“The obvious question,” he said, taking care with each syllable, “is, what if my nephew bolted not because he was afraid of me or the thumping I might give him when he got to town, but he was, in fact, afraid of being put in the Border Patrol vehicle and taken somewhere.”
“Exactly,” I said. “What if Matt was running not from you, but was running from Scott Gutierrez?”
“Or…” Torrez said, and stopped.
“Or what?”
“Taylor Bergmann.”
“He didn’t even know Bergmann,” I said. “Not until that moment.”
“We’re not sure of that.”
“No,” I admitted. “We’re not.”
Torrez let his head hang, and he regarded the ugly green floor tiles for a moment. “Why would Matthew be afraid of Scott Gutierrez?” he asked, and then looked up at me. “I can think of one scenario.”
“That Matt got his fake license from Connie French, and Scott knew that he had it…and that if we found it, an investigation might backtrack to the source, and Connie would be in worse trouble than the kid. We’re back to brother protecting sister again.”
He nodded and went back to his examination of the floor tiles.
“Right now, let me see what’s on Hobart’s mind,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there any chance that you can contact your sister up in Albuquerque? Do we need to wait for Monday?”
“No…I can find her. She’s staying with an aunt up in Corrales.”
“Do that, then,” I said. “Get her to cut the shopping trip short. I’d like to talk with her today, before this has a chance to fester.”
Chapter Thirty-one
I began to think that Judge Lester Hobart had fallen back on the bed, sound asleep. The phone rang eight times, and I was about to hang up when I heard the click, followed by a fumble and clatter and a muffled, “Goddammit.”
“Yes,” the judge snapped. “What is it?”
“Good morning, Judge,” I said. “This is Gastner.”
“I know who the hell it is, and what’s so good about the morning?”
I laughed and swiveled in my chair so I could see out the window. The sky was deep indigo to the west, mellowing toward the sunrise. “It looks like a nice Sunday, for one thing,” I said.
“I suppose. So what do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. You called the office and wanted to talk to me, Judge.”
“Dammit, where the hell is my mind,” he muttered.
“Haven’t seen it,” I said. “Same place mine is, no doubt.”
“Let me look at my notes a second. Hang on.” More rummaging and scuffling followed, and I had the mental picture of the judge sitting on his rumpled bed, papers scattered all over the bedroom, his ancient and disheveled toy poodle cowering on the far corner of the bedspread. “My office is a goddamn mess,” he said. “But you ought to see the goddamn clutter here at the house.”
“No worse than mine, I’m sure.”
“I hear your son’s visiting,” the judge said.
“Yes, he is.”
“The one in the navy?”
“Yes. He and my grandson drove up for a few days.”
“Grandson, eh.”
“Yep. One of several. He’s a nice kid.”
“I’m sure,” the judge said. “He into drugs yet? Tattoos and earrings? That kind of shit?”
I laughed. “No. Not that I can see, anyway.”
“Not even a tongue stud?”
“Nope. He’s a pretty straight-arrow sort of kid. The last time I saw him, he was sitting in my living room, watching High Noon.”
“Damn,” the judge said. “Well, clone him, while you have the chance. Let me see, now. Here’s the deal, speaking of kids. This Dale Torrance. Shit, I’m surprised Herb hasn’t had a stroke. Or killed the kid. Or maybe both. I have on file that the boy is nineteen. Is that right?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
“And he’s never been in trouble. At least he’s never been in my courtroom.”
“Up to now, a clean slate. And this one is pretty simple. Dale fell for a girl, and did all the stupid things.”
“This is the Prescott girl, right? Christine Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hell, this deposition from Larson says that she’s almost twenty-eight.”
“Right. I’m not sure that Dale’s infatuation is a two-way street, Judge.”
“Yeah, well…hell.” He stopped as if he were reading something, and I waited. “Okay, here’s what I want to happen. Larson already talked to Schroeder, and I guess the DA’s got enough on his plate right now that a few head of livestock going for a joyride isn’t something that he wants to pursue hot and heavy…assuming that the cattle are returned in fair health and condition to their rightful owner. At the preliminary hearing on Monday, he’s going to bring up charges against the kid for grand larceny and exportation of cattle without inspection papers, as well as leaving the scene of an accident. Schroeder tells me that the kid deliberately backed his pickup truck into one owned by Miles Waddell.”
“That’s correct. He did. And for not wanting to pursue the case hot and heavy, two felonies sounds like quite a start.”
“Well, hell,” Hobart said, “that’s the tip of the iceberg, if Schroeder wanted to play every card in the deck.”
“It’ll make Waddell happy,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I heard a little bit of an edge creep into the judge’s voice. He wasn’t up for reelection, but the district attorney was.
“It means exactly what I said,” I replied. “I’m sure Waddell wants to pursue this for all it’s worth.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what Miles Waddell wants to do or doesn’t want to do,” Hobart snapped. “Miles Waddell isn’t the State of New Mexico, much as he’d like to be. Anyway, Herb called me last night, and we talked for a bit, and then I tried to get a hold of you, but I guess you had your hands full.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Well, here’s the deal, regardless. Doc Perrone was going to turn Dale loose this morning, if all goes well. And the minute he does, Larson is going to bring him on over for arraignment. I’m going to turn him loose to the custody of his pappy—if his pappy has five thousand bucks for bond.”
“He won’t go anywhere,” I said, feeling a little less sure of that promise than I would have liked.
“Well, he damn well is going somewhere,” Hobart said. “The minute we’re done here, Dale and his father are going to truck right back over to Lawton to pick up those steers. I’m going to tell Herb that I want the boy to use his own pickup, and to pay for the fuel out of his own pocket. I want to see the receipts with the boy’s signature on ’em.”
“Fair enough.”
“And then when they get back, Miles Waddell is going to hold the cattle in quarantine for thirty days, to make sure that none of them are hurt or sick, or any goddamn thing like that. Dale Torrance is going to pay for all that, too. All the feed, the inspections, whatever it takes. When Cliff gives the okay, Waddell can have ’em back, to rope or make hamburgers or whatever the hell it is that he does with the damn things. The dealer in Oklahoma gets his money back, Waddell gets his truck fixed, and the world is ready to start over again.” He coughed into the telephone.
“By the time we have the preliminary hearing on Monday morning, the cattle will be back in the county,” I said.
“They damn well better be. And then we’ll decide where to go from there. That sound good to you?”
“It’s what should happen,” I said, and Lester Hobart read the rest of my thoughts.
“And then on Monday all things being equal, Schroeder will agree to a year’s probation and a thousand bucks fine after all the expenses and damages are paid. That ought to get the kid’s attention. And after that, we’ll see about whether we wipe the slate clean or not as far as the boy’s record is concerned.”
“That will work.”
“
All right, then. I wanted to run all that by you, just in case one of the deputies saw the Torrances on the road with a livestock trailer in tow. Didn’t want you cops to get excited.”
“They’ll be aware of the situation,” I said.
“I wish to hell the rest of the mess you’re in would clean up so nicely.” Hobart chuckled. “I can understand why Dan Schroeder is staying over in Deming. He sure as hell doesn’t want any of that shit to rub off on him.”
I started to say something inconsequential, but the judge interrupted. “And say, I have a question for you.”
“What?”
“Who’s Bobby Torrez going to pick for undersheriff? Has he said yet?”
“Bobby has to win the election first,” I replied.
The judge scoffed. “That’s a given, Bill. If Leona Spears wins the sheriff’s race in Posadas County, it’ll be because she’s the only one who voted.”
“I hope that’s true. For his sake, I’d like to see a landslide.”
He laughed. “He’ll get it. Now who’s on the short list?”
“He hasn’t shown it to me,” I said. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.” And it was almost the whole truth.
“I’ve heard some interesting rumors,” the judge said.
I took a deep breath. “Well, I tell you, Judge. Consider the source for each one. Unless you hear it from Robert himself, it ain’t worth much.”
“Well…” he said, turning coy. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”
Judge Lester Hobart was a staunch Republican, and the only candidate in his party had pulled out of the race in late summer. That left Torrez as an Independent running against the loony Leona, the embarrassment of the Democrats. I could understand the judge’s desire to bring at least part of the department under the party wing. I didn’t envy the taciturn Torrez the politics he might have to play to work smoothly and productively with the Republican-controlled county commission.
“Is what Cliff Larson tells me true?” Hobart quickly added.
“About?”
“You and the livestock inspector’s job.”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“You’ve decided to take it?”
“Until Cliff comes back. a couple of weeks. Sure. Why not?”
“Did he tell you the rest of it?”
I frowned. “The rest of what? About his parents, you mean?”
“No. None of that. About why he wants to step down from the job.”
“He didn’t say specifically that he did. He told me that he wants a break to take care of family matters.”
Hobart chuckled that “I know more than you know” laugh. “Sure enough.” He cleared his throat, changing leads. “Well, see you Tuesday, if not before.”
“I’ll be at the Torrance hearing tomorrow morning,” I said. “What’s on Tuesday?”
Hobart hesitated, then muttered something I didn’t catch, and said, “Well, I figured I’d catch up with you one way or another around the ballot boxes. It’s going to be a long day.”
When I hung up, I sat for a few minutes, doodling mindless circles with a pencil on my clean desk pad. Politics was one of my personal irritations, partial explanation of why, in thirty-plus years, I’d never run for the sheriff’s post. I had the distinct feeling that Judge Lester Hobart was playing a political game with me. I didn’t like the feeling.
“What the hell,” I said to no one in particular. I wrote FRANK DAYAN in heavy block letters, and scribbled a circle around the newspaper publisher’s name. If anyone knew which way the political winds were blowing, it would be him.
Chapter Thirty-two
I drove home just as the sun was cracking the horizon. We’d be first in line to sample Sunday breakfast at the Don Juan if I could pry my son and grandson out of the sack. I opened the front door and stopped short as an assault of aromas flooded out of the old house.
The place was accustomed to the fragrance of fresh coffee at any hour of the day or night—that was the staple fuel that kept my system going. But I didn’t cook, despite the pleas from my housekeeper. Every once in a while she’d leave something, usually a casserole of some sort, neatly packaged on my kitchen counter in the vain hope that I’d hack out a piece and nuke it for a snack.
What she didn’t realize, in her own sweet, innocent way, was that sitting alone at my kitchen counter to eat a meal was the most dismal way I could imagine to spend my time. I saw enough of myself during the day without wallowing in me at mealtimes. I liked to eat on someone else’s dishes, with the food served bubbling hot by someone else—and that someone else preferably wearing a nice smile with no personal complications that I was expected to solve.
And so the aroma of breakfast in my own home jolted me to a halt. Coffee, bacon, a host of other things. I advanced cautiously, because I could see Buddy sitting in my large leather recliner in the living room, reading a section of the Albuquerque Sunday paper. That meant someone else was tending the burners, and the only other someone else in the house was my grandson.
Buddy looked up, saw me, and grinned. “Hey there.”
“Good morning,” I said. “I was going to take you out to breakfast, but it smells like someone beat me to it.” Tadd stuck his head around the corner.
“Neat,” he said. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Do you have time to eat?”
“I certainly do.” I walked into the kitchen, thrust my hands in my pockets, and surveyed the battleground. “And by the way, I don’t think that works.” I nodded at the old electric waffle iron sitting on the counter. The single idiot light that indicated preheat was dark, and I stepped over to it. From several steps away, I could feel the hot cast iron.
“I think it’s ready,” Tadd said, and opened the top. “One of the wires came off the contact in back,” he said. “I stuck it back on. It works fine.”
“It looks like my timing is impeccable,” I said, leaning over so that I could see the wires where they vanished into the chrome housing at the back of the waffle iron. “Where did you come by this interest?” I straightened up and moved to one side, watching as Tadd ladled the waffle batter onto the iron’s steaming surface.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with typical teenage vagueness.
“Tell him about Mrs. Hooper,” Buddy said from the living room.
“Well, yeah, her,” Tadd said, and closed the cover of the waffle iron. “She teaches home ec and foods and stuff. I took Foods I and II, and this year, I’m working in the Hospitality Suite.”
“And what’s that?”
He shrugged. “The school restaurant. We serve lunch three days a week. It’s kind of a big deal. Cloth napkins, fancy silverware, waiters and waitresses and stuff. The whole bit. It’s a fundraiser, too. Most of the faculty eat there. A lot of people from town, too.”
I watched the kid move around my kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life. I calculated backward and decided this was the third time Tadd had set foot in my house. The first time, he’d been on all fours as his principle mode of locomotion, and during his second visit, he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.
“You can eat eggs, can’t you?” he asked, pausing in midstride from counter to refrigerator.
“I don’t have any,” I said, but he opened the door and took out a carton anyway.
“We did a little shopping,” Buddy said.
“I guess you did. And yes, I can and do eat eggs. And waffles. And anything else you know how to make.”
The breakfast progressed from there, served with perfect timing and a flair for presentation—green chile, cheese, and onion omelets, waffles and all the trimmings, along with what looked like a full pound of perfectly done bacon. He even knew how to con the drip machine into making hot, rich black coffee.
I did more than sample, too. I practically ate myself into a stupor, which amused and pleased my grandson no end. Finally, I put my fork down and leaned back, savoring a comforting sip of coffee.
“Amazing,” I said to Tadd. “And thank you.”
Buddy grinned. “We thought we’d keep him,” he said.
“Are you planning on doing this for a living?” I asked.
“Errrrr,” the kid imitated a game-show penalty buzzer. “Not.”
“I’m surprised,” I said. “I would have guessed this is where your interests lie.”
Tadd managed an expression that said interests were pretty much classified as a bother, but then reconsidered. “It’s a good way to impress the chicks, though,” he said.
“I suppose it is,” I said.
“I saw this movie once,” he said. “This guy, I forget who it was, made this really elaborate gourmet dinner for this girl he wanted to impress and stuff? I remember thinking at the time, ‘Hey, it’d be neat to know how to do all that.’” He shrugged. “And Mrs. Hooper makes it fun, so…” He pushed his chair back, arose, and returned with the coffeepot.
“Impress the chicks,” I mused as he filled my cup. “Gourmet cooking sure beats stealing cattle.”
“Are you about wound down on that one?” Buddy asked.
“Just about.”
“And the Regal fracas?”
“Far from wound down. We haven’t heard a thing beyond the preliminary autopsy, and haven’t found anything in Baca’s house to give us a lead. What we’re left with is an inconsistency in some statements by the witnesses. That and a puzzle about where the driver’s license came from.” I blew across the coffee. “First things first. I’ve got a woman down in Regal who’s saying a couple of different things, and I thought I’d start with her. Backtrack a little and see what I can find. You want to come along?”
Buddy held up his hands. “We’re going to let you do that on your own, Dad. Tadd and I have a few errands that we need to run after a little bit.” He grinned. “Give folks a chance to get out of bed first.” He twisted and looked at the wall clock. “What time does the Guzman mob roll in?”
“Their plane arrives in El Paso at eleven-fifty. I suppose that puts them here around two or so, all things being equal.”
“That’s perfect,” Buddy said. “We’re going to do some grocery shopping as soon as the supermarket opens.”
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