a city street in Santa Maria, but two thirds of it passes through AG fields."

  Barnard turned off the flashers. There were no cars here. "You know anything about this region?"

  "No," Zack said.

  "Not to bore you, but here's what you should know. We live and die by the moods of the Pacific Ocean. Where the Santa Maria River meets the sea, cool, damp air flows up the valley. Fog––we call it the marine layer––rolls in like smoke in the mornings and evenings, sometimes all the way up this valley and round the corner into the Sisquoc River valley. Yeah, we're in a semi-arid region, but the ocean keeps it more like a Mediterranean climate. There's nothin' won't grow here."

  Zack stared, took it all in. The beauty of his Arizona home was in the raw red cliffs and barren flat-topped mesas, rainbow hued sandstone, great jumbled rock formations––all bone dry. Here it was mile after mile of wide bottomland, green with produce. Ahead were naked mountain ridges sharp-edged with shadow from a sinking sun.

  Zack glanced over at the speedometer––eighty miles per hour. Barnard was a good driver. He alternated brake with accelerator smoothly when avoiding potholes, yet maintained his speed. The road ran arrow straight. When it seemed they must finally reach the mountains the road curved and followed the valley south. Here it narrowed and gold crested round hills encroached from the west.

  "These are the Solomon hills," Sheriff Barnard explained, "named for the Zorro bandit, Salomon Pico."

  "Speaking of criminals, what do you know about this crime scene?"

  Barnard grunted. "Not much. From the ranger's description, I'd guess a typical fall-out among cartels over a marijuana grow. Happens too often."

  Barnard braked and they turned off on a side road, across the width of the valley, over a dry riverbed, and up a steep river bench. The road entered a narrow valley among steep hills and carved its way along the hillside. Treeless slopes above them glinted gold in the late sun, cottonwoods guarded a tortuous creek below.