One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “Very likely, sir. If he knew that Mo had not gone to school either.”

  “Well, shit. There’s that.” I frowned. “But regardless, by Thursday morning, Mo would have to be living under a rock not to know about the death. Time to split. Time to run. Five or six hours ago, maybe. Sixty-five miles an hour in that Pontiac, and he’s three hundred miles away.”

  “To where, sir?”

  I laughed. “That’s why we need your woman’s intuition, sweetheart.” I didn’t know Estelle Reyes well enough to excuse calling her “sweetheart”, but what the hell. I was impressed. Let her sue me.

  Back at the office, we spent fifteen minutes with Sheriff Eduardo Salcido, who looked like shit after his doctor’s appointment. He wanted nothing more than to go home to bed, and I encouraged that very thing. I would have done the same if sleep was my friend. He listened as I filled in the informational chinks.

  “He’s only seventeen,” Eduardo observed. “He’s not going to get far.”

  I didn’t argue, since there was no predicting what the kid would do, and history had proven that teenagers could accomplish all kinds of things, nefarious or otherwise.

  At 7:15 p.m., we were assisting State Police Officer Mark Adams with a roll-over accident on the interstate seven miles west of Posadas. Life goes on. Just because we had a mess on our hands with Zipoli’s killer, the rest of the world didn’t slip into suspended animation. The rolled car was totaled, but four occupants inside, including two little kids, were just shaken. It took some soothing to convince them that their luck hadn’t run out. The family all rode in one ambulance to Posadas General for a check up. The two little kids needed Teddy Bears, and Adams had only one. I don’t know why Estelle looked surprised when I hauled another out of 310’s trunk.

  Adams and I made sure the family had arrangements at the Posadas Inn via a courtesy car from the motel, and I left them with my card and assurances that the Chavez brothers at Chavez Ford-Lincoln Mercury would take care of them the next morning.

  I was jotting in a log notation before I left the hospital parking lot when one of the county Broncos pulled up beside me. I hadn’t seen the vehicle turn in off the street, and it stopped with a jolt after circling to approach head on, driver to driver.

  “Evening, sir,” Bob Torrez greeted. “You all set here?”

  I nodded. “Nothing serious except a totaled car. The family is going to spend the night at the Inn. Did you see the sheriff?”

  “For a little bit. He headed home. He said the doctor wanted to admit him, and he refused.”

  “That’s smart,” I scoffed, feeling a sympathetic twinge. “What did you find out?”

  “Mears and me worked on the computer and the case match.” He managed a small grin-hysterics by his standards. “The firing pin and bolt face of Arnett’s.32 Winchester Special matched the impressions on the base of the blown out.30–30 casing.” Torrez sounded as if he were reading a prepared statement. “It’s all packed up to go to the FBI tomorrow morning for confirmation.”

  “Of course it matched,” I grumbled. “It was Arnett’s gun, and Arnett’s shell casing. The kid was careless and grabs either the wrong rifle or the wrong ammo. It’s a long shot that Mark would make the mistake himself.” I thumped the steering wheel. It was one of those things that we needed to know for sure, but I would have been astonished and flummoxed and stuffed in a quandry if it hadn’t matched. “A cartridge taken from Arnett’s ammo box, fired in some other gun, and then returned to the box? Not damn likely, Bobby. What else do you have?”

  “Nothin’ on the computer. I mean nothin’ we need to know.” Torrez pulled two large black and white photos from an envelope. He handed them across to me, and it took a while for me to recognize what I was looking at. Enlarge something umpty-ump times, and it loses some focus. The cannalure-that criss-crossed channel around the circumference of the bullet into which the shell casing crimps-showed clearly enough. The body of the bullet was a mass of fine scratches, dings, and dents-almost microscopic marks most of which could be explained by the manufacturing process.

  “That’s the slug from Zipoli’s brain,” Torrez said.

  “I see that.” The hugely distorted tip ran off the right side of the photo margin. I held the second photo just above the first. The second photo was a different bullet, one that still showed some distortion from firing. “Where’d you do this?”

  “They got a water tank over at maintenance,” Torrez said. “Kinda messy, but it works to trap the bullet.”

  “Nice photos.” I lined up cannalure to cannalure. “What am I supposed to see?” I held the photos so Estelle could see them, although the car’s lame dome light made it difficult.

  “The scuffs where the shell casing crimps the bullet are in exactly the same place,” the deputy said. Sure enough, they were.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that in all likelihood the same reloading die reloaded both bullets. What are the odds that two different people set two different reloading dies so that the crimps are identical?”

  “I have no idea. And in all likelihood, that’s what a defense attorney is going to question.” I looked across at Torrez. “What do you think?”

  “I think the bullet in Zip’s head came from one of Arnett’s cartridges, sir. I think that’s obvious.”

  “We think it did. What did the sheriff say? You told him all this?”

  “Yes, sir. He said to keep after it.”

  “And that’s what we’ll do. Somebody somewhere knows where Mo Arnett might have gone. His parents say that he has a credit card that he’s not supposed to use. If he’s smart, he won’t.”

  Torrez looked disgusted. “If they don’t want him usin’ it, what’s he got it for?”

  “They say he got it as part of a school civics project. How about that?” I shook my head. “Times have changed, that’s for sure. And I wouldn’t presume to understand his folks,” I said. “And they’re not missing any cash, so he’s not flush in that respect. He might have been able to scrape together a couple hundred bucks. He had time to visit the bank. You want to work on Tom’s brother?”

  Deputy Tom Mears’ twin brother Terry was a vice president at Posadas State Bank.

  “Find out if the kid made any withdrawals from his college account or whatever…whatever he’s got. If Terry wants a warrant, go ahead and bother the judge again. And do it tonight, Bobby.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I sat for a moment, trying to climb into the kid’s mind. About the time Torrez’s brake lights flared as he reached the end of the parking lot, I turned to Estelle.

  “Everyone needs a place to go,” I said. “Everybody. Even Mo Arnett. Most of us just go home. What the hell does he do?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When the phone rang, it just about put me into orbit. I’d finally fallen asleep in that huge, maroon leather recliner down in my den-my place to go. The nearest telephone was up on the kitchen counter, its location one of my quirks. I didn’t want the thing in my inner sanctum, competing with the solitude of my library. But as a result, it took a while for me to reach the kitchen without breaking my neck.

  The phone was patient, its insistent ringing imperative.

  “Gast…” I coughed and tried again. “Gastner.” The stove clock blinked, which told me the power had been off. I looked up at the clock over the counter and saw that it was close to midnight.

  “Sir, this is Marcus Baker,” my swing shift dispatcher said. No doubt my fine diction told him I’d been blowing z’s.

  “Sure enough,” I managed ungratefully. I had collapsed into my chair after dropping Miss Reyes off at her modest little apartment behind the school. I hadn’t bothered to promise her a normal day tomorrow…today, now. Who the hell knew what would happen. I’d managed to read half a Chapter about Chichamauga, then dropped off, book in my lap, pages rumpled.

  “Sir, they found Mo Arnett’s car up in Albuquerque,” Ernie reported. “In the long-term parking lot at th
e Sunport.”

  “Well, son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to call the sheriff?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said quickly. “The Pontiac, but no Mo?”

  “No, sir. It’s a Sergeant Patterson who called from the APD. Would you like his numbers? He said he’d be available until two.”

  “Absolutely.” I copied the number, thanked Ernie for calling, and dialed. In a moment, Patterson’s light voice came on the line. He sounded as if he were twelve years old.

  “Airport security made the identification,” he acknowledged. “None of the flight manifests show your subject boarding any flight within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Shit,” I said, and Patterson chuckled.

  “Security made a sweep of the airport. Mr. Arnett doesn’t appear to be on the premises.”

  “Any corners he can hide in?”

  “I don’t think so, sheriff. Of course, it’s a big place.”

  A big place, indeed. The high school photo we’d included with our bulletin showed Mo as he was the year before, and he happened to have been particularly scruffy in that portrait…long hair, with what passes for a teenage beard, not as pudgy as he was now. He could blend in with a family, or sit in a quiet, dark corner of the restaurant, waiting for his flight.

  “But no hits on the manifests,” I repeated.

  “No, sir. But we’ll keep after it. We have the car. A teenager isn’t going to stray far from his wheels.”

  “We can hope not.” But with this particular teenager? Who knew where he’d stray.

  “By the way, sarge, there was a handgun in the glove compartment. I need to know if it’s still there.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that. The vehicle was locked, and it’s going to be a few minutes yet while they process it.”

  “I need to know if the kid has the gun with him. You sure as hell do too. And it’d be nice to know if there’s a body in the trunk.”

  He laughed. “I hear ya.”

  “We never know.”

  “Well, according to the ticket on the dash, it was in the hot sun all day, and nothing smells. But I’ll get the team on that ASAP. He hasn’t boarded a flight, and he sure as hell wouldn’t try carrying a gun on board.”

  I was skeptical about that, but didn’t burst the sergeant’s bubble.

  With the sleep driven away by the phone call, I stayed vertical and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. By the time I took the first sip, wondering where my cigarettes were before recalling that I was trying to quit, the clock had ticked to twelve fifteen.

  Parked in the Sunport, but not on a flight. Airport Security said that Mo Arnett wasn’t on the premises, but I didn’t believe that as a given. It’s easy to hide in a huge facility, easy to slip here and there, away from prying eyes. If that was the case, what was the boy waiting for? The sooner airborne, the better, if he was on the run. If he hadn’t grabbed a flight, odds were good he was still in Albuquerque, a place that must seem incomprehensibly huge after the tiny confines of Posadas.

  With a full mug of coffee, I left the house, enjoying the quiet of the village. Lights from the trailer park down the street and from the interstate interchange ruined the view of the star canopy overhead, but I could see a few being squired around the heavens by Orion. No wind, mild-a magnificent night.

  The middle of the night is a cruel time for the cops to show up on the doorstep, but I knew that the Arnetts wouldn’t be asleep. They deserved to know that the Pontiac had been found in the big city, and that information might jog their memories. And sure enough, they lived on a block where they weren’t alone with their worries. The lights were ablaze in the front rooms of the Arnetts, and across the street at the Zipoli residence. A bright light drifted out from Jim Raught’s back yard. Maybe they’d all joined forces to find the errant Mo.

  I parked in the street half a block down from Arnetts’ and sat for a bit with all the windows open. The lights might have all been blazing, but that was the extent of any activity I could hear. I cracked the door and when I swung my boot out and planted it on the asphalt, it was as if I’d grounded a faulty connection, throwing a switch on my car radio.

  “Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty.”

  Home in bed, I almost said, but the graveyard dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, already knew that wasn’t true. He would have called the house and chatted with my answering machine. And he knew my habits, habits fueled by a persistent insomnia that most of the time I found both useful and pleasant.

  “PCS, three ten is ten eight on Fourth Street.”

  “Ten nineteen if you’re not busy.”

  “Ten four.” I’d already said I was ten eight, or in service…hence “not busy.” I swung the door shut and started the car, leaving the neighborhood to its own thoughts and worries. As soon as I swung into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, I saw the little sedan tucked into a spot between two department cruisers. Estelle Reyes hadn’t listed insomnia as one of her virtues.

  I trudged inside using the side entrance, and saw the young lady over in the lobby, hands thrust into her pockets, gazing at the huge county map that was framed in walnut. The six foot square map had been prepared by Enuncio Baca, a county assessor and artist, based on the most recent data at the time. The “time” happened to be 1936, which meant that the map was now functionally useless, but a historical treasure. I had a long list of questions to ask Enuncio, history being one of my passions. But Enuncio had died in 1951, so my questions would have to wait.

  Estelle turned as I stepped into the dispatch island. Ernie Wheeler, tall and lanky and one of those guys who looks thirty going on sixty-five, nodded toward the young lady.

  “She has a question for you,” Ernie said. “I think that she wants to use the phone.”

  “Our phones are restricted now?” I asked, puzzled. “She doesn’t need to ask permission from me.”

  “She wanted to talk with you first, sir, but then went ahead and used the one in the conference room.”

  Not more saint stuff, I almost said, but instead held up my now empty coffee cup. “Anybody fueled the pot?”

  “Fresh an hour ago,” Ernie said, and I beckoned to Estelle as I headed for the work room.

  “Good night’s sleep?” I asked as she followed me into the room. “We need well-rested staff, you know.” If I successfully managed a touch of amused reproof, she didn’t acknowledge it. Besides, she appeared fresh and well-rested. Even her tan pants suit was wrinkle free. Did she own a rack of the damn things?

  “I got to thinking, sir.”

  “Uh oh. You need to know, by the way, that they found Mo Arnett’s car in Albuquerque International’s long-term parking lot. No Mo yet.”

  That brought no response, and I glanced at the young lady as I snapped off the coffee flow. I held up the cup, offering her some.

  “No thank you, sir. His car was at the airport?”

  “Correct. APD and airport security are following up on it for us. I was just heading over to the Arnetts’ for a few minutes to let them know. Maybe news of finding the car will jar something loose.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “He hadn’t taken a flight?”

  “Not yet, at least. And they’re continuing a sweep of the airport. If he’s there, they’ll find him.” I watched her face as she mulled all this. “What’s your concern?”

  She took a deep breath, and I got the strong impression that she was trying very hard not to be too forward with her opinions. “I’m surprised that he didn’t consider the train.”

  “Ah. Amtrak.”

  “He loves trains, sir. I’m just surprised that he was at the airport. There wasn’t a single model or photo of an airplane in his room.”

  “Well, that’s true. Old steam engines, yes. He also loves Corvettes, but as far as we know, he didn’t steal one.”

  “He’s too smart for that.”

  “I’m not convinced of that.”

  “He got rid of the Pontiac right away, and parking it at the
airport was good thinking. Even if the car was discovered promptly, it makes us think he was planning on air travel.”

  “That’s a possibility. A conniving little bastard, he’s turning out to be. So what’s he do? Take a taxi down to the train station?”

  “That or a shuttle or city bus, sir. No I.D. required. Or he could walk. It’s not that far.”

  I gazed at her with interest, enjoying the way the excitement of the chase made her dark, almost Aztecan features glow.

  “Train four eastbound was more than two and a half hours late, sir,” Estelle offered. “It left Albuquerque northbound at two fifty six. Train three westbound was nearly four hours late. They said that they had a medical emergency near La Junta, Colorado, with one of the passengers. It should have left Albuquerque at 4:55 p.m., but didn’t actually pull out until 9:27 p.m. Albuquerque is a fuel stop, and that put them even further behind.”

  “Nine thirty, then. Okay.”

  “Security on both the bus and the train is lax, sir. You can even step onboard and pay your ticket after the train is in motion. I’ve done that.”

  “The Southwest Limited goes north out of state and then swings east to Kansas City,” I mused. “And then the route ends in Chicago. There are connections all along the way to God knows where.”

  “Yes, sir. And the westbound train heads out to Flagstaff and finally Los Angeles. Even though it was late, eastbound left the city first.”

  “Which way, then. If he jumps east, he’s out of here at two yesterday afternoon. In Kansas City by mid-morning. Or he could wait around for the west-bound…hell of a wait until 9:30 last night. It all depends, I suppose. Does he have a particular destination that makes him choose a train, or is he just jumping on board the first one that shows. Just the two trains each day, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I dumped the remains of the coffee into the utility sink. “Let’s see where this leads us.” Ernie Wheeler was on the phone with someone when I reappeared, and he leaned forward, nodding, trying his best to cut off the conversation.