The Lovely Pines

by Don Travis

  For half an hour, Ray plied me with questions. There wasn’t much I could add to what he already knew, but he was a careful cop and covered the situation thoroughly. Finally he released me to go inside.

  “Can I have a look at what you find?” I asked as we walked toward the front door.

  “You know better than that. As long as the investigation’s ongoing, nobody but law enforcement is privy to that. But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll share what I can if you promise to pass along what you learn.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “And don’t give me that bullshit about leaving everything to us. I know you’re going to poke around. Just don’t become a thorn in my side. Deal?”

  “Are you lead investigator?”

  “That’s the way it looks right now.”

  “Deal.”

  Ariel Gonda was a different man from the debonair winemaker I last saw. He rose with difficulty from an overstuffed chair in the salon of the chateau and stumbled forward, hair awry. Pale whiskers caught the lamplight and glistened like pewter. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight.

  “Danke Gott, you’re here, BJ.”

  I took his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry about Zuniga, Ariel.”

  He actually gulped. “Bascomb. His name was Bascomb. But he liked to be called Bas.”

  “Yes,” I said as if dealing with a child, “Bas. He seemed like a fine young man.”

  “The best.” Gonda made an effort to rally. He straightened his spine “One of the very best. He would have been my vintner one of these days.” His face seemed to collapse. “Oh God. What have I done?”

  Ray and I exchanged glances. “What do you mean, Mr. Gonda?” he asked quickly.

  I interrupted him. “Ariel, do you have an attorney? You might want to speak to him before you—”

  A bit of intelligence surfaced in the man’s eyes. “What? No, no. I did not mean anything like that. But I may have placed the boy in jeopardy. May have?” His voice climbed. “I did place him in danger.”

  “Maybe you should explain,” I said.

  Margot moved up beside her husband and took his arm. “Let’s sit over here, Ariel. We should make these gentlemen comfortable. Maggie Bledsong is preparing Koffi for everyone.”

  He allowed himself to be led into the reception room and obediently sat in the chair she indicated. We took seats around him.

  When Gonda failed to speak up, Margot took over, explaining that her husband decided to accept my recommendation to get some sort of security for the facility. As usual, he made his plans known to everyone, and the staff volunteered to mount an around-the-clock watch until the surveillance equipment was up and operating. There were six volunteers who rotated on two-hour shifts after the winery was closed. Bascomb was on duty from midnight until two this morning.

  “Who spelled him?” Ray asked when she finished.

  “Spelled?”

  “He means who relieved Bas?” I said.

  She looked at her husband, who roused enough to answer. “Tso. Winfield Tso. He lives in Bernalillo and drove in a few minutes before two.”

  “Did you supervise the shift change?” I asked.

  “No. I was sleeping in my bed while that child was being murdered.” His voice broke. Tears moistened his eyes.

  I glanced at Margot, who avoided my gaze.

  Ray and I weren’t getting much from Gonda, so we went in search of Tso. We found him talking with Hakamora, who was now standing guard at the door to the winery. They watched us approach without moving a muscle. Tso was thirty, towered considerably over six feet, and weighed in at around two ten. I knew from the search we’d done that he was a Navajo from Crownpoint, but the moon face hinted at Pueblo blood as well. In his earlier days, he’d built a record for public drinking and bar fights, but there was nothing on his sheet for the past three years. He was a C de Baca employee before Gonda bought the business.

  Ray introduced himself and started asking questions. Tso’s facial muscles gave nothing away, but his eyes shifted to me as if he expected me to run interference for him. When I didn’t speak, he started answering Ray’s questions. He wasn’t hostile, but his distaste for talking to the law surfaced from time to time.

  “I came in coupla minutes before two, parked my wheels, and found Bas standing right here where we are now,” he said.

  “I understand some of the employees live in Valle Plácido. Where do you live?” Ray brought out his recorder and flicked it on. Mine was already running.

  “Bernalillo. Rent a house there.”

  “You live alone?”

  “With a coupla other guys that work in the area.”

  “You have a family?”

  “Wife. Three kids. Why?”

  “They don’t live with you.”

  “When they come to town, they stay with me. Mostly they stay with her mother on the rez.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual when you relieved Zuniga? Did he seem okay?”

  “Didn’t notice nothing. Bas was cool. Joked around a minute before he started hiking back to Plácido.”

  “He didn’t ride his cycle?” I asked.

  “Nah. Bas always hiked. Ain’t far, and he saved on gas money.”

  Ray took over the questioning again. “You didn’t hear anything after he left?”

  Tso shook his head. “Didn’t hear nothing except crickets and a couple of frogs over in the pond.”

  “No shots?”

  A slight frown tugged at Tso’s smooth, red-brown face. “Nope. Maybe a couple of pops, but didn’t sound like no gunshots. I didn’t think nothing of it. The pine trees pop now and then, you know.” He squinted down at us from his greater height. “Was Bas shot?”

  “Don’t know yet. You get along with Zuniga okay?” Ray asked.

  A smile erased the frown. “Yeah, Bas was okay. We didn’t work together. I’m over in the vineyard. He worked here. But I seen him every day, and he was cool.”

  “How’d he get along with the other guys?”

  “Ever’body liked him so far as I know. He wasn’t no troublemaker. Minded his own business, but wasn’t… you know, wasn’t stuck up about it. He was okay for a college boy.”

  Ray addressed Hakamora. “How about you? What time did you get here?”

  “I relieved Tso at four. Saw all the police cars and drove on up to the winery. Been talking to Tso ever since.”

  “Did you know what was going on?”

  “Not till I saw lights in the chateau and went for coffee. Then I heard Bas got killed.”

  Ray questioned both Hakamora and Tso about relationships among the crew, but we learned little. According to both, it was an amiable bunch of men…. Everybody got along well enough, although there were the usual personal peculiarities that rubbed someone the wrong way once in a while.

  Tso ended up by stating the obvious. “You oughta talk to Claudio Garcia. They roomed together in a house they rented over in Plácido.”

  We said our thanks to the two men and departed, leaving them in front of the winery building. Since another SP officer was in Valle Plácido handling the questioning of both Garcia and Parson Jones, I offered to accompany Ray to the scene of the crime. He waved me off, leaving me with nothing to do but return to the chateau.

  Gonda was right where I’d left him earlier, still seated in one of the chairs in the salon. Margot poured coffee from what appeared to be an antique porcelain set and lifted the cup in my direction.

  I accepted the black, unsweetened coffee and sat in a chair facing Gonda. He was still pale. His eyes were swollen but dry.

  “I am sorry, BJ,” he said softly. “I was not of much value to you or the policeman. How can I help?”

  “By telling me why you’re taking this so hard.”

  “A fine young man lost his life last night. He died a violent, untimely death while defending my property against intruders.”

  “You have no reason to believe that. He was on his way home when he was attacked. And even if that were true, you are no
more responsible than if an act of nature took Zuniga while he was on the premises.”

  “I cannot accept that. Were it not for me, he would have been home in bed asleep and safe.”

  “Or he would have been out drinking and gotten into a bar fight. Ariel, if there is something you’re not telling me, I need to know it. Now.”

  “There is nothing. I swear this. At least, there is nothing pertinent to this… this murder. I cannot help my sense of responsibility, nor do I apologize for it. Perhaps I am merely a foolish old man.”

  I took him over the events of yesterday and last night again before walking down to the highway. The OMI wagon had taken Zuniga away, but the crime-scene criminalists were still doing their thing.

  Careful to remain outside the police-scene tape barriers, I strolled up and down the length of the cordoned-off area a couple of times. I always walk the scene of a crime. I did it when I was a Marine MP, an Albuquerque police officer, and now as a confidential investigator. Crime scenes, no matter how thoroughly searched by others, sometimes spoke to a man with a different perspective. This one didn’t. At least not until I could walk the actual ground, and that wouldn’t happen for a few days yet.

  An essential task remained to be performed before heading back to Albuquerque, so I went back to the chateau. By this time Gonda had recovered a bit and taken refuge in his lab at the winery. He gave me a sheepish look when I entered. The man was hiding something from me.

  “Entschuldigung, BJ. I apologize again for going off the deep end, as I believe you say.”

  I waved it away. “No need. We all react to tragedy in our own way. But I need to know if you wish me to continue.”

  He blinked. “Of course I do. Why would I not?”

  “For one thing, the police are going to be all over your property for quite a while. I’m not certain you need my services any longer.”

  “More than ever. I expect you to find out who killed this boy.”

  Boy, not man.

  I shook my head. “That’s the police’s job, not mine. I collect information and turn it over to you. They investigate crimes.”

  “Like they investigated my break-in? No, that will not do. I need a professional.”

  “They are professionals, Ariel. Ray Yardley is a good cop.”

  “So were you. And you are a fine investigator. Please continue with your investigation. I am relying on you.”

  Dammit, that’s why I preferred working for lawyers. They knew the limitations of my job. I excused myself to go find Claudio Garcia. Apparently the NMSP and SCSO interrogators were finished with him, because I found him hard at work in the vineyard. After clearing it with Bledsong, his boss, I walked through rows of lush grape vines burgeoning with developing fruit to confront him. He stood five ten and carried around 150 pounds. Slender but with ropy muscles corded by long hours in the field. I noticed he walked with a slight limp, which I knew from our background check was the result of a childhood bout of infantile paralysis. He was twenty-four and a holdover from the C de Bacas.

  He heard me approach and turned to meet me with a slightly wary look in brown eyes that wandered over my chest or my shoulder… anywhere to keep from meeting my gaze. “Señor…. Mr. Vinson. What can Claudio do for you?”

  “Just wanted to talk to you a minute. Did the cops give you any trouble?”

  “No, sir. They just asked… you know, questions. Made Claudio show them green card. Mostly they ask about Bas.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “He was a good guy.” He looked at me frankly. “Why anybody wanna kill him? Bas wouldn’t hurt nobody.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  He and Zuniga shared a small house they rented at the eastern edge of Valle Plácido ever since Zuniga came to work shortly after the Gondas bought the winery. They walked to and from work together, even though Zuniga owned an old Kawasaki motorcycle. He was a loner, which suited Garcia fine since that description fit him as well.

  “After work we go home, pick up around house.” He gave a shrug. “You know, clean up and just relax.”

  “Relax how?”

  Another shrug. “Play dominoes. Watch TV. That kinda thing.”

  “You didn’t go out? Bars, clubs, movies?”

  “Sometime we get on Bas’s motocicleta—” Garcia’s voice caught. He cleared his throat. “We get on his hog… that’s what he called his bike. ’Course it wasn’t no Harley, just an old Kawasaki, but that’s what he called it. Anyways, ’bout once ever month we go to the two-dollar movie off San Mateo down in Albuquerque. Sometimes we go to Bernalillo to Blake’s for a Lotaburger. Most nights we just stay home.”

  “You talk to him much?”

  Garcia thumbed his upper lip, making me suspect he recently wore a mustache. “Claudio talk. Bas listen. He like to hear about mi familia.”

  “He tell you much about his family or his history?”

  He shook his head. “Not much. I know he come from around Cruces. Went to school at the big university there. Papa dead. Mama still down there. That’s all.”

  “Any girlfriends?” I asked when he ran down.

  Startled, he met my eyes briefly. “No, no. Claudio married. His wife in Juarez. He don’t run around.”

  His reference to himself in the third person threw me for a minute. “No, I mean, Zuniga…. Bas. He was a good-looking guy. The ladies shoulda chased him all over the place.”

  Garcia’s look went dark. “I know what they say about Bas, but it ain’t so. He wasn’t no queer.”

  “How do you know? Just because he didn’t make a move on you didn’t mean—”

  “Claudio been around enough maricónes. He know one when he see him.”

  I questioned that statement since he hadn’t seemed to grasp that I was one of those maricónes myself. Nonetheless, I was interested in his reasoning.

  “Some people can fool you.”

  “Sí, but Bas like women.”

  “Did he ever connect with one while you were in town?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “No. But….” He looked frustrated. Maybe his English wasn’t good enough to express himself adequately, but if that were the case, my limited command of Spanish damned sure wasn’t going to help.

  Apparently he figured out what he wanted to say because he continued. “Bas and me, we rent some a them movies sometimes. You know from adulto places. Bas, he watch them, and he get excited. But he get sad too. When it over, he go in his room and close la puerta, you know… door. Stay there rest of night.”

  “Maybe he was giving himself some relief.”

  Garcia shook his head. “Claudio think so too. Sometimes he sneak over to door and listen. Know what he hear?”

  I shook my head.

  “Llorando. Crying.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Crying?”

  Garcia gave me an angry look. “Not like no girl. He cry like a man hurting. Hurting real bad. You understand, no?”

  I agreed, but I didn’t understand. Not at all.

  I ARRIVED at the office around ten. I’d left a message telling Hazel and Charlie what happened, so we went into a huddle as soon as I arrived. We sat at the small conference table in the corner of my office to update one another. I handed over my voice recorder and wished for a few more hours of sleep before launching into a detailed report of the events of the night and morning.

  “What do you think Gonda’s hiding?” Charlie asked when I finished.

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Hazel, dig into Zuniga’s background. Go deep. Check out his parents. He told Garcia, his roommate, that his father was dead, but his mother lives in Las Cruces. Look for gang connections. Drug running. Anything that might explain why he was killed. It certainly wasn’t a robbery.”

  “It could be a random shooting. A drive-by,” she said.

  “Possibly. But that’s a remote area for a drive-by. And Gonda’s reaction to his death has me scratching my head.”

  “You want me to head
down to Cruces and snoop around?” Charlie asked.

  “Not until we see what Hazel comes up with. Right now, I’d like you to take another look at Jones and see if you can determine why he’s reluctant to talk about his marital status. Then concentrate on learning all you can about the C de Bacas.” I sagged back in my chair and ran a hand through my hair. “Is there anything going on you need my help with?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle. Why?”

  “I’m going to focus on Ariel Gonda and the Lovely Pines case for the next few days.”

  “Don’t get your tit in a wringer,” Charlie warned. “Yardley might feel like you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation. The state boys frown on that.”

  “I don’t think Yardley’s going to be my problem.” A Sandoval County deputy by the name of Roma Muñoz might fill that bill.

  Chapter 6

  MY NEXT task was to develop a relationship—be it cordial or adversarial—with Roma Muñoz, a sergeant in the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Office Criminal Bureau of Investigations. When I caught up with her in the sleek, modern Thirteenth Judicial Court Complex at Hwy 528 and Idalia Road in Bernalillo on Thursday morning, she turned out to be an attractive woman of about thirty-five, diminutive in size but not in personality. Even from across the room, she exuded a sense of power and determination. This relationship would have to be earned.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vinson,” she said as my escort from the front desk deposited me in her office. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Some good and some….” Her voice trailed off as she held up a hand, palm down, and wiggled it back and forth a couple of times.

  “That’s too bad. All I’ve heard about you is good.”

  She breezed right past the bullshit. “Am I going to have trouble with you? I warn you right up front, I’ll haul your ass to jail if you interfere with my investigation.”

  I took a seat, uninvited, and smiled at her. “Has something changed? I understood this was Ray Yardley’s case.”

  “It’s a joint investigation, and you know it. So don’t play games with me.”

  “I don’t play games, Sergeant. I put in my time with the police—both military and city. Probably would still be if—”