Easy Errors
Page 26
“The jury will be relieved,” Schroeder said, but I wasn’t sure yet whether or not I was relieved.
Chapter Thirty
July matured, bringing with it the blank blue skies and broiling sun we were used to. It felt good to sit inside the Don Juan de Oñate, bathed in the frigid air conditioning, and be able to look out and see the traffic passing by on Bustos, tires cutting squishy grooves in the overheated asphalt. The green chilé-smothered burrito had been up to snuff, and I lingered in my corner, sipping coffee and enjoying the last cigarette I had vowed to have that day.
“Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty.” Gayle Sedillos was working dispatch days now, and I enjoyed hearing her on the radio—a nice mix of sweetness and clipped efficiency. She gave the “r” of three just the faintest hint of a trill, and said twenty, with two clear t’s, instead of twenny.
I exhaled patiently and leaned forward to pick up my handheld radio.
“Three ten is ten eight, Don Juan.”
“Three ten, can you speak with the owner of the Spur? He called with a complaint and wants to see you.”
And why me, I thought, although I knew why. Sergeant Payson was cruising north and east, and the rookie, Robert Torrez, was somewhere down south. Victor Sanchez didn’t like either one of them. Of course, he also didn’t like me—he probably didn’t like any person wearing a uniform.
“PCS, ten four. ETA about thirty.”
“Ten four, three ten.”
Traffic on New Mexico 56 was not exactly bumper to bumper…a car or truck every two or three miles northeast bound. My faithful 310 was in the shop, the mechanics trying to decide if it was worth saving. If not, it’d be wholesaled out, hauled by the burros to Mexico, and no doubt spend its last miles thumping over dusty Mexican roads. I drove my own vehicle, and relaxed as the Blazer purred south on 56, air conditioner just right. Just beyond the Rio Guigarro, my radio came to life again.
“PCS, three oh eight is stopping Virginia tag eight-oh-eight baker alpha echo.”
“Ten four, three oh eight.” In a moment, I saw the light display on the south side of the road, Deputy Torrez’ county unit snugged in behind a dark blue Chevy Caprice with two bicycles strapped to the roof rack. Torrez hadn’t dismounted yet, but waited patiently for the NCIC response. And Gayle was prompt. Just as I passed, she radioed what he needed to hear. “Virginia tag Three oh eight, baker alpha echo should appear on a 1985 Chevrolet, color blue, no wants or warrants.”
“Ten four.” In the rearview mirror I saw Torrez exit the vehicle. In another few minutes, I pulled into the Broken Spur’s parking lot. It seemed to be the day for livestock trailers. I found a space between two of them, got out, and—I think just because I knew it irritated him—strolled around to the kitchen door, disregarding the signs that proclaimed, EMPLOYEES ONLY, NO ADMITTANCE WHATSOEVER.
“Good afternoon, Victor,” I said as I entered the kitchen. He was presiding over a grill full of burgers, onions, and potatoes, and he glanced up for the fraction of a second it took to see who had invaded his domain. His son Victor Junior was working at the sink, and daughter Eileen had her head in the big double-doored fridge, rooting around for something.
Victor waved his spatula at me. “I don’t know how many times I got to tell you this,” he said. “You got that hotshot out there runnin’ traffic right at my front door. I don’t appreciate that.”
He turned four burger patties deftly and then mashed them so that the fat spat and sizzled. “He’s got the whole county to work. He don’t need to sit on my doorstep.”
“I’ll absolutely tell him that,” I said with an understanding nod. “Business looks like it’s picking up.”
“Yeah, well.”
I watched the kid wash a fistful of knives as if they were the king’s cutlery. I guess they were. Eileen closed the fridge doors and carried an armload of tomatoes to the central table. She beamed at me, and wrinkled her nose at the back of her father’s head.
“Is the deputy what you called about, Victor?”
He glanced at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Yeah, that’s why I called.” He whacked the spatula edge against the cast-iron grill rim. “If he don’t stop, I’m going to the county.”
“That’s the best idea,” I said agreeably. “Give Randy Murray a call.”
That earned another sideways glance. “That useless son of a bitch,” Victor muttered to the sizzling potatoes. And then he surprised the hell out of me, sounding actually civil as he did so.
“You heard who bought the paper?”
“The Register? Some outfit back in Kansas. That’s all I know.”
“Bailey got tired of writing about family, I guess.” His brother was enjoying eight years at the taxpayers’ expense, his two buddies looking at the same. Schroeder had turned down the plea deal, but their next mistake may have been waiving their right to a jury trial. Hell, they knew the evidence was there. Judge Hobart hadn’t seen any reason to differentiate the sentences based on any kind of extenuating circumstances, and swatted all three hard…probably about the limit he could go without intent being proven.
“Well, Leo has been thinking of retiring for a long time.”
“They’ll use that as an excuse to raise ad rates. You watch and see.”
“No doubt.” I rapped my knuckles on the butcher-block table. “Look, I need to get. I’ll talk with the deputy.”
“You do that. He puts three good customers in jail, and now he thinks he’s ruling the world.”
“He’ll age, like the rest of us, Victor. Age and season.” I turned to Victor’s daughter. “Eileen, you have a nice day.” She smiled and nodded, and Victor Junior looked the other way.
The sun was brutal, and as I walked across to my Blazer I saw that Torrez had finished with Virginia eight-zero-eight. He’d parked back down the highway, across from the intersection of County 14, his unit tucked in behind the state’s pile of gravel—a productive spot to lie in wait.
I pulled in window-to-window.
“How’s it going, Robert?”
“Kinda slow right now,” he said, and tossed his clipboard/logbook onto the passenger seat.
“Victor called us.”
“Huh. Well, he don’t like me much.”
I laughed. “Roberto, Victor doesn’t like anybody much.”
“Nope.”
“Well, you keep up the good work.” He nodded. “I’m going to pick up Reuben and go down with him to see how his project at the church is coming along. Good day to sit in the shade by the river.”
“Even if it don’t have water in it,” Torrez said, and managed a smile.
“Keep sharp,” I said, and pulled the Blazer into gear. Heading up County 14 toward Reuben’s place, I radioed dispatch. “PCS, three ten will be ten seven, Tres Santos.”
“Ten four, three ten.” Gayle paused. “Three oh eight, PCS. Ten twenty?”
“That’s good,” I said aloud. “You keep close track of him.”
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