One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “Nope. Maybe he thought of something we need to know. We can always hope.” Her frown hadn’t relaxed, and I’m sure it wasn’t the remains on her modest plate that fascinated or perplexed her. “What?”

  She cocked her head, still regarding the plate. “Mrs. Arnett said a curious thing.”

  “Curious how?”

  “When she was talking about James Raught, sir. She referred to him as a shepherd who strayed.”

  “Vaguely I remember that, but I think she was referring to the Zipolis.”

  “When church people talk about shepherds, they’re referring to the priest-or pastor, or whatever.” Her tone was one of musing, not correction, and I waited for the rest of the thought. “Mrs. Arnett might have been referring to Larry Zipoli, leading the kids around. I suppose that could be what she meant.”

  “You’re still thinking about Tres Santos, aren’t you.”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I heard that one word, sir. Shepherd. The connotation of that is so strong to me, growing up where I did. And all of Raught’s art, his obvious interest in religious art-the icons of it all.”

  I sat back in the booth, both hands folded where my plate had been. For a full minute, we remained in silence. Estelle neither fussed nor elaborated. She was as comfortable with the silence as I was uncomfortable with her suggestion.

  Finally, I said, “You want to talk with him again?”

  She nodded. “My mother was going to talk with Sophia today.”

  “And who the hell is Sophia?”

  “My fiancé’s aunt, sir. The lawyer in Veracruz I mentioned.”

  “Ah.” To have a twenty-one year old memory again. “Tell me about this.”

  “Sophia Tournal is acusadora-a prosecuting attorney, sir. She was involved with the original Tres Santos case. At one time, they thought that they had arrested one of the suspects in the theft. But no.”

  “Poor bastard is probably still in the can, though,” I said. “I wondered how all this got around to your lovely mother.”

  “My mother was going to ask Sophia for some details, sir. If there are any identifying marks, characteristic things, that could help identify the retablos that Raught has in his home.”

  “Your mother has no phone. How is she going to accomplish all this?”

  “The Romeros, just down the lane.”

  “All right, then. Let’s see how it all washes out. You want to talk with Raught again?”

  “Yes. After I hear from my mother.”

  “Fair enough. In the meantime, we have a man waiting. A nervous man. Let’s not keep him waiting.” I stood up, intercepted the lunch ticket from the waitress, and folded it around a twenty. “Thanks, Jana Lynn.”

  Mark Arnett’s white three-quarter ton was parked in one of the two visitors’ spaces at the county building. Enough junk was loaded in the back to make it squat. But Mark wasn’t inside the truck, giving his son a tongue lashing. They weren’t sitting together, having a heart-to-heart father-son talk. Mo Arnett wasn’t slumped in an emotional heap on the front steps of the Sheriff’s Department building.

  Dispatcher T.C. Barnes looked up as we entered the employee’s entrance behind dispatch. “Sir, Mr. Arnett is waiting in conference.”

  I nodded and skirted the dispatch island. “Conference” was a grand term for the small room across the hall with a six-place table and a small cabinet that held the coffee maker, cups and such, two tape recorders that often didn’t work, and a video camera mounted on a tripod. Across the room was a small copier/fax that worked in the best of times.

  We had no fancy one-way observation glass like they always use in the movies, no place for an audience to stand and watch the interrogation process. Most of the time, deputies used the room as a spacious office and lounge, or a non-threatening place to interview minors whom the state’s Children, Youth and Families outfit wouldn’t let us just throw in the lock-up-although that approach would have done some kids a world of good.

  The conference room door opened soundlessly, and we caught Mark Arnett in a relaxed moment. He was seated in one of the side chairs at the table, leaning back, one boot up on the corner of the table. His chin rested in his hand pensively, elbow propped on the arm of the chair. Across the room, a four-by-five foot map of Posadas County was framed on the wall, the surface dotted with an array of colored pins, one of Sheriff Eduardo Salcido’s projects to visualize the pattern of every motor vehicle fatality in the county.

  Arnett swiveled his head just enough to see us, but otherwise remained motionless as we entered. A burly, powerful man used to hard labor dawn to dusk, Mark Arnett was likely forty years old or so but looked fifty-five, his broad face baked into lines and wrinkles by the sun reflecting off the roofs on which he worked.

  With exaggerated care, he swung his boot down to the floor and rose from the chair. At six-one, he had me by two inches, but I outweighed him by fifty pounds-all pork.

  “You made it,” he said, his implication clear that the twelve or so minutes he had to wait had been too long. He eyed Estelle with interest. “And who’s this?” He gave her hand a perfunctory, single pump as I introduced them. “You don’t look like your average cop.” His smile was tight. It wasn’t a question, and sure enough-Estelle Reyes’ only response was the hint of a smile of her own.

  “Thanks for coming in.” I took the offered hand. “I know this isn’t the easiest thing.”

  “Goddamn right.” He slumped back down in the chair, and I took the one to his left at the end of the table. It would have been easy, in one of those mini-moments of control, to assign Estelle to a seat, but I made no motions or suggestions, curious about the little things in human behavior. She selected the chair to Mark Arnett’s right where she’d have a side view of his face, able to watch the flushes work on his neck, or the expressions touch the side of his mouth. To look at her, he’d have to twist in his chair…or he could just ignore her.

  “Okay, Mo is screwing up,” he said. “Goddamn kids. He took his mother’s car, the little shit.” He rapped the table sharply with the heavy class ring on his right hand. “He knows that’s not going to fly.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “Hell, no. He knows that if he takes the car or any other damn thing with a motor, his ass is grass.”

  “Some troubles in the past?”

  “Nah. Not really. For one thing, he’s skippin’ school, and that gets my goat. The last thing I want is him drivin’ around town with a carload of his buddies. You know how they are. Tomorrow is Friday, and that’s party time-even if they haven’t done a goddamn thing to deserve it.”

  “I suppose.” I regarded him long enough that he dropped his gaze and studied the class ring. “So tell me…when Mo was over at Larry Zipoli’s place, or off with him and the rest of the kids on one of those skiing trips, how did you feel about that?”

  Mark shifted in his seat, and the damn ring rapped again, this time a nervous little drumroll. “Look, Larry Zip is one of those guys who lives and breathes his boat, his beer, his football. You know, he’s just one of those guys. Kind of reminds me of that fat neighbor in the Sunday funnies…the one who’s always sittin’ in his recliner with a brew in his hands. Now, I’ve heard that he gives it to the kids sometimes. You know, a can now and then. I guess that’s no big deal.” He glanced up at me to see if I agreed that it was no big deal. “But there’s other things I wish Mo would do with his time.”

  “Who does he hang out with mostly?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The Pasquale kid, some. He used to be pretty tight with Jason Packard, but they don’t see so much of each other any more.”

  “Friendships come and go pretty easily,” I said, and Arnett nodded.

  He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, hands raised. “Look, is all this somehow related to that thing that happened to Larry? Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”

  That thing. “We’re talking with everyone who spent time with Zipoli in the past few days or weeks
, Mark. Somebody out there saw something, heard something. Even a rumor at this point would be welcome. Mo was riding his bike with the other two boys-Tom and Jason-on the same day that Larry was killed. Maybe just hours before. So.” I shrugged. “And our curiosity grows when Mo takes off, when he goes missing without leaving word with his folks.” I leaned against the table. “Look, I’m a parent too, Mark. If my kid took off with the family car and I didn’t know where the hell he went, I’d be upset too.”

  “Shit,” Arnett muttered, and twisted around to look at Estelle. He looked her up and down and then turned back to me. “Can you tell me exactly what happened with Larry?”

  I shrugged and replied, “It’s pretty simple. He was sitting in the county road grader, and someone put a rifle bullet through the windshield.” I touched my left eyebrow. “It keyholed and hit him right there. He never had a chance to move from his seat.”

  “Jesus. Who the hell would do a thing like that?”

  “That’s a good question. If one of those kids is in danger, for instance…”

  “Why would they be?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t know who saw what.”

  He bit his lip. I imagine that his thoughts just then were agonizing. “What do you know about the weapon used?”

  “Rifle, thirty caliber. The bullet is a 170-grain flat point.”

  He cut right to the chase. “How the hell did you recover it?”

  “During autopsy.”

  “Come on, now. It had to have been fired from a hell of a distance not to blow right on through his skull,” he said. “What’s Bobby say?”

  “Deputy Torrez tells me that in all likelihood the shot was taken from about fifty paces.”

  “That close? Shit. A thirty caliber high-powered rifle would have blown his skull all to hell, and then just kept on going.”

  “Seems likely, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s all you know?”

  I smiled gently. “I know that we don’t know where Mo is right now, Mark.”

  “He’s probably home by now, if he knows what’s good for him. But look, you’re implying that he had something to do with all this? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I said. “I want to talk with him. That’s all. If he saw something, that’s one thing. I’d hate to think that he was in danger somehow. Do you mind if we follow you over to the house?” I didn’t tell him that his little bastard was the center of interest for a BOLO.

  “Hell no, I don’t mind.” He rose quickly. “Right now?”

  “That would be good.” I held out a hand toward Estelle. “Do you have any questions for Mr. Arnett at this point?”

  “No, sir. We’ve talked to the neighbors and some of the other youngsters, so the sooner we can hear what Mo has to say, the better.” Maybe Mark Arnett felt a little better thinking that his son wasn’t flying solo.

  “What’s Raught say?” Mark asked. “Hell, right door-to-door like that, he’s got to know what’s goin’ on.”

  “One would think,” I said, cutting off that avenue.

  “Odd duck, that guy.”

  I didn’t pursue that comment, but held the door for Arnett as we left the conference room. “We’ll be along in just a minute, Mark.”

  “You want to talk with the wife again? I can stop by the church and pick her up.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, but suit yourself.”

  He nodded and made for the front door. I leaned on the dispatch counter. “Find Bob Torrez and have him meet me at the Arnetts’.”

  Barnes looked blank for an instant. “Bobby doesn’t come on until four, sir.”

  I glanced up at the white board on the wall behind the dispatcher, where all the little magnetic roundels on the calendar, one for each deputy, showed how desperately shorthanded we were. Perhaps T.C. didn’t think that I paid attention to the duty schedule when I made it up each month.

  “Have him meet me at Mark Arnett’s ASAP,” I said gently. “And then call the sheriff and ask him to swing by as well.”

  “I think Sheriff Salcido went to Las Cruces, sir.”

  “All right. Have him reach me as soon as he comes back, then.” The sheriff hadn’t told me that he was heading out of town, but then again, he didn’t need to. In fact, one of the things I liked about Eduardo was that he let me work without reins. I didn’t have to explain to the sheriff where I was or what I was doing every moment of the day. I extended the same courtesy to him.

  “He had a doctor’s appointment,” Baker added.

  I nodded, and my hand drifted to where my gall bladder was currently trying to tell me something. Some things just have to learn to be patient.

  As I pulled the county car to the curb by Arnett’s driveway, we saw Mark Arnett standing with both fists balled on his hips, garage door agape. He swiveled to regard us, his anger index escalating toward the top of the charts. The little Pontiac was still conspicuously absent.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I retrieved a small plastic evidence bag from my briefcase.

  “At what point do you have to call for a warrant?” Estelle asked.

  “When our friend,” and I nodded toward Mark Arnett, who apparently believed that if he glared long enough, the Pontiac would reappear, “decides not to cooperate. I’m hoping that won’t happen.” I made gloving motions. “So, kid gloves.” I counted her question as great progress.

  With the car door open, a heavy, throbbing exhaust note attracted my attention, and I looked down the street to see Bob Torrez’s pickup cruising toward us. A ’69 Chevy 4x4, it had been battered, bruised, and wrung out by a string of contractors when he had rescued it a couple of years before. He’d scrounged various parts here and there, and referred to the truck as his “junk yard dog.” He’d been on the team for a drug sting in Cruces the year before, and the truck had gone undercover with him.

  Torrez eased the pickup to a stop behind my unit. A half a dozen lengths of PVC pipe were lashed to the headache rack and hung back over the tailgate.

  Mark Arnett approached us, hands now hidden in his back pockets. “What do you want to do?” He nodded at Torrez as the deputy joined us. “Bobby, how’s it goin’?”

  I handed the plastic evidence bag to Arnett, and he examined it for a second or two before asking, “What’s this?” He looked up at me. “I mean I know what it is. What’s the deal?”

  “That’s the bullet that killed Larry Zipoli, Mark.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.” He turned the bag this way and that, then donned a pair of half glasses and examined it some more. “Looks like a Mountain States,” he offered. “Didn’t come apart, did it.”

  “Nope.” I was impressed that someone could just look at a projectile-not even an entire cartridge-and make an educated guess about its manufacturer. Bobby Torrez could, of course, but his gunny knowledge was legendary.

  Arnett pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted. “This son-of-a-bitch don’t have rifling cuts.” He looked up quickly, a little disappointed when he saw that he wasn’t telling us something we didn’t know.

  I asked, “You use these?”

  For a long moment, Mark Arnett didn’t answer, then he handed the bag back to me. “I use ’em in silhouette matches from time to time. Expensive as hell, for one thing. But they shoot tight, and I like the extra weight. What’s with this, anyhow?”

  “You want to show us the ones you use?”

  He frowned at me as if I had threatened him with a cattle prod. “Now wait a minute. What are you saying, sheriff?”

  “What we’re trying to do is find out as much as we can about the circumstances of Mr. Zipoli’s death, Mark. To do that, we go to the experts whenever we can. Nobody in Posadas knows more about ballistics and the shooting sports than you do, so here I am.” I shook the bag a little, hoping that flattery would get us everywhere. At this preliminary stage, I didn’t want to waste time with a warrant, but I knew that in all likelihood, that was on th
e horizon.

  “I want to know as much as I can about these little bastards, Mark.” I poked a finger at the evidence bag when I said that, and then shook it for emphasis. “I want to know about this. What can you tell me?”

  “Other than that each one costs about half a buck? Not a whole lot. I mean, you got what you got, except I don’t understand why there’s no rifling marks.” He peered at the slug again, rolling it this way and that under the plastic. “Not even a scuff.”

  “Worn out barrel?”

  He scoffed. “Had to be damn near a shotgun, then. And that wouldn’t give the kind of accuracy you’re talkin’ about-unless the whole thing was some kind of gross accident.”

  “We weren’t thinking along the lines of accident,” I said.

  Mark regarded me for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the door. “Well, come on inside and let me show you.” He started to turn toward the house, then stopped short. “But none of this is going to find my boy, Sheriff. That’s what’s important to me right now, not some damn bullet. I need to find his ass before he gets himself into a round of trouble.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said. “We’re going to find him, Mark. Take my word on that. Zipoli’s death has upset a lot of youngsters…neighbor kids, family friends, neighbors, you name it. Right now, Mo doesn’t know what to think. When he’s done chewing it all over, he’ll be back.”

  Mark nodded dubiously. “I got the feeling that you know more about this than you’re telling me, Sheriff. You guys are looking for my son. Is he involved somehow? Is that it? Are you going to tell me what I need to know?”

  “I wish I could, Mark. I wish Mo was standing right here, right now, explaining himself to you. But he’s not. So we do what we can.”

  Arnett sighed and shrugged. “Come on in.” We trooped into the house after him, taking the side door from the driveway. A steep stairway plunged down from the first landing, another shorter one angling up to the kitchen. We headed down into the basement.

  A pool table sporting a rich green cover occupied much of the floor space, with a stereo system mounted on one wall that looked as if it was capable of busting windows. A selection of chairs, a rack of pool cues, an apartment-sized fridge and a variety of other toys jammed the basement-not a bad haven for a contractor after a day simmering on a hot roof. I skirted the stereo and eyed a CD case lying on a shelf. I flipped it over and saw that the recording included Frankie Lane’s “Mule Train,” along with a selection of other favorites.