One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “There’s always a chance,” I said.

  “Hell, they got a good lineup, but I don’t sell five boxes of their stuff a year, all of it special order. And what’s the point of that? All a guy has to do is call their 800 number and order it direct.” He reached out and made a circle around the image of the 170-grain thirty caliber Mountain Slam flat-nosed bullet, just about in the middle of their product line-up. “The young fella is right, though.” He spoke as if Deputy Robert Torrez wasn’t standing right there at the counter. “That’s what you have.”

  “Not popular, or what? Just pricy?”

  Payton shrugged as if he was loathe to sound as if he knew something. “Expensive, mostly.”

  “So who’s likely to use these?”

  George shrugged. “They’re goin’ after some of the cowboy action shooters, maybe. Some of them get pretty serious. Maybe some of the more serious lever-action metallic silhouette shooters who want a bullet just a bit heavier than average.” His finger drifted down the row of illustrations, and stopped over a long bullet labeled for the.38–55 Winchester. “Not too many folks making this one commercially. Or the.40 caliber either.” He swept his finger all the way to the end of the line-up. “How many companies you think make the big.50? You got a handful of folks loading the.50-110, but not many. Now, if you’re going to hand load for some run-of-the-mill old rifle like a.30–30, like what you’re talking about, what’s the point of using premium, custom bullets?” He laughed a sort of choked-up huff, huff. “Especially when you’re going to go ahead and shoot the stuff out of the wrong gun.”

  “Some folks like the best, maybe?”

  George scoffed. “Hell, if I was handloading for an old.30-30-well, I wouldn’t do that anyway-but if I did, I’d just buy some cheap Winchester bulk stuff. That’ll shoot better’n me or the gun, either one.”

  “As I remember, you’re not required to keep records of cartridge component sales.”

  George shook his head and grimaced. “And even if I was…” he left the rest to our imagination. “That’s what this one was asking,” and he jerked his big round head toward Bob Torrez.

  “So…what did you think of Robert’s experiment with the two rifles?”

  “There’s easier ways to shoot somebody,” George said. “You really think this went down that way?”

  “It’s beginning to look like it.”

  “Well,” he said philosophically, and shrugged again. His eyebrow cocked at me.

  “George, it might be helpful if we knew of any recent sales that might fit this pattern.”

  George looked pained. He made his way to the battered swivel chair behind an amazingly cluttered desk and relaxed back in it, hands folded over his belly. “If you think that I’m going to turn over a list of all my customers, you’re nuts. I don’t care how much paperwork you bring over from old man Smith.”

  “That’s not what we’re asking for.” I hadn’t even seriously considered the notion of a warrant from Judge Everett Smith.

  “Well, that’s good, sheriff. Because I’m not going to list everyone I know who shoots a.30–30, or a.32 Winchester Special. I’m not going to give you a list of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who reloads his own ammunition, or who buys components.” His large head shook sadly, as if we’d asked him to trade his soul. “That just isn’t going to happen.”

  “You wouldn’t be giving us much, George. For a village the size of Posadas, what are we talking about-ten people at most?”

  “One’s all it takes, Billy. Word gets around that when you buy something from old George Payton, your personal information is handed over to the cops…I might just as well close the doors right now. Nope, I don’t see that as my job.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to argue the point with George. Anytime someone purchased a firearm, the buyer filled out the yellow form required by the ATF, but that form stayed with the dealer. Other than that, nothing. Minors were prohibited from buying ammo or the like before sixteen or so, but no records were kept of sales.

  “That’s not what we had in mind,” Deputy Torrez said, his voice just a notch above a whisper.

  “Yeah, I could name a couple of guys who own Winchesters, including you and myself-and I suppose you could get a warrant and look through my books for recent sales. It ain’t going to tell you nothing. Trust me on that. You got something screwball going on here, that’s what I think. And by the way,” and he tapped the edge of his desk with his heavy ring. “The last lever gun I sold was a.444 Marlin, and that was months ago.” He caught Torrez’s trace of a smile and nodded with smug triumph. “And yeah, you bought that.”

  “Did you know Larry Zipoli very well, George?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “At all?”

  “Nope.” Apparently he realized how obstinate he was sounding, because he shrugged helplessly. “Look, if I knew something about all this, maybe I’d find a way to let you know. But I don’t. The whole thing is screwy, if you ask me. Nobody is going to intentionally put the wrong ammunition in a rifle. Just maybe in this case it was a dumb mistake that happened to have worked.”

  “Well, we’ll figure out a way to track it,” I said.

  “I suppose you will,” George Payton said helpfully. “Best of luck to you.”

  While we were jawing, Estelle had drifted over toward the overloaded shelves of boxed bullets. Customers who hand-loaded could assemble their own favorite brew, selecting primers, empty casings, propellant and finally bullets. And George was right. With the attention that careful hand-loading required, it was improbable that the finished product would then be stuffed-intentionally-into the wrong gun.

  Maybe that was what the young lady was thinking. Her perusal took her over toward the window, and she stopped by a small bulletin board that was papered with notices and 3 x 5 cards advertising the stuff of shooters and hunters. Some of the notices and ads had been tacked there for so long that they imitated parchment.

  Leaving the deputy to pack up his show-and-tell and make peace with George Payton, I joined Estelle as she jotted notes from the bulletin board.

  “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering what a three-gun match was, sir.”

  “That would be something where they use three guns,” I said helpfully, and saw the aging flyer that held her interest. I turned so that the old man could hear me. “George, how does a three-gun match work?”

  “All sorts of ways,” he said.

  “Like how? Name me one, you cantankerous old bastard.”

  He chuckled with delight. “Maybe long range silhouette with the heavy guns, then the short range course with center-fire pistol cartridges and a third round with.22s. Usually like that.”

  “By long range, what do you mean?”

  “Starts at fifty meters, with the last stage out at two hundred.”

  “That doesn’t seem so far.”

  George huffed. “You try it.”

  “Scopes?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Can I use a rest. Off a table for support?”

  “Nope. You just stand there and wobble.”

  “Ah. So a competitor needs a variety of hardware,” I said more to Estelle than anyone else. She had placed a finger on the flyer, and tapped gently. I leaned closer so I could read the faded print. “Huh.” She turned her little notebook so I could see the page she’d been working on, and I nodded.

  “George, does Mark Arnett still run these matches? He’s the contact person, or what? I’m talking about this three-gun they had down in Cruces last…” I moved a couple notices to one side to reveal the upper right corner of the flyer and the date. “Last summer.”

  “I’m not sure whether he does or not,” George replied unconvincingly. He knew damn well what Mark Arnett did. He turned toward the door as it opened to allow in a grizzled fellow as huge as two of me, along with an over-weight golden retriever who instantly made a dogline for Estelle, tail flailing.

  “Dodie, get back here,” the fellow snapped
. The dog ignored him, and the man grinned at Estelle. “He sure likes the ladies. Just ignore him.”

  She did, and after a quick snuffle of her pants suit trousers, Dodie gave up.

  “Mark would be the best one to check with about future events, though?” I asked, and George looked sideways at me.

  “I guess maybe.”

  Wilbur Haines, never bashful about becoming part of the conversation, thrust out a huge paw toward me.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff. Hey, Bobby.” He pumped hands all around, including Estelle’s. I introduced them, and Wilbur’s beard bounced as he first nodded and then shook his head. The dog tried to wag himself into a big yellow ball.

  “Wilbur, you’d know,” George said.

  “What would I know?”

  “Does Mark Arnett still run the silhouette matches? I know he did for a while, there.”

  “Well, sure he does,” Wilbur said, and found himself a chair. I knew Wilbur was one of the morning Geezer Group that gathered at the shop. In another few minutes, two or three more old guys would arrive at George’s shop, and the coffee and donuts and tall tales would start to fly. “Sure he does.” Wilbur looked up at me. “You lookin’ to get into competition, Sheriff?”

  “Been thinking about it,” I said. “The idea appeals to me.”

  Wilbur nodded eagerly. “You bet. Arnett’s the one to talk to on that, all right. He generally posts the schedules.” He twisted and peered across the small room at the bulletin board, then grinned again at Estelle. “You can arrest me anytime, little lady.” His impression of John Wayne lacked something, but another thought jarred Wilbur loose from his ogling of the little lady. “He’s been trying to pry some land loose from the county for a decent shooting range, you know.”

  “I knew there was some interest along those lines.”

  “Oh, sure. Other than the gravel pit, which isn’t open all the time, there’s no good, close place for us to go. I mean out on the prairie, or up on the mesa, sure, but nothing real close or real handy. We’ve been figuring the county has lots of space out north of the airport there, against the mesa. Hell, that’s only seven miles from town.”

  “Seems logical,” I said. Deputy Torrez was already at the door, and I didn’t want to linger. “You gents have a good day,” I said. George muttered something, and Wilbur grabbed the dog’s collar. We made our exit before the chitchat locked us in for another hour. I promised George that I’d take him to lunch in the near future, but his “Yeah, yeah” didn’t sound as if he was holding his breath waiting.

  “You want me to go talk with Arnett?” Torrez said as the door closed behind me.

  “No. Let me.” I stood in the sun for a moment, letting it bathe my pulse back down where it belonged. My car’s passenger door closed, and I saw Estelle was already settled in.

  “Good eyes,” I said as I slid into the seat. She’d opened a door for us that I’d missed.

  “I didn’t know if Mark Arnett was related to Mo,” she said, scanning her notes.

  “Oh, he’s related, all right. Indeed he is. Mark, Mo, and little sister Maureen. Mom is Mindy.” I thumped the steering wheel as the LTD cranked into life. “Cute, eh?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Talking to Mark Arnett would have involved a trip to Deming, where he was estimating a roofing job. Mom Mindy was in her office at the rectory of St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and I wasn’t in the mood to confront her. She ran the church with an iron fist, leaving Father Vince Carey free to save souls. Mindy knew everything about church operations, about every member of the congregation. But first, I was interested in what young Mo had to say without mom hovering over his shoulder.

  We cruised around the block to north Fourth. No one appeared to be home at the Arnett casa, and I parked just around the corner on Blaine with a clear view of Zipoli’s place and the various neighbors, including Jim Raught’s address. A short stroll took me across the street, and I knocked on front, side, and back doors of the Arnett’s trim little place. Nothing. The garage was closed and dark.

  As I recrossed the street, I was close enough to the office to use my handheld on car-to-car, where there were fewer eavesdroppers. “PCS, three ten.”

  “Go ahead, three ten.”

  “PCS, find out what vehicles are registered to Mark or Mindy Arnett.” I spelled the last name for him and provided the address. Deputy Robert Torrez’s oldest sister was manager of the local Department of Motor Vehicle office, and on several occasions she had made investigations a whole lot easier than us trying to stumble through the computer’s innards to find what we wanted.

  “Ten four, three ten.”

  Back in the car, I dug the Posadas phone book out of the center console. Rebecca Pasquale was listed at 313 South Tenth, just a few blocks south of Bustos, the main east-west drag through the village. She worked at one of the dry cleaning establishments, and her ex-husband Manny tried his best in Las Cruces. The last time I had seen Manny, he was selling newspapers at one of the major intersections near the plaza.

  But it was the Pasquales’ cycle-riding son, Thomas, who interested me at the moment.

  I’d like to claim that brilliant detective work located the kid. Not so. We were rolling across the old irrigation bridge, headed for the intersection of Twelfth and Bustos, when I saw the bike rider. Dressed in bumble bee Spandex, with helmet low over his eyes and hi-tech riding glasses reflecting the sun, the kid blew through the stop sign, weaved around first one car and then another, and sprinted across Bustos, taking the right hand lane westward. I was sure he didn’t see us-by that time, my county car had drifted into the shade of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant.

  As he passed directly in front of us, I recognized Tommy Pasquale, focused on the highway in front of him, oblivious to traffic from the side roads. Maybe his peripheral vision was gecko-sharp. He didn’t look my way, but powered west. Bustos eventually left the village and became the pothole studded state highway 17, heading westward out of Posadas County.

  “One of our boys,” I mused, and watched the kid crank up to speed. Traffic was light, of course-other than a few ranchers or lost tourists, there was little reason to take this particular route. A high school kid playing hooky might head out to the desert for some personal reflection. Maybe. I had had intimate experience with four teenagers when my own brood worked their way through the impossible years, and deep reflection wasn’t a common course of action. Tommy Pasquale was riding as if he needed to burn out the kinks.

  When the certified speedometer in the LTD touched twenty-one miles an hour, I was pacing the kid, holding fifty yards behind him. Twenty-one may not seem like light speed, but young Thomas was burning the calories. I’d read enough sporting magazines to know that maintaining anything over twenty miles an hour on the flat and level-and with a hint of head wind-took conditioning and muscle. How long this kid could keep it up was anyone’s guess, but his whole body spoke determination.

  The young man never looked behind him. He hunched into the breeze, hands down on the drops, pumping like a machine. Keep that up, and in an hour, he’d be in Arizona.

  “Let’s see what he has to say,” I said, and reached for the switch on the radio console. I waited a moment until an oncoming pickup truck towing a stock trailer rumbled past east bound, and then waited again until a long stretch of guard rail slipped by. I lit the roof rack and touched the siren’s yelp mode for a single whoop. That won the cyclist’s attention. His rhythm broke and he cranked around on the saddle to look at us.

  I pointed at the shoulder, and he collected his balance again and paid attention as he slowed without turning off the pavement. In a moment he twisted his feet sideways to pop the pedal clips and drifted to a stop. He hopped off and lifted the bike from the macadam onto the grass-dotted shoulder, setting the machine down as carefully as if it were made out of glass.

  The county car’s tires crunched off the pavement, cutting through the grass, goatheads, broken bottles and all the other crap that lines ou
r nation’s highways. No wonder the kid was so careful. I lifted the mike.

  “PCS, three ten is ten six with a bicyclist, mile marker 34, State 17.”

  “Ten four, three ten.” T.C. Barnes didn’t ask what I was doing, but the ten-six request meant we wouldn’t be interrupted unless a storm broke loose somewhere in the county.

  “Always,” I said to Estelle Reyes. “No matter how inconsequential, no matter how innocuous. Always keep dispatch informed, especially when you’re going to be out of the car.” Do as I say, not as I do. There were many times when I was loath to blab over the air the details of what I was up to but a rookie didn’t need to start out that way.

  Tommy Pasquale watched the performance, standing on the shoulder side of his bike, one hand on the bars, the other on the saddle, probably wondering what he’d done to warrant a traffic stop. I turned off the roof rack, leaving the four-ways on. As I stepped out of the car, he took off his helmet and dark glasses, a courtesy that impressed me.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said carefully, and that impressed me even more.

  “It is that,” I replied. “You apparently haven’t heard that the minimum vehicular speed on all paved roads in the county is now twenty-five miles an hour? I clocked you at twenty-one.” His face went blank, and I laughed. “Just kidding, Mr. Pasquale.” I stepped far enough off into the bunch grass that I could keep an eye on traffic, should there be any. I let the kid wonder how I came to know his name.

  “This is Estelle Reyes, new with the department. We’re doing a little tour this morning, and when I caught sight of you back there crossing Bustos, it reminded me that we had wanted to chat with you.”

  He reached out a gloved hand and shook hands with Estelle. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. A husky, powerfully-built kid already breaking six feet tall, Tom Pasquale ran a hand through his rumpled, sandy-brown hair as if concerned that the attractive young lady might catch him at something less than his best.

  “Thomas, I wanted to talk with you about Larry Zipoli,” I said, and the kid grimaced, his hand stopping at mid-skull for a second.