“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, I know it’s not. But it’s fun. We were going to see if we could get the grill working. Hell, the two Guzman brats would rather tear around your backyard and eat hot dogs than have to behave themselves out in public.”
“Just finding the grill will be a trick,” I said. “It hasn’t seen the light of day in fifteen years.” I groped in my pocket and pulled out my key ring. “Take my Blazer. It sits in the garage so much it’s starting to mold. You’ll have to move it anyway to get at the grill. Don’t get caught in an avalanche.”
Tadd had started methodically arranging the dishes by the sink, and Buddy caught the bemused expression on my face. “Mrs. Hooper taught them how to clean up first,” he said. “That’s what impresses the hell out of me. She deserves a Nobel prize.”
“I’d like to meet this woman,” I said.
“Well,” Buddy said, and pushed himself away from the table, “if you should ever decide to leave Posadas County, that could be arranged.”
“I do leave the county,” I said defensively, and took a final swig of coffee before handing the empty cup to Tadd. “Hell, just last week I was in Deming. And this morning, or yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, I drove through downtown Newton.”
“Positively cosmopolitan,” Buddy said. “Plan on lunch?”
“I’ll try my best,” I said, and turned to Tadd. “You cooking?”
“Yeah,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction, and then, with the odd raised, crooked elbow and three-fingered point of the Hollywood gang-banger amplified by a ridiculous caricature of a Mexican accent, he added, “The man be cookin’.”
“Then I wouldn’t miss it.”
I took a few moments to freshen up. When I left the house, my mood was upbeat. As I turned the car onto south Grande, I found myself still chuckling at my grandson’s comment. “The man be cookin’,” I said aloud, and then realized with a start that it had been a long time since I’d been preoccupied with something other than work.
Chapter Thirty-three
Betty Contreras was stepping out the back door of her home just as I pulled into her driveway shortly before eight that Sunday morning. She carried a wrapped parcel, the right size and shape for a pie.
“Well, good morning to you,” she said brightly and paused on the step.
“Betty, good morning. I need a minute or two of your time. You headed to church?” She nodded. “Is Emilio down there already?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “For sure. He’s been there since about six.”
“Gets the fire going, eh?”
“This time of year it sure feels good,” she agreed. “That big old high ceiling, you know. It’s like a barn.” She turned first to the left and then to the right, as if she were looking for a place to set the pie. “Why don’t we go inside, then,” she said.
The kitchen was warm and perfumed by baked apples. The clock over the refrigerator said Betty had four minutes if Father Anselmo was prompt with the 8:00 AM mass.
“How about some coffee?” she said, but I shook my head.
“No. You’re busy, and this is a bad time. You’re about to head out the door. I’ll make it quick.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, and slid the heavy pie onto the counter beside the stove. She turned and waved a hand at one of the chairs at the table. “Sit. Sit.”
I did, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “Betty,” I said, watching her smooth, pretty face for some flash of emotion that might clue me into what she was thinking, “I’m confused. Let me spell it out.” I tapped the table with an index finger. “You told me yesterday that you saw a Border Patrol vehicle drive by on the road out front. You said just about eight o’clock in the morning. Saturday morning.”
She frowned and nodded. “I was out back,” she said. “I think I was feeding the cats.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.” I regarded her for a moment, and her face kept the slight frown of puzzlement. But her eyes returned my gaze without flinching. “You told me that you mentioned the vehicle to Scott Gutierrez, and that he said that it was probably him.”
This time, I saw a fine line of crimson creeping up her neck. I continued, “Tony Abeyta said that no such conversation took place while he was here, and that there wasn’t a time when he left Scott Gutierrez alone with you,” I paused, then added, “when such a conversation might have taken place.”
She leaned back against the counter, one hand on each side as if she were preparing to launch herself across the room. “Oh, brother,” she said, muttering the comment in the same tone that she might use with a county resident complaining about receiving the wrong tax notice.
I waited. Finally she released her hold on the counter and turned to the coffeemaker. “Let’s have a fresh cup,” she said, her back turned to me.
“That would be fine,” I said. “No cream, no sugar.” As she rummaged for the filter and the coffee and the spoon, I glanced at the clock. “You don’t mind missing mass?”
She laughed, a small, self-deprecating little puff of amusement. “There’s always ten,” she said. “That old barn will be warm by then.” Her voice took on a bit of an edge. “And I guess it doesn’t matter if I mind or not, Bill.”
When she’d finished prepping the coffee, she returned to the table and sat down at the end, in the chair nearest me. “This is embarrassing,” she said. She was an articulate woman, used to dealing with the public who entered the assessor’s office in all sorts of moods. I knew that she’d find the right gear if I left her alone.
“When I was out feeding the cats,” she said, “a vehicle did drive by. And that’s the truth. It was white, and I saw just a flash of green. I suppose that’s what put the Border Patrol in mind. I don’t know what the vehicle was, whether it was a Bronco or Suburban or Expedition, or what. It was one of those big boxy things, though. It could even have been a van. Big and boxy. Of that I’m sure.” She turned and glanced at the coffeemaker as it released a loud gurgle and a puff of steam.
“So you’re not sure that it was a government vehicle?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You didn’t see the driver, or the white government plate?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Number of occupants?”
“Bill, I think…I think…that there were two. But if I had to swear in a court of law, I’d have to say that I wasn’t sure. It seems to me that there were two. That’s as close as I can come.”
“But you didn’t recognize them?”
“No.”
“Did something lead you to believe that it might be a Border Patrol vehicle?”
She hesitated. “A natural assumption, I guess. They drive through here all the time. This street is the major one through this part of the village. If you wanted to drive through most of Regal, you’d end up on Sanchez Road, one way or another.” She nodded toward the front of the house, where Sanchez Road nicked perilously close to their front porch. “And the patch of green against white is what put the Border Patrol in mind, I’m sure. It wasn’t a neighbor’s car.”
She got up and took two coffee cups down from the upper cabinet, two fragile little things with flowers and vines and the sort of tiny handles that are difficult for big fingers.
“You’re sure, absolutely positive, that a vehicle drove by. You’d be able to testify to that in court without a problem?”
She nodded and poured the coffee.
“You could testify that it was white, that it was an SUV, that there was green on it.”
“Yes.”
“If I asked you if you were one hundred percent sure that it was a government vehicle, or a Border Patrol vehicle, you’d have to say no. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, Sheriff.” She was smiling when she brought the coffee to the table. “Nothing in it, you’re sure?”
“It’s fine, thanks. And I know all this sounds as if I’m holding you over a hot burner, but I h
ave to be sure.”
“I understand all that.”
I watched as she sipped the hot coffee. “How did it happen, Betty? Who’s right?”
“I saw the white vehicle,” she said, enunciating each word carefully, “and it wasn’t the sort of thing that I put any effort into remembering. You know how that goes? But then, after the deputies left—well, Tony and Scott, I mean—I remembered, and I knew that I should have mentioned it to them. I didn’t. It was an oversight. I got to thinking about it later, and knew that it might be important. I mean, we’re talking timing here, right?”
“Yes, we’re talking timing.”
“I should have remembered, and I should have mentioned it, and I felt really stupid for not doing so. And then you stopped by, and it was a good opportunity. I told you about it. And I made a mistake. Nobody likes to sound stupid. So it was just a manner of speaking, you know? I told you that I had mentioned the car passing by to the boys, and that Scott had said it was probably him. Well, I didn’t mention it to them, Bill. I didn’t mention it to them. I should have, obviously. And I knew I should have. So I told you, and stupid me—I made it sound as if I’d already remembered to tell the deputies when they were here.”
“Betty, did you tell anyone else, besides me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I leaned back and looked out the window. I’d only had a sip or two of the coffee, good as it was. She pointed at the cup and I shook my head.
“That car might be important,” Betty said. “That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?”
“Sure.” I turned my gaze back to her. “Especially if you heard it stop at Baca’s. Or if you heard anything after that.”
“I wish I had,” she said. “The radio here in the kitchen was on, and I was thinking of a jillion other things. Who’s going to notice a car driving by, unless someone tells you in advance that you should be noticing? That’s the hard part of being a witness. Tell me beforehand that I should pay attention, and it’s easy.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I said. “One more thing. You told me that it was probably Scott Gutierrez who drove by. Now lots of agents work for the U.S. Border Patrol, and they rotate through here all the time. I could list you half a dozen that the Sheriff’s Department sees on a regular basis. Why did you think it might have been him?”
“I suppose because Scott is the one I see most often, and I know him pretty well, what with his sister working just down the hall from me. He stops in once in a while. I got to thinking about it, and he was the last one I happened to see. His name came to mind first. A good assumption.”
“If there is such a thing,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Scott Gutierrez drive by—and I mean the last time you were sure that it was Scott? When maybe you actually waved to him?”
She took a deep breath. “Friday evening,” she said.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m positive, I’m so sure. Emilio was with me. We were both on the front porch. He drove by then. He had someone else in the vehicle, but it was dark, I couldn’t see who it was.” This time her smile was strained. “My assumption was that it was another agent. Scott leaned forward when he saw us, though. And he waved.”
“Do you recall what time that was?”
“I’d be guessing,” she said. “Sometime between eight and nine, maybe. No later than nine, certainly. We were only outside for a little bit.”
“Stargazing, or what?”
She laughed. “The coyotes were giving a concert. It sounded so comical, like maybe a whole den of little ones were trying to learn how to howl the proper way. We stepped outside to listen.” Her face brightened. “And yes…I remember the time. We’d watched the first part of StarTown, and it was during a commercial break about halfway through. So that makes it sometime between eight-forty and eight-fifty.”
“And you’re sure it was Scott Gutierrez who was driving,” I said.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure. That’s probably why his name popped into my mind the next morning. It made sense to me. So much for trying to be helpful.”
I stood up with a sigh. “I’m sorry to have caught you at a bad time, Betty. But I appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry that I made problems for you,” she said. “It was just one of those things. We sometimes say things without stopping to think.” She smiled tightly. “A little embellishment sometimes sounds so good. At the time.”
I left the Contrerases’ feeling as if all I’d done was slip into deeper, murkier water. Betty had fabricated when she’d first talked to me, trying to make herself sound like a better witness. Hell, that happened all the time…it went with the turf. It was amazing how many witnesses told us what they saw, when in fact they never saw a damn thing. It felt good to tell a colorful story, I guess, to tell an officer what he wanted to hear.
Betty Contreras was unusual. She admitted what she’d done, instead of stubbornly trying to stonewall her mistake. Her years spent keeping track of all those tax numbers helped develop that skill, I was sure.
Scott Gutierrez had told me that he hadn’t driven through Regal Saturday morning, and now Betty’s recollection neither supported nor contradicted him. He hadn’t gone out of his way to tell me that he’d driven through the village on Friday night, either. Perhaps he didn’t consider it important. And maybe it wasn’t. After all, when the lame jokes of the sitcom StarTown were airing and the coyote pups were practicing their howling, both Matt Baca and his father were still very much alive.
Chapter Thirty-four
I hesitated to bother Frank Dayan on a Sunday morning. The frenetic newspaper publisher burned up the sidewalks six days a week trying to keep the Posadas Register alive and well, and any questions I had for him about Posadas County politics could wait for Monday. Instead, I went home, planning to spend some time putting the house in order for the imminent Guzman invasion.
What I could do about that order was a mystery, since Maria Ibarra, my housekeeper, thought far ahead of any meager efforts I might make. She hadn’t done any grocery shopping, though, and neither had I. My son was taking care of that. He’d even taken the money I’d forced on him and stuffed it into his son’s shirt pocket. Tadd would attend to the culinary end of things, I was confident. Evidently, Buddy didn’t share my assumption that when hungry, the Guzman kids could just truck on down to the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant for a Burrito Grande.
The guest rooms were ready, including a whole zoo of stuffed animals that Maria had dragged from a closet. She used them to populate the single beds where little Francisco and Carlos Guzman would snuggle and giggle. I didn’t even remember that I’d kept the damn animals, originally part of my youngest daughter’s collection. The critters had been jammed away in the dark years ago and then forgotten.
I stood for a while in the doorway of that bedroom, looking at the beasts while their ancient, wise button eyes stared back at me. One small black dog, fur worn by the years of roughhouse handling, had advanced halfway down the bedspread. He stood facing the doorway, small ears at attention.
They should have brought a smile to my face, I suppose. Instead, a great, crashing wave of melancholy swept over me, and I turned away. Part of the melancholy was that I didn’t know what Estelle and her husband planned. Despite our telephone and E-mail conversations since they’d moved to Minnesota the previous spring, I knew only that their stay in the northland had had its setbacks. A talented vascular surgeon, Francis Guzman had managed to severely injure his left hand in a biking accident while riding to work. Estelle had told me that much. Whether the young physician was now discovering that tying the tiny, intricate stitches in some patient’s ballooning aorta were beyond the limits of his crippled hand, I didn’t know.
And only when I’d pressed her about the missing FOR SALE sign had she told me that they’d taken their house on Twelfth Street in Posadas off the real estate market because they weren’t sure of their plans. My hopes soared, naturally, knowing that Posad
as continued to be a possible option for them.
In one recent communication, Estelle had reported that Francis’ aunt, Sophia Tournal, was visiting from her home in Mexico. I’d met Ms. Tournal a time or two, and at the first meeting knew instantly why she was such a successful attorney in her home state of Veracruz.
All of that gave me reason to suspect that the Guzmans’ trip to Posadas that November was more than just the opportunity to watch election returns. After all, a card of congratulations or commiseration to Bob Torrez and a “Happy Retirement!” card for me would cover those bases.
Part of Estelle’s charm—and sometimes, when she’d been working for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, what frustrated the hell out of the rest of us—was that the world, beyond mother, husband, and children, operated on a need-to-know basis.
I was godfather to the Guzman children. I knew that Estelle trusted me as unequivocably as I trusted her. I’d saved her life on more than one occasion, and she’d done the same for me. All of that, though, wasn’t an admission ticket to her inner circle. That’s just the way she was. Join the club with the rest of the six billion.
Shortly before eleven Sunday morning, Robert Torrez stopped by briefly to tell me that he was headed for Regal, and that his sister would be home by two that afternoon.
“I didn’t tell her too much when I talked to her on the phone,” Torrez said. “But she’s upset. I could tell.”
“You told her about the license?” We stood at the front door, the undersheriff refusing to come inside. I noticed that he was driving his “tank,” an ancient Chevy pickup truck burdened with several decades of junk that filled the back. Wrought-iron curlicues protected the back window from a shifting load. Unshaven and dressed in a bright red and yellow flannel shirt, down vest, and jeans, he looked like a hunter just finishing a week out in the bush.
He shook his head. “No.” He regarded Buddy’s Corvette impassively. “But she knows that I wouldn’t bother to call her like this if it wasn’t something important. You know how she gets.”
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