Mexican Hat

by Michael McGarrity

  “Don’t know why.”

  “What did you learn about Spence?”

  “Not much. He’s in his mid-thirties, supposedly from Louisiana, speaks fluent Spanish, and worked as a salesman. Moved out, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Any theories about what’s going on?” Kerney queried.

  Anderson shook his head. “I’ve said enough already. Maybe too much.” He put on his hat and gave Kerney a thin smile. “Be careful.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  Anderson drove away, and Kerney mulled over the new information. Maybe Juan had given him a bum steer about Leon Spence. Kerney dismissed the idea. Spence was smuggling, but it wasn’t drugs, as Anderson thought, and Mike’s reluctance to say more boiled down to one strong possibility: Spence was the target of an undercover investigation. It was the only possibility that made any sense.

  Kerney’s tail picked him up in Deming and stayed with him until he reached the trailer park on the outskirts of Reserve. The village had returned to a normal rhythm after the excitement of the morning; two people were talking outside of the bank, a few cars were parked in front of Cattleman’s, and a cowboy was gassing up a truck at the service station. In the parking lot of the sheriff’s office, all the squad cars were lined up in a neat row, joined by two state police units. Probably Gatewood had called a meeting.

  Across the street at the motel, done up as a mountain chalet with a frontier motif, he caught a glimpse of Alan Begay unloading canisters from the back of a Chevy Suburban. He went into a nearby grocery store and bought two pounds of sliced ham, before making the short drive to Steve Lujan’s house.

  The house, at the end of a lane, was somewhat isolated from the neighbors. Kerney saw no sign of activity in the homes he passed. The gate was locked, and the only vehicle inside the fence was the flatbed truck, parked between two mounds of unsplit wood.

  The barking German shepherd was off the leash. He backed up as Kerney drew near the gate and growled.

  “Come here, Loco,” Kerney called.

  The dog stopped barking, wagged his tail, and looked at Kerney expectantly. Kerney threw some slices of ham over the fence and watched. After wolfing down the treat, the shepherd approached, looking for more.

  “Good boy, Loco.” Kerney poked another slice through the gate slats, and the dog took it gently from his fingers. Then he followed along quietly as Kerney walked the outside fence perimeter to the back of the house.

  The existence of the fence and gate had raised Kerney’s interest. It made no sense to fence off firewood and landscape rock in a community where both were readily available. What else was Lujan protecting?

  Behind the house stood a metal toolshed and a storage building. A few truck tires, discarded engine parts, and a rusty oil drum were stacked against a wall of the shed. A patio deck jutted from the back door of the house and stopped at an unfinished rock wall. At the rear of the lot, two clothesline poles and a swing set, rusty and unused, stood in a bed of tall weeds. Part of the fence was covered by a massive thick vine, tangled and wild, that completely hid the river valley from view.

  Kerney called Loco to him and tossed him some more meat. “Are you going to let me climb the fence and take a look around?”

  Loco didn’t respond. He was too busy devouring the ham.

  As Kerney climbed the fence, Loco growled once, flopped down on the ground, and put his legs in the air for a tummy scratch. Kerney obliged and gave him the remaining ham.

  “Heel, Loco,” he ordered, hoping that Lujan had trained the shepherd to do more than bite on command.

  Loco took his station at Kerney’s side and meekly followed him to the toolshed. The building was locked, so he used his pocket knife to open the window latch. He climbed in and looked around. The shed contained several expensive chain saws, a set of stone chisels, and an excellent assortment of power tools, supplies, and hardware—all ordinary stuff.

  The storage building had a thick pine door as the only point of entry. It was secured by a deadbolt lock. It would take an old burglar’s trick to break in. While Loco stayed with him all the way, he got a truck jack from Lujan’s flatbed, placed it between the joists that framed the door, and cranked until he couldn’t ratchet it another notch. The joist sagged back enough to show a half inch of the bolt. He kicked the lock once and the door splintered free from the bolt, swinging on its hinges to reveal a room crammed with old Victorian furniture, including a four-poster bedstead, a carved chest of drawers with brass pulls and marble top, and an oak pedestal dining-room table with matching chairs. The rafters were covered in cobwebs, but the furniture had only a very thin coating of dust. It had been recently moved into storage, probably to make room for all the new stuff that filled Lujan’s house.

  After a quick search to make sure nothing else was missed, Kerney closed the door, wiped his prints from the doorknob and the jack, and went back to the flatbed. In the rear of the truck some of the wood chips, pine needles, and small twigs left over from Lujan’s last load were coated with a sticky substance. He picked up a chip. The underside was gritty to the touch. It was fresh-cut pine, grimy with rock granules, and smelling like motor oil. Lujan had recently hauled a machine with an engine that leaked, Kerney noted with satisfaction. None of the chain saws in the toolshed had a cracked casing, so it could have been that Lujan had hauled the ATV in his truck to the cabin.

  Kerney scratched Loco’s ear and thanked him for the tour, then climbed back over the fence.

  A sheriff’s patrol car pulled in behind him just as he was about to back away. Inwardly, Kerney groaned. If he got busted, he wasn’t sure how he could explain away the charges he faced. He killed the engine, put both hands in plain view on the steering wheel, and watched the deputy in his rearview mirror, waiting to see what kind of action the man would take. He relaxed when the officer walked casually to him with no hint of wariness.

  “Deputy,” he said, forcing a smile. It was the same man who had been waiting for him at his trailer the night he returned from dinner with Phil Cox and his family.

  “Sheriff needs to see you,” the deputy said, smiling in return. In his thirties, the officer had a football player’s thick neck, a body about to go to seed, rosy cheeks, and a nose that had been broken at least once.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hell if I know. You can follow me into town.” He looked at the locked gate. The German shepherd was barking loudly and sticking his snout in between the gate slats. “I don’t think the Lujans are home from work yet.”

  “I guess not. I’ll catch them later,” Kerney replied.

  “Where you been all day? I’ve been looking for you since this morning.”

  “Really?” Kerney answered.

  The deputy shrugged. “No matter. You’ve been found.” He walked to his patrol car, called in his discovery, backed out, and motioned for Kerney to do the same.

  THE MEETING with Gatewood consisted of the sheriff asking all the usual questions. In Omar’s cramped, cluttered office, Kerney watched Gatewood’s technique unfold. He talked about the “incident” at the trailer—a soft way to describe a murder bombing—and asked Kerney how well he knew Doyle Fletcher. Kerney answered directly, and Gatewood moved on, asking if he had encountered hostility from anybody during his investigation.

  “Not really,” Kerney replied.

  “Who did you talk to?”

  Kerney gave him an abbreviated list of names, and Gatewood wrote them down.

  “That’s not a lot of people,” Omar noted.

  “I didn’t have much time,” Kerney reminded him.

  “Too bad about you getting fired,” Omar said with false sympathy. “Do you think the bombing was tied to your investigation?”

  “What do you think?” Kerney countered.

  “It could be. Or maybe you just pissed somebody off.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been around long enough to make any enemies on my own account.”

  “Some people don’t need a lot of tim
e to piss folks off. And working for the Forest Service is enough of a reason for some folks not to like you,” Gatewood replied with a slow grin.

  “Do you have particular folks in mind?”

  “None in particular.” Gatewood leaned back in his chair and stared down his nose. “So tell me something: what’s keeping you here?”

  “Inertia.”

  “No lady friend?”

  Like maybe Fletcher’s wife, Kerney thought. “No,” he answered.

  “Maybe a lady with a husband or boyfriend?” Omar nudged.

  “No.”

  “Mind telling me where you were last night?”

  “I stayed with Jim Stiles and his girlfriend.”

  Gatewood looked disappointed. “They’ll vouch for you?”

  “I don’t see why not. Do you have any leads at all?”

  “Not on the bombing, but we have a small break on the Padilla case,” Gatewood answered, getting to his feet and walking to the office door. “The state police got a tip on that ATV you were looking for. Damn thing was stashed in an old Forest Service cabin up in the Mogollon Mountains. The tires match the tread evidence at the Elderman Meadows crime scene.”

  “Ownership?” Kerney inquired.

  “Stolen about two years ago in Las Cruces.” Gatewood held the office door open. “But we might get lucky if the lab boys can lift some prints. You’ll stick around for a few days, won’t you? Just in case we need to talk some more?”

  “I will,” Kerney replied, joining Gatewood at the door. “Carol Cassidy told me you have a militia group operating in the county. Do you have any intelligence on them?”

  Gatewood guffawed. “The militia is nothing more than a bunch of sword-rattling good old boys who like to play soldier.”

  “No political agenda?” Kerney prodded.

  “Of course they have an agenda. Some time back they circulated—what do you call it?—a manifesto. They want the feds out of Catron County and the land returned to the people.”

  “Sounds like a good place to start,” Kerney suggested.

  Gatewood’s eyes narrowed. “You just love to tell me how to do my job, don’t you? For your information, I know every mother’s son in the organization, and I’ve been talking to them on the telephone all day long. Nobody knows nothing.”

  “Seems like you’ve covered all the bases,” Kerney said as he left Gatewood.

  ALAN BEGAY was in his motel room when Kerney knocked.

  “You didn’t get a key?” he asked, when he opened the door.

  “No. I’m not staying. I just stopped by to thank you for your offer.”

  “No sweat, man. Come in, if you can stand the mess.”

  The room had camping equipment strewn all over it. There were half a dozen large ice chests stacked in a corner along with boxes filled with bottles of nitric acid, filters, and unused plastic sample jars. A portable water pump and battery sat on the desk next to an assortment of meters and probes. The bed was strewn with maps, cameras, and lab report forms. At the foot of the bed were a pair of wading boots, a face shield, a lab coat, and lab gloves.

  “Tools of the trade,” Begay said, as Kerney looked around. He cleared some papers off a chair and perched on the end of the bed. “Have a seat.”

  Kerney sat.

  “You’ve got some questions you want to ask me?”

  “Why do you think I have questions?”

  “Because it was pretty dumb of me to be showing off this morning,” Begay replied. “Made me look suspicious. I figured you’d want to at least check me out.”

  “I already have checked you out. I called your boss in Gallup.”

  “And?”

  “You’re a choir boy, according to your boss.”

  Begay laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Sure, he said that. If I’m such an upstanding citizen, what are you doing here?”

  “You spend a lot of time in the backcountry. Maybe you’ve seen something.”

  “A lot of beautiful country and a few pissed-off ranchers is about all I see.”

  “What about official personnel?”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Steve Lujan.”

  Begay nodded. “I know him. He works with Amador Ortiz. But I don’t see him when I’m in the mountains.”

  “Anybody on an ATV?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who have you seen on this trip?”

  “Just one guy I never met before. I was working on the Negrito Creek last week, checking for mercury and zinc seepage from an old silver mine. He was at one of the private ranches in the Gila.”

  “Doing?”

  “He didn’t say. He flew in. The owner has a landing strip. I was half a mile downstream when the plane came over, so I hiked in to see what was up.”

  “It wasn’t the owner?”

  “No. This guy was much younger. In his thirties. The owner is an insurance millionaire from Detroit. Older man. Fifty-something, at least.”

  “You’ve met the owner?”

  “Yeah, once, when he was out for an elk hunt.”

  “Tell me about the stranger.”

  “Like I said, mid-thirties, six feet, maybe a hundred and eighty. Blond hair with no sideburns. Pale complexion. The guy didn’t look like he spent much time outdoors. Didn’t say much. Talked with a real thick southern accent.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “No, I didn’t. He was kinda huffy about me being there. I had to show him my ID.”

  “Thanks, Alan. You’d make a good police officer.”

  Begay grinned. “Think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Alan shook his head. “I’ll stick to protecting natural resources. From what I saw of your trailer, it’s a lot safer than being a cop.”

  Kerney laughed. “How about helping a cop for a few minutes?

  “What do you need?”

  “How well do you know Steve Lujan?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Would he recognize your voice on the telephone?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Good. Thirty minutes after I leave I want you to call him and say that you saw someone breaking into the shed behind his house this afternoon. Keep it simple. Give him the message and hang up. Will you do that for me?”

  “You want me to tell him what?” Begay asked, giving Kerney a quizzical look that didn’t completely mask a half-formed smile.

  Kerney carefully repeated the message he wanted delivered.

  “Did the break-in really happen?” Alan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it, but where will you be when I call him?”

  “I’ll be watching to see what Steve does.”

  “That’s sneaky.”

  “That’s police work,” Kerney corrected.

  DUSK CAME, and Kerney wondered if he had completely missed the boat about Steve Lujan. From a fire road in the hills behind the valley he watched Lujan’s house through binoculars, waiting for Steve to make a move.

  There were a few kids still riding bikes up and down the lane, popping wheelies in the dirt and practicing stunts, and Lujan’s nearest neighbor had a barbecue grill going, but that was the extent of activity in the small collection of homes sprinkled in the valley west of the river.

  At the Lujan residence, the Pontiac and Ford Bronco were parked inside the open gate. Lights burned inside the house, Loco was on his chain in the front yard, and there were occasional shadowy movements in the windows as people moved about. Finally, the kitchen went dark, a sure sign dinner was over. Ten minutes later, Lujan hurried out the front door, got into the Bronco, and drove away.

  Kerney followed, staying a quarter mile back. Lujan traveled through Reserve to the state road that ran down to Glenwood and on to Silver City. Kerney kept an eye out for a tail behind him, but the road was dark and empty.

  Lujan passed through Glenwood and didn’t slow down again until he reached the turnoff for the Leopold Vista Historical Monument, a wayside rest
stop on the highway dedicated to the man who had established the Gila Wilderness.

  Kerney watched the taillights of the Bronco make the turn and disappear behind the low hill that concealed the monument from the highway. With only one entrance, Kerney couldn’t follow without being detected. He got a microcassette recorder from the glove box and left the truck far enough back from the entrance to avoid suspicion, parked in deep shadows under a cottonwood tree. He jumped the highway fence and walked around the hill to the back of the monument. The site faced a sweeping vista of mountains to the east, and was nothing more than a large parking lot with a sign that told about Aldo Leopold and the Gila. During the daytime, tourists could whip off the highway with camera in hand, snap a picture, and be on their way in fifteen minutes.

  Three vehicles were in the lot: Lujan’s Bronco, an expensive RV towing a compact car, and a light-colored Chevy Caprice, with the parking lights on.

  Hunkered down, Kerney memorized the license number of the Caprice and watched.

  At the RV, a man packed up a folding card table and some chairs while his wife waited inside the vehicle. The Bronco and the Chevy, at opposite ends of the lot, showed no signs of movement. Almost nervously, the man at the RV lashed the table and chairs to the back of his vehicle, hopped inside, fired up the engine, and drove away.

  Lujan got out of the Bronco and started walking toward the Chevy. The driver cranked the motor, turned the Chevy directly at Lujan, flipped on the high beams, and froze him in the glare. Lujan yanked a hand over his eyes so he could see against the light.

  A man’s figure emerged from the car and stood behind the open door. Kerney turned on the recorder.

  “What’s so goddamn important?” the man said.

  “I told you what happened,” Lujan answered, moving closer.

  “Yeah, you did. So what? Go home, call the sheriff, and report the break-in. That’s all you have to do.”

  “No,” Lujan countered. “I’ve had it. This is too fucking much. People breaking into my house and everything.”

  The man laughed. “You sorry son of a bitch, they broke into your storage shed, for chrissake, not your house.”

  “Same thing.”