“Yesterday at Raught’s. You followed him into the kitchen, and I took the opportunity then. Yesterday afternoon, I made it in time to the one-hour photo in Deming and then to the Regál border crossing before it closed.”
“Huh.” The photo was clean, with no flash shadows, the tres retablos on Raught’s fireplace mantel framed dead center, edge to edge. While I pondered the logistics of what the young lady had done, she drew another photo out of the case.
The similarity was startling, although the second photo captured three retablos far more primitive than Raught’s, and it did so in a little, square instant photo of dubious quality. Raught’s El Jardin de los Tres Santos, with gold leaf and startling detail, morphed into primitive folk art in the second photo, with faded colors, primitive technique, and chipped edges.
Estelle leaned forward and touched the second photo. “This is from the iglesia in Tres Santos, sir. Where my great-uncle is working. I didn’t have time to take a quality photo and have it printed before the photo store closed, so I used the Polaroid.”
“A common subject for a retablo?” I held the two photos side by side. “I don’t claim to be an art critic.”
“The iglesia in Tres Santos is named for the original mission in Veracruz, sir.”
“So…”
She touched first one photo and then the other. “I took the second photograph at the iglesia in Tres Santos yesterday evening. The tres retablos are over the altar. My mother says that they’ve been there since the 1920s.”
I glanced up at the clock. “Where are we going with all this?”
“El Jardin in Veracruz was painted in 1869 by Manuel Orosco.” She touched a slender finger to the bottom edge of the eight by ten. “My mother says that he was one of the most famous religious and folk artists in Mexico.”
“And this is a copy of the original that’s hanging in Veracruz?”
“I think…I think that this is the original, sir.”
“The original? How would that be?” The eagerness suffused her features, and I almost hated to throw a wet blanket on her enthusiasm.
“Actually, that’s not true,” she said. “I don’t know enough about art to tell an Orosco from a…” She floundered for a name and gave up. “I don’t know. But my mother does, sir. First, I took her to the Iglesia in Tres Santos last night. I wanted to make sure that my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me. I remember the Jardin de los Tres Santos there from when I was little. I remember always wondering why the saints looked so miserable.” The ghost of a smile touched her features.
“I had the same thought earlier today,” I said.
“When I was sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks, I showed mamá the photo of Raught’s retablo. She looked at it for a long time, sir.” She touched her face under her left eye. “And then the tears started to roll.”
“Teresa knows about the one in Veracruz well enough to recognize it? After all these years? How many times has she actually seen the Orosco piece?”
“Half a dozen over the years.”
“And you?”
“I’ve seen it once, sir. When I was twelve.”
“So there’s an obvious question here.” I handed the photos back to her.
“Yes, sir. What’s interesting is that the original Orosco was stolen four years ago. Thieves hit significant art in three Veracruz locations, major places with showcase religious art. One of them was Los Jardins.”
“Now wait a minute. Have some mercy on my poor, slow brain, sweetheart. You’re claiming that you knew about the Veracruz theft, one that happened four years ago, before we went over to Raught’s home? You knew about the theft and recognized the piece?”
“No, sir. My mother knew about the theft, had heard about it, especially because of the emotional link with the church in Tres Santos.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, sir.” She looked puzzled.
“You’re thinking that Raught stole the piece?”
“I don’t know, sir. If it’s the Orosco in the first place. In all these years, it might have wended its way to a dealer in the states…or in Mexico. Mr. Raught has been in both places, sir. He worked in Verzcruz at one time.”
“And in Ohio,” I added. “This was an emotional tug for your mother, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So explain to me how she thinks this is the original deal. How can she tell that from a photograph?”
Estelle looked down at the photographs, brows knit. “I don’t see how she could, sir. Except that the level of skill, the level of art? If it isn’t the original, it’s certainly a powerful copy.”
“This kind of thing gets copied? I can see copying a Picasso, maybe. Or a Rembrandt or the ear guy…Van Gogh. I mean, there’s millions at stake there. But this?”
“It’s of significant value, sir.” Estelle reached into the briefcase and brought out a yellowing newspaper clipping.
“Yes, uh huh,” I said, and handed it back. I didn’t read Spanish, but could see that the clipping was dated four years previous.
Estelle flattened it out on my desk, skimmed quickly, and stopped at the third paragraph. She pointed out the figures. “Los Jardins was valued at more than two hundred thousand.”
I whistled in appreciation. “Signed?”
“No, sir. My mother said that Orosco used to say that all of his religious works belonged to God, not to him. That they were done by God’s hand, not his.”
“That makes it a tough nut.”
“Except the piece is well documented, sir.” By now I was expecting a rabbit, but she pulled a manila folder from her briefcase. “Los Jardins is in at least two art books that my mother owns. I have the books in my apartment, but these are fair copies that Ernie Wheeler did for me just this morning.”
“You must have been first at the border gate,” I laughed.
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
I examined the best photocopy side by side with the eight-by-ten. My uneducated eye said they could be the same, but what the hell did I know.
“The proverbial can of worms,” I murmured. After another minute of looking, I handed the material back. “It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr. Raught has to say. If he greets us this time and says, ‘Hey, come back with a warrant,’ we’re toast. What we have is the contents of your briefcase, and what your mother thinks that she remembers.” I smiled at her. “That isn’t much to chase an international art thief with.”
“But we’re not saying that Mr. Raught stole the original,” Estelle said. “There may be a significant possibility that he now owns the original somehow.”
I took a very deep breath and let it out in a loud, long hiss. “So, back on earth…” I slid my notebook toward her and tapped the page. “These are the kiddos that Marilyn Zipoli told us about-the Zipoli skiing and boating club. We want to talk with all these little bastards, and that’s a hell of a challenge. We’ll be over at the high school and that’s another challenge. You’ve met Glenn Archer?”
“Yes, sir. My last year at the high school was Mr. Archer’s first. He was teaching biology that year.”
“And now he’s superintendent and principal of the high school, both jobs rolled into one. Glenn is a good guy, and an ally. But the issue is cops interviewing minors,” I said. “Fortunately for us, the school operates in loco parentis, and Archer will be sitting in on any interviews that we have. We don’t need the parents there, but regardless, we need to be circumspect. For one thing, anything we talk about, we talk about with a blabby kid. His or her version of events is going back to all his friends.”
“It’s interesting that Mr. Zipoli attracted a fair crowd of kids on occasion,” she said.
“Well, a fast boat and a set of water skis will do that. It’s also interesting that a couple of kids were talking with him over on County Road 19 the day before the shooting. We don’t know who that was, but it’s a connection that we need to explore. I mean, if you’re grading a ditch and someone
rides or drives by, the usual thing might be a simple greeting-a nod or a friendly wave. I’m surprised that Zipoli stopped what he was doing to shoot the bull.” I sighed. “And we need something, Ms. Reyes. We have nothing but blind alleys so far.” I rapped my ring on the desk. “And now we have the list of kiddos. It’ll be interesting to run them past Jim Raught.” I smiled at her. “No ulterior motives, of course.”
I watched her face for a moment as she appeared to examine a smudge on my desk top. If she thought any harder, her brain synapses would start smoking.
“What?” I prompted.
“It’s difficult for me to believe that Mr. Zipoli didn’t share his stash with youngsters,” she said quietly. “The opportunities were obvious.”
“You think?” I laughed. I would have liked to have heard something a little less obvious than that. After all, I’d had that same thought, and I hardly qualified as a forensic Einstein. “So on this occasion, some homicidal kid asked him for a beer, and he refused?”
“Most likely not that,” she said soberly. “I can’t imagine someone being shot over a can of beer.”
“You’d be surprised how little motivation is needed sometimes.” I snapped the notebook closed. “How’s your great-uncle, by the way? On your way in from down south, did you take a moment to check on him?”
She nodded. “He was sleeping soundly. His truck was still parked on the shoulder.”
“And what time was that?”
“Not long ago. I suppose it was almost six-thirty.” I tried to picture her as a teenager living with her great-uncle, getting ready for school with only a rude sink and sometimes hot water. But for him to actually ponder what his great-niece might need? Not Reubén. I liked the old man, but talking with him was always about Reubén, and what Reubén was doing. He was the solid center of his own universe. A wife would have murdered him long ago.
“Anyway, we see what the kiddos have to offer today,” I said. “The Zipoli gang. If there were regulars hanging out with him, then we want to know about it. They might have heard something, seen something…who the hell knows in what ugly direction that might lead.” I shrugged. “Or maybe not. It occurred to me sometime last night that we might be chasing just some random thing-some trigger-happy bastard who lets fly with a rifle without a clue about what he’s doing. Like those nitwits who shoot at highway signs.” I glanced her way as I hefted my own briefcase and headed for the door. “In a lot of years in this business, I’ve never caught one of them at work. Don’t know anyone who has. How often does someone call in to report the murder of a stop sign?”
I didn’t add that it was probably a good thing that taxpayers didn’t know how little crime went unreported, uninvestigated, and unpunished. Most of the time, crime did pay, and sometimes handsomely.
A moment later, we settled into the car and Estelle watched me as I updated my log, called in the mileage to dispatch for his office log, and reviewed the few questions I had jotted down the day before. None of the other deputies used 310, so the car remained my private mobile office.
It’s possible to drive from the Sheriff’s Department parking lot to Posadas High School in thirty seconds and never break the speed limit. I made it in something under five minutes. I don’t know what I was looking for, but a couple of nagging thoughts kept playing their loop. When that happens, my pace slows as my gaze drifts into every crack and corner. I drove with the windows down, elbow on the sill, chin propped in my hand, my mind trying to rush in two directions at once. Would Larry Zipoli recognize an Orosco when he saw it? Nah. Not a chance.
Estelle Reyes patiently endured our idle-along until we parked in front of the school in the No Parking-School Bus Loading Zone. A minute or so later, we sat comfortably in Glenn Archer’s office, and he took a great deal of care in closing the door, standing there with one hand on the knob, the other on the jamb as if making sure no one was going to sneak up and put an ear to the wood. A dapper fellow who took off the prissy edge by favoring comfortable corduroy trousers and a baggy cardigan, Archer had always welcomed a comfortable relationship with the Sheriff’s Department. We provided officers-with the help of Chief Martinez and the village department-for sporting events, tried to be gentle when we had to arrest one of the teenagers who fell into hard times with drugs or alcohol, and offered a sympathetic ear when we arrived on the parents’ doorstep at 3 a.m. to change lives forever. He seemed reasonably calm for the morning of the first day of school.
Once satisfied with his office security, Archer turned back to his huge desk. A box of tissue graced each front corner, within easy reach of our chairs. Another rested on the bookcase behind my head. I wasn’t planning on breaking into sniffles, but I’m sure such was routine for kids about to be flogged.
“So…the first day of school, and here we are.” His smile was strained. “I was hoping you’d come today to arrange a series of public service programs for the kiddos. Or maybe talk during our assembly later this morning. But maybe not.” He paused and glanced at the door again. “Ms. Reyes, I’m delighted to see you.” He looked sideways at her, figuring something. “Refresh my memory. What year?”
“Eighty-four, sir.” I knew from her application that Estelle Reyes had not yet celebrated her twenty-second birthday. Still, it must have seemed like centuries ago that she’d been plowing through the required reading in Mrs. Hammerman’s American History class, or smelling the mid-morning aroma of the cafeteria.
“Time flies,” the superintendent said. “You’re going to be with this gentleman’s outfit now?” He nodded toward me.
“We hire only the best and the brightest.” I slipped a page out of my notebook. I handed the list of names to Archer, and he studied it as he circled his desk to sit down in the huge leather swivel chair. The throne.
“Arnett, Packard, Pasquale, Singer, Zamora, Zapia.” My list wasn’t in alphabetical order, but Archer’s mind was. He found a convenient category for the six. “Good kids, all, Sheriff. What are we fishing for?”
“Glenn, I’m interested in what they might be able to tell us about Larry Zipoli.” I would hesitate about mentioning a case to ninety-nine percent of Posadas County residents, knowing that gossip made a prairie wildfire seem sluggish. But Glenn Archer had never given me reason to doubt his discretion. His frown was immediate.
“What a mess,” he whispered. He read the list again, then looked up at me, tapping the little piece of paper against his thumb. “I have to hope that none of these kiddos are in any way involved with that.”
“We hope not.”
“Specifically you need…”
“Whatever you can tell me,” I said. “It would be convenient to chat with each one. We can do that off school grounds, but this will save us some time.”
“Can you tell me what direction you’re headed with this?”
I sighed. “Just preliminaries, Glenn. That group of boys has spent time with Zipoli in the past. Recreational trips over to the Butte, that sort of thing. At this stage, we’re just scouting the options. Fishing, like you say.”
“I heard Mr. Zipoli was killed in cold blood? While he was working?”
“The victim was minding his own business, grading a county road. Somebody put a bullet through his brain and left him sitting there in the sun.”
“My God.”
“Right now, we’re touching bases with anyone who knew Zipoli, who spent any time with him. Maybe it’ll lead somewhere. Maybe it won’t.” I shrugged. “These six were in his circle, so there we are. Until something better comes along, we talk with everyone we meet.”
Archer pivoted just enough in his chair that he could reach his computer keyboard. He stared at the screen as the program woke up. “We never know, do we.” I didn’t know just what he meant by that, and didn’t ask. “Arnett and Zapia are seniors, the others are juniors. Well, all but Louis.” Archer glanced across at me. “Louis Zamora? He’s a sophomore this year.”
He frowned at the screen again, then relaxed back in his chair.
“They’re not a group here at school, if you know what I mean. Not like it’s the ‘gang of six.’ That’s interesting. I mean, Tommy Pasquale and Matt Singer hang out together some.” He smiled at Estelle. “I’m sure you remember how it was, Estelle. There’s friends,” and he held his arms out wide, encircling a large, imaginary beach ball, then brought his hands together to palm a basketball, “and there’s friends, and then,” he clasped his palms tightly, “there’s friends. Best buds. Go to class together, eat lunch together, hang out at the Handiway together, go to parties together.” He leaned forward and tapped the list. “I’d put these six in the first category.” He spread his arms again.
His fingers danced on the computer keys, and he leaned his chin in his left hand as he read the results. “And would you believe this…of the six, four are AWOL today.” Archer turned just enough to catch my eye. “Can you believe that? First day of the first week of school, and there they go.” He shrugged philosophically. “We expect absentees, really until next week. But still…”
“Which ones didn’t make it today?”
“Pasquale, Zamora, Arnett and Packard.” He frowned. “Zamora surprises me. He didn’t miss a single day last year, when he was a freshman. And if my memory serves me, he was a star in middle school, too…perfect attendance. Jason Packard is junior, just barely. You probably know him.”
“The Packard ranch up by Newton,” I said.
“That’s it.” Archer grimaced. “And caught right in the middle. Jason lives here in town with his grandmother, and I won’t even begin trying to explain the mess that family’s in. Suffice to say that I don’t think we offer a whole lot that’s of interest to the boy. He’s a ranch kid at heart, regardless of how often his stepfather tries to beat it out of him, so there’s no telling what’s keeping him away from school today.”
Estelle Reyes’ black eye brows narrowed a bit at that. She’d learn soon enough that ninety percent of the criminal cases that the Sheriff’s Department dealt with blossomed first as a family dispute of some kind. And most of the time, kids were caught painfully in the middle.
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