“Yes, sir.”
I closed the phone and scrunched down so I could see Bergmann. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the Baca house.
“Is there anything in particular that you needed, Taylor?” I said, and he turned around quickly.
“No, sir. I saw your vehicle parked here and thought I’d check. That’s all.”
“I appreciate it. We can always use an extra set of well-trained eyes, believe me.”
“Commander,” Bergmann said, and patted the roof of the Corvette, “nice to meet you. Have a great visit.”
“Thanks,” my son said. “It’s been interesting so far.”
Bergmann almost laughed. “I bet,” he said. “We’ll talk to you gentlemen later.”
We heard his boots crunch on the dirt and then the door of the Expedition open and close. The engine had been running, but produced just a gentle whisper as Bergmann reversed to clear our back bumper. He drove around us and continued down the dirt lane to the Sisneroses’ driveway, where he turned around.
“He’s not going to chance any more of Regal’s back streets,” Buddy observed.
“This one doesn’t go much farther anyway,” I said. “Down around the corner to Clorinda Baca’s, and then it just kind of peters out beyond her woodpile.”
“Whoever she is,” Buddy said, chuckling.
“She’s…” I started to say, but he held up a hand.
“I don’t need to know, Dad,” he said. The Border Patrol unit eased past us heading eastbound, and I raised a hand in salute, catching a glimpse of Agent Tomlinson’s round, pleasant face in the passenger window. “Do you want to go over to the church now?”
“Our last stop on the grand tour,” I said. I gestured after the two agents. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they do the same thing. The mission is one of the traditional stopping places for illegals who jump the fence in this area. It’s never locked, which makes it easy.”
“Is a full-time border crossing in the cards for this place anytime soon?” Buddy asked. He ignited the Corvette and let it idle for a few seconds.
“Probably within the next year,” I said.
We used the Sisneros driveway too, and I could picture Archie Sisneros lying in bed blurry-eyed, wondering if he should turn his dogs loose. I could hear the two of them barking inside the house.
We drove back out the dirt lane. Ahead of us, the Border Patrol unit halted at the pavement, a nice full stop just like the sign ordered. The left directional signal flashed a couple of times, and Bergmann pulled out on the highway and accelerated on up the hill. “I’m surprised he didn’t check out the mission,” I said.
“Maybe he figures that’s your turf.” We reached the pavement, and Buddy leaned forward, pulling himself up against the steering wheel. By easing up and over the edge of the asphalt obliquely, my son was able to avoid leaving serious parts of his car behind. “What time do Estelle and Francis fly in today?” he asked as we straightened out on the pavement.
“Their plane arrives in El Paso a little after two this afternoon,” I said.
“I look forward to seeing them again. The last time I was here, Estelle was just breaking into detective work. As I remember, she was about to take her sergeant’s test. And she was still single, too. Gorgeous and single.”
“Pull into the church,” I said. “And none of that applies anymore, except maybe the gorgeous part. She’s happily married, two kids, no longer in police work. As far as I know. She doesn’t talk much about herself.”
We turned off the asphalt and I leaned forward. “The deputy says that someone’s parked behind the church, so let’s go around the back side.”
“It’s gravel all the way?” As if to punctuate his question, a stone pinged against the exhaust pipe directly under my rump.
“No ruts. It’ll be all right.”
We drove around the west side of La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, and at the back corner there was just room to skirt the large chamisa plants that kept the inattentive from nicking the adobe corner of the building. The rear wall of the church, its smooth brown adobe expanse broken only by a single window that filtered light the length of the nave, rose more than fifteen feet from the ground to the rounded tops of walls.
My window was down, and even before we started to nose around the east corner toward the side of the church opposite the highway, I heard an engine start. “I don’t think whoever it is plans to stick around and chat,” I said.
But I was wrong. We rounded the corner and pulled in behind a late-model white Dodge Durango with Texas plates. Our headlights picked up the silhouette of a single occupant before we pulled so close that the back of the vehicle blocked the light.
My son turned on one of the little aircraft-style interior lights so I could see the cell phone, and I dialed dispatch. “Hopefully young Sutherland is awake,” I said. Young Sutherland was, and answered on the second ring.
“Run a plate for me, Brent,” I said. “Texas dealer plate November Hotel niner Baker Thomas six.” He repeated the number and I waited, the even rumbling of the Corvette’s idle marking time.
“Sir,” Brent Sutherland said finally, “that tag is registered to Walsh Chrysler-Plymouth, two twenty-one Parkway Avenue, Del Rio, Texas. No wants or warrants. Just a second, sir.”
I heard a voice in the background, and then the rattle of the phone being handed off to someone else.
Robert Torrez’s voice came on the line. “Sir, we think that truck belongs to Scott Gutierrez’s stepfather, a Mr. Jerry Walsh. He owns a dealership in Del Rio. Where are you right now? Behind the church?”
“That’s exactly where we are,” I said. “Jackie asked me to check out this vehicle for her. Why, I don’t know.” If the undersheriff knew where I was, he no doubt also knew that I was there by Deputy Taber’s request.
“Does the driver know you’re there?”
“Unless he’s asleep or dead, he knows there’s a noisy Corvette parked behind him. He would have no way of knowing who it is unless he’s psychic.”
“Okay.” Torrez didn’t elaborate.
“Assuming he doesn’t drive off in the next ten seconds, do you want me to talk to him?” I prompted.
“Sure. Go ahead, sir.”
“Robert,” I said, exasperated by his taciturnity, “what are you not telling me?”
“Jackie has reason to believe that the occupant of that vehicle was inside Sosimo Baca’s house just a few minutes ago.”
I sat silently digesting that. “She’s sure?”
“No, sir, she’s not. But Archie Sisneros called here a while ago to ask if one of our people was still working the Baca place. Archie says he saw the white vehicle parked in front, and someone inside the house with a flashlight.”
“He thought that was kind of odd, did he?” I said.
“Yep. Jackie took the call. On her way down the hill from the pass, she saw a vehicle exit the lane and then park behind the church. She decided it would be better to hang back a little and see what developed.”
“Well,” I said, “we developed. I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Walsh—or whoever has his truck.”
“It might be useful if he didn’t know that the deputy was sitting up the hill.”
“You got it.” I snapped off the phone. “Cat and mouse time.” I shook my head and looked across at my son. I handed him the cell phone. “That button right there”—and I pointed to one of the white buttons on the left side—“is the auto-dial to the Sheriff’s Office.”
“Why am I going to need that?”
“Hopefully, you won’t. But I have to try and pry myself out of your stealth bomber again. If I get stuck partway, we may need to call for assistance.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
I was halfway out of the car, contorted like Houdini, when I started to count down all the stupid things I was doing. If I had caught one of the rookie deputies pulling the same dumb stunt, I’d have chewed his ass up one side and down the other. Had the person waiting in the dar
k vehicle ahead of us been an armed psychotic in a stolen truck, he needed to look no further for an easy target.
The interior courtesy light of the Corvette wasn’t much, but it did a thorough job of illuminating my gyrations as soon as I opened the door. Finally struggling to my feet and taking a deep breath of relief, I pushed the door closed and walked around the front of the car.
The dome light of the Durango snapped on just as I rounded the left rear fender. The driver’s side window was down, and I could see an elbow resting on the sill. The headlights of my son’s car behind me worked to my advantage.
“Good morning,” I said as I came up behind the open window.
Scott Gutierrez leaned forward a bit so that he could twist around to peer at me. He grinned and then turned away from the glare of the headlights. “Good morning, Sheriff. I was wondering who that might be.” He gestured toward the northwest.
“I saw you turn into the lane down there, but I lost you through that grove of trees. And then I saw the Border Patrol unit do the same thing. I figured the two of you were having a chat.”
“The night shift,” I said. “That was Bergmann and Tomlinson chasing coyotes.” I moved forward so that I could lean on the Durango’s door. “My son and I are roaming around, sharing insomnia on a nice peaceful Sunday morning.”
He laughed. “Yep.” He stretched, straight-arming the steering wheel with his left while thumping his right hand against the vehicle’s roof.
“I thought you were on leave,” I said. “That’s what Bergmann told me. And you told me earlier that you were going hunting this weekend.”
Gutierrez yawned and nodded. “I am. Or rather, we are. My sister and me. And my stepdad. He’s visiting from Del Rio.” He turned and looked up at me. “The annual pilgrimage.”
“He’s staying in Posadas?”
“Yes. With Connie French. My sister.”
“Aren’t you still living in Deming?” Gutierrez caught the puzzled note in my voice and grinned.
“I thought it would be easier if I bunked on sis’ floor for the weekend, rather than driving back and forth. We’re going out and set up camp this afternoon, over on the north side of the mountains.” He nodded at the San Cristóbals. “Then, come first light Monday”—and he held up and sighted an imaginary rifle—“the champion twelve-point buck who’s waiting out there is mine.”
He put down the rifle. “But see, the problem is that my stepdad sees it as his goal in life to rearrange my life to his satisfaction. We always end up arguing about something. There’s about a six-hour grace period after he and I show up in the same house. And then, it’s anybody’s guess.”
“I know how that can be.”
The young man’s expression turned to one of chagrin. “This time I didn’t even get the six hours. We had a good row earlier this evening. I went back to sis’ place after that ruckus at the Broken Spur, and I made the mistake of mentioning it to my stepdad…you know, about that stupid kid running from the cops.” He shook his head ruefully. “That lit the fuse, I guess. What he really wants is for me to be partners with him in the dealership in Del Rio.”
“That doesn’t appeal to you?”
“Jesus, no. I can’t even imagine that.”
“He’s trying to bribe you into it by letting you drive this fancy truck?”
“Right.” He surveyed the inside of the Durango. “It’s not bad, either.”
“I hope you left your stepdad a note.” I chuckled. “He’s apt to wake up, find his baby gone, and go ballistic.”
“Not likely. He sleeps like a rock. In fact, he usually misses all the good dawn hunting when we go out.”
“So,” I said, and paused. “Any brilliant ideas about this mess we’ve got on our hands?”
“The Baca thing, you mean?” He shrugged. “There’s two possibilities that are the most logical. One is that the old man had an argument with a relative over something. Domestics are number one, right?” He laughed. “I should talk.”
I nodded.
“With what happened to his son and all, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened. And then you gotta figure”—and he swept his hand in a general arc that included all of Regal—“if he’s out on the highway, he’s fair game for just about the whole world. Somebody saw him, figured to take whatever money he had, maybe brought him back to the house by force.” He looked up at me again. “That’s what I think, for what it’s worth…which ain’t much.”
I glanced at the digital clock on the Durango’s dashboard. “So how long have you been sitting here?”
“Hell, I don’t know. A while.” He yawned. “I pulled in here on impulse. A good place to do a lot of thinking. You never know what you’re going to see.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Well, the old lady who lives in that adobe with the yellow window frames”—and he pointed to a single porch light across the way that wasn’t blocked by the bulk of the church—“she let her dogs out for about ten minutes, and then called ’em both back in again at three-oh-five. That’s big news. The Contreras’ kitchen light came on at three-thirty for a few minutes and then went off again, so husband or wife or both were up and got a snack. That’s big news.” Gutierrez laughed.
“Hot times,” I said.
“And then a little bit ago, at about oh four hundred hours, this big, bad-ass ’Vette sneaks down the hill into town. I thought I had something fun going on with that one, until the Border Patrol nailed him.”
“I hadn’t thought of it as sneaking,” I said.
“Well.” Gutierrez looked at me sideways with a “gotcha” grin. “You were comin’ off the hill like some airplane. I could hear all the way down here. And then you slowed, and didn’t come out from behind that big foothill there for a long time. And when you did, you were just kinda of drifting along.”
“Lots of deer out,” I said.
“Ah,” Gutierrez agreed. “Leave some for me, all right?”
I straightened up and stretched, and glanced back at my son sitting patiently in the car. “I have to climb back in that thing,” I said. “It’s a major undertaking.”
“Life’s tough.” Scott chuckled.
“Did you happen to drive through the village tonight?” Before he had a chance to respond, I added, “See any foot traffic? Hear any dogs going nuts?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I didn’t have to drive through. I can hear every sniffle and giggle right from here. The whole valley is as quiet as this church.” He sighed and settled even farther down in the seat. “One of the things that’s on my mind is seeing that youngster get hit. That’s one reason I’m out and around. I lie down to sleep, and that’s what I see.” With a grimace, he smacked one hand against the other. “Bam. Just like that. I don’t guess I’ll ever forget that sound.”
“I sympathize,” I said, thumping the windowsill of the Durango with both hands. “It takes a while for things like that to heal—if ever.”
“You still don’t know why he tried to run?”
I shook my head. “The only thing I can figure is that he was afraid of his cousin. They’ve had more than one set-to over the years, and Bobby’s a little tough on the boy. I’ve been running it through my mind, and that’s all I can come up with. Just before he popped the window, I radioed the office and said I was bringing the kid in. At that point, Matthew was behaving himself. I made the comment that the dispatcher might want to contact Undersheriff Torrez and let him know. That’s when the kid went berserk.”
“Huh,” Gutierrez said. “That might make sense, Sheriff. You stopped your unit and we pulled in on the shoulder behind you. With all the lights on, the kid couldn’t tell one unit from another. Bergmann’s a big fella. If the kid caught sight of him backlit by all the flashing lights, maybe he thought it was Torrez, comin’ to thump on him. So he bolted.”
“Maybe so. At any rate, we got one thing cleared up. One of the deputies found a fake license that Baca had been using as an ID.”
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“No shit?” Gutierrez raised an eyebrow. “You mean a fake driver’s license?”
“Sure enough. The little rat had stuffed it down behind the seat of the patrol car. And that makes sense, when you think about it. That’s the last thing he wanted any of us to find on him.”
“I thought you looked in his wallet. I know Taber did. I saw her do it.”
“We don’t think it was in his wallet, Scott. He had it stashed somewhere else.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yep.” I pushed away from the truck. “Well, we best be heading back to town.” I stopped. “Oh, by the way, Tony Abeyta probably asked you about this already. When you drove through Regal yesterday…no, when the hell was it. Saturday morning? Before the ruckus? You didn’t see any vehicles that looked out of place?”
Gutierrez’s eyebrows knitted together. “I didn’t drive through Regal on Saturday morning. I was at the crossing talking with one of the Customs guys, and caught the call on the scanner. That’s the first I heard about it. I heard the call, and drove over. Hell, it’s what, a little more than a mile? Half the town was there by then, already.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding in comprehension. “Somebody’s got their timing screwed up. I was told that you had driven around the village earlier.”
Gutierrez shook his head. “Not me. I know that Taylor Bergmann is fascinated by this place. It might well have been him. Or maybe one of the other guys. It’s kind of on our route.” He flashed a sudden smile. “Bergmann’s from St. Louis. There are more cars at a single traffic light at any given moment on an average day than in all of Regal.” He scoffed. “He thinks Regal would be the ideal place to live.”
“It might be,” I agreed.
“Who told Abeyta that I drove through?”
“That’s a good question. Maybe I heard him wrong.” I grinned. “We’ve heard a different story from every resident of the village. Makes a fascinating set of reports.” I reached in and tapped him on the shoulder with my index finger. “Don’t be dozing off now. Some illegal would really be tempted by this buggy. I’d hate to have to break the news to your stepfather that you’d been hijacked to Mexico.”
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