by Don Travis
He met my eyes squarely. “Mr. Vinson, what do you see standing in front of you?”
“I see a man who’s worried.”
“That ain’t right. You see a black man who’s worried.”
I decided to get right to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Jones, I’m a gay man, so I don’t wallow around in prejudice. I’ve had too much of it thrown at me over the years. I said what I meant. I see a man who’s worried.”
He nodded his head. I knew from his payroll record he was only thirty-seven, but a good bit of gray already sprinkled his close-cropped hair. During my Marine years, I’d had a Nubian in my MP squad. At least he claimed to be a Nubian despite the fact the old Nubian kingdoms disappeared long ago, absorbed into Egypt and Ethiopia. He’d been the blackest man I’d ever seen, but he had a high sheen to his flesh. Jones was just as dark, but his skin appeared to absorb light, not reflect it.
The obsidian eyes were hard with no evasiveness in them. Stringy, corded arms and torso suggested he was physically stronger than he looked. When I finished the background check on this man, I’d probably find an African American born somewhere in the south who’d worked the cotton fields and vegetable patches across the southern reaches of the United States.
“Fair enough,” he said. “You might not hold no prejudices, but that don’t mean nobody else don’t. Mr. Gonda, he been fair to me. But them cops who come after the break-in, they give me an extra look. Course I’m worried.”
“Do you have any ideas about the break-in?”
He puckered his lips together so hard, I thought for a moment he was going to whistle. “Blacks and gays ain’t the only ones that run into that bigoted shit.”
“You mean because the Gondas are European?”
He nodded. “That too. But mostly just because he ain’t one of them. You know, a native of these parts. They kind of clannish around here. And an outfit with Swiss fellas and a crew with a black man, an Indian, a Jap, one from the other side of the border, and a California-surfer type… well, that makes for a pretty big target.”
“Clannish? Not—”
He flashed a smile. “Not the white sheet kind.”
“The problem with that theory is that nothing was taken—except two bottles of wine—and there was no mischief. People motivated by what you’re talking about destroy things.”
“There’s that. So I don’t rightly know.” He screwed up his face. “Two bottles?”
I nodded. “Mr. Gonda just discovered another one.”
“Be damned.”
“Do you get hassled?”
Jones looked at me sideways. “Outside the gates, you mean? Uh-uh. I keep to myself and don’t give them no reason to.”
“Where do you live?”
“Rent a garage apartment at the edge of Plácido.” The word came out Pla-ci-DO rather than PLA-ci-do. “Walk to work ever morning. Only mixing I do is right here on the job.”
“You know I’m conducting background checks. What am I going to find on you?”
“Back in my drinking days, I boosted some stuff to buy hooch. They never made it stick, but it’s on the record. A fight or two. Mostly in bars. Hauled me in for public drunkenness. That kinda stuff. Told Mr. Gonda all about it when he took me on.”
“You don’t claim any dependents. You’re not married?”
The deep laugh lines framing the man’s mouth tightened. “That ain’t got nothing to do with any of this. That’s my business.” He flicked the brim of a floppy canvas hat he used to keep the sun off his neck and walked away.
Funny reaction. He answered every question I asked except about his family. Didn’t he know that would only make me more curious? As he disappeared into the building, I followed along behind to see if I could corner the other two workers.
Zuniga was busy unpacking crates, each holding twelve empty 750-milliliter bottles. He stood with his back to me, and although the V shape from shoulders to waist was that of a man, when he turned to face me, the image of an adult shattered. The fine-featured face with its sensitive nostrils, broad expressive mouth, and big brown eyes reinforced my original impression that he was too young to work in a winery. I recalled my conversation with Bledsong at the C&W. I have pretty good gaydar, but I couldn’t quite tell about this young man. His diffident manner and habit of not meeting your eyes as he spoke threw me off.
He was “pretty boy” handsome, but when he greeted me in a pleasing baritone, there was nothing effeminate in his voice or inflections.
I held out my hand. “Hi, Bascomb. May I call you Bascomb?”
“Bas. They call me Bas.” He grasped my hand in a firm grip.
“Bas, I wondered if you have any ideas about what’s going on around here?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t have any idea at all. But I didn’t—”
I held up my hand and smiled. “This isn’t an interrogation. Nobody believes you had anything to do with the break-in or the missing wine, but I’d be a pretty stupid investigator if I didn’t ask around to see if anyone knew something, wouldn’t I?”
His lips peeled back in a grin, revealing good teeth. “I guess you would.”
He sat on an unopened case of bottles and leaned forward with elbows on thighs. His gaze was fixed on a spot on the concrete floor. I propped up the nearest wall and crossed my arms.
“What was the most unusual thing you noticed yesterday or last night?”
“Yesterday or last night?”
“Another bottle of wine disappeared after the riddling yesterday.”
Zuniga rolled his shoulders as if trying to relax. Being questioned by an investigator wasn’t an everyday occurrence for most people. Was this natural nervousness or nervous guilt? He didn’t answer my question right away, which was good. It meant either something was coming or he was giving it serious thought.
“Nothing. Not really.”
“Not really means there’s a question in your mind about it.”
“Well, it wasn’t yesterday or last night. What I mean is, a couple of times last week when I’ve been working in the cellar, I’ve heard things. Or thought I did, anyway.”
“What kind of things? Voices? Movement? What?”
“No, not voices.” He leaned back and met my eyes briefly before looking away. “That cellar’s a noisy place for a big underground room. There’s always a groan from a keg or a clink from a bottle. You know, something settling. I hear it all the time and don’t pay any attention. But the other day—” He licked his lips and swallowed. “The other day I thought there was somebody in there with me. A somebody or… a presence.”
“Did you tell Mr. Gonda?”
He shook his head, dislodging a shock of dark hair to curl over his forehead. “Uh-uh.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d just think I was getting spooked by nothing. Like you did.”
“You’re wrong. That’s not what I thought at all. And in view of the fact Mr. Gonda’s going to a lot of expense to get to the bottom of things, he would have taken you seriously too. Most of what he’s doing is trying to make certain he, his family, and his staff are safe.”
“I guess. He’s a great boss. He’s been good to us.”
“You weren’t here under the previous owners, were you?”
“No, sir. Mr. Gonda hired me.”
“You have a history with him?”
“My mom was a secretary at the European Wine Consortium in Las Cruces. You know… where Mr. Gonda worked. While I was at NMSU, he offered her a position up here with him. She had a pretty good deal down there, so she didn’t take him up on his offer. But when I left New Mexico State, she called him, and he gave me a job.” Zuniga’s features brightened. “He’s going to teach me all about the business. I’d like to be a vintner one day.”
I wished him well on achieving his goal and prodded him about his “left New Mexico State” comment, confirming that he abandoned his education before graduating. He was deliberately vague about why, but I didn�
��t press him. It wouldn’t be hard to get to the bottom of the matter.
I thanked him for his time and went in search of the other winery worker, John Hakamora. He was cleaning the primary fertilization chamber. I took a good look at him as I approached. Small, standing only about five six and weighing in at around one forty. With his large, round eyeglasses and an ever-present beige Panama helmet, he reminded me of a sinister Japanese spy in one of the old Humphrey Bogart/Sidney Greenstreet war movies. He acknowledged my greeting with a pleasant demeanor and open body language.
I went through the same routine with him as with Zuniga. He was also a Gonda hire, having worked at the Consortium with his boss. His parents, immigrants from Yokohama, Japan, owned and operated a lettuce farm south of Socorro. In view of the fact his older brother would inherit the business, Hakamora decided to learn about grapes. He was hired by the European Consortium shortly before Gonda left for the Alfano Wineries in Napa Valley. Apparently he made an impression, because Gonda phoned from the Lovely Pines with a better offer that Hakamora snatched up in a hurry. Gonda went to Napa Valley in 1990, so Hakamora must be older than the thirty years I’d pegged him at. I’d have to check the payroll records.
His reaction to my questions was straightforward. He’d noticed nothing unusual, but without prompting, admitted he’d sometimes heard unexplained noises while working in the wine cellar.
“What kind of noises?”
“Nothing I can explain. All I can say is that you get used to the atmosphere in a place. You know how it feels. And when it’s different, it catches your attention.”
“Have you always heard these noises?”
He shook his head. “Just the last few days.”
“Since the break-in?”
His eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, it’s just been these past two weeks.”
“Did you feel someone was in the cellar who didn’t belong there?”
He frowned in concentration, absently twisting a simple gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. “Not really. Just some noises that didn’t fit.” He held both hands out in a strange way: one palm up, one palm down. “I don’t know how to explain it more’n that.”
“Did you tell Mr. Gonda about what you heard?”
“There wasn’t anything to tell. Just noises I couldn’t explain.”
“How many times did you feel that way?”
“More than one. I recall at least two different times.”
I pushed the issue. “Morning? Afternoon? When?”
“I’m not sure. Afternoons, I think.”
“Did you share this with anyone? Zuniga, for instance? Or Jones?”
“No, sir. I told nobody.”
“Has either of those two said anything about hearing unexplained noises in the cellar? Or anywhere else, for that matter?”
He shook his head. Shortly thereafter, I thanked him for his time and walked away. It was getting late, so I decided to return to the office, once again delaying my questioning of the two vineyard workers, Garcia and Tso. I wanted to review the transcript of the conversations with the three winery workers before tackling the field hands. Besides, Gonda told me his nephew, Marc Juisson, was returning from his business trip tomorrow morning, so by waiting I could catch him as well.
I got into my Impala and headed back to Albuquerque, hoping Hazel and Charlie learned more than I had. That reminded me of something, so I dictated a note to Charlie to take another look at Parson Jones. His reaction to my question about a marriage elevated my curiosity level.
Chapter 5
THE PHONE rang at five thirty the next morning. Paul groaned and turned over. I swore for the thousandth time to delist my home number from the directory.
“Vinson,” I mumbled into the pesky instrument.
“BJ, this is Ray Yardley.”
I sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “Why is the state police calling me at this ungodly hour?”
Ray and I met back when we were both APD cops. We’d worked together on a couple of cases before I got shot and he went over to the state boys. He was a good man. Must be. He was a lieutenant now.
“Your client insisted I call you.”
“Bless my client. Which one should I thank?”
“Fellow by the name of Gonda out at the Lovely Pines Winery. There’s been a homicide involving one of his employees, and he said you were working on something that could tie in.”
“Who got killed?”
“A fellow by the name of Zuniga. Bascomb Zuniga. Know him?”
“Talked to him yesterday for the first time. He seemed like a decent kid. When did it happen?”
“Sometime last night. Fill me in on your involvement, will you?”
I took Ray through the situation and asked if I could walk the scene of the crime.
“Not right now. The crime-scene boys still have it. Hell, I don’t even have access yet.”
“Who has jurisdiction?”
“When the call came to central dispatch, it was routed to us. We’ll probably retain control, but Sandoval County has a deputy out here. An officer named Roma Muñoz. Know her?”
“No. She have any experience?”
“Been a member of the department for ten years now. I’ve worked with her before. Prickly but competent. I’ll put in a good word for you. Why don’t you drive on up and wait for us at the house? Your client’s pretty broken up. We had to physically remove him from the crime scene and forbid him to return. And we could use some help making sense of things. His English deserts him, and he shifts into a foreign language now and then. Sometimes it sounds like French and sometimes it sounds like German.”
“He’s a naturalized citizen from Switzerland, so it’s probably a little of both. It’ll take me better than an hour to clean up and get up there. Will you still be around?”
“Oh yeah. I’ll meet you at the Lovely Pines. That’s a hell of a name, isn’t it?”
“But appropriate. It’s a pretty place.”
I hung up and found Paul staring at me through sleep-filled brown eyes. “What’s up?”
“I am, I guess. One of Ariel Gonda’s people got himself killed last night. You catch some more z’s. I’ll try to be quiet.”
“Naw, I’ve got to get moving anyway. I’ll fix breakfast while you shower.”
AFTER FEEDING my face on one of Paul’s excellent cheese-and-chili omelets, I hit the road and pushed the speed limit. As I blew through Placitas, I was still wondering at Ray’s description of Gonda’s behavior. It was a tragedy when anyone was killed, and I could understand how he would be concerned by Zuniga’s death. But it was difficult to see him broken up and incoherent.
Fewer than 100 yards from the turnoff to the winery, I encountered a state police mobile lab and several cruisers from both the NMSP and Sandoval County. A meat wagon from the Office of Medical Investigations was already on site. Crime-scene markers poking up from weeds and grass beside the road indicated the location of possible evidence. Even though it was not yet seven, several lookie-loos lurked in the distance. At times they presented a problem.
A Sandoval County deputy motioned me on up the road, but after I pulled over and identified myself, he directed me onto the Pines property. Ray came out of the chateau and walked down the steps as I parked. The deputy had apparently warned him of my arrival.
“BJ.” He held out a hand.
Ray was about two years older than I was, which put him something shy of forty. He was a couple of inches shorter than my six feet, but at one eighty-five, had me by fifteen pounds. It wasn’t fat, though; he simply carried a heavier bone structure. His sandy blond hair contrasted with the vaguely orange, bristly mustache on his upper lip. It always reminded me of carrot gratings my mom sprinkled over green salads.
“Okay, what can you tell me?” he said.
“Not much more than what I said on the phone. But you ask, and I’ll try to answer. Do you mind if I tape this conversation?” I started for the chateau.
He stopped me with a hand
on my arm. “No, but let’s get comfortable out here. How about your Impala?”
“Why not inside? They have overstuffed chairs in the reception room.”
“I want to talk to you before Gonda unloads on you. He’s really taking this hard, and I get the feeling he expects you to figure out who did this to his employee.”
“I hope you straightened him out.”
“He didn’t want to be straightened out.”
We ended up leaning against the trunk of the car and watching daylight filter through the pines and the lights of the working criminologists near the highway. I got my question in first.
“Who found Zuniga?”
“Neighbor to the east of here was coming home about three this morning and spotted the body lying in the ditch beside the road. He called it in, but we didn’t make the connection to the winery until somebody in Plácido tumbled to who he was.”
“How was he killed?”
“OMI will tell us that. My guess is he was shot in the back. Probably when he tried to run away.”
“And nobody heard the shot?”
“Look around. The closest neighbor is right in front of the turnoff to the winery, but the entrance wounds look like a small caliber. Hell, it could even be stab wounds with something like an ice pick. But if they turn out to be bullet holes, a gun like that wouldn’t make much more than a pop.”
“How many times was he shot?”
“I counted three wounds.”
“A robbery?”
“If so, they didn’t get much. Billfold still in his pocket with a few bucks in it. A Timex on his wrist.”
“Three in the morning? What was the kid doing out that time of night? He was a loner. Didn’t party. At least, that’s the impression I had. How was Zuniga’s body lying?”
“On his back, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar he fell facedown. Neighbor who found him claims he didn’t turn him over. Found him that way.”
“You think the killer turned him over? Looking for something, maybe,” I said.
“Wasn’t that wallet or the two dollars in the kid’s pocket. Okay, I satisfied your curiosity. Now it’s my turn.”
