“Let me check my social calendar,” Gastner replied. He glanced quickly at his wristwatch. “Sure. Why not?”
Estelle turned toward the door in time to nearly catch it in the face as Ernie Wheeler thrust it open.
“Pasquale is down near Maria,” he said quickly. “He’s got a vehicle stopped on Sixty-one, and wants a female officer.”
“Tell him we’re on our way.”
Gastner remained silent as they settled into the unmarked Crown Victoria that Estelle favored. They were just pulling out of the parking lot when the radio crackled.
“Three ten, three oh six.”
Estelle gestured at the mike, and Gastner picked it up. “Three ten is just leaving the parking lot,” he said. “ETA about eleven minutes.”
“Ten-four.” Pasquale’s perfunctory reply. “We’re at the junction of the power line service road and Sixty-one. PCS, I need wants and warrants on New Mexico one three three Echo Baker Nora.”
By the time Ernie Wheeler repeated the number, the underpass of the interstate loomed ahead of them, with the sharp left-hand curve to State 61 just beyond.
“No telling what HotRod Pasquale is up to,” Gastner commented. “Although he’s never let the gender barrier slow him down before.”
“No telling,” Estelle said. She nudged the accelerator and they shot under the interstate.
“Maria has gotten to be a popular place all of a sudden,” Gastner said. “It lies comatose since the day Coronado walked through, and now all of a sudden it’s the center of the universe.”
Chapter Eleven
Its top rack dancing a kaleidoscope of red and blue, Deputy Thomas Pasquale’s patrol unit was parked well off the highway, nosed in behind a primer-gray ’fifty-eight Chevy pickup. Beyond, Estelle could see the scattering of lights that marked Maria…few enough to count and have fingers left over.
The glare of headlights picked up the power line support tower nearest the highway, and the dusty tire marks pulling out onto the black asphalt of State 61 were clear. The old pickup had bumped out of the two-track that followed the transmission line, to be stopped immediately by the deputy.
Estelle snapped on the grill lights and slowed. Pasquale was sitting in his unit, door ajar. Another individual sat in the backseat behind the security screen, features no more distinct than a shadow. Bracketed by the headlights, a young woman stood near the front of the pickup. She turned her back to the road as the unmarked car passed, then looked into the night sky. She shook her head in frustration, as if her night was rapidly going from bad to worse. Estelle swung the car wide in a U-turn, and parked on the opposite side of the highway so that Pasquale’s big, boxy unit wasn’t blocking her view of the pickup.
She heard Gastner mutter, “They’re local kids.”
“I can’t see who Pasquale’s got sitting in the back,” Estelle said. “And I don’t know the girl.”
“That’s Tori Benevidez,” Gastner said. “Her dad is the restaurant manager at the Posadas Inn, home of the worst food this side of the Country Club. Last time I knew, she was working as a teacher’s aide over in the elementary school.”
Estelle glanced at Gastner with amusement. After thirty years with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, his mind was a gazetteer of county trivia. She had decided long ago that William G. Gastner was simply one of those human beings who enjoyed knowing —whether it was the intricacies of the Battle of Chickamauga or the background of the new couple opening a craft shop on Sixth Street in Posadas.
He saw the expression on her face and grinned. “That’s okay,” he nodded. “Don’t worry, I can’t remember anything important.”
Deputy Pasquale got out of the Expedition, glanced over his shoulder at the empty highway, and walked across toward them. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he appeared to be reading something on his clipboard. Estelle lowered the window of the car and waited.
“Hey,” Pasquale said by way of greeting. He shot a glance back at the young couple, then bent down, nodding toward Gastner. “Evening, sir.”
“Thomas,” Gastner said. Pasquale shifted position so that Estelle had an unobstructed view across the highway.
“This is kind of interesting,” the deputy said. “I saw this vehicle coming down the two-track back there,” and he nodded toward north. “I didn’t recognize the truck. Turns out it’s an old heap that belongs to Eurelio Saenz’s dad.”
“I thought Monroy Saenz was dead,” Gastner said.
“Well, belonged to Mr. Saenz,” Pasquale corrected. “It hasn’t been registered since ’ninety-six. Eurelio says that he uses it to go out in the boonies. Doesn’t drive it on the highway.” He grinned. “He says.” He extended the wrinkled, out-of-date registration stub toward Estelle. She waved it away, waiting for the deputy to make his point. Tom Pasquale’s comfortable face was eager and Estelle knew that the deputy was hunting more than expired registrations.
“It’s a good truck for rough country,” Gastner said. “Nice big roomy cab. He and Miss Benevidez can go out and study nature in peace and quiet. Watch the moon.”
Pasquale grinned. “Uh-huh. Maybe that’s what they were doing on a nice quiet Monday night. I don’t know.” He rested his arm on the top of the car. “They were driving out that road without lights. They popped ’em on when they got to that real rocky section about a quarter mile from the pavement, and that’s when I saw ’em. Funny, ’cause Eurelio was exactly the person I was cruisin’ to find.”
“Your lucky night,” Gastner said.
Pasquale bent down, his face serious. “They’ve been drinkin’ some, but not a whole lot. I asked ’em to step out of the unit, and Eurelio didn’t have any trouble with the field sobriety test. He said he’d just had a beer or two. I think that part’s probably true.”
Estelle tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Tom Pasquale didn’t need help with a routine traffic stop even if the truck was unregistered, even if it was overflowing with beer cans, open or sealed. And under normal circumstances, Eurelio Saenz would be standing on the shoulder of the road, looking miserable or maybe arguing with his girlfriend about whose fault it all was. Instead, he was sitting in the secured portion of Pasquale’s unit, for all practical purposes under arrest whether the announcement had been formally made or not.
“What were they doing up there?” Estelle asked. “I mean, beyond the obvious.”
“That’s what I was curious about.” He opened the clipboard’s spring with one hand and released a small plastic evidence bag. “When I asked Eurelio to step out of the truck, I saw this on the floor, kind of caught by the rubber mat. Right in front of the seat brace.”
Estelle took the bag and twisted to turn on one of the overhead reading lights, focusing its narrow beam carefully. The brass cartridge case, fresh and polished, winked in the light. Her pulse picked up a beat. She turned the bag so that she could see the head-stamp on the casing.
“Forty-four Remington Magnum,” she said. “RP.”
Gastner leaned on the center console, looking at the casing through his bifocals. “Still fragrant?”
Estelle had already opened the small bag and held it to her nose. “Hard to tell.” She handed it to Gastner, who inhaled deeply, shrugged, and handed it back. She zipped the bag closed again. “What’s Eurelio say?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it,” Pasquale said.
“Of course not.” She handed the bag back to the deputy and gazed across the road. At that moment, Tori Benevidez put her foot up on the front bumper of the pickup as if she wanted to kick the aging truck back up the road. Her shoulders were hunched and her arms crossed over her chest. Estelle watched her for a moment.
“How does he explain it?” she asked, knowing that there were a dozen ways, in the middle of country known for hunting and sport shooting, that an errant cartridge casing could go astray. Whether the Department of Game and Fish liked it or not, a few quick shots from the vehicle were often the most expeditious way to nail an u
nsuspecting antelope, deer, or javelina that strayed too close to the road. Unsuspecting cattle weren’t any safer. A rifle could as easily pitch an empty casing into the truck as not, even if the marksman was standing outside, beside the vehicle.
“He claims that they drove up that road about four miles, then turned around. He said that they were heading back to town when I stopped ’em. He says that he was going to show his girlfriend the spot where the body was found, but they changed their minds when they got to where we strung the yellow tape restricting the area. He said that after a little bit of that road in the dark, another five miles or so didn’t seem like such a good idea. He said that Tori wanted to go back.” He turned and looked across at the girl. “She was afraid that they were going to get into trouble.”
“Smart girl.”
“That’s what he says.”
Estelle looked down at the casing in the bag. “He has no explanation for this, then?”
“Nope.”
“He doesn’t own the rifle, or whatever it was?”
“He says not. And an empty casing by itself doesn’t tell us much, either.”
“It’s consistent with the wounds on both Does, though,” Estelle said.
“That’s a tough cartridge to work with, Estelle,” Gastner said, and she looked over at him. He held up a hand. “A whole slew of companies manufacture handguns in that caliber. And on top of that, a couple of ’em manufacture semiautomatic carbines that take the same round. And then there’s all the lever-action rifles and carbines chambered for it. Just about as bad as finding a casing for a damn twenty-two. Without some hint about what the gun was, it’s about impossible to tell what you’re dealing with.”
Estelle nodded. “But it’s a piece.”
Gastner grinned. “Maybe. One thing’s for sure,” he added as Estelle held the bag up, closer to the light. “Bright and shiny as this is, it hasn’t been lying on the floor of that old truck since the old man used to drive it.”
“What’s Tori say?” Estelle asked Pasquale.
“I haven’t talked with her yet.” He turned and regarded the old truck. “First thing I did was separate them, though. They haven’t had a chance to discuss anything. That’s why I called in for you. If we decide to transport ’em, I don’t want ’em sitting together.”
“Let’s see what she knows,” Estelle said. She reached back and slipped her cap out of its niche behind the passenger headrest. As she zipped up her down jacket, she glanced at Bill Gastner. “You don’t have to stand out there and freeze, sir,” she said.
“No, I don’t,” Gastner laughed. “You enjoy.”
Estelle hefted her heavy flashlight and slid out of the car. The wind was a gentle hand, sliding down the highway from the north-west. Promising warmth earlier in the day, the air was now sharp. With no cloud cover to blanket the prairie, what progress had been made toward spring radiated away the moment the sun set.
“You want to talk with Eurelio?” Pasquale asked.
“Not yet, Tom. Let him stew,” she replied quietly. The highway was empty, and she crossed the pavement, eyes on the girl. Tori Benevidez’s body language spoke irritation and pout, not nervous guilt.
The young woman favored black. Her black jeans were poured on tight, the cuffs just so over the arches of her black, pointed-toe boots. Her quilted jacket was black, and Estelle could read the gold lettering that arced across the back, proclaiming the Wausau Winter Nationals.
“Ms. Benevidez?” Estelle said as she approached, and the young woman turned at the sound of her name. A strikingly attractive girl, Tori Benevidez apparently saw no need to leave anything to chance, but in the uneven reflected light, her heavy makeup, from the long, assisted eyelashes to the improbably wide, scarlet lips, thickened and coarsened her features. A small gold cross nestled at her throat.
“Ms. Benevidez, I’m Undersheriff Reyes-Guzman.”
“And this is important because…” Tori said, drifting off into the affected pause that said “and I’m so bored.” Estelle wondered if the elementary school kids with whom Tori worked talked to her in the same tone.
Estelle stepped close enough that she could smell the cloying perfume of beer on the girl’s breath. Tori’s eyes swept down Estelle’s trim figure and then shifted immediately to Tom Pasquale, who had ambled across the highway and stood at the door of the pickup, playing his flashlight methodically around the interior.
“Ms. Benevidez, do you know why the deputy stopped Eurelio?”
“I have no idea.”
The corner of Estelle’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile that just as quickly vanished. Tori caught the expression and rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said, “this dumb old truck, I suppose.”
“It would help if it were licensed,” Estelle said pleasantly. A pair of headlights appeared from the north, and Estelle stepped around the front of the truck, clear of the pavement. Approaching rapidly, the black-and-white patrol car abruptly slowed as it passed, then turned off the highway onto the shoulder, coming to a stop fifty yards away. Light reflected off the New Mexico State Police shield and diagonal door stripe.
“That’s Jack Adams,” Tom Pasquale said. “I’ll go talk to ’em.” He snapped off his flashlight and trudged up the shoulder of the highway just as the trooper pulled himself out of the car.
“Tell him that he’ll be getting a fax within the hour for identification,” Estelle said. “Any help they can give us…”
“Will do.”
She turned back to Tori Benevidez. “Tori, that applies to you, too. Any help at all.”
“With what?” the girl said, making it sound pathetically plaintive.
“Eurelio didn’t tell you why he wanted to drive up along the power line road?”
“Just that he had something he wanted to show me.”
“He didn’t say what?”
“No.”
“And did he show you something?”
“No. We just drove up to where there’s a yellow ribbon strung across the road. That’s where he turned around.”
“Did he tell you why there’s a yellow ribbon there?”
The word no was about to escape and Tori bit it off, thought for a few seconds, and then nodded.
“What did he tell you?”
Tori lifted her foot and toed the truck bumper, hugging herself even tighter. “Just that they’d found a dead body up there somewhere. And they were talking about that in school, today, too. Some of the teachers. They said you’d found a second victim, or something like that.”
“He thought that might frighten you? Why did he want to show you?”
“Who knows? It’s gross.”
“What did you guys do then? When you came to the yellow tape?”
“I told you. We turned around. I told Eurelio that I wanted to get out of there before we got into trouble.”
“So you know why the deputy stopped you, then.”
“Yes.”
Estelle nodded. Even a begrudging yes was progress. She reached out a hand to touch the hood of the old truck. “Nice smooth ride,” she said, but Tori didn’t respond. “Do you guys use this for hunting?”
“I guess he does. I don’t know.”
“You don’t hunt?”
Tori made a little noise affirming that hunting was far outside her universe. “So are we getting a ticket, or what?” she asked instead.
“That would be up to the deputy who stopped you,” Estelle said easily. She extracted a business card from her blouse pocket and handed it to Tori. “If you should happen to remember anything that you think we should know, my number’s on there. Anytime.”
“About what?”
“Anything at all,” Estelle said pleasantly.
“Can we go now?”
“Not yet, Tori.” Estelle’s answer evidently surprised the girl, who had been in midturn, heading for the passenger door of the truck. She stopped. “A few more minutes,” Estelle added. She pointed away from the truck toward the highw
ay right-of-way fence. “If you’d step away from the truck.” Up the road, Pasquale and the state trooper were still in animated discussion. A laugh punctuated the conversation and Adams turned back to his car.
Estelle walked around to the passenger door of the old truck. When it opened, the hinge squawked loudly, and she felt the resistance of a sprung hinge. The interior was surprisingly clean, without the usual eclectic clutter of junk that graced the broad, convenient dashboards of working trucks. What looked like a saddle blanket was folded neatly on the seat, protecting rumps from spring ends that had begun to project through the original fabric.
Behind the seat, a rifle rack spanned the back window. Empty now, the rack had been used enough over the years that the vinyl coating on the bottom set of hooks had worn through.
Estelle stepped forward and bent down to look under the passenger seat. A beer can sat on the transmission hump, just behind the tall, angular shift lever. She touched it with the eraser of her pencil and felt the weight of at least half a can.
The beam of her flashlight swept under the seat, where the collection of the ages hadn’t been disturbed. Popcorn was the leading contender, the pale kernels tied together with a rich layer of dust and cobwebs. Crumpled Styrofoam cups, an empty box of Wildcat .22 ammo, and assorted nails, paper clips, and ballpoint pens added to the wealth.
“You want to spring the seat forward?” Tom Pasquale asked. He had appeared at the driver’s side.
“Yes. Pay attention to the highway, though,” Estelle replied.
“You bet. Watch your head.” She straightened up as he yanked the seat lever and pushed forward at the same time. The bench seat slid forward, hung, then slid the rest of the way. He folded the seat back up against the steering wheel.
The generous space was filled with a large handyman jack, lug wrench, and a portion of what looked like a shop vacuum hose. Crushed against the right rear bulkhead was an empty cereal box, surrounded by wadded tissues.
“Yuck,” Pasquale said.
“What’s that?” Estelle pointed toward Pasquale’s side. The yellow paper was caught in the seat’s release mechanism.
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