by Don Travis
I put my foot on the emergency brake but held off while I calculated a few things. This was a gravel road with houses or a few places of business in the near proximity. At my present speed, I would likely go off the road when the emergency brake took hold. There was a spot on the other side of Placitas that leveled out a bit with nothing but mailboxes on the side of the road to take out. I gritted my teeth and waited. I rounded the curve, and the road stretched out straight for a distance. But the level area looked a little more pitched than I’d remembered. Oh well, it was now or never.
I pressed slowly but steadily on the emergency brake pedal. The Impala started slowing, but I apparently overdid the thing. Her wheels locked up, and she went into a skid. There wasn’t anything I could do but ride it out. She flirted with the ditch but decided to do a roundabout instead. I came to a dead stop in a cloud of dust on the wrong side of the road, looking back in the direction I’d just traveled. A screech of tires and a blaring horn behind me told me someone didn’t like me blocking his lane.
I got out of the car as a big, beefy man with an orange baseball cap with “Woof” stitched in white letters climbed out of a black Ram pickup. Two big hounds barking in the truck bed confirmed he was a dog man.
“Sorry about that. But my brakes failed.”
“Had to go to the emergency, huh?” At my nod, he continued. “Lucky you didn’t end up in a ditch… standing on your head. Well hell, fella. Let’s get you outa the road ’fore somebody drives up your tailpipe.”
I was lucky a second time. Once I released the emergency brake, the wheels freed up. I was afraid to drive the vehicle since I didn’t know if the transmission had suffered damage when I downshifted, but between the two of us, we managed to get the car onto a flat space at the side of the road. Then, without my asking, he flopped down on his back and poked his head under the car. A moment later he reappeared.
“Who’d you piss off? Some jasper cut your brake line right clear in two. Wasn’t no break. It was cut clean.”
Might as well make light of it. “I’m a private investigator, so I couldn’t begin to tell you which one of my clients I ticked off.”
He laughed and offered me a ride to town. I declined, electing to remain with the car until I could get a tow service.
After I placed a call for help, I reported in to the office. Charlie wanted to come get me, but we decided to wait until I knew what time I’d arrive at the tow service’s office. He’d meet me there.
After that I called Ariel Gonda, told him what happened, and asked him to post someone in the parking lot to inquire whether anyone saw someone working on a white Chevy Impala. Then I dialed the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Office to report the incident and still had plenty of time to lean against the car and play things back over in my mind. Miles Lotharson was a mechanic. He resented me looking into his background. I’d humiliated him in front of Katie. And, if I remembered correctly, his motorcycle was gone when I left the Pines. It wasn’t proof, but he was a logical candidate.
Roma Muñoz showed up before the tow truck arrived. She crawled out of her county cruiser giving me the fish eye. “Crime statistics sure go up whenever you’re in my jurisdiction.”
“That’s a fine greeting. But yes, I’m all right. Not hurt. Pissed but not hurt.”
She planted her diminutive feminine form—made a little less so by uniform, boots, and equipment belt holding a holstered pistol—right in front of me. “All right, let’s have it.”
After I dictated a statement into both of our voice recorders, her attitude eased. “You figure this Lotharson character clipped your line?”
My recorder was still going, as was hers, I’m sure. “Possible, but others witnessed our dustup and might have decided to take advantage of a situation.”
“Like who?”
“I’m certain the entire staff knew of our confrontation before I left the Pines. Katie Henderson, the Gondas, and Marc Juisson knew about it for sure.”
“Then you’re right. Everyone knew. Say, cowboy, you figure that little stunt was because you’re poking around in my murder case or just because you’re a general pain in the ass?”
“Hmm,” I mused. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Where were you around eleven o’clock this morning?”
That earned a smile. “Not that the thought hadn’t entered my mind, but it wasn’t me. On a serious note, you know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.
“Bascomb Zuniga’s killer is someone at or near to the Pines. Unless you can put Pat Dayton or one of the Forsyths on the premises this morning, that’s likely what it means.”
Me and my big mouth. After that remark, I had to provide a briefing on my trips to Las Cruces and Carlsbad, specifically how I’d got Zuniga’s phone number Hazel had asked her to check out.
“Turnabout’s fair play,” I finished. “Do you have anything to share with me?”
I took her dead-in-the-eye stare as a refusal, but she gave me a tidbit. “You can count the Forsyths out unless they hired a hit man. Carlsbad PD confirmed they were both in Carlsbad the night Zuniga died. In fact, it’s pretty clear the Daytons hadn’t shared the name of the baby’s father, so they likely didn’t know about Bascomb Zuniga at that point. Las Cruces PD sat on Patrick Dayton’s two travel companions. They’re sticking to the story they remained together the whole night watching the show and gambling at the Santa Ana Star.”
“Same for me, and they didn’t tell it in the same way. I’m inclined to believe them. What about Zuniga’s cell? That tell you anything?”
“Found he called or received a call from Pat Dayton’s cell about once a week. They were in contact. Other than that, nothing. I suspect the phone’s lying in a ditch somewhere near the Pines. When the service runs out, it’ll go dead.”
The tow truck, followed by another car, showed up at that moment. She glanced at them before turning back to me. “I’ll have your statement transcribed and forwarded to you as a PDF document. You look it over and sign it if it looks okay.”
The second car was Charlie. He started off by apologizing for ignoring my instructions and explaining he’d given in to Hazel’s harping that he go make sure I was all right. Neither one of us was going to touch that one.
Roma halted the wrecker driver when he had the Impala’s nose lifted for the haul up onto the adjustable platform on the rear of his truck. We needed more headroom, but even from this angle, it was clear the brake line was cleanly clipped. Satisfied, we let him go about his business. Roma took off down the hill while Charlie and I decided it was just as well Hazel sent him. We’d take the opportunity to look up Mr. Miles Lotharson and see what he had to say for himself.
Upon pulling to Childer’s Motorcycle Repair’s parking area, we found Roma beat us to Lotharson. She stood before his towering figure shaking a stern fist in his face. Rather than angry, Lotharson looked to be pouting. That changed when we got out of Charlie’s car.
“Couldn’t handle it like a man. Had to bring backup, huh?” he groused.
“Handle what?” Charlie demanded. “You think he’s on the side of a road somewhere after you cut his brake line?”
“After I what? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Roma demanded his attention again. “Seems like he handled it just fine. Put you on your backside, I hear. Without you laying a glove on him.” She backed up a pace, probably so she could see his face instead of his beefy shoulders. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. I wanna see all the tools you carry in your bike’s saddlebags.”
“Huh?”
“Do I have to get a warrant, or are you going to cooperate?”
I nearly laughed aloud at the sight of this tiny woman bullying the big biker. Charlie’s face held a smile as well.
“Don’t need no warrant. Go ahead. Take a look.” Then he squinted down at her. “What you looking for, anyway?”
“Just take me over to your bike. You two can tag along if you want.”
We followed Lo
tharson over to his Hardtail, where Roma brushed him aside and started fishing around in the bags. Eventually she held up a pair of shears that would have done the job very well.
“Okay, you’re going with me down to the station,” she told Lotharson.
He blinked and swallowed a couple of times. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet, but you might be if you refuse to do an interview.”
“All right, but I’m gonna take my own wheels.”
“Better not run, buddy boy. Every cop in the state will be on your back if you do.”
I didn’t know about Lotharson, but I wouldn’t have run. That woman could have intimidated a charging bull elephant.
Chapter 26
ROMA BANNED Charlie and me from her interview with Lotharson, so we returned to Albuquerque to rent a car while mine was being repaired. What did I get? A white Impala was my inclination, but I went for a blue Ford Taurus this time. Made it harder to identify my vehicle in case someone was bent on mischief.
Before Charlie, Hazel, and I gathered around my table to discuss the sabotage of my Impala, I placed a call to Ariel Gonda, who told me he put Marc Juisson and James Bledsong in the parking lot as soon as I alerted him of my near wreck. They asked the occupants of each departing car if anyone was seen near my Impala. That brought no positive results. However, some cars had departed before I called.
The first task my team and I addressed was to ascertain where all the players had been in the hours before noon today. And that meant all the players, even if we’d eliminated them for other reasons. To help out, I phoned a Las Cruces PI I’d known over the years by the name of Chandler Godsby. He agreed to check the Daytons and Forsyths. That was undertaken out of an abundance of caution.
Then the three of us tackled the more likely prospects: the people at the Pines and their familiars, such as Lotharson. Charlie agreed to contact Roma to see if she would share her interview with the biker. Next we turned to the people on the winery property. After examining each for a possible motivation to kill Bas Zuniga, we discussed the possibility that the severing of my brake line had nothing to do with the murder. That did not seem likely, even though I’d made my share of enemies after fifteen or so years of poking into other people’s affairs, either as a city cop or a confidential investigator.
Although it was impossible to know the internal dynamics among and between eight staff members plus the management team at the Pines, nothing we uncovered so far pointed toward any animosity beyond the normal everyday things that made a man puckish. But my mind kept coming back to one thing. Bascomb Zuniga was a spectacularly handsome young man. In addition, he was sexy—which was not the same thing. More than one individual in our earlier interviews had expressed doubt about his sexuality.
I was wading in quicksand here. I was gay, so my mind naturally looked for things like that. So could I be intuiting something that wasn’t there? Or was I so conscious of those things that I picked up something important? I opened the question up to the other two.
“I been wondering about that too,” Charlie said. “But both Natander and Pastis witnessed the attack and didn’t say anything about an attempted… uh, rape, I guess you’d call it.”
“No, but they said Zuniga and the attacker spoke for a few minutes,” Hazel said. “Enough so somebody might have been turned down.”
I clicked my ballpoint pen a couple of times and threw it down. “Maybe if there’d been previous attempts, the attacker might have held out hope Zuniga would change his mind. When he said no a final time, that was too much, and the guy lost it.”
“I didn’t get any gay vibes from the other staff,” Charlie said. “Did you?”
“I can tell you from experience, straight guys sometimes make approaches.”
Hazel gave a subdued snort but kept her mouth shut. She really didn’t like discussing matters like this aloud. She loved Paul as much as she did me, but if we started showing open affection, she’d run for the hills.
“I guess you oughta know,” Charlie said. “But do they go nuts when they’re turned down?”
“Certain men do. Believe it or not, it’s an affront to their masculinity. Gay guys—fags, as they’d consider them—oughta be slobbering all over them. When they’re turned down, some get really nasty.”
“Guess some people figure a gay guy goes for anybody with a—” He interrupted himself and slid a look at Hazel. “—with the right kind of equipment.” Charlie stretched his legs under the table. “Garcia was living with him. I know he’s got a wife and kids down in Juarez. Maybe he was frustrated.”
“I talked to Garcia. He’s the one who threw cold water on the idea Zuniga was gay.”
“Maybe it was for cover?”
I lifted my shoulders in frustration. “Could be. But I didn’t get that feeling when I spoke to him.”
“Maybe we should go back and talk to all of them again.” Charlie wrinkled his nose. “Although I’m not anxious to go around asking them if they got it on with Zuniga. Especially that vineyard worker Tso. He’s one big Indian.”
I chuckled. “Parson Jones might get a little upset too. Yeah, we need to talk to them again, but maybe we can take the temperature without asking the question. Do you remember who relieved Zuniga that night?”
“Winfield Tso,” Hazel answered. “That’s what your notes say, if I remember right.”
“Natander didn’t give me a description of the killer, but what did Pastis say?”
“Enough to know it wasn’t Tso,” Charlie said. “I recollect he claimed the guy was ordinary-sized. About the same as Zuniga.”
“Zuniga was five ten. You’re right, it wasn’t Tso.”
“Coulda been any of the others.” Charlie continued on down the road. “Which ones you want me to tackle?”
“All of them. I’ll start in on the family.”
“The Gonda family?” Hazel asked.
“By that, you mean the nephew. Juisson,” Charlie said.
“Do we know for sure the killer was a man? After all, it was night.”
“Margot? You don’t honestly believe she was the killer.” Hazel’s comment came out as a flat statement, making it clear where she stood.
“Why not? Zuniga was taking money out of her son’s pocket. Or potentially would have.”
“Isn’t there enough for all of them?” she asked. “I understand there’s also family money in Switzerland.”
Charlie covered that one. “There’s never enough money for some of them. And the bigger the pot, the bigger the fight to keep it. But it does seem a stretch that she’d be the killer.”
“Why? Because she’s attractive, likeable?”
Charlie scratched his head, indicating I was backing him into a corner. “She seems like a very secure woman. Hell, she knew about Zuniga for years but kept her trap shut. Never let on she knew.”
“But Zuniga wasn’t on the scene then. He wasn’t a factor in Gonda’s life. All of a sudden he was.”
“Glad you’re going to handle them instead of me. Think I’ll head out for the winery now. Take them by surprise.”
“Lean on them hard, Charlie. Because—”
He raised his hands in protest. “I know. I know. Because if it isn’t one of the workers, then it’s one of the family. And if it’s one of the family—”
“Oh good Lord!” Hazel straightened in her chair. “The baby. The baby might be in danger.”
Charlie paused in the act of leaving. “You know, that puts a new light on things. Maybe you oughta get some protection for the Forsyths since they have the little boy now.”
AFTER CHARLIE and Hazel left my office, I sat at my desk and dithered over whether to call Sgt. Roma Muñoz or Lt. Ray Yardley. I lifted the receiver and dialed Yardley. The state police had a longer reach. Besides, I should have been running all over Roma and her people on this, but that hadn’t been the case. Was she relying on the state police to do it for her? Of course, Yardley hadn’t exactly been on the scene either. Maybe they
were relying on me to solve it.
Yardley, when I managed to run him down by phone and get his attention, let me know that his involvement in the affair ended when we caught the intruder… intruders, if you included Natander and Pastis. The murder of Bascomb Zuniga was a separate case altogether, which belonged to the county, at least since we eliminated any of the intruders from suspicion.
After hearing my concern for the Dayton child, Ray got Roma on the phone in a three-way conference call. I regretted involving him because of the way he poked at Roma, almost accusing her of not pursuing the case, but he salvaged the situation—and put some of the heat on me—when he described the possible threat to a child in Carlsbad and asked if she needed his help in covering that base.
“How come you didn’t bring this to me, Vinson?”
“Because he knew I had people in that area.” Ray headed off the attack.
“And I have kept you up-to-date on my findings, Sergeant. What’s your feeling about Lotharson? Did he admit to cutting my brake line? And do you see a connection between that and the murder case?”
“I told Charlie Weeks what I thought a few minutes ago. Lotharson’s a dimwit. Capable of doing it, but I’m not sure he has the imagination—or initiative. Forensics didn’t tell us anything useful about the cutter I took from his saddlebags. No evidence of brake fluid.”
She switched gears. “Anyway, Lieutenant, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d cover the Carlsbad end for me.”
“Not sure I can do more than have a trooper swing by and make the Forsyths aware of the situation.”
“Carlsbad PD would probably put a hand in if you ask them,” Roma said. “What are you going to do, BJ?”
BJ. I guess that meant she was over her pique… for the moment. “I’m going out this afternoon and talk to Ariel Gonda. Make sure he understands there may be a threat.”
