Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  The warm hand jostled her as she folded the phone and put it back on the nightstand. “Torrez?”

  “Yes.” She started to sit up, but the hand made it difficult.

  “It didn’t sound like an emergency.”

  “He found Fitzwater.”

  She looked out through the bedroom window. The two Russian olives just outside were motionless, with an inky sky still spangled with fading stars. “It could have been worse,” she said. She selected a pair of lined trousers and a wool shirt, and then took her time forcing wool-clad feet into her boots.

  “You know,” she said, sitting still on the edge of the bed after lacing the last boot, “Gabe Torrez is going to grow up to be a really interesting kid with Bobby as his father.”

  “She said, with two such uninteresting kids of her own.”

  “Yeah, well. With any luck, I’ll be back home before…well, we can hope this doesn’t take long.”

  “Be careful, whatever it is that you’re doing.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And…”

  “Wear a vest.”

  “Yes.”

  Outside, the ambient air touched thirty-three degrees, but the mountain would be half a dozen degrees colder, most likely with a wind as air funneled through the venturi of Regál Pass. Overdressed, Estelle left the heater off in the Charger as she drove south. Just before reaching the closed and dark Broken Spur Saloon, she overtook a sleek little red Honda Accord.

  “Merry Christmas, Linda,” she said aloud, and touched her siren yelp as she passed. With the Honda pacing her not far behind, she wound up through the switchbacks of the San Cristóbals, finally slowing on the long, straight grade up to the pass. Sure enough, Sheriff Bob Torrez’ Expedition was parked just beyond the sign that announced the pass. She parked directly behind his unit, snuggling in close so that Linda Pasquale also had room to pull off the highway.

  When she got out of the car, she could feel the lightest of breezes touching her cheeks. She turned and looked across the prairie to the north. True to its policies, NightZone, the huge astronomy theme park on Waddell’s Mesa, was totally dark—not a single artificial light polluted the night.

  “This is soooooo much fun,” Linda announced cheerfully as she caught up with Estelle. “I mean really.”

  “Hush,” Torrez said in a rare moment of voiced reproof. “See, remember what, maybe seven or eight years ago, we was gettin’ reports of a jaguar sighting in these hills?”

  “Mountains,” Linda corrected dryly. “Cold mountains at night.”

  “It ain’t night,” Torrez corrected.

  “Yes,” Estelle said. “And as I recall, one of the folks from down below called you to report that he and a friend had seen one sprint across the highway in front of their car. I remember you talking about that afterward.”

  “Yep. Octavio Roybal and Fernando Rivera. They was comin’ home from a little blow-out at the Broken Spur.” He actually smiled, his dark face ghostly in the side-wash of the beams from their LED lights. “I went back and checked that memory, like you said.”

  “Okay.”

  “Earlier that day, we’d had a light snow…kinda like we did a day or two ago—Friday night, when Pasquale stopped Darrell Fisher with the kid walkin’ along the highway. So back then I figured, with the snow, if there was a jaguar, if Octavio and Fernando weren’t just seein’ hallucinations, it couldn’t be better conditions for trackin’. So I went out to check. If it hadn’t snowed, I wouldn’t have wasted the time.”

  He pointed to the north. “Just back there a-ways, where the old forest road comes in? I pulled over and scouted around where they said that they sighted the cat. Didn’t take me long to find the tracks, right where Octavio and Fernando said they were.”

  “Jaguar?”

  “Yep. See, a mountain lion has these funny indents on the front of the pads.” He patted the base of his hand. “Real characteristic. A jaguar don’t. Bigger, blunt foot, more roundy toe pads.” He nodded. “And bigger. Way bigger. Front feet are a full inch wider than a cougar.”

  “This is turning into an episode of Wild Kingdom,” Linda snarked, and Estelle reached out and clamped a friendly hand on her shoulder.

  “A genuine jaguar sighting is a major deal,” she said. “A major deal. You reported it to the Game and Fish, as I recall. They came out to survey the spot, even though the tracks were long gone.”

  “That’s right. Anyways, I got this little digital camera, and I’m standin’ there, tryin’ to make it work so I can take pictures.”

  “Ummmm,” Linda observed.

  “Yeah, well.” He nodded philosophically, well aware of his serious limitations with a camera. “I’m excited, and I can’t hold it still. And then the flash won’t work. See, I should have called you in the middle of the night. Anyways, here comes a car, and guess who it is.”

  “This has to be related,” Estelle said. “So I’m guessing young Al Fisher, our current person of interest.”

  “That’s it. Al and Maria. They’d just started goin’ out together, and he’s bringin’ her home from somewhere. Probably the saloon. They stop, ’cause I guess they thought I was stuck or something.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now, I knew that Al hunted anything with legs. About the last thing I wanted him doing was blasting a jaguar—maybe also what turns out to be the only jaguar in New Mexico? I mean, he’d never believe Octavio or Fernando, either one. Just a couple old drunks. But he’d believe the tracks.”

  “Oh sure you saw a jaguar,” Linda said derisively, mimicking the critics. “And I’ve got a bridge I’ll sell you…”

  “I told him that something ran across the road and I was sure I hit it. Thought it was probably a coyote. I was gonna see if he managed to crawl back to his den, over there west, in the rocks.”

  “Al bought that?”

  Torrez shrugged. “Sure. He asked if I wanted help findin’ it. I said no. As long as the carcass was off the road and all. But then he says, ‘You know, I hunt up here all the time. Lots of cover. Lots of coyotes, badgers, skunks.’ I agreed with him, ’cause from time to time I hunt up here. People think the game is all down on the flat, out on the prairie, but that ain’t true. Then Al says something like, ‘I even seen a cat a couple times. But mostly coyotes. It’s like a big coyote hotel over in those rocks.’” Torrez stopped abruptly and stared hard at Estelle. She reached into her car and tapped the lights off.

  “A big coyote hotel.”

  “That’s what he said. I remembered it, ’cause I always thought it was a neat way of describing it.” He waited for a reaction, and when he didn’t get one, he added, “Remember what we was talkin’ about earlier today. What route Al Fisher would take out of Regál. Drivin’ two trucks, one with a body in the back, the other they’re wantin’ to get rid of—throw suspicion somewheres else.”

  He turned and swung his flashlight up, illuminating the entrance to the rough two-track. The beam was intense, but the dawn light washed it out. “They drove in there a-ways, and then the two of ’em lugged Myron Fitzwater’s corpse over to the hotel. Out of sight, lots of critters to help dispose of the body.”

  “How far in did you have to go?”

  “Maybe a hundred yards. Maybe a little more.”

  “That’s quite a tote.”

  “Maybe drag him on the tarp. There would have been enough snow to make it easier. It wouldn’t take much.”

  “Show me.”

  “How about I guard the cars?” Linda said helpfully. “If you need me, just shout.”

  “How about you get your gear and follow us?” Sheriff Torrez said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “He’s there, all right.”

  The sheriff didn’t comment on the tracks. Sometime before the snow—or perhaps during it—someone had driven in the narrow two-track, leaving just enough tire impressions to prove they�
��d been there. Just as easily, so had occasional neckers, drinkers, wood-cutters, and lost tourists. They couldn’t have driven far, since the two-track ended in a jumble of boulders that blocked the way, forcing the trail to narrow to a single path. A well-weathered Forest Service sign with a little hopeful arrow announced Bailey Springs 3½ Mi.

  “Three and a half miles?” Linda mused. “Let us pray they weren’t that ambitious.”

  At one point, Torrez had to turn sideways to slip past a rock outcrop, and he stopped abruptly and knelt.

  “Light,” he said, and Estelle added the blaze of her LED to his, illuminating the rock surface. At this point, Linda Pasquale sidled up close and knelt as well. For long enough that they could feel the cold seeping through clothes, they examined the rockface. “Something scrubbed by here,” Torrez said finally. “Don’t see no fibers or nothing. But the mark shows where the lichen was disturbed.” Estelle held her flashlight steady to amplify the angled morning light while Linda Pasquale’s camera buzzed and clicked, sometimes with the flash, sometimes with available light.

  Torrez straightened up. “Cold and snowin’ when they done this, dark as the inside of a well, they’re not going to hike far.” Linda uttered a little sigh of optimistic agreement.

  The trail, little more than a path worn by generations of deer and smoothed by a host of soft-footed critters, ducked down a steep incline, and then angled along an impressive overhang. Ahead of them, something heavy crashed through brush, and they heard the knock of hooves on rock. “Somebody’s home,” Linda said. They saw the flash of a buffy butt that instantly vanished up through the rocks.

  “Stop,” Torrez snapped. He narrowed the beam of the light and guided it along beneath the overhang. “Photo from here.”

  “What am I shooting?”

  Torrez narrowed the beam some more until it was a pencil point, bright enough in the shade, but just a faint dot on the sun-kissed rocks. “Right there.”

  “And then an approach series,” Estelle added.

  “You’re telling me that you were up here all last night, tramping around. By yourself?” Linda actually sounded a little concerned. “Absolutely certifiable.” She shook her head in wonder. “If you stand to the side just a little,” she said to the sheriff, and then to Estelle, “and if you do the same over there, I won’t even have to use the flash. Open up your light to give me a nice, even flood.”

  With the camera clicking away, Linda moved up the slight incline to the overhang. “Do you see any bootprints?” Estelle asked.

  “Nope. Just a few scuffs.”

  “Under the overhang, it’s going to be dusty,” Torrez reminded her. “Don’t disturb it.”

  “Then maybe they used the old Hollywood trick of brushing their path with a tree bough,” Linda said. “’Cause there ain’t no footprints here.” She took a couple of more shots and stood up. “Okay.”

  The roof of the overhang was at least three feet high at the front, sloping sharply downward toward the back. Myron Fitzwater’s body had been shoved into the space until his face was pressed against the rock. A few scattered tree limbs, sticks, and stones were scattered to camouflage the body. Stretched out on his right side, not curled into a fetal position, Fitzwater’s corpse wouldn’t have been seen by casual hikers.

  Estelle checked her watch. At seven forty-five, rookie hire Tanner Garcia would be finishing up his first rotation as dispatcher for the graveyard shift. Deputy Thomas Pasquale, Linda’s husband, would be somewhere out in the county.

  On the north slope of the mountain, there was a clear shot back to Posadas. She used her cell phone, dialed, and waited for several seconds before Garcia responded.

  “Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, Garcia.”

  “Tanner, the sheriff and I and Linda Pasquale are at a scene on Regál Pass involving one down. It’s not an MVA, and we’re off the highway several yards. Have Deputy Pasquale respond. He’ll see our units parked at the pass. Silent approach, please. As soon as you have Pasquale responding, contact the ME and have him roll this location ASAP. If Dr. Perrone is absolutely unavailable, call Dr. Guzman. We’ll also need an EMT unit, but there’s no rush on that. Wait for my call, but have them standing by. ”

  “Got it,” Tanner said. “And no lights and siren?”

  “You are correct. I don’t want the whole neighborhood up here.”

  “Got it. Pasquale is north on State 78, so he’ll be a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine. We’re not going anywhere, and neither is the victim.”

  She pocketed the phone.

  “I got coffee,” Torrez offered. “We might as well wait in the truck.”

  “None for me, thanks,” Estelle said. “But you’re right. Now we wait.”

  “Might as well let Craig Stout know.”

  “Merry Christmas to him, too.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  At nine forty-five, Sheriff Robert Torrez and Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman drove quietly through the tiny village of Regál, with its gentle pillars of smoke rising straight up from each chimney. Deputy Thomas Pasquale headed in the opposite direction for an appointment with District Judge Ralph Tate.

  Maria Apodaca opened the front door before either officer reached the steps. Her face was pale. Behind her, White Fang shivered, let out a single yap, and shrank under a chair.

  “Oh, is he…?”

  “Maria, may we come inside?”

  “Of course. Al…is he okay?”

  “I called just a few minutes ago. He had a rough night, but he’s a tough guy,” Estelle said.

  Maria visibly relaxed. “Oh, good. I saw you guys driving in, and thought…”

  “Al is going to heal, Maria.”

  “I am sooo glad to hear that. I didn’t sleep all night. I should go back up to the city.” She gestured toward the small couch near the stove. “Please, sit down.” She looked nervously at Sheriff Torrez, who had yet to utter a word.

  “Maria, tell me again about the moment that Myron Fitzwater was shot. You said he was tussling with Al.” She slipped the recorder out of her pocket and laid it conspicuously on the arm of the sofa.

  Maria closed her eyes, as if that were the only way to bring the memory back into focus. “They…they were fighting, and Myron had Al down on the ground. He had one handcuff on Al’s…” She stopped and looked at Estelle. “His right wrist, but I don’t think it was locked. He was trying to manage that, but Al kept punching at him. Then…” Maria stopped again. “Then he…I mean Myron…had his gun out and it went off, and they thrashed around. I was so scared. That’s when I hit Myron with the stick. I was so scared. And when I did, Al was able to wrestle the gun away from him. Somehow Al got hold of it.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “He was still struggling to get away, and…and that’s when the gun went off again.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Well, it just went off, somehow.”

  “Maria, you told me earlier that Mr. Fitzwater was shot once under the left arm. Is that correct? Is that the way you remember it? Do you remember telling me that?”

  “Yes.”

  Estelle fished her camera out of her jacket pocket. No larger than a pack of cigarettes, almost the entire back was the preview screen. She turned it on and thumbed the menu, then scrolled through several photos.

  “Maria, I’m going to show you a photo, and I want you to tell me what it shows.” The girl started to reach for the camera, but Estelle held up a hand. “Let me hold it for you.” For half a dozen seconds, she stared at the photo without breathing. “Maria, is that Myron Fitzwater?”

  The girl let out a strangled cry and doubled over, crashing off the sofa onto the floor. She tried to rise, then doubled over again, retching on the pinewood floor.

  “I guess that means yes,” Torrez observed.

  “Ge
t a towel, Bobby.” Estelle slid the camera back into her pocket and held Maria by both shoulders, moving her away from the puddle. Torrez strode to the bathroom and returned, handing Estelle a small bath towel. Maria grabbed it, pressing it to her face as she jolted from the first in a string of powerful hiccups.

  “Git!” Torrez commanded, blocking White Fang’s investigation of the vomit puddle. The dog reacted as if treated to a cattle prod, racing for the sanctuary of the bedroom.

  Maria sucked in air, coughed, and hiccupped again. Estelle maintained her grip on the girl’s shoulders.

  “Tell me what really happened, Maria.”

  “I…” Another hiccup.

  “Take your time.”

  Maria dabbed at her face once more with the towel. “I think I’ll be all right.” She leaned over slightly and tossed the towel over the puddle.

  “I hit him with the stick. Real hard. I was scared for Al.” She stopped as if that were the end of the story as far as she was concerned.

  “And then?”

  “And then Al wrestled the gun away and kicked loose. Myron was down on his hands and knees.” She squinted off into the distance. “I remember that his eyes were closed and he was gasping, like he couldn’t get any air. He was making funny little noises, like way down in his throat. Al rolled away and got to his feet. Myron tried to. I mean like he was on his knees, but trying to get up. His hands were on his head.”

  “And did he get up?”

  A long silence followed before Maria replied, her voice small and distant. “No. Al fired the gun three times. Real fast, like he does. Myron went down flat on his face.”

  “Is that when Connie ran away?”

  Maria nodded. “She did. I was too scared to move. Al’s face was red, like he was going to blow up. Then he took off after her.” Estelle waited. “That’s what happened.”

  “Al was standing, Myron was on his knees with his back to Al, and Al then shot him three times in the back.”

  Maria nodded.

  “Maria, think very carefully. Is that the truth?”

  The girl nodded.