by Don Travis
“In what order?” Roma asked.
“We let two cars leave ahead of us,” Gene said. “Then I followed, trailed by Del’s Volvo. There was one car behind him.”
I picked it up again. “About a mile west of the winery, there’s a deserted spot where the forest opens up south of the road. Natander picked that spot because he had a good field of fire for about forty seconds.”
“But how did he know you were coming and which cars were which?” Detective Soto asked.
“I suspect his buddy, Pastis, was at the winery. Probably in the wallow at the west wall where I first found evidence of them,” I said. “He contacted his buddy—”
“How?” Soto asked.
Roma answered her partner. “Cell or walkie-talkie. Probably the latter. You’re sure invested in Natander and Pastis being the perps, BJ.”
“Makes sense to me. Natander’s a trained military sniper. He and Pastis accompanied Diego to New Mexico. I spotted Natander tracking Diego west of the winery—with a rifle, I might add.”
Roma swiveled her chair to Diego. “So you’re copping to a plea of theft of artifacts, right?”
“Well, I was there—”
Del interrupted him. “And that’s all he’ll say about the subject at this time.”
He had made sure I was the one to explain about Our Lady of the Euphrates, so the information remained hearsay. When questioned about my source of information, I truthfully said it was from multiple inquiries.
“However,” Del spoke up, “I do want it made a part of the record that at some point my client came in possession of the artifact in question and turned it over to me. I am holding it in safekeeping and am prepared to surrender it to the proper authorities when so asked.” He looked pointedly at Roma Muñoz. “Do you want me to turn it over to you?”
“No way. That’s a fed matter. Someone should contact the FBI.” She leaned back in the chair and squared her definitely feminine shoulders. “Right now we have two separate incidents.”
“Three,” I corrected her. “Don’t forget your murder case.”
“Right. Bascomb Zuniga. All right, three incidents. Lieutenant Enriquez, you caught the case of physical assault of this man’s brother by two men in Albuquerque. The state police and I have the murder of a local citizen, and now I have what is presumably a shooting, possibly an attempt on the life of Mr. C de Baca here.” She looked at Diego again. “But if they want you alive in order to regain the… uh, Lady, why try to kill you now?”
I answered her question. “Sergeant, these are two highly trained men. As a sniper, Natander knows how to assess and process information. He notes details and draws conclusions. He saw the official plates on Gene’s car. He saw me arrive and put two and two together. Diego was being turned over to the police. At the Pines. That meant the artifact was lost to him. Now his priority was to keep Diego from talking to the authorities.”
Throughout the discussion, Roma Muñoz kept her eyes on Diego. I knew what was bugging her. I’d shown both Lieutenant Yardley of the state police and Roma photos of Diego and remarked on his resemblance to Bas Zuniga, but Diego in the flesh showed the resemblance even more starkly. Finally she could constrain herself no longer.
“Mr. C de Baca, did you know a man named Bascomb Zuniga?”
“No, ma’am. I heard about him, and I’m sure sorry what happened to him, but I didn’t know him. Never laid eyes on him, unless he was one of the winery workers I saw when I was sneaking into my hideout.”
Roma spent half an hour coming at Diego from all different directions but ended up with exactly the conclusion I reached. He knew nothing about the killing of Zuniga.
By the time she finished with that line of questioning, a tall, balding forensics man named Roscoe Hilger entered the room with a preliminary report.
“Not much to see,” he opened. “Found the likely spot, but no brass. Policed. Have a tire print, possibly a pickup, but could be a local.” He turned to a green board and quickly sketched the site. As I suspected, the forest retreated from the roadside in a large V shape. Hilger indicated the probable position of Del’s Volvo at the time of the first shot and its more precise position at the time of the second. That was made easier by the calculation of the spot the vehicle needed to be for a bullet to take out the back window and pass through the already blown right passenger’s window.
Hilger turned to face us. “As I understand it, Mr. Dahlman braked slightly to avoid a squirrel crossing the road. If he hadn’t done that, whoever was sitting in the back seat of that car was toast.”
“That would be me,” Don Carson said. “By the time the second shot came, I was hugging the floorboard.”
“Smart man,” Hilger said in a dry tone. “I suspect the shooter was highly trained. Probably military training.”
“Natander,” Diego said. “Spider Natander. Spent years as an Army sniper before he got himself sent to the motor pool in Basra. That’s where I met him.”
Del repeated his earlier warning. “And that’s all we’ll say on the matter.”
“Do you think he knows he missed?” Roma asked.
“He does if he had a spotter,” Hilger said.
“He didn’t,” I replied. “His spotter was back at the winery, keeping him informed of when we left and what car we were in.”
Hilger grunted. “Well, he knows the car slowed suddenly and spoiled his shot. That’s evident because of the second shot before you passed from his view.” He smiled and threw a thumb Carson’s way. “Just think, you owe your life to a squirrel.”
“I quit varmint hunting about an hour ago.”
The county officers left the room as Gene started questioning Diego about his brother’s violent beating at the hands of two men, likely Natander and Pastis. Del allowed him to answer most of the questions, except when they touched on how the Lady of the Euphrates came into his possession.
APD didn’t have armored vehicles, so they sent a couple of closed vans at Gene’s request to get Diego back to Albuquerque. In all likelihood, Natander and Pastis immediately went to ground somewhere, but my old partner wasn’t willing to risk anyone’s life on that theory. Del decided to ride in the van with Diego to discuss whether or not protective custody was a good idea at this time. That left me with the privilege of driving Del’s drafty Volvo back to Albuquerque. Before I left, Roma lassoed me in the hallway.
“You found the intruder,” she said. “You figure he ties into Zuniga’s murder in any way?”
“Not directly. The verdict’s still out on whether the two men on his tail mistook Zuniga for Diego, but I’m satisfied Diego had nothing to do with it. In fact, he’s having trouble believing Natander is the killer. Not his style. A sniper prefers to kill from a distance. He’s less sure of Pastis but can’t see why they wouldn’t have just grabbed Zuniga until they saw they had the wrong man and then let him go.”
“I’m having trouble with the concept as well,” she said. “Does Gonda intend to file charges against C de Baca for the break-in?”
I shook my head. “No. All it cost him was a hasp and a couple of bottles of wine, and Diego’s good for that if he wants to recover his costs. Have you turned up any new information on the killing?”
She leveled her big brown eyes at me. “Not a thing. Forensics did find some tire tracks. We’ll see if they match the ones the unit cast today at the ambush site. Did you ever see the vehicle Natander and Pastis are using?”
“It was always already out of sight by the time I reached the road. I’ve heard the motor. The engine has a throaty growl like one of those muscle cars.” I paused. “Are you investigating any theories other than the two Army fugitives?”
Roma tugged at an earlobe. She didn’t wear earrings or studs in either of them. “Just checked the alibis of the people at the winery, such as they are. Can’t find any sign of infighting among the winery crew. Nothing serious, anyway. The Dayton family down in Cruces is a possibility, I guess. One of them was in the area at the time.”
“Pat,” I supplied the man’s name. “He was attending a concert here in Bernalillo with two friends. But he was supposedly a friend of Zuniga’s.”
She shrugged. “That’s what they say, but when you knock up a guy’s sister…?”
AS I herded Del’s injured Volvo down I-25 on the fifteen-mile ride back to Albuquerque, I reviewed my recent conversation with Roma. There were only three obvious reasons for Zuniga’s murder—four, if you included the drive-by shooting theory. Which I did not. The wound placements did not favor the idea of a passing car randomly shooting at a man walking at the side of the road. That left Natander and Pastis as the killers, the Dayton family in Las Cruces taking a pound of flesh for their daughter, or someone from the winery… either one or more of the people Bas Zuniga worked with or some of Gonda’s family.
Claudio Garcia, the vineyard worker who roomed with Zuniga, was a loner, interested only in working and his family back in Juarez, Mexico. He’d forged a friendship with the dead man, not only according to Garcia but also confirmed by the other workers. It was unlikely Claudio engaged in a dispute that rose to that level of violence. The same was true of the rest of the winery workers. Regardless of how I looked at things, if Diego’s former buddies weren’t the killers, it looked like a family thing. But which family? The Gondas or the Daytons?
I was no closer to figuring things out by the time I left the Volvo at Whitesell’s Auto Glass on Griego NW, but I had decided how I wanted to proceed.
Charlie responded to my call for help and picked me up to give me a lift back to the office parking lot, where my Impala awaited. By the time we arrived, I had dictated the events of the day.
After leaving the recorder with Charlie to give to Hazel and picking up an alternate—I couldn’t function without a recorder within reach—I crawled into my car and headed straight to 5229 Post Oak Drive, where I hoped to find my significant other waiting. I needed him badly. It was my great good fortune that Paul was at home and suffered a similar desire, which we joyfully fulfilled… for both our sakes.
EARLY THE next morning when I staggered out of the bedroom after a shower and shave, Paul was reading the morning paper at the kitchen table while sipping black coffee and working on a bowl of oatmeal. He was perky and ready to go; I was barely functioning. That’s what a thirteen-year difference between me and my lover did to me—Paul was twenty-four. I looked at him fondly. If this was the way I had to die, there were worse ways to go.
“What?” he demanded when he caught me staring.
“Just remembering last night. That dragon dancing.”
He grinned but kept his mouth shut.
“Is that why you got the tattoo, so your bed partner could admire it prowling around while you demonstrated your athleticism?”
“You want the truth? I lost a bet, and the penalty was to get a tattoo. Didn’t see anything I’d rather have than that dragon. The guy wanted to put it somewhere else, but I couldn’t see Pedro peeking out from behind a bush.”
“I’ve known you for three years, and that’s the first time you’ve ever told me you named the dragon.”
“Of course I named him. I gotta live with him from now till I die. A fellow oughta know who he’s living with.”
“Surprised you didn’t go with something like ‘Mom.’”
Paul snorted. “No, thank you. How’d you like to see ‘Mom’ staring you in the face every time we made love?”
“How old were you when you got Pedro?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you were already thinking ahead back then. You’re a wise man, Paul Barton.”
“Thank you, sir.” He rose, rinsed his dishes, and stowed them in the dishwasher. “Gonna head out. You wanna go to the C&W tonight?”
“I’ve got to go to Las Cruces. You wanna tag along? Tomorrow’s the Fourth, and we can get in some golf at the U’s course.”
Dismay distorted his handsome features. “Can’t. Like you say, tomorrow’s the Fourth. That’s a big day at the country club. Especially in the pool. Can’t get time off. Is this on that missing baby thing we went down there on last month?”
“Yeah. Gonda’s grandson.”
“Too bad about his son. From his picture, he was a good-looking dude.”
“And a good man from all accounts.”
“Okay, if you’re heading south to Cruces, then I’m going car shopping.”
“You’re finally going to give up the Barrio Bomb?”
“I got that Plymouth about the same time I got Pedro, and it was old then. I’ve pretty much got the last of my educational expenses behind me, so it’s time for a new set of wheels. Besides, Niv’s interested in buying it.” He referred to Niven Pence, my across-the-street widowed neighbor’s teenaged great-grandson.
“You need some help?”
“Naw. I can handle it. Just kinda like having you along when I go looking.”
“Wait until next weekend, and I’m all yours.” He took his leave without making a commitment, but I knew my man. He was an independent cuss and would likely be driving a new car by this evening. Well, a used car that was new to him, at least.
LAS CRUCES hadn’t changed in the month since Paul and I confronted the family over little David James Dayton, Bas Zuniga’s son. At the time, we decided the Daytons sold their dead daughter’s baby for the Lincoln sitting in the family driveway. Later we watched James Dayton, the family patriarch, flee in the pricey auto headed for Texas. Had he returned yet?
No sign of the luxury car in the Dayton’s driveway. I debated knocking on the door anyway but decided to do some snooping around first. My first stop was the elderly woman down the street who’d been willing to talk to Paul and me last month. She was home, and she was still talkative. My notes identified her as Mrs. Wilma Brandini, a widow.
“I remember you, sonny,” she said when I tried to introduce myself. “Where’s that handsome youngster who was with you last time?”
“Working back in Albuquerque.”
“Well, next time you stay up to Albuquerque and send him down here.” She gave a hen’s cackle. “Handsome as my late husband in his salad days.”
“Yes, ma’am. May I ask you some more questions?”
“About them Daytons? Come on inside.” She turned and allowed me to follow her into a small living room covered with needlepoint. Crocheted doilies, embroidered afghans on both couch and chairs, fancy pillows. She’d even hand-stitched a pattern on her ottoman. No need to ask what kept her occupied. She plopped down on an overstuffed chair angled to give her the best view of the street outside the window. Busy eyes and busy fingers both, I suspected.
I switched on the recorder attached to my belt as I took a seat on the couch and watched her hands flutter. She needed some kind of needles in those fingers to keep them from twitching. “I’m interested in learning what happened to the Dayton infant after his mother died.”
“Poor little thing. The mother, I mean. Lucia, her name was. Sweet thing. And her young man, likely looking. And nice too. Always took the time to speak when they saw me. But nature makes its call and takes its toll, I always say. I hope he’s doing okay… the young man, I mean.”
“He was killed the other day. That’s why I’m trying to locate the baby. His relatives want to exercise their rights.”
“As well they should. No child needs to grow up around Bart and Willie Dayton, I can tell you. Pat’s not so bad. More like his sister. But the rest of them….” She left anything else unsaid.
“Do you know what happened to the baby? He doesn’t seem to be a part of the household any longer.”
“Gone. Not seen hide nor hair of the child since that car came and picked him up. Guess that means he’s not growing up around the Daytons, don’t it?”
“Can you tell me any more about the car or who picked the child up?”
“Green with New Mexico plates, like I told you last time you was here. That’s all.”
“Do you know what kind of car it was?”<
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“Just four wheels, four doors, and green. That’s all I know.”
“New? Old? Expensive? Beat-up?”
“Oh no. It wasn’t beat-up. Clean and shiny. Wasn’t old.”
“Foreign or domestic?”
“Huh? Oh, foreign, I’d say.” She motioned downward with her right palm. “Low. Sat low down on the ground?”
“And the driver?”
“A woman. Clean and shiny too. Not trashy. Course, can’t always tell from looking. Dressed like she was going to church. And it wasn’t Sunday, neither.”
“Young, old? Blonde, brunette?”
“About James’s age. Forty-five or thereabouts. Blonde hair. Likely bleached. Most of them do that these days. My time, we left our hair natural.”
“Had you ever seen the green car before? Or again.”
She shook her white-fringed head. “No. It was strange to me.”
“Do you know of any relatives the Daytons might have, maybe over Texas way?”
She screwed up her left eye so that it almost disappeared. I understood she was thinking. “Seems to me I heard old man Dayton… that’s James, you know. Well, seems to me I recollect he had a sister over in Carlsbad. Carlsbad’s too hot for me. Couldn’t stand living there.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Don’t believe I ever heard it. Wait a minute. Heard one of the kids talking about Aunt Jane once. If I recollect right, said she and her husband owned a car company over there.”
“Car company?’
“You know, selling them and buying them.”
“A dealership?”
“That’s the thing. A dealership.”
Fifteen minutes later, I escaped Mrs. Brandini’s clutches—with no additional useful information—to retire to a nearby park for some research. During the City of Rocks case last year, I’d invested in a little “hotspot” device to provide Wi-Fi when I was on the road. It worked more or less well—more when I was in an urban area with strong signals. And Las Cruces was one of those, so I got my laptop working just fine.
