Bag Limit pc-9

by Steven F Havill

  “Bullshit, my friend. For one thing, when it’s family like this, it’s ten times as hard, election year or not. And no matter how hard you try to be impartial, you’ll have a set of family blinders on.” Torrez’s frown deepened.

  “And I’ve been thinking about something else. The inscrutable one will be here later today.” Torrez knew exactly who I meant, and his expression turned guarded. “You know that while she’s here, Estelle doesn’t intend to sit on my back patio and knit-even if she could find the patio for all the weeds. The gals know each other really well. I think that if I go and talk with Melinda, and Estelle is along, we’ll know the truth by the time we’re done.”

  “Melinda’s not even in town right now.”

  “She’s not?” My stomach sank.

  “No. She’ll be back on Monday afternoon sometime. Becky and Melinda and one of their cousins went to Albuquerque this afternoon. A weekend of doing malls or some damn thing.” He grinned. “I told ’em that if they weren’t back in time to vote, and if I lost…” He let the rest of the implied threat against his two sisters and their cousin dangle. And then his face lost all its brief humor. “And the double funeral for Matt and Uncle Sosimo is Monday afternoon at five. They have to be back for that.”

  “The MVD office is open Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, right?” He nodded. “Then first thing Tuesday morning, before the herds arrive to take a number, Estelle and I will have a chat with Melinda.”

  “And say what?”

  “For one thing, I want to ask her how a clerk would go about making a fake license like that one,” and I jabbed the plastic bag with my forefinger. “We need to know that, regardless of what office is involved.”

  Torrez’s eyes narrowed as he continued to assess what I was offering.

  “If Melinda had nothing to do with this, I think it’ll be obvious. And I’ll have Estelle’s judgment to back me up.”

  “Okay,” Torrez said. “Actually, that will work, because Melinda will be by herself on Tuesday. Connie French won’t be there. She’s taking a couple of days off to do some hunting.”

  “With her stepdad and brother,” I said. “That’s what Scott told me earlier.”

  “And that’s the other thing,” Torrez said. He took a deep breath, as if he needed to wind himself up like a friction motor to launch into the next explanation. “Now I keep asking myself these questions. First of all, Scott and Bergmann arrived on the scene when Matthew kicked out the car window. Fair enough. I checked with the Border Patrol district office, and Bergmann did just join this region, and a tour wouldn’t be unusual-although why at night I don’t know, except that’s the shift that Bergmann had been assigned to.”

  He tapped his second finger. “Scott is in the area first thing Saturday morning. In fact, he was the first officer who responded to my call from the Baca house. He was quality assistance, too. He stayed around until we’d cleared the scene. And”-he tapped his third finger-“despite the fact that it wasn’t his case, and that he had no connection to it other than as courtesy backup, he stayed in the area most of Saturday. He was in the area and responded to the fracas at the Broken Spur when you took Dale Torrance into custody.”

  “So he’s around a lot. That’s his job, Robert.”

  “And he went on leave sometime Saturday.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He can’t sleep, so he’s prowling around Regal half the night, and according to Archie Sisneros, was actually inside the Baca house. I have to ask myself…looking for what?” He reached over and tapped the license. “This, maybe?”

  “I mentioned to Scott that we’d recovered it, by the way. That might not have been too smart.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He was surprised.”

  “I bet he was.” He hooked his little finger. “What about this. Suppose that his sister issued that license to Matthew Baca. Not my sister at all. Maybe Melinda didn’t even know anything about it. Connie French issues it, either as a favor, or for some bucks, or because she’s got a crush on Matthew. I don’t know if she did or didn’t, but anything is possible with that kid. If Scott Gutierrez found out about what was going on, he might try to protect his sister.”

  “Maybe.”

  Torrez frowned. “During the course of the investigation, he would have certainly heard someone in the department talking about a faked ID, about the interviews with Tommy Portillo at the convenience store, maybe even about Matthew’s attempt to buy booze at the Broken Spur. There’s lots of talk, and Scott would have heard.”

  “It’s possible. And that might explain why he was inside the house tonight. He was looking for that license. And after I told him that we had it in evidence, he left Regal.” I spread my hands wide. “Not in a rush, but he gave up his vigil at the church.”

  “I don’t know,” Torrez mused. “What doesn’t sit too easy with me is that there are other explanations, too.”

  I knew what he was thinking and remained silent, letting him sort out in his own mind how he wanted to approach the next step.

  “I don’t think that my sister would have issued the license,” he said after a moment. “But there’s that possibility, isn’t there?”

  “I suppose there is. But I agree with you-it’s unlikely.” The undersheriff didn’t ask me why I thought it might be unlikely, and I would have been hard-pressed for an answer other than my high opinion of the Torrez family in general, and my regard for the pleasant young lady whom I saw regularly.

  “Suppose Melinda was the one who issued the license. I couldn’t guess why she’d do a thing like that, but just suppose,” Torrez said, retracing his steps. “And in the first place, with the new computerized systems, I don’t even know how she’d do it, but like anything else, I imagine there’s a way. If she did that, what’s Scott’s interest in it?”

  “From a cop’s point of view, he’d want to protect his sister, and nail Melinda. He’d want to make sure that Connie didn’t take a fall for something she didn’t do. It’s possible Connie got wind of the deal, and mentioned it to Scott.”

  “Sure. That sort of thing is hardly the Border Patrol’s turf, but like you say, it’s family.” Torrez rested both forearms on the desk and fixed me with an unblinking stare. He didn’t say a word for a long time, and finally I broke the stalemate.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You talked with Tony Abeyta earlier tonight,” Torrez said. “Apparently Betty Contreras is saying that she saw a Border Patrol vehicle drive by around eight? Just before the Lucero kid wandered over and found Sosimo dead?”

  “That’s what Betty says. She told me that she mentioned the incident to Scott, and that Scott then told her that the vehicle was probably him. But that’s not what he tells me. Tony agrees-he said the conversation never took place, at least in his presence. And he never left the room while Scott was there.”

  “So Betty’s lying. On top of that, she told me the same thing.” Torrez turned and looked out the window. “Why would she do that?”

  “I have no idea, Robert. Scott said that he never drove through the village.”

  “Did you happen to ask him if he picked up Sosimo that morning? While my uncle was walking along the road?”

  “No. But if he’d picked him up and took him home, then he would have driven through the village, wouldn’t he?” I shrugged. “And he would have said so.”

  Torrez didn’t look as if he was listening. Instead, he said, “If Scott Gutierrez was the one who picked up Sosimo yesterday morning, I’d have to ask myself why he’d bother. He wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday during the day. Why is he there at all? If he saw an old man walking along the highway, why would he bother to pick him up?”

  “Why not?” I might, if I knew him.”

  “Sure, you would. But Scott Gutierrez wouldn’t, unless he had a good reason. If he takes Sosimo back home, what’s he want?”

  “The license? If he knows about it, even if he doesn’t know where it is. H
e knew that it wasn’t in the kid’s wallet because he watched Jackie Taber search through it at the accident scene.”

  “Maybe so. He thinks that Sosimo might have it, or he wants to search the house. Maybe Sosimo isn’t so fast to agree to that. A few threats, a scuffle, things don’t go quite the way Scott would have liked, and he’s out of there. My uncle is dead in the backyard with his arteries blown up.”

  “But all of that means that Gutierrez knew about the license before that morning, then. Even before we did.”

  “That’s right. And if that’s true, it puts a whole new spin on things.”

  For a moment I studiously regarded the cuticles of my right hand. “Betty Contreras works just down the hall from the MVD office, doesn’t she?”

  “Sure.”

  “And she’d have occasion to talk with both your sister and Connie French on a daily basis.”

  Torrez shrugged. “Sure. At least on the three days that the MVD is open. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “Have you talked with Betty since yesterday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me take another swing at her, then.” I put both hands on the chair and leaned forward, gathering the ambition to get up. “Give me some time to talk with Betty and with your sister. You hang low for a little bit.” He looked uneasy. “I’m serious,” I continued. “You’re so tired you can’t see straight. Go home and get some sleep.”

  Torrez reached across and picked up the plastic evidence bag. “I want to know how it’s possible to make this.”

  “So do I. Let me find out.” I grunted to my feet. “Estelle and Francis should roll in sometime this afternoon,” I said. “Like I said, it wouldn’t hurt to run all this by her, to see what she thinks.”

  Torrez laughed. “Just swear her in,” he said. “And by the way, speaking of swearing in, the preliminary hearing for the Torrance kid is nine o’clock Monday morning, if I can ask you to go. Dr. Perrone wanted to keep him in the hospital today, for observation. Apparently old Victor really belted him. There’s a little bleeding that Perrone’s worried about.”

  “I’ll be happy to go, he lied,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Miles Waddell might drop the charges, but it wouldn’t hurt to pull him into a dark corner and ask him. It’ll be really interesting to see what Judge Hobart says, He’s known Herb Torrance longer than I have.”

  “I heard by the grapevine that Cliff Larson wants you to work the inspector’s job for a while,” Torrez said.

  “That’s what he wants,” I said, and moved toward the door. “I’d have to give that a really long think. There are other concerns hanging right now that are higher on my list.” I saw the undersheriff lean back and swing his boot back up on the desk. That didn’t look like movement out of the office to me.

  “Go home, Robert. Let it ride.” I smiled. “And don’t worry. I know what I said, but I’m not going to just drop all this in your lap on Tuesday night and walk away. Not until we find out where that license came from. And not until we find out who killed your uncle.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I pushed open the heavy door and was about to step outside. The first slap of early morning air hit my face, but I stopped in midstride, hand on the brass door handle. For several long seconds I stood rooted in place, letting the November chill waft into the Public Safety Building.

  “Huh,” I grunted to myself, and retreated back inside. In the few moments I’d been gone, it didn’t appear that Torrez had changed position.

  “We’re missing something,” I said, and he glanced up.

  “I have the feeling,” he said slowly, “that we’re missing a whole lot of things, sir.”

  “No, really. Suppose this. Suppose that Matthew kicked out the window just because that’s the thing that you try to do if you’re a half-wild teenager out to test the world. He’ll show us, by God. Maybe next time we won’t be so quick to arrest him.”

  “Oh, sure,” Torrez said, and actually managed a full-fledged smile.

  “Think about this, though. Suppose that busting the window isn’t really important…no more than just a show of spite aimed as much against you and your department as anything else.”

  “What’s important, then?”

  “I pull off the road, the good Samaritan that I am, thinking that the kid is going to cut himself on busted glass or hang himself in the broken window. What happens next?”

  Torrez had risen from his chair and walked around the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms folded across his chest. In the marines, I’d been five feet eleven inches when I was racked at attention, but in the fifty-two years since I’d enlisted, I’d settled some-and expanded horizontally. The undersheriff was a solid six feet four, and even with him leaning against the desk, I had to look up to talk to him. He waited for me to continue.

  “Scott Gutierrez and Taylor Bergmann arrived. We chatted for a little bit, and Scott introduced me to Bergmann. And then Scott walked up to my car, leaned down, and shined his flashlight inside. Now, all this time, Matthew had been quiet as a church mouse in the backseat.”

  “He recognized my nephew?”

  “Hard to say. There’s no reason that Scott would know Matthew, is there? I mean, they may have crossed trails at one time or another, with Matt living in Regal, and Scott working the area. But there’s never been a gathering of the two families, has there?”

  Torrez shook his head. “What did he actually say?”

  “I don’t remember. Nothing threatening at that point as I recall. Scott asked Matthew why he’d broken the window. I do remember that.”

  “What did Matthew say?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t say a word. It was at that point that Scott suggested that they take Matthew into Posadas in their vehicle. They were headed toward town anyway.” I turned at the sound of footsteps. Brent Sutherland approached, obviously not eager to intrude. When he saw that he had my attention, he quickened his step.

  “Sir, Judge Hobart wants you to call him.”

  “The judge? You’re kidding.”

  “No, sir. He said just whenever you can get to it, as long as it’s in the next thirty seconds.”

  I laughed, picturing the old, grizzle-headed, pock-faced alcoholic sitting up in bed, a glass in one hand, the phone in his lap, waiting for it to ring. The wall clock said it was five minutes before six on that Sunday morning. For the judge to begin his day any earlier than nine o’clock took an act of Congress, so his mood would be delightful.

  I nodded at Brent, and he retreated. “I wonder what that’s all about,” I said, and then retraced my thoughts. “Anyway, that’s what we set out to do-transfer the kid to the Border Patrol vehicle. Scott was going to use some leg ties, and I remember that he half jokingly threatened Matt. Something about if he messed up the new Expedition, that he’d take him out into a field and do whatever.”

  Torrez was staring out into space, and when I paused to take a breath, he turned back and gazed at me, head nodding in comprehension.

  “The obvious question,” he said, taking care with each syllable, “is, what if my nephew bolted not because he was afraid of me or the thumping I might give him when he got to town, but he was, in fact, afraid of being put in the Border Patrol vehicle and taken somewhere.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “What if Matt was running not from you, but was running from Scott Gutierrez?”

  “Or…” Torrez said, and stopped.

  “Or what?”

  “Taylor Bergmann.”

  “He didn’t even know Bergmann,” I said. “Not until that moment.”

  “We’re not sure of that.”

  “No,” I admitted. “We’re not.”

  Torrez let his head hang, and he regarded the ugly green floor tiles for a moment. “Why would Matthew be afraid of Scott Gutierrez?” he asked, and then looked up at me. “I can think of one scenario.”

  “That Matt got his fake license from Connie French, and Scott knew that he had it…and th
at if we found it, an investigation might backtrack to the source, and Connie would be in worse trouble than the kid. We’re back to brother protecting sister again.”

  He nodded and went back to his examination of the floor tiles.

  “Right now, let me see what’s on Hobart’s mind,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there any chance that you can contact your sister up in Albuquerque? Do we need to wait for Monday?”

  “No…I can find her. She’s staying with an aunt up in Corrales.”

  “Do that, then,” I said. “Get her to cut the shopping trip short. I’d like to talk with her today, before this has a chance to fester.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I began to think that Judge Lester Hobart had fallen back on the bed, sound asleep. The phone rang eight times, and I was about to hang up when I heard the click, followed by a fumble and clatter and a muffled, “Goddammit.”

  “Yes,” the judge snapped. “What is it?”

  “Good morning, Judge,” I said. “This is Gastner.”

  “I know who the hell it is, and what’s so good about the morning?”

  I laughed and swiveled in my chair so I could see out the window. The sky was deep indigo to the west, mellowing toward the sunrise. “It looks like a nice Sunday, for one thing,” I said.

  “I suppose. So what do you need?”

  “I don’t need anything. You called the office and wanted to talk to me, Judge.”

  “Dammit, where the hell is my mind,” he muttered.

  “Haven’t seen it,” I said. “Same place mine is, no doubt.”

  “Let me look at my notes a second. Hang on.” More rummaging and scuffling followed, and I had the mental picture of the judge sitting on his rumpled bed, papers scattered all over the bedroom, his ancient and disheveled toy poodle cowering on the far corner of the bedspread. “My office is a goddamn mess,” he said. “But you ought to see the goddamn clutter here at the house.”

  “No worse than mine, I’m sure.”

  “I hear your son’s visiting,” the judge said.

  “Yes, he is.”