Come Dark

by Steven F Havill

  Torrez raised an eyebrow. “Vegas, like in Nevada? What, you get lost or something?”

  Swartzman grinned again. “Well, side trips here and there. Like I said, there’s this new theme park we read about somewhere right in these parts.”

  “The conjugation.” Torrez kept an absolute poker face.

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re about five hundred miles off-course for Vegas.”

  “Our bucket list, you know. Neither the wife or I have ever been to Mexico, so we drove down to Juarez for a day or two. Weeellll…” and he drew out the word. “Don’t need to do that again.”

  Torrez screwed up his handsome face as if thinking were a chore. “Cathay to Joplin to Juarez…that’s a long haul.”

  For an instant, the remark didn’t register, but when it did, Swartzman couldn’t keep the apprehension concealed. He had never mentioned Cathay, that little farm town in Illinois, to this affable Mexican hick.

  “So,” Torres said slowly, “how well do you know Clayton Bailey?” He watched Swartzman’s face, and the man’s nervous hands.

  Swartzman’s expression went blank. “I…”

  “He a neighbor, or what?”

  “I mean…Clayton’s a neighbor, back home.” Swartzman’s head wobbled as if he couldn’t decide whether to nod or shake it. “He’s all right, isn’t he? I mean, how did you…?”

  “Wouldn’t know how he is,” Torrez said affably enough. “We were just wondering how the license plate from his truck came to be on your car.”

  Swartzman looked confused. “You’re with the police? I mean, shouldn’t I see some identification?”

  “Yep,” but Torrez made no move to show his badge or credentials. “Deputy, go ahead and call in the VIN. Let’s find out who owns this buggy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mrs. Swartzman?” Torrez said. “You want to come over here?” The woman did, walking as if she were on skim ice with nothing but black water underneath. She stopped a couple steps from the sheriff. “There’s just fine. And sir, I’ll want to see your license and registration.”

  “Now look here. This car’s brand new,” Swartzman blurted. “We haven’t even had a chance to get the paperwork.”

  “Dealer gave you something, I guess.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “So, does the dealer back there in Illinois know you have this car?”

  Swartzman’s face fell. “Oh, come on now, Sheriff. He better know. I gave him enough money for it. Anyway, I work for him.”

  “For who?”

  “I work for Jensen Motors in Cathay, Sheriff.” He said it as if everyone would surely have heard of the dealership, and that upon hearing the name, the sheriff would nod pleasantly and say, “That’s all we need…you have a good day, sir.”

  “Show me what you have.”

  Swartzman opened the front passenger door and eyed the glove box. He made no move toward it.

  “Got something in there you don’t want me to see?”

  “This being New Mexico, I guess you’re used to this sort of thing.”

  Torrez waited without comment, and Swartzman finally shrugged. “Look, I always carry a handgun with me when I’m traveling. You just never know.”

  “Illinois don’t usually head the list of gun-friendly states. Take your time and let’s see it.”

  Swartzman was between the car and the door, and a quick, hard slam would waffle him. Torrez moved so that he could rest a hand on the top of the doorframe, fingers flat.

  With a grunt, the man slid down into the passenger seat, both feet outside on the pavement, his shins another tempting target for a door slam.

  “Just the license and registration, sir. If that’s where you’re keepin’ the weapon, leave it.”

  Swartzman’s left elbow thumped on the center console as he leaned away from the passenger door. With his right he reached for the glove box. “Okay, well…I just didn’t want any surprises.”

  The huge glove box carried the plastic envelope with all the vehicle paperwork—the thick owner’s manual, the maintenance booklet, tire warranty, motorist’s aid, and a tube of touchup paint. Swartzman sorted through the papers three times, then looked up bleakly at Torrez. The gun, if there was one, remained invisible.

  “You know, the sales document is about that long,” and he held his hands eighteen inches apart. “All the taxes and everything…the odometer declaration. The whole ball of wax. LeeAnn,” he called, “what did we do with all the paperwork?”

  “You’re the one, genius boy.”

  “How helpful is that?” Swartzman muttered. “Look, Sheriff…maybe we can work something out, here.”

  “’S’pect we can,” Torrez said helpfully. “How about a license, then. That ought to be easy enough.” He watched Swartzman’s hand near the center console, where the sheriff now expected to see the weapon. Swartzman’s elaborately casual body English had pointed that way.

  “Why, sure.” He leaned to his right away from the console, and dug in his back pocket, finally finding the well-worn wallet. After a moment of shuffling with no results, he took a deep breath and sagged as he looked up at Torrez. “You know, this isn’t my day.”

  “Nope.” Torrez caught a glimpse of the little blue box and logo on the upper left of the laminated license. “Might be it’s that one right under your thumb, sir.”

  “Well, jeez.” Sure enough, he drew out the license, held onto it for a moment as if he just didn’t believe it had reappeared, then extended it toward Torrez. “You’re pretty sharp, Sheriff.”

  Torrez didn’t take the license immediately. So many things of potential interest were going on here that he took his time, never losing his grip on the doorframe. “Missus, I’d appreciate it if you’d have yourself a seat out of the sun, over there in the deputy’s vehicle.” Making no complaint or comment, LeeAnn Swartzman did as she was told. Pasquale held the door for her, then gently closed her inside, alone with the air conditioning.

  Torrez took the offered license and held it at a comfortable distance. “New look,” he said. “New hair, anyways.”

  “Well, it’s a wig,” Swartzman whispered. “We’re show folks, you know. Job-hunting, maybe even Vegas comin’ up.” He tried a weak laugh.

  With the couple separated and contained, Tom Pasquale took his time calling in the license information, using his cell phone instead of the radio so the woman couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation. After a few minutes, he left the SUV. The sheriff accepted the Post-it note from the deputy, keeping his right hand on Swartzman’s door.

  “Huh.” Torrez frowned at the note as if the English language were his third or fourth idiom. “So.”

  “So what’s the deal?” Swartzman asked. “We’re all set? Just like I said?”

  Torrez looked at him for a long moment. “We’re kinda backward in these little towns, sir, so you’ll have to bear with us.” He held up one finger. “I’m going to ask you to step out of the car, sir.”

  “But I…”

  “Let’s do it.” Torrez eased past the open door, holding it wide. He beckoned Swartzman out, giving the man the hint of a chance. With his right hand on the door, Torrez appeared vulnerable. Swartzman’s left elbow was still near the center console and he took the opportunity. With one smooth jerk he snatched open the console lid and dove with his left hand for the revolver that lay beneath it.

  He managed to touch the black plastic grips with his fingertips before his door was yanked wide and he found himself being lifted bodily. With one hand on Swartzman’s belt and the other at the nape of his neck, Torrez slammed the man’s weight forward. Off-balance and unsuspecting, Swartzman found himself driven face-first into the dash, his nose smeared into the GPS screen.

  He yelped as Torrez then yanked him out of the car, spun him around, and slammed him against the roof and the center post so hard that he gasped. A deft twist, and Swartzman’s hands were behind his back, the click of the handcuffs loud. “Pay attention to t
he woman,” Torrez snapped at Pasquale.

  Amid screeches of protest from LeeAnn, Pasquale pulled her into position with her face pressed against the security screen. He managed the cuffs, and gently pushed her back into the seat with a hand on her shoulder. “Just relax, ma’am.” He closed the door on her squeaky protests.

  The sheriff slammed the door of the Fusion, and with one hand against Swartzman’s back between the shoulder blades, frisked him. One hand dove into a trouser pocket and came out with the car keys, which he tossed on the roof. “And what the hell is this?” the sheriff muttered. He pulled up the man’s shirt, and the loud rip of hook-and-loop fasteners followed.

  “See if Taber is available for transport,” he snapped. Turning back to the husband, Torrez demanded, “So what is this?”

  “What do you think it is?” Swartzman replied testily. He snuffled at the blood that had begun to leak from his nose, and glanced nervously at the huge cop in mechanic’s clothes, apparently deciding that testy wouldn’t work. “It’s a false belly,” he said reasonably. And sure enough, the man’s own midriff was trim. “No need to go and get all violent. I was just going to hand you the gun, anyways. It ain’t even real.”

  “Huh.” Torrez didn’t release his grip. “I know exactly what the gun is, my friend.” He turned the girth enhancement belt this way and that. “Most folks want to get rid of belly fat.” He reached out and tugged at the man’s obvious wig, and it slid off to reveal a close-cropped thatch of dark brown hair, just beginning to show some sprinkles of gray on the sides. “A little more like the license photo now, huh.”

  “Look, Sheriff…”

  Torrez interrupted him again. “So…we got this car here, who knows where it actually came from.” He glanced at the note Pasquale had handed him, and held up a second finger. “You say you got it from Jensen Motors in Cathay, Illinois, where you say you work. And three, you got a license plate stolen from Mr. Clayton Bailey, also of Cathay. How am I doin’?”

  “I…Look now…”

  Torrez waited while the man mulled his options. Mrs. Swartzman sat quietly in the back of Tom Pasquale’s Expedition, tears cutting two trails down her well-powdered cheeks.

  “And that Illinois driver’s license has your photo right without the makeup, but I guess Swartzman goes with the belly and the hair?” He held the license up a bit and squinted. “Robert Osgood Bond. That’s who the Illinois DMV says you are.”

  Torrez glanced over at Pasquale, who stood near the driver’s side rear door of the Expedition, making LeeAnn Swartzman-Bond all the more distraught by impassively watching her unconvincing weeping performance.

  “So, Mr. Bob Bond, tell me about the license plate,” Torrez said.

  “Look, it’s all so simple. When we left home with the new car, it was a weekend. Nobody was open. I mean, what’s a plate? A few bucks. Proof that we’ve paid the bureaucrats, right? Clay Bailey—him and his wife, Sally—they were gone to a wedding out in Bismarck. The truck was just sittin’ in his barn there, so no big deal. I borrowed the plate for a little bit. They were going to stay on out there for a family reunion, and I figured we’d have the plate back before they knew it was gone.”

  “Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Torrez grunted. “Why didn’t you take the plate off your own car…your old one?”

  Swartzman shrugged deeply and thought for a minute. “’Cause when we traded in, the old plate stayed on the old car. Our Oldsmobile. It’s at the dealer’s.”

  “You could have taken this whole trip with a temp tag. And the dealer would have given you one of those.”

  “Well, yeah, we could have. But they’re an attractive nuisance, if you know what I mean. They attract attention.” He looked hopeful. “It’s just a hang-up of mine, Sheriff. I never liked those paper permits taped in the back window.” He tried to snuff his nose, the bleeding now all but stopped, on the shoulder of his shirt. “I mean, you know, it’s a sign. Like ‘Hey, look at me. I just got a new car!’”

  “Hey, look at you,” Torrez repeated. “And so…” He eyed the man for a long moment. “What did you think you were going to do with the pellet gun?”

  “I…” He gave up and shrugged hopelessly.

  “Yep. Not much thinkin’ going on there. You’re lucky I didn’t just shoot your silly ass.” He spun Swartzman-Bond around, opened the Fusion’s back door, and guided the man inside. “Don’t bleed all over the inside of the new car. Owner wouldn’t like that much.”

  “But my wife…”

  “She’s fine.” With both of the strange couple secure but separated, Torrez slammed the Fusion’s door and glowered in mock-irritation at Pasquale.

  “You find some of the strangest people, Thomas,” he said. “And just as soon as we get another unit over here, we’ll get him out of the car so he don’t pass out.” He paused. “You been keepin’ your eyes open for Stewart?”

  “Yes, sir.” The Volvo sat untended, roasting in the sun.

  Chapter Six

  “It is a pellet gun,” Tom Pasquale said. He had secured the weapon from the Fusion’s center console and held it up, a large black revolver made to look like a Smith & Wesson. He deftly pulled open the piston lever that projected from the bottom of the grips. “No gas cylinder. It wasn’t going to do him much good this way.” From a distance, the gun looked remarkably realistic, and Pasquale looked at the sheriff with surprise. “Good call, sir. I wonder what he was planning to do with it? Use it as a hammer?”

  Torrez shrugged. “Maybe he’s gettin’ tired of livin’.”

  “He thought about it, you know. I mean, doing something stupid with it. I was watching his face.”

  “Yep.” Torrez snagged the keys off the roof of the car, walked around and unlocked the trunk, easing the lid up. He held onto it as he surveyed the contents, then tugged aside the corner of a homey-looking quilt, revealing three neat cardboard boxes, the lidded sort that originally had held ten reams of printer paper.

  “Okay, then. Placin’ bets?”

  “Not with his mental equipment.” The box lids were taped, and Torrez flicked open his razor knife and deftly slit the seal. With a finger on each end, he lifted the lid straight up.

  “Huh.”

  For a moment, both men were silent. Some amorphous instrumental rendition of a decades-old Jefferson Airplane hit wafted out from the store.

  “Who you got comin’?” Torrez asked.

  “Taber is on the way, and dispatch was going to try and find Captain Adams. Estelle will be tied up at the hospital until Stacie shows up. Or CYF takes over.”

  “Good enough. I think Adams went fishing up in Chama, though.”

  As careful as if the cardboard box top were thin crystal, Torrez leaned it to one side, out of the way. The packets, sealed tightly in some sort of white, waxy paper, filled the box in neat rows, sixteen packets to a layer. Torrez tilted his head.

  “Sixteen up, maybe four layers, so sixty-four bricks to a box, times three. That ain’t bad.”

  He slipped his knife out, snapped the blade open, and used it to gently pry one of the packets loose. “Ain’t no kilo.”

  “This is the economy, pocket-sized sample,” Pasquale said.

  “Of what?” Bob Torrez held out the little brick to his deputy, who accepted it and turned it this way and that. He held it close to his nose and inhaled deeply, looking puzzled. Nothing he had sampled or sniffed or chewed in his recent State Police seminar on illegal drugs shared this aroma.

  “Don’t look much like any joint you ever toked,” the sheriff said.

  Pasquale grinned. “Been too long, sir.”

  Sergeant Jackie Taber drove into the parking lot, taking the long way around the outside perimeter until she parked her black SUV behind Bob Torrez’ old Chevy. She saw Pasquale lift a small white packet and hold it to his nose for a long, careful inhale, eyes closed like a wine-taster.

  She took her time making sure dispatch understood where virtually the whole day shift was, got out and locked h
er unit, and then strolled along the side of Pasquale’s SUV, looking inside at LeeAnn Swartzman-Bond. The young woman cowered.

  In high school back in Detroit, Jackie Taber had been known as “Stump,” a not-particularly-kind but dead-on accurate nickname prompted by her five-seven frame that carried one hundred eighty pounds—actually very little of it fat.

  If anyone in the Sheriff’s Department called her by her old nickname, it wasn’t to her face. Retired from the Marines, Taber kept the brim of her Stetson the proper rake back from the bridge of her nose, and she folded her dark glasses and slid them into her pocket as she regarded first LeeAnn and then her husband in the Fusion. After a moment, she rounded the front of the old Expedition and reached out a hand to Tom Pasquale’s right shoulder.

  “So tell me.” The lips moved, but if there was a voice, it hadn’t yet amped up to a whisper.

  “Bogus plate, no registration, Elvis costume, traveling under the alias of Swartzman but the driver’s license says Bond. I got curious, but then we got caught up in the thing with Stacie Stewart leaving her kid and dog in the car. We nabbed these two as they came out of the store and got to the Fusion there.”

  “Nabbed.” A smile hinted at the corners of Taber’s mouth. “Well, you don’t have much of a case, Thomas. Out of the whole list, only a bad Elvis impersonation is illegal.” When his face went blank, she quickly added, “So what’s that?”

  Pasquale held out the opened packet to the sergeant. Even as she unwrapped it a little further, they heard a holler and then several thumps from inside the Fusion. Taber stepped around the car and ducked a little so she could glare at Swartzman, who, handcuffed securely, had been using his skull to drum on the window.

  “Just relax, Elvis,” Taber snapped, suddenly with plenty of threatening volume. She turned back to the sheriff. “What do you think, sir?”