Dispatcher Gayle Torrez acknowledged that Estelle was on the road but subject to call, then added, “Be advised that the State Livestock Inspector is here.” Estelle could hear Bill Gastner’s gruff voice in the background. “He says there’s no hurry as long as the coffee cake holds out. He wants to know if he can bring you a piece.”
“That’s negative. But I’ll be about ten minutes.”
In considerably less time than that, Estelle had learned from Donna Bates, the principal’s secretary, that Freddy Romero was not in school that day.
“Wait for me out in the hall lounge, honey,” Ms. Bates said to the student office aide who hovered too attentively, apparently impressed that the police should be visiting the school. As soon as the girl was out of earshot, Estelle made her request, and as Mrs. Bates prompted the computer, she added, “You know, just between you and me, Estelle, master Freddy’s attendance record isn’t absolutely stellar.” She pointed with one heavily ringed finger to a bulletin board just inside the office door where the article, fresh from the Posadas Register, was tacked to the cork, joining the plethora of other recent newspaper photos and stories about student achievers.
“He’s enjoying his celebrity status, I think. Sure enough, he isn’t here enjoying school this lovely morning. He’s probably out digging up more bones.” She held up a hand as she tapped the computer keyboard with the other. “He wasn’t in school yesterday afternoon, either. Morning, yes. Afternoon, no. I hope he’s not in trouble again?” She tapped a key again and leaned closer to the screen. “His younger brother might be with him. Butch is absent this morning, too, in fact.”
“And that’s why I’m here,” Estelle said. “Butch was injured late yesterday afternoon, ma’am. The family went with him when he was airlifted to Albuquerque, and no one is home at the moment. They had to leave before they were able to find Freddy and leave a message. If you happen to see the young man, perhaps you’d tell him to contact his dad?”
“My word, of course.” The secretary jotted a quick note and stuck it to the corner of her desk calendar, shaking her head as she did so. “In this day and age, how could the folks not reach him on his phone? You know, most of the time, we curse those gosh darn things, but sometimes…”
“Apparently they couldn’t last night, and Mr. Romero didn’t want to bother Freddy in school.”
“Well, we appreciate that, of course. But he could have called me. He knows that well enough. Now, will Butch be all right? What happened?”
“An unfortunate accident with a rattlesnake,” Estelle replied.
“You’re joking, Estelle.”
“I wish I were.”
“Oh, my. He was bitten?”
“In a manner of speaking. He was using a Weed Whacker and was struck in the eye with a fragment of snake fang when he was teasing the rattler.”
Donna Bates recoiled back with a grimace. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she gasped. “Now what next, you know? Honestly. Butch makes his older brother seem like a saint. But we just love ’em to death. Just love ’em.” She looked as if she wanted to pursue the incident in every detail, but then she hesitated. “Ah, let me check one thing,” she said, and scrolled to another computer file, leaning forward as she rested her chin on her hand. “Master Freddy is squiring Casey Prescott these days, by the way. Much too serious with each other, I may add. But that’s the mom in me talking, I suppose.” She frowned and she scanned the screen. “Let me see, now. Casey is one of our stars, so we know where she is. And right now, she’s in Chemistry with Maryann Orosco. Room A-5. Let’s ask her, you think?”
She nodded as if Estelle had said something, and then leaned across her desk. “Lola?” she called. “Will you run an errand for me?”
The student aide reappeared and favored Estelle with a radiant smile. The flash of teeth and braces lit her round, pleasant face.
Mrs. Bates handed her a small note. “Casey Prescott is in Ms. Orosco’s class right now. Would you see if she can come to the office for a moment?”
Estelle watched through the partition window as Lola trooped out into the foyer, collected another student who lingered at the water fountain, and then disappeared down the hall.
“How are your boys?” Mrs. Barnes asked. “Don’t the years fly by, though?”
“Yes, they do. It’s a scary business sometimes.”
“Oh, my, yes.” Mrs. Barnes leaned back in her chair. “You said the Romeros went to Albuquerque yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And they couldn’t reach Freddy all evening? Oh, boy. He’s going to catch it. I know papa, and the only one with a worse temper is mama. You probably know all about that.”
On occasion, the parental voices of either George or Tata Romero, or both, could be heard more than two doors away as they tried to discipline their two live wires.
In a moment, Lola returned in company with Casey Prescott. The attractive high school junior’s expression was quizzical as she came into the office.
“Casey, you know Undersheriff Guzman?”
“Oh, sure.” Casey flashed a quick smile at Estelle. “Hi.” She offered a handshake, her grip strong, her hands warm and rough—a ranch kid’s grip.
“Casey, we’re trying to deliver a family message to Freddy Romero, but we haven’t been able to cross paths with him this morning. His folks had to go out of town, and I wonder if you had a notion of where he might be?” The undersheriff didn’t mention it was Donna Bates who had cheerfully offered the information about Casey Prescott and Freddy Romero’s relationship.
“Freddy?” Casey asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s not in school this morning?” the girl asked Mrs. Bates, and her puzzlement sounded genuine.
“On vacation…again, ” the secretary said with disapproval.
“Well, when I see him, I’ll let him know,” Casey offered. She glanced at the undersheriff. “I didn’t see him this morning.” She grimaced and closed one eye, a funny face that was nevertheless attractive. No wonder Freddy was smitten, Estelle thought. “But sometimes he doesn’t make it to accounting first thing,” Casey continued, “and I had to go to the chem lab early to catch up on some stuff.” She shrugged.
“You didn’t see him yesterday afternoon or evening?” Estelle asked.
“No, ma’am. I went right home after school to help dad finish up some stuff. And then I had a heap of homework.”
“He didn’t call you? Or you, him?”
“No, ma’am.”
Astounding, Estelle thought—there were still two teenagers left who didn’t talk, text, or Twitter on the ubiquitous gadgets that grew from belts and pockets. “Have you tried calling him this morning?”
Casey glanced at Donna Bates shyly. A large poster out in the hallway featured a cell phone with a bold diagonal red slash across it.
“I couldn’t reach him,” she said. “But he was having trouble with his phone, anyway. I think that’s what it is. At first, he thought it was the batteries, but I guess not. He was going to buy a new one.”
“Ah. Well, if you see him, please ask him to call his folks,” Estelle said. “How’s chemistry going now?”
“I love it,” Casey said with obvious passion.
“Then we don’t want to keep you. Thanks for coming down.”
“No problem. Thanks, Mrs. B.” She smiled at Mrs. Bates and then left the office, slapping the plastic hall pass against her thigh as she hustled out of sight.
“She’s a gem,” the secretary said. “We can only hope that Freddy doesn’t rub off on her entirely. I mean, the computer tells all.” She ran a finger along the screen. “I mean, look at last week. Three days that young man missed on the first week of school. He’s going to have his ten days before the end of September, and then where will he be?” The phone console at her elbow lit, and Estelle raised a hand in farewell as Donna Barnes lifted the receiver.
“If I see Freddy first, I’ll have him call you,” she said.
&nb
sp; “That’s not necessary,” the undersheriff. “Just have him call his folks.”
She left the school and less than two minutes later her county car turned into the parking lot behind the Public Safety Building. A pickup with state plates and livestock inspector’s shields on the doors was parked in the spot reserved for Sheriff Robert Torrez.
Chapter Five
Former sheriff of Posadas County William K. Gastner stood under the row of framed photographs in the Public Safety Building’s spacious foyer. He was examining the portrait of Eduardo Salcido, four sheriffs in the past. In the photo, Salcido was sitting behind his huge desk—the same desk that now graced undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s office—hands folded in front of him on the blotter, gazing directly into the camera. He reminded Estelle of a patrón waiting to hear complaints from the peasants.
Gastner turned as Estelle approached from the narrow passageway past the dispatcher’s island. He tapped the corner of Salcido’s portrait. “Way back in 1965. That’s the first time I met him.” The state livestock inspector’s grin widened, and he ran a hand across the burdock of his salt and pepper hair. “And you know, this looks like it was taken on that very day. That’s what he was doing when I came into his office for an interview, you know? Sitting there like the grand poobah.”
“That’s what he was doing when I interviewed,” Estelle offered.
“A man of infinite good taste in his hires. And that was a long time ago.” He stepped back and looked to his right, past the portraits of Martin Holman, himself, and the current sheriff, Robert Torrez. “What a rogue’s gallery.” He turned and regarded Estelle. “You’re about settled on a new hire or two?”
“Yes. I think so. I was working on the applications yesterday and got sidetracked. One or two of the applicants look strong.”
“The Veltri kid? It’s always nice to hire local.”
“He’s on the list for sure.”
“That’s interesting. I half expected him to stay with the military.”
“A homesick wife, I think.”
“Ah…the wife. You have time for breakfast?” Gastner patted his ample girth. “I got a late start this morning, and the tank’s empty.”
“I’ll keep you company, but Irma made sure I didn’t skip out hungry.”
“Ah. Speaking of Irma, an interesting thing came in the mail yesterday.” Gastner looked at Estelle, one bushy eyebrow raised.
“A wedding invitation?”
He nodded. “It wasn’t exclusive to me? I’m crushed.”
“Mine was hand-delivered,” Estelle said. “I knew it was coming someday, but I’m not ready for it.”
“I can imagine.”
“The wedding is only the tip of the iceberg, sir. She told me this morning that Gary has been accepted into an MFA program at Stanford. She’s going to study Spanish out there.”
“Well, my, my. Changes and rearranges. Happens, doesn’t it.” He followed her back through the offices, and they headed out the back door for the parking lot. “And that’s easy to say, of course. What are you guys going to do?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Gastner chuckled. “Guess who else is finished.”
“Finished?”
“Changed and rearranged. September thirtieth is my last day.” He reached out and patted the fender of the state truck as they walked past it toward Estelle’s county car. “And it feels absolutely wonderful.”
“Something prompted this?” She paused at the door of her car as Gastner walked around to the other side. “Not that it’s a bad thing, sir.”
“Ah.” He waved a hand with impatience. “You know, just too much nonsense. I got a notice here a day or two ago discussing electronic tagging, and everything else we’re going to have to do to accommodate that. Jesus, it’s just a goddamn cow, for Christ’s sakes. It seems to me that we ought to be able to manage a goddamn cow without a digital infrastructure.” He said the last two words with considerable distain.
“One would think so.”
“You know, it’s just because they can. No reason other than that. So I told ’em to hell with it. Next they’ll think about implanting a GPS chip in each little calf ear. Nah, they can have it. I got things to do.”
They settled in the car, and Estelle took a moment to clear with dispatch and make her log notations. “What’s your next project?”
“I don’t know why I’m so damned interested in history, but I am, so there it is. Did Irma pass on my message to you, by the way?”
Estelle nodded. “She mentioned your interest in the jaguar. And then I got sidetracked when I saw the wedding invitation. I should have called you, but I didn’t.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “I wouldn’t have answered anyway. I was out roaming. Did you see it?”
“It?”
“The jaguar skull.”
“Not yet.”
“I stopped by yesterday afternoon and what’s-his-name, the teacher, showed it to me, along with all the measurements that they took. He and his class, I mean.”
“Nathan Underwood.”
“Yup. He says that they did a quickie class project with it, right there on the spot. Pictures, measurements, the whole nine yards. They’re sending all the information to the Fish and Wildlife Service, and over to the university.”
“They’re going to need permission from the feds to keep it, no?”
“Underwood knows all about that. He’s pretty sharp, I gotta say. Anyway, that got me thinking. Those cats haven’t ever been common around here…just way too dry. They don’t have agua in their name for nothing. And then I remember your great uncle talking about seeing one. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he’d been in the sauce again. But if he says he saw one, then that’s it. He saw one.”
“Nothing about Reubén would surprise me,” Estelle agreed.
“You still have his journal, I would hope?”
“Sin duda. ”
“I’d like to look through that and find a date. I can’t imagine him seeing a cat like that and not mentioning it in his diary.”
“I’m sure he would. It’s all in Spanish, you know.”
“Ah, but I have access to a most accomplished translator,” Gastner said. “All I’m after is the date, and that should be easy enough.”
“Odd place for a big cat to show up,” Estelle mused. “The Cristóbals aren’t the most hospitable place in the best of times.”
“For us. For an old kitty being chased, maybe just fine.”
“You think chased?”
“I do. And caught. I’m no forensic specialist, but I know a bullet hole when I see it. The old guy’s last moments weren’t the most peaceful, I’d guess. Some bastard put a bullet in him.” Bill Gastner touched his head just behind his right eye. “Didn’t detonate the whole skull, so it wasn’t a hi-powered rifle. Thirty-eight caliber or a little bigger.”
Estelle looked across at her old friend.
“Interesting, eh?” Gastner said.
“Most,” she replied. “Most people go through an entire lifetime and never see a big cat in the wild, much less up close and personal. And a jaguar? That’s not even once in a lifetime.”
“As far as I know, springs are few and far between up there, not that I’ve trekked it all. But Bobby has, and he’s going to be interested in all this, I would think. He’s going to want to know exactly where the Romero kid found it. I was going to ask the boy the same thing, but I got over there after school let out. Didn’t catch him.”
“You’re not the only one,” Estelle said, and briefly related the details of her afternoon.
“A fang in the eye. That’s a new one on me. Freddy’s probably cattin’ about, no doubt. The fair Casey didn’t know where he was?”
“She says not.” That Bill Gastner knew the relationship between Casey Prescott and Freddy Romero didn’t surprise Estelle. The former sheriff and short-time livestock inspector had known the Prescott fami
ly for decades. More a walking, breathing gazetteer than a busy-body, Gastner collected information and filed it away. As he cheerfully admitted, accessing those files in a time of need was the challenge.
“Well, maybe he’s back out in the boonies,” Gastner said, and reached out to rest a hand on the dash for support as they jounced over the first speed bump in the parking lot of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant. “You make a find like that, and the site is an attraction. Pays to scout it out, see if you missed any thing.”
Estelle pulled the car to an abrupt halt in the middle of the small parking lot, and Gastner looked across at her, puzzled.
“Yesterday, I saw a four-wheeler down at the Broken Spur,” Estelle said. “Way, way in the distance. I had just pulled out on 56 from 14, and saw him swing off the shoulder of the highway, into the saloon’s parking lot, then scoot out back, probably across the arroyo.” She reached over and picked up the aluminum clipboard that contained her log. “Two-twenty, yesterday afternoon. I had stopped to make some notes after talking to some references, then saw the four-wheeler just after I pulled back out onto the highway.”
“Could have been anybody,” Gastner said.
“Could have been.” She closed her eyes, trying to coax her mind to replay the bit of memory. She hadn’t watched the four-wheeler because there had been no reason to. Now the incident was an amorphous blur, the details lost. “Ranchers don’t ride like a wild teenager,” she said. “I saw him and assumed it was a kid.”
“If it was Freddy, then his pickup was somewhere down there, too,” Gastner said. “He hauls that ATV around in the back of his truck, then bops out when he’s got something to explore or terrorize.”
“His dad says he wasn’t home last night—at least he didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t call Casey, either. His truck wasn’t in the driveway last night or this morning.”
“Now the worried mom comes out,” Gastner laughed.
She pulled the gear shift back into drive and swung the car around, leaving the restaurant to re-enter the street eastbound.
“So near and yet so far,” Gastner said wistfully. “What now?”
Double Prey Page 4
