“See, that’s what he expects,” Gutierrez said with a laugh. “That would—how does Bergmann put it—‘validate all his arguments.’ You guys have a good night. Keep it slow and easy.”
Practice was paying off. When I settled into the Corvette this time, it almost qualified as a modern dance routine.
“All set?” my son asked.
“Yep.” I slammed the light fiberglass door and struggled with the seat belt. “It’s one of the Border Patrol officers, undercover in his stepfather’s truck.”
“Well”—Buddy laughed—“you’re undercover in your son’s car, so that makes it even, right?”
He backed up a couple of paces and cranked the front wheels to clear the Durango’s chrome back bumper. Despite his best egg-under-foot efforts, the wide back tires of the Corvette kicked a little gravel as we swung wide.
“Where to, sahib?”
I had the phone in hand and pointed up the hill with it. “I want to talk with the deputy. Make sure she hasn’t been inhaling the funny smoke or something. Somebody sure as hell is making up stories.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
From her vantage point just south of the pass, Deputy Jackie Taber could see the entire village of Regal, and beyond the vast, yawning blackness that was Mexico. A single group of lights twinkled on the southern horizon, the tiny Mexican village of Tres Santos.
“If you swing around and point downhill, we can park door to door, and I can talk to the deputy without getting out of this thing.”
“That’s not going to work too well,” my son said, “but we’ll take a shot at it.” Cops become expert, over the years, at those door-to-door conferences. You can pass coffee and donuts back and forth, or hand over paperwork, or chew the fat—all those good things that we did while we waited for something exciting to happen.
That didn’t work this time. When I turned my head and looked out the window, I’d be looking right at the bottom of the sheriff’s star on the driver’s door of Taber’s unit. Fortunately, the young deputy had anticipated that very problem, and as we rolled in, she got out of the truck to meet us.
She knelt down beside my door. “Good morning, sir.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Have you met my son? Commander Bill Gastner Junior, this is Deputy Jackie Taber.”
“Pleasure,” Buddy said.
“Nice car, sir.” Jackie grinned. She stroked the top of the door with light fingers. “What did you find out down below?”
“First of all, that’s Scott Gutierrez hanging out down there,”
I said.
“Really?”
“Really. He’s driving a vehicle from his father’s dealership. The old man’s up visiting for a few days, and Scott decided to find some fresh air.”
“Ah,” Jackie said. “Okay, that makes sense.”
“I’m glad it does to you. This is a long way to drive just to get out of the house. Of course, like the rest of us, Scott’s got Matt Baca on his mind.”
“Other people have been known to roam the county with no particular destination in mind, sir,” Jackie said, and grinned across at my son. She shifted her weight to favor the other knee. I motioned her away from the door.
“Let me get out of this thing so we can talk without torture,” I said. Buddy switched the car off. The mountain was silent, just the faintest of winds itching the vegetation along the highway. My son got out with practiced ease.
“Scott is staying with his sister for the weekend,” I said. “They’re going hunting.” I leaned against the Bronco’s front fender, the hood just the right height for my elbow. “I don’t think I know her.”
The deputy nodded. “His sister Connie lives in Posadas, over on South Twelfth Street. About a block south of the Guzmans’ place.”
“Scott said he took a drive to get away from the old man for a while. But Connie…do I know her?”
The deputy smiled, an expression that didn’t wrinkle her smooth, serious face too often. “I would imagine that you do, sir. Connie French? She got divorced last year from Mike French, the guy who runs the Chevron station on the east end of Bustos. She’s living with somebody else right now.” Her brow wrinkled. “He’s a custodian at the high school. I can’t recall his name. She works for the Motor Vehicle Division with the undersheriff’s sister. I’m sure you’ve met her.”
“You’re getting to be a regular gazetteer of Posadas.” I laughed. “And I’m sure I have. But the memory is a leaky bucket these days.” By stepping around the front of the Bronco I could look out into the darkness. “You say that you can see Sosimo Baca’s house from here? And enough detail to guess at the color of a vehicle?” The village was a sprinkle of lights, no more than half a dozen.
“Try these,” she said, and handed me a pair of heavy binoculars.
That was the operative word…try. The eyepieces weren’t designed to use with bifocals, and without glasses all I saw was black. A light flashed briefly and I managed to pin it down so that it created a neat star pattern in the lenses without showing me a damn thing.
“So you decided to park here and check out the village,” I said.
“I always do that, if I have time. I like the idea of an overview.”
“Outstanding. And you saw the headlights, I assume, over by Baca’s. Then you saw the vehicle drive out the lane. As it passed by Contrerases’ you’d catch a glimpse of the color, if their porch light was on.” I tried to find the Contreras house, but gave up. Without car headlights to serve as a marker, the whole place was just a black hole to me.
“Yes, sir. And then it drove out to the pavement, turned south, and then swung around behind the church. That’s where he parked. After about ten minutes, I decided to drive on down the hill and check him out. I was about to get back into the unit when you drove by.” She beamed again. “And then after I found out who Thunder Pipes was, I thought it might be useful, if you were touring Regal, for me to stay up here. I wanted to know what the occupant of the vehicle behind the church would tell you. I talked to the undersheriff, and he agreed.”
I handed the binoculars to my son. “Can you see anything, Commander Thunder Pipes?”
Buddy cranked the objectives a little farther apart and spun the focus knob like someone who uses those sorts of gadgets on a regular basis. “As a matter of fact, I can. Our white Durango is coming out from behind the church with his headlights off. Ah…now they’re on.” Even without the binoculars, I could see the beams stab out across the parking lot. “And now he’s on the highway, turning up the hill.” Buddy handed the binoculars back to Jackie.
“By the way, Scott told me that he hadn’t driven through the village, Jackie,” I said. “Either tonight, or on Saturday morning, despite what Betty Contreras says.” She nodded, and I added, “That confuses me, see. Tony Abeyta said that Betty never mentioned a vehicle driving through the village while he and Scott were talking to her…she certainly didn’t mention a Border Patrol vehicle driving through. That’s what Tony says. Now Betty says that she did mention the vehicle while she was talking to Scott.”
I turned and listened. “You can hear him now, coming up the hill.” Looking back at the deputy, I said, “So either Betty is lying, or Tony Abeyta is lying. And Scott Gutierrez is lying, about tonight, anyway.”
“Betty told the undersheriff the same thing, sir. Just what she told you.”
“She did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She told him that she saw the Border Patrol unit drive by her house? Around eight?”
“Yes, sir. She said that she only caught a quick glance, but that it was two agents.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” I said wearily. “Betty, Betty, Betty.” At the sound of an approaching vehicle, I turned and saw headlights pop into view, and a moment later, the white Durango passed us, its aggressive all-season tires howling on the pavement. Scott Gutierrez tapped the horn twice.
As the taillights disappeared around the bend, I said, “Archie Sisneros called dispatch and
said that he saw a light inside Sosimo’s house while the vehicle was parked there. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Scott says he didn’t even drive into the village.”
“You’ve got an interesting potpourri of what passes for the truth on this side of the mountain,” my son said.
“That’s what has the undersheriff on edge,” Jackie said quietly.
“The obvious thing to do at this point,” I said, “other than thinking about finding breakfast somewhere, is to talk with Mrs. Contreras again. Her husband doesn’t recall seeing any traffic, of any kind…but part of the time he was inside the church sniffing paint. So…” I shrugged. “Tell you what. Let me talk with Betty again. We’ll see what she’s up to. In the meantime, I’d like you to find out all you can about Scott Gutierrez.”
“The undersheriff is working that way, too,” Jackie said.
“Then I need to talk to Robert. He’s at the office, or at least he was a few minutes ago.”
Buddy held up a hand in surrender. “Dad, we need to head on back to the house. Tadd will be up and around, and maybe we can catch up with you later in the morning.” He pushed a button on his watch. “It’s about four-forty now, and beginning to look like you’re going to have a busy morning. I’ve got a couple of errands I need to run, myself. Let’s try to meet at noon. How about that?”
“Noon for lunch,” I said. “If it won’t hurt your feelings, I’ll ride back in with Jackie.”
The only luggage I’d had with me in the sports car was my cell phone, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It didn’t take much to transfer that. The Corvette’s bellow was already fading as Jackie and I pulled out onto the highway in the Bronco.
“Your son flies jets in the navy, sir? That’s what some of the others were saying.”
“That he does.” I chuckled. “Choppers too. You can tell?”
“He has that military look,” she said. “The big watch, and all.” The military “look” was nothing new to Jackie Taber, fresh out of six years with the army when Posadas County hired her. “How long will he be visiting?”
“Through the middle of the week. More if I can twist his arm. Where’s your sketch pad, by the way?” The large drawing pad had become a Taber trademark, and her work was stunning. Others might sit in the patrol unit and smoke a cigarette during an off moment. Jackie Taber hauled out her charcoal pencil and drawing pad.
“Under my briefcase,” she said, indicating the clutter between us.
“You keep after that,” I said. “It’s a real talent.” I laughed. “You need to talk Sheriff Torrez into moving you to days. The light is a whole lot better.”
She made an amused little sound, noncommittal at best. “Maybe swing shift, sir. Then there’s the best of both worlds. Lots of gray tones.”
As we headed north, both of us fell silent. I didn’t have to ask what prompted the occasional impatient drumming of Deputy Jackie Taber’s fingers on the steering wheel. The puzzle had enough pieces to keep us all busy.
Something had been on Scott Gutierrez’s mind. There was no question about that. Only old, fat insomniacs parked themselves in the dark corners of the county in the middle of the night, listening to the dim pulse of the world. No doubt, Scott had his share of troubles—a recent divorce, a nagging stepfather, the dull routine of chasing people trying to come into the country without a ticket.
A young, aggressive cop with his whole career ahead of him had better things to do than sulk behind buildings just to fritter away time.
There was something on the undersheriff’s mind, too, enough to keep him sleepless, despite the best efforts of his beautiful wife. I knew it wasn’t the election just two days away. I hadn’t met a single person who took his opponent seriously—and Robert Torrez wasn’t the sort to lose sleep over politics.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The undersheriff’s door was open, two doors downstream from my office and immediately across from the dispatcher’s island. One might have assumed that someone of Robert Torrez’s size would have sought out an office to match, a place where he could stretch out. Instead, he wore the room like a polished, tight military boot.
Small to begin with, the oddly shaped office featured one corner lopped off at an angle to accommodate ductwork for our recently updated heating and cooling system. Torrez had skewed his large metal desk so that the light coming in from the single tall, narrow window wouldn’t blanket the screens of his two computers with reflections. That desk, along with two filing cabinets and two chairs, didn’t leave room for amenities.
I stood in the doorway and regarded Torrez. He was leaning back in his swivel chair, one black boot on the corner of his desk, the other flat on the floor. One hand was poised over the keyboard of the nearest IBM, the other balled into a fist under his chin.
His dark brown eyes shifted to look at me. Other than that he didn’t move a muscle. His brow was locked in a frown, and after a long moment—during which I wasn’t able to tell if he was angry, tired, or just plain frustrated—he puffed out his cheeks and then slowly exhaled.
“That bad, eh?” I said. I hadn’t expected to hear a dissertation from Robert Torrez, but a simple “good morning” would have been nice.
Torrez nodded and his eyes flicked back to the computer. He jabbed at the keyboard with his index finger, swung his leg off the desk, and let the chair slam forward. If he hadn’t had an elbow on the desk, he would have fallen on his face.
I reached out a hand for the door. “You want this closed?”
He shook his head, then stood up, still leaning on the desk with one hand. “Coffee or something?”
“I’ll wait for breakfast,” I replied. “My treat.”
Torrez grimaced. “I don’t feel much like eating right now, thanks.”
“That’s bad, Roberto,” I said, although it was an accomplishment of sorts to have goaded him into a complete sentence.
“Uh-huh.” He sat back down, and I unloaded a stack of newspapers from one of the leather-bottomed chairs. He waved a hand at the top of one of the filing cabinets, and I thumped the newspapers there.
“So…explain why I’m paying you so much overtime,” I said.
“Don’t I wish,” Torrez replied.
I tried to squirm myself comfortable in the straight chair, and gave up. I held up both hands, waiting for an answer.
He nodded, leaned back again, and clasped his hands over his belly. “That license that Matt had? The one we found under the seat of the unit?” He stopped there.
“Pasquale’s triumph. Any ideas yet about where Matt dug that up?” I asked, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than a synapse or two fired inside my brain, faces snapped into place, and I knew exactly what was troubling the undersheriff.
“Your sister Melinda works in the Motor Vehicles Division office. She and Connie French. Melinda is the office manager, if my memory serves.” Torrez nodded ever so slightly, watching me, no doubt waiting to see what conclusions I had reached. After a moment he opened his desk drawer and pulled out the plastic evidence bag that contained the driver’s license.
“It’s the real thing, sir.”
For a moment I misunderstood. “I thought you said that Matt…”
“No.” He cut me off. “The dates are fake. Other than that, the license is real. It’s not made-up.”
“You mean it’s not something that was just pasted together out of bits and pieces, and then maybe run through a plastic laminator at school or something,” I said.
Torrez nodded. “I think that was issued by some MVD office. By one of their machines. It’s got the seals, the holograms or whatever you call ’em, the whole bit. As far as I can tell, it hasn’t been tampered with. It’s not something that somebody would just hack together with a home computer.”
“But we don’t know which office issued this, do we. They don’t put the office location code on them anymore.” I twisted the license this way and that, looking for its secrets.
Both of us were silent for a bit, and then I looked up at Torrez. I saw the dark shadows under his eyes and knew why he wasn’t home snug in his bed.
“What does Melinda say?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it.”
“Are you going to? And you know—she’s not the only one in that office, Roberto. Like I said, Connie what’s-her-name works there too. Scott Gutierrez’s sister.”
A flicker of irritation surfaced and was as quickly hidden. “Yes, sir. Connie French. I don’t think so.”
“I know that we automatically think the worst, but in point of fact, there would be nothing to prevent Matthew from driving to Deming or Lordsburg or even Albuquerque for a license,” I said. “Anywhere in the state where there’s a field office. But…”
“But what?”
“I’m sure you remember the incident a couple of years ago where some MVD clerks got in trouble for making fake IDs. The state cracked down on that, and with the computerized systems, it’s not as easy as it was. I think it would be tough to find a clerk now who’d just take a kid’s word for his age, and run him through the licensing process just on his say-so.”
“There’s too much risk,” Torrez said. “And with a kid like Matt, there would be no big money involved.”
“Exactly.”
He fell silent again, brooding at the computer screen.
“It’d be easier if he knew somebody in the office,” I said. “Obviously, it’d be a lot easier.” Torrez didn’t respond. We both knew that one step better than knowing someone in the office was having a blood relative there. Matthew Baca was first cousin to the Torrez clan, with the undersheriff and his younger sister right on top of the list.
“What have you got there?” I prompted, nodding at the computer.
“I was trying to pull up something about the MVD,” he said. “I don’t even know what I want.” He poked at the keyboard. “Or where to start.”
“You need your own personal hacker.” I laughed. “And don’t look at me. Your wife always bails me out with the complicated stuff. Like how to turn the damn thing on.” The corners of the Torrez’s mouth didn’t even twitch. He was in no mood for humor.
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