“Jason?”
“Nope.”
“But he’s been riding with you lately?”
“Well…some, I guess. He can’t keep up, the wuss.”
I laughed. “You set the blistering pace, do you?”
“He don’t have a decent bike,” Jason said. “And he won’t work on getting in shape.”
“But he’d like to?”
Jason frowned, not sure how to answer. He settled for a noncommittal shrug.
For a long moment, I regarded the wheel in the vise as the hub gently drifted on perfect bearings. “So you haven’t seen him around today or yesterday? It’s unusual that the three of you all ditched school today. You were all planning a ride or something?”
“Just got things to do,” Jason said. He glanced at Tom Pasquale, probably wondering what else his cycling friend had told me during our earlier conversation. I couldn’t imagine that Tom hadn’t mentioned his traffic stop out on NM17, or my admonition that stop signs applied to cyclists. I jumped right into the issue at hand, hoping for a little shake-up value.
“What do you think about what happened to Larry Zipoli, Jason?”
It was one of those stupid questions in the same category as those asked of catastrophe survivors by television reporters. Before either young man had the chance to cook up a response, I added, “Did either of you ever hear arguments between Zipoli and anybody else?”
“No, sir,” Tom Pasquale said, and his expression added, “What arguments?”
“Arguments with the neighbors? Fence encroachment, unkempt lawns, the boat leaking oil, kids hanging around at all hours, maybe dealing marijuana…”
Jason Packard’s frown was dark and stormy, and he glared at me incredulously. “Jesus, mister, where’d you dig up all that shit?” Obviously he wasn’t a kid easily intimidated, by stepfathers, school staff, or cops.
“None of it’s true?”
“I don’t know about any of that.”
“You ever have the chance to pass the time of day with Jim Raught next door?”
“No. I seen him once in a while. He keeps to himself.”
“Did you overhear any arguments that Mr. Zip might have had with him?”
“No. That ain’t any of my business what they do.” He touched the wheel so that it coasted another turn.
“You guys shared a beer or two from time to time with Mr. Zipoli?”
“Sure. Why not?” I glanced sideways at Tom Pasquale. He couldn’t suppress the fidgits, and his T-shirt armpits were wet.
“About a hundred reasons.” I picked a tiny piece of something off one of the wheel’s yellow spokes. “So let me ask you both something you do know about.” I regarded Jason thoughtfully. “The other day, the three of you apparently stopped up on the county road to chat with Larry Zipoli-just up past the old drive-in. But one of our witnesses says he saw just the two of you there. Not three.”
“Yeah? So?” Jason’s tone was wary. Tom Pasquale studiously examined the concrete floor, since he knew what he’d already told me.
“Were was Mo? Wasn’t he out riding with you that day?”
“Yeah, he was on that wreck of a bike of his.”
“He lagged behind, or went on ahead while you guys talked with Zipoli? Is that it?”
“He went on ahead a ways. He said he was havin’ trouble with his chain.” Jason shrugged expressively. “What’s to go wrong with that thing? He’s always comin’ up with something like that. Always some lame excuse.”
“A lame excuse for what? For talking with Zipoli? For sharing a brew on a hot day? Does this Mo guy have an issue with Zipoli somehow?”
Jason almost laughed at that. “This Mo guy,” he repeated. “Not no more issues now, I guess.”
“He did have, though?”
“Mr. Z picked on him sometimes,” Tom Pasquale offered.
“Because?”
The boy shrugged. “Just ‘cause. Mo was kinda clumsy. Kinda chubby.”
“And Zipoli wasn’t?”
“I’m just saying.” Tom smiled. “Mo couldn’t ski…I mean he tried, but he couldn’t stay up more’n a hundred yards. He made it up once, and Mr. Z spun the boat around in a real tight circle, and that dumped him.” The young man laughed with delight at the memory. “The only time Mo got up, and he gets dumped.”
“That made Mo angry?”
“Well, Mr. Z did that with all of us,” Jason said. “I mean, it was just part of the fun.” He drew circles in the air. “You know, you drive the boat in a circle tighter and tighter, and pretty soon the skier can’t keep the slack out of the tow rope and you just kinda sink. If you’re paying attention, you can hand-over-hand some of the ski rope slack, but that don’t work for very long. Anyways, Mo couldn’t do that. Stayin’ up was his big accomplishment, and then he got dumped.”
“Well, big fizz,” I said. “The kid can’t take a little horseplay. Is that what you’re saying?” I had no idea where all this was headed, but the two boys were talking then, and I didn’t want it to stop.
Jason nodded. “He got mad last week ‘cause Mr. Z bet him a buck that he couldn’t take me.”
“What do you mean, he couldn’t take you?”
The lad looked pained. “We rode out on Highland a little bit. I was trying to sell him my old Peugeot,” and he turned and nodded at a well-worn ten-speed that hung from the wall. “Just a little test ride. Mr. Z was out there that day, too. He was workin’ on the grader. Seems like it was broke down more than it worked.”
“And you stopped to visit?”
“Yep. Just to shoot the breeze for a minute or two.”
“Any refreshments that day?”
Jason smiled slyly. “No.” He looked sideways at me to see just how gullible I was.
“And this ‘take you’ business?” I prompted.
“Mr. Z kinda poked Mo in the gut, you know. He was just joking around, but he’s always after Mo, every chance he gets. He’d say, ‘When’s the baby due?’ or shit like that.”
“There’s an old adage about a pot and a kettle,” I said. “Did Mo ever give back as good as he got?”
Jason shook his head slowly. “He’s just not too good at that. He just gets mad and goes off by himself.”
“That’s what happened that day?”
“Well, sort of. Mr. Z is all into boxing, you know. He was always saying that he wanted to get a club started in town. And then he kind of stepped back a little, standing there like a referee or something with his hands on his hips. ‘Winner gets the buck,’ he said. ‘Hell, make it five.’”
“Winner? He wanted you and Mo to fight, you mean?”
“Sure. I knew he was jokin’. But I don’t think Mo did. I pretended to get set.” Jason held up two fists, fighter like, and glowered over his knuckles. A good glower, too. I would have been convinced.
“What did Mo do?”
“Well, he kind of got all flustered, sort of. And then I got to thinkin’ I could use five bucks. No big deal. I was thinkin’ we could play around some, you know. Pretend boxing. I poked him up here,” and Jason rubbed his own cheek near the jaw line. “Nothin’ hard or anything. Just like they do in Hollywood. But Mo, he didn’t lean back and I kinda hit him maybe a little harder than I wanted.”
“You connected, you mean.”
“Not hard or nothin’, but yeah…I connected. It looked kind of funny, you know. We all cracked up, ‘cause he lost his balance and stumbled backward. Well, Mo was pissed, and he ran back to the bike and took off. Mr. Z thought that was pretty funny.”
“And you got the five bucks?”
“’No fight, no money.’ That’s what Mr. Z said. I knew it was just a joke, anyway. Funny thing is that big as Mo is, if he got himself into shape, he’d probably be a pretty good boxer. Got real big hands.”
“You saw Mo after that? What did he have to say?”
Jason shook his head. “He dumped the bike back here, right in the front yard. I guess he just went home.”
�
�When did you see him after that?”
“Just when him and Tom and me went for a ride this past week. Tom invited him along, not me. Mo wasn’t talkin’ much. He wouldn’t say shit to me. Still mad, I guess.”
“He was,” Tom Pasquale added. “He wondered what would happen if sometime he dropped one of those M-80’s he’s got down the fuel tank of Mr. Z’s road grader. See how he likes it. That’s what Mo said.”
With a gentle tug, Jason set the bike wheel in motion again. “You’re not saying that Mo might have had something to do with the shooting, are you, sir?”
“Nope…we’re not saying that.” Jason heard the ‘we’ and glanced across at Estelle, who true to form had remained silent through the whole chat. “Do either of you happen to know where Mo went this afternoon? Did he stop by here?”
“No, sir,” Tom Pasquale said. “I haven’t seen him.”
Jason shook his head, then smiled, an expression that would have been charming if someone had taken care of his dental needs when he was a squirt. “He’s probably still mad at me. He’ll get over it.”
“Maybe so.” I wasn’t sure I believed that.
Chapter Thirty
Estelle Reyes picked at her chicken taco salad while I indulged my broad streak of gluttony with a green chile burrito that would no doubt give my ailing gall bladder fits. But what the hell. The person I most wanted to interview was seventeen year-old Maurice ‘Mo’ Arnett, but he’d played his wild card.
Small as Posadas was, there were a myriad places to hide, and my inclination was to think that’s what Mo had done. I couldn’t see him taking off cross-country. South of the border wouldn’t appeal to him, a pudgy gringo who didn’t speak ten words of Spanish and for whom the vast northern Mexican desert would yawn as an endless threat.
“So, where did he go?” I said around a mouthful of fragrant cheese and chile slices. “If you were seventeen and on the run, where would you go? You have a stolen car…well, a borrowed car. He can’t hide that very well. That’s a ton of metal that we’re going to find eventually.”
“Relatives out of town?” Estelle toyed with a tiny slice of chicken.
“No doubt. But how’s that going to work? Auntie sees Mo on her doorstep over in Calcutta, Texas, and what’s she going to do? Call Mindy and Mark, is what. And then it’s over. He can’t hide with friends, because he doesn’t have any. And I have a hard time believing he’s the sort of independent kid who could go to a strange place and just settle in. Not many kids are self-reliant enough to do that.”
Before she could answer, my radio, standing like a sentinel beside the salt and pepper shaker, squelched to life.
“Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty-one.” Baker’s voice held no particular urgency, but good dispatchers are like that. The world can be collapsing under them, and the voice on the radio is calm and mellow.
I reached across and pushed the transmit button. “Ten four.” I shoved my plate forward a bit and pushed myself out of the booth. “In a minute,” I said, and made my way toward the front of the restaurant. A phone nestled under the short counter by the cash register, and I dialed the Sheriff’s Department. Barnes picked up on the first ring.
“What’s up?” I leaned on the counter, looking down through the scratched glass at the tempting array of small cigars.
“Sir, Mark Arnett is here and wants to talk with you. Hold on a minute, and I’ll get him.”
“No, no, don’t bother with that. We’ll be back in the office in ten minutes. If he wants to wait, make him comfortable.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that was quick,” I muttered as I hung up. Arnett had pounded the pavement home from Deming without delay, and that told me that the standard issue parental denial might not be the case here. I could make it back to the office in three minutes, but what the hell. A burrito was waiting back at the table, steaming and fragrant, and who knew-with the way the day was going to hell, the opportunity to eat might be as elusive as Mark Arnett’s son. A dozen pairs of eyes were now looking for Mo Arnett, and they didn’t need me for a few minutes.
When I returned, Fernando Aragon, the restaurant’s owner and chief chef, was leaning against the back of the booth, hands clasped over his generous belly as he chatted with the department’s newest recruit. He laughed at something Estelle said, and looked up at me as I approached around the waitresses’ island.
“Hey, Sheriff!” He thrust out a hand. His grip was strong, but his hand felt bloated, damp, and smooth from all the hot water, detergent, and hand cream. “You know, I met this young lady when she was this high.” He held his hand a couple of feet above the well-worn carpet. “What do you think of that?”
“Small world,” I said. “How’s business for you?”
“Ay.” He straightened up and moved so that I could slide in to my seat. “You know, with the mine closing, we’re going to be facing some lean times.”
I wagged my eyebrows while readjusting the precise position of my plate. “I’ll always do my best to help.” I glanced at my watch. “I hate to eat and run, but we need to get back to the office.” Fernando took the hint-one of the many things I liked about him-and headed back to his kitchen, leaving us to our gastronomic delights.
I shoveled two mouthfuls of burrito, and then paused. “So, your fiancé…you said he’s the only member of his family living in the United States? How did you two meet?”
She thought about that for a piece of chicken or two. I was amused at the level of thought she gave the opening of each doorway into her personal history. “His aunt is a lawyer in Veracruz. She knows my mother. From years and years ago.”
Teresa Reyes, Estelle’s stepmother, lived in Tres Santos, a miniscule hamlet south of the border and a scant fifty miles from where we now sat. Veracruz was a long, long trip south, on the east coast of the country a stone’s throw from the Yucatan-about the same distance from Posadas as Cleveland, but with no nifty interstates between to eat the miles. I made a mental note to pursue how an attorney in Veracruz had come to know a school teacher in Tres Santos-a school teacher who owned neither car nor telephone nor a long list of life’s other comforts.
“Ah,” I said, and let it go at that. “The reason I asked about Francis is that one of the most interesting things that we end up doing in this crazy business is talking to parents, Estelle. Mom, Dad…that’s if the subject in question is lucky enough to have both, and both functional.”
I speared another section of burrito, and worked at keeping the cheese from sagging down my shirt front. “I did my time as a parent-two sons, two daughters,” and I spread my hands. “Scattered all over the country. And,” I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m acutely aware of some of the mistakes that I made. Hell,” and I waved the fork. “I have a son who won’t even speak to me…how stupid is that? I also have a daughter who won’t stop speaking to me. That’s almost as bad.”
Estelle listened politely, without comment or question. She absorbed information like a sponge. I wondered how well she’d be able to jump into an interrogation. The bad guys weren’t going to confess all just because it was the right thing to do.
“The phone call just now was Mark Arnett, father of Mo. He’s at the office and wants to talk to us, about what I don’t know. Mom Arnett is all bustle and control and whatnot, but did you get the feeling that she isn’t in touch with her son very much?” I didn’t give her time to answer. “Did she know that he wasn’t in school? No. Does she know that he has her car? No. Will she have a clue about where her son might have gone? I bet not. So…bossy, controlling, and clueless-a poor combination. And that brings us to Dad Arnett.”
I held up a hand as I chewed. “I’m willing to bet that he’ll be defensive, that he’ll be ready to take the belt to his son…or at least he’ll make a big show about saying that he will. Lots of dads are all talk, no action.” I shrugged. “I’m not saying he is, but the odds are there. He doesn’t know Mo is pitching M-80’s around, or if he does, hasn’t done anythi
ng about it. The folks aren’t wild about Mo going on the Elephant Butte trips, but don’t prevent it. You see how it goes?” That earned a nod. “And I’m also willing to bet that he’ll be angry with us.” I chuckled. “That just comes with the turf. We generally end up as hated messengers.”
Estelle nodded as if my lecture had made sense. I put both hands on the table. “Think about this, Estelle.” And she was thinking, I could see, her thick black eyebrows knitting to practically meet over her slender, aquiline nose. “A guy and a gal get married,” and I drew two imaginary circles on the table, then produced a third one between them, “and along comes the kid. Now, we have a triangle. Who controls the household? Who is the absolute authority? When there is a problem, what are the dynamics between family members? We know it’s not always dear old dad. He may be an authority figure, or he might be a wuss. Ditto for mom. And the kid? If the parents have given up and let him run things, well then. It becomes our business when the law is involved. The trick,” and I pushed my empty plate away, “is that when all the dust settles, for us not to have made things worse. And the sad thing is, that can’t always be helped.”
I gazed across the restaurant at one of the waitresses as she chatted with a family of six about to have every sense assaulted with the best chile in the world. I envied them, since I had finished my treat and now had more mundane things to do, while they had the whole menu to explore.
“Let me end the lecture by adding that I tell my deputies that how they respond to a domestic disturbance at 11 p.m. will determine what kind of ruckus they’ll have to return to a second time at 3 a.m. So we’ll listen to what Mark Arnett has to say without landing on him with both feet, without making him feel desperate. We try to keep him on an even keel, and then we wing it from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I echoed. “And we can hope that in the meantime, someone stumbles across their son, alive and well and ready to come home.”
“When you spoke with Mr. Arnett on the phone the first time, did he indicate that he was coming right home?”
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