One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “Actually, I need to chat with you, Mindy,” I said, and toed her office door closed. “Do you have a moment?”

  “My word, of course I do.” She looked at me warily as she slid back into her chair. She waved toward two straight chairs that nestled tight against floral wall paper. “Such a tragic week we’ve had. First Mr. Newton passing away, then that awful thing with the Zipolis. Just awful. And I suppose you knew Miriam Archuleta?”

  I didn’t, but Mindy rattled on. “She had just gone to live with her son in El Paso, and died with the pneumonia, of all things.” She shook her head. “Such a wonderful woman she was.” Mindy folded her hands, either about to run down, or settling in. In her mind, apparently, Larry Zipoli’s murder was in the same category as a death from old age or pneumonia.

  “Mrs. Arnett, we’re in the process of talking to anyone who might have spent some time with Larry Zipoli just before his death.”

  “Well, I should think so,” she responded quickly. “You know, I haven’t talked with either Larry or Marilyn in quite some time.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice a bit. “They aren’t our most regular members here at the church, you know. Once in a while, I have the opportunity to chat with Jim next door to them.” She looked conspiratorial. “We’re always concerned with shepherds who stray, you know.”

  I didn’t know, and didn’t care. I kept my tone pleasant as I said, “Actually, I wasn’t concerned with you, Mrs. Arnett.” I held up a hand as she took a breath, winding up to begin another roll. “There’s a group of kids who hang out at the Zipolis at various times. On several occasions, they’ve gone to the lake with the family. Water skiing, that sort of thing.”

  Her right hand drifted to her mouth. “Oh, my, are you saying that one of the kids had something to do…”

  “Nope, I’m not saying that, Mrs. Arnett. I’m saying that several youngsters, your son Mo included, had occasion to spend time with Larry Zipoli-most often over at the lake, or working on the boat at his home.”

  “Mo and…”

  “At the moment, I’m concerned with Mo,” I nodded. She wanted the whole list, of course, but that wasn’t going to happen. “He’s not in school today, I understand.”

  “He most certainly is in school,” Mrs. Arnett said, and some steel crept into her voice, reprimanding me for making such a silly mistake.

  Her eyes narrowed when I added, “And I can understand that, the weather being what it is. A grand day for a little hooky.”

  She turned and regarded the telephone console. A call to the school would clear things up, but there lay the risk. Without making the call, Mindy Arnett could rest comfortable in the notion that I was wrong, and that her son was in fact sitting at an uncomfortable desk, listening to a litany of all the work the school year held in store, overlaying the assurances of all the fun he was certain to have.

  “Go ahead,” I said gently. “You’ll want confirmation, Mindy.”

  She sat back and looked at me. “Do you know where he’s been?”

  “No. That’s why we’re here.”

  “I don’t understand, then. You sound as if he’s involved in something. Since when did you folks become truant officers?”

  “Since never,” I said with a chuckle. “As I told you, we’re in the interview process. Now, it’s our understanding that Mo and some of his friends frequented the Zipoli casa, and even took some recreational trips to the Butte. The kids might not have a damn thing to tell us. Then again, we never know. They might have heard or seen something that could be a help.” I shrugged. “That’s the sum and substance of it.”

  “Let me,” she said, and picked up the phone. In a couple of minutes, she settled the receiver back in its cradle, clearly distressed at what the school secretary had reported. “All day today.” She dialed another number, and the phone at her home rang ten times before she gave up. With the efficiency of a practiced secretary, she punched in another number. “Is Mark back from Deming yet, Julie?” She listened in silence for a moment. “All right. What’s that number?” She jotted, broke off the call, and dialed again, this time long distance.

  We waited patiently while she tracked down her husband. Finally, after the usual back and forth of greetings and explanation, she asked with visible relief at having someone she trusted to talk with, “Mark, is Mo with you?” Obviously he wasn’t. “He’s not in school today.” She glanced at me. “Well, I’m not sure where he is. The sheriff is here and wants to talk with him.” I couldn’t hear Mark Arnett’s voice, but his tone was such that Mindy didn’t interrupt him. After a moment of nodding, she said, “No…it’s Bill Gastner. Here, why don’t you talk with him?”

  I took the receiver. “Mark? Bill Gastner. How are you.”

  “What’s the deal, sheriff?” In the background, I could hear traffic, and at least one piece of heavy equipment, its exhaust bark close by.

  “We’d like to chat with Mo about when he might have talked last with Larry Zipoli.”

  “Shit.”

  Exactly what Mark Arnett meant by that was unclear. “Just some things that we want to clear up,” I added.

  “Like what?”

  “When Mo last saw Mr. Zipoli, for example. Or if he heard Zipoli talk about any…what, issues that he might have had with anybody? Things like that.”

  “Why Mo? He’s not the only kid that hangs out over there.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s one of several. We’ve started the process of talking with them all.”

  “Huh. So what’s the deal, anyway?” He didn’t sound terribly concerned.

  “Just that. We want to talk with anyone who happened to see Zipoli recently.”

  “Well, Mo ought to be in school. That’s all I can tell you, sheriff.” He barked a short laugh. “He’s not the most motivated little bugger, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Any particular place that he likes to go?”

  “Nope. I mean, other than in front of the damn video games. Just out and about with his buddies. One of the kids has been trying to get him interested in ridin’ bikes. That’d be a good thing. He’s got the old Schwinn out and oiled up.”

  “Who does he hang out with, generally?”

  “Oh, you know…the Pasquale kid. Tommy, I think his name is. Once in a while with Louis Zamora or Jason Packard. Him and Packard used to hang out together a lot, but not so much any more. You know how those things go. His sister might know.”

  I took a slow breath. Of course-a fourth grader, in this case little Maureen Arnett, would know where her brother was if the folks didn’t.

  “Did Mo take the Pontiac today, do you know?” Even as I asked that, Mindy Arnett was shaking her head vehemently.

  “Damn well better not have,” dad said. “Why, did you see him in it?”

  “I thought he might have taken a trip to the city or something,” I said. “So you folks haven’t noticed anyone or anything unusual in the neighborhood these past few days? Strangers, that sort of thing?”

  “Hell, no. ‘Course, I ain’t home most of the time. And you’re right. The kids would have seen or heard more’n me. Them or Jim Raught across the street. Hell, he’s always home. Meditating or some damn thing.”

  “Look, thanks, Mark. We’ll touch bases with Mo later today sometime. No big deal. If you see him before I do, you might have him give me a call.”

  “You got it.”

  “And one of these days, I need to talk with you about an estimate on my old casa. I’ve got a couple of leaks that I can’t find.”

  “You got it. Let me bend Mindy’s ear for a minute.”

  I handed the phone to her, and after a moment, she stopped listening and hung up.

  “Now what happens?” she asked. “You know, our hearts just go out to Marilyn. Such a loss for her.”

  “When we cross paths with Mo, we’ll have a chat,” I said, and it sounded as if I didn’t really care one way or another. Mindy Arnett relaxed a little. “Kids these days, eh?”

  “Oh, my,” she sighed
, and turned her attention to Estelle. “Will we be seeing more of you now?”

  Estelle replied with a gentle but noncommittal smile. “I’ll tell mamá that we spoke, Mrs. Arnett. She’ll be pleased to hear that things are going well.”

  “You’ll bring her by the next time she visits.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I stood up abruptly, a clear signal that we were on our way. “The Pontiac is in the garage?” I asked, and Mindy was caught off guard by the question.

  “The Pontiac?”

  “Yes. The little gold one.”

  “Well, sure it is. I’ve been walking to work the past few weeks, trying to lose a little of the avoir dupois.” She patted her hip, then frowned. “Now, Mark is real strict with Mo about when and where he drives. Never to school. Never at night. And never, never with a carload of friends. In fact, most of the time, all he gets to drive is the truck when he rides with his dad. Not the Jeep or my car.”

  “Driving will consume his time soon enough,” I said. “Mindy, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for talking with us.” I fished out one of my cards and handed it to her. “If you see Mo before we do, have him give me a call.”

  “The garage is open, sheriff. If you need to satisfy your curiosity about the car, it’s parked right there. You’re welcome to look.”

  “Thanks, Mindy. We may do that.” Once outside, I took a deep breath to rinse out the stale, perfumed air of the rectory. “You know,” I said to Estelle as we settled into the car, “I have four kids. They’ve been out of the nest for years and years. And I can’t remember when I stopped checking on their whereabouts every minute of the day.” I looked at her, but knew I was talking a foreign concept. She was four years out of school herself, and I’m sure there were a myriad of times when her mother had to trust in her abiding faith that this daughter was safe and well in the United States. Great-uncle Reuben, on the other hand? The concept of reins would never enter his old head.

  “I mean, when they’re little, you keep your eyes and ears sharp, even the eye in the back of your head. Then they hit middle school, and it seems easier just to shout, ‘be home by eight!’ without a clue about where they really are or what they’re really doing. And high school? Forget it. We just start trusting ’em and hope that they survive the experience.”

  “Most do, fortunately,” she said.

  “Yep, they usually do.” I turned back toward Fourth Street and nosed the county car into the Arnett driveway. Sure enough, the handle of the garage was turned sideways to the unlocked position. And sure enough, after I got out of the car and rolled the heavy door up, all that remained of the Pontiac were vague scuffs on the garage’s concrete floor. I stood there, both hands on the door over my head, trying to believe that there was a simple explanation for all this. Estelle had gotten out of the car as well, but stayed a step or two behind me.

  “And so much for that,” I said. “Mom is right…the little bastard never drives to school.” I glanced back at Estelle as I eased the door downward. “But where else remains the question.” She was leafing through note book pages, but I could have told her that her memory was correct-Hugh Decker, with his 20/200 vision, claimed to have noticed a small, dark, innocuous sedan at the intersection of Highland and Hutton with a single occupant.

  For a long moment, I stood in the sun in front of the door, looking down at the concrete at my feet. “What makes me sick with all this is that it fits,” I said. “A kid sneaks away for a little hooky-a little R amp; R before school settles in for the duration. He takes mom’s car-hell, she won’t know. She’s at work, and dad’s out of town. Sis is at school, where she’s supposed to be. Mo takes the car, maybe takes one of dad’s rifles, and on impulse takes a wild shot at a parked piece of county machinery.”

  I checked that the garage door was secure and made my way back to the car. I didn’t pull it into gear, but just sat there like a lump, musing. “Fits, doesn’t it?” I said finally.

  “Almost,” Estelle Reyes said. Her voice was so soft I cocked my head.

  “Almost?”

  “I don’t understand it as a wild impulse, sir. Not a wild shot like one of the highway shooters taking a pot shot at a road sign. It appears that the killer got out of the car and walked some distance toward the road grader, sir. That’s if Mr. Decker’s testimony is believable. And then he saw a figure walking…not running…walking back to the car.” She fell silent, and I prompted her with a beckoning motion of the hand. “I agree that with the afternoon sun on a dirty windshield that it would have been nearly impossible to tell if the grader was occupied.”

  “The killer would have heard the grader idling, though,” I said.

  “He possibly could have, if he walked close enough. If the wind was right.”

  “So what are you saying, then?” Estelle hesitated, and I added, “I’m serious. I want to know what scenario makes sense to you. You’re saying that you see a definite intent in all this? Not just senseless vandalism?” Anyone who had been thinking as hard as she had been should have had some notions, and at this point, I was open to suggestions, even from a sub-rookie. Something in that quiet, analytical manner of hers impressed the hell out of me.

  “I find it hard to believe that it was an accident, sir.”

  “That’s what’s been giving me nightmares for the past couple of days.” I spun my index finger beside my skull, mimicking an old film projector. “I keep playing out the scene, and that creates more questions than answers. If some guy had a serious grudge against Larry Zipoli-I mean something that would drive him to murder-then I wonder why he took the shot from fifty or sixty yards away…when he would have had difficulty making out the target through a grubby windshield? Why not stalk right up to the grader, maybe have time for a word or two, a curse or two, and then bang. Right through the open door.”

  “Fear of confrontation, maybe?” Estelle said. “And maybe we’re supposed to think it was an accident-what’s been mentioned since day one. A moment of vandalism gone wrong.”

  “Fear of confrontation.” I echoed, and gazed at Estelle thoughtfully. “You’re goddamned right about that. It takes a special kind of cold son of a bitch to look the victim right in the eye before the shot. So he takes it from a safe distance. If the shot misses, and Zipoli comes charging out of that machine to pound his lights out, then maybe he can sprint back to the car in time.”

  “Why not just take another shot?” Estelle asked.

  “Why not indeed. A miss gives him time to reconsider, maybe. Shoot and run is one thing. Trying again is another kettle of fish. Shoots and run. That’s what makes sense to me.” I pulled the car into gear and backed out into Fourth Street. “Shit,” I muttered. “And that’s what fits. So where did the little bastard go?” I reached for the mike, and in a moment dispatch was handling a BOLO call-be on the lookout for a little gold Pontiac, license CLT 499. I was loath to add the armed and dangerous advisory, but wishful thinking wasn’t going to make anyone safe.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Jason Packard had found better things to do than attend school, and it didn’t take a BOLO to find him. The door of his grandparents’ garage was open wide, and Jason was working at the bench in the back, under the light of a fluorescent fixture. He wasn’t alone. Tom Pasquale had had enough lung busting. He had circled back to town, and now he and Jason were deep in conference over a bicycle wheel that was suspended in some form of vise. A tiny dial indicator mounted on the side of the vise measured the wheel rim’s wobble in thousandths.

  Years ago, one of my sons had tried to true the front wheel of his bike, spinning it in his hands, squinting with one eye closed, then wrenching on the heads of the spokes. He didn’t know what he was doing, and when he gave up, his wheel wobbled just as much or more than when he started. Packard’s approach, with Pasquale kibitzing, appeared far more scientific.

  While Tom Pasquale was ruggedly built, broad through the shoulders and already starting to put on the padding that promised him as
a real bruiser as an adult, Jason Packard was a typically thin and wiry ranch kid. He could probably throw bales of hay off a tractor-trailer for hours without breaking stride. That his mom and stepfather couldn’t find some common ground with this hardheaded boy was one of those senseless tragedies that always left me shaking my head in puzzlement.

  The two kids didn’t stop work when the county car slid up to the curb, although they certainly saw us. As Estelle and I walked up the driveway, Jason stepped back from the wheel and let fly with a string of profanity as he tossed a wrench onto the bench. I suppose the obscenities were for Estelle’s benefit.

  “Mr. Packard, Mr. Pasquale,” I said pleasantly. “How goes the truing?” A flicker of surprise touched Jason’s face. Geezers who knew about truing bike wheels? Jeez, what’s the world coming to. Leaning against the workbench was the gold and blue racing bike that Pasquale had been riding earlier, minus the front wheel. “Hit a curb?”

  Tom grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I did.”

  “It jumped into your path, did it?”

  “I got cut off,” he said. “You know, some lady wasn’t watching and cut me off when she turned right.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced down as he shifted his weight, and I saw a scrape just above his ankle. “I didn’t dump it, but came close.”

  “Did she stop?”

  “Ah, no, sir.” The kid grinned. “She waved, though.”

  “Well then, that makes it all right.” I stepped closer and peered at the wheel. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  I nudged the wheel gently and watched the little dial indicator as it flickered only a thou-and-a-half through a full revolution. “Hell of a good job.” Packard didn’t reply, but he looked pleased. “So. Have either of you two seen Mo around lately?”

  “No, sir.” Pasquale’s answer was immediate, but I saw a twitch of expression on Jason Packard’s narrow face that told me he’d rather talk about bike wheels.