“Shots? Plural?”
“That’s the story. We got one neighbor who heard one shot, another who heard more.” He shrugged and pulled the car into gear. “We ask ten people, we’ll have ten stories. You know how that goes. Let me know when you’re back at the office.” A slow grin lit his heavy, dark features. “How’s our young lady doing?”
“Just fine. I’m impressed so far.”
Eduardo laughed gently. “Tongues are going to wag, the two of you driving around town.” He looked up at me. “But that’s good, no? Good exercise for those tongues. Maybe they’ll tell us something we need to know.”
“Thanks for this,” I said, rapping the warrant on the window sill.
The car started to drift backward, and then he spiked the brakes. “Bobby is up to something. I don’t know what. Something with a rifle.”
I made an umbrella in the air with both hands. “We’ll cover it all. Something will turn.”
“Talk to me later.” Eduardo nodded at the warrant. “Judge Smith said to be careful with that.”
A few minutes later, the heavy drawer of the security file glided open, and Bea Summers ran her hand over the tops of the folders. “Now exactly what did you want?” she asked pleasantly enough, but the implication was there: and nothing more.
“Larry Zipoli,” I said, but her hand had already stopped in the thin Z section. She pulled out his folder and laid it on top of the others. Her hand stayed there, flat and protective on top of the folder.
“I just don’t like this, sheriff,” she said.
“I don’t either.”
“Larry was a good man, Bill. A good man. And Marilyn is just a doll. They don’t deserve this.”
“I appreciate your sympathy, Bea.” I slipped the thick folder out from under her hand.
“That shouldn’t leave this office.”
I reached across to her desk and picked up the warrant and handed it to her. “You’ll find a paragraph in there that talks about taking into custody all pertinent materials and documents, blah, blah, blah. I’ll make sure it all comes back to you in one piece. Would you like a receipt?”
She took a few seconds to decide whether or not to huff. “No…I don’t think that’s necessary. I hope you have what you want now.”
“Me too. If not, we’ll be back. Thanks, Bea.” I turned to thank Tony, but he’d disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him.
Despite sounding like a soft-spined schmoo, Tony Pino had not been unaware that there was a problem with Larry Zipoli. He’d reprimanded Larry Zipoli formally five years before for the first time, including a letter in his file that forbade possession of open alcoholic containers at any time on or in county property or county vehicles. It appeared that incident had followed a citizen’s complaint that Larry had been slow to move his machine out of the way so the motorist could pass.
I had no intention of sitting in the car, pouring through the file while the hot sun baked us through the county car’s untinted glass, but a quick look was enough to satisfy my immediate curiosity.
“We go through this one word at a time at our leisure,” I explained to Estelle, who had made no comment after we left the Highway Department offices. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, and I don’t know if there’s anything in this file that might help. It’s a slow, plodding process.” I grinned. “Not like the movies. We spread it all out on the table and comb through. I’ll welcome any flashes of inspiration or intuition.”
She didn’t respond to that, and I glanced over at her as we left the county bone yard. “We’re going to do that eventually, but my next stop is over at Jim Raught’s. I want to see if there’s any mention of a complaint involving him in Larry’s folder.” She made no comment, but at least I earned a nod out of her.
“So tell me what you think,” I prompted. “You’ve hiked around in the hot sun, helped collect garbage, sat in the corner of an office for an hour and listened to some good folks worrying about protecting themselves…that’s about as good as it gets in this line of work.”
“People’s motives are interesting,” the young lady said carefully, but her smile was warm.
“Yes, they are.” I wondered if we would have had to bother with a warrant if I had let this new kid talk to Bea or Tony first.
Chapter Thirteen
I glanced without much interest at Jim Raught’s front yard as I walked by, then paused for a second look, taking in details that hadn’t been apparent during my earlier visit. The collection of cacti was impressive enough that no one would take shortcuts across his yard. The plants were content and well fed, the beavertails flush and fat, the spines on the cholla long and lethal. Near the door, Raught had several species that I’d never seen growing wild in Posadas County—surely visitors from much farther south.
The house itself was brick with window frames painted turquoise to high-light the red in the bricks. The off-white metal roof was a neat cap, avoiding the maintenance that the roasting sun demanded from composite shingles. A hail storm must have sounded interesting.
I had given Estelle Reyes a sketchy background briefing that included Marilyn Zipoli’s complaints, and the young lady was doing a good job inventorying the property as we approached. The general character of the street first, then eyes roaming over Jim Raught’s neat but spiny yard, assessing and absorbing. When she’d read her forensic text book, she’d paid attention to the paragraph that suggested general to specific as a modus operandi. Think the big picture, then go microscopic.
“I haven’t actually met Mr. Raught formally,” I explained as we strolled up the front walk. “I would recognize him if I saw him—he usually attends County Commission meetings. Maybe he always does. I don’t know. On the rare occasions that I’ve attended, Mr. Raught has been there, too. I remember him addressing the commission once after Sheriff Salcido made a report. I don’t remember what the issue was, if any. So, that’s what I know, and it ain’t much.”
Estelle nodded and fell back a step when I approached the front door. J. T. Raught. Nice script letters in Mexican tile, mounted in a hardwood frame screwed to the cross beam of the front storm door with brass screws. Simple yet elegant, a cut above the usual wooden sign with stick-on letters from the hardware store. Jim Raught’s place didn’t look as if it had suffered much wear and tear associated with a houseful of active kids—no toys scattered out in the yard, no tears in the screen door or windows, no smudgy handprints on the painted wood trim.
She stood to one side, watching first the side window and then the door itself. I heard footsteps inside, and a voice said loudly, “Just a second!” The three words sounded friendly enough.
Eventually the door knob turned and the door opened, creating enough suction that the screen door pumped inward a bit. The house was as tightly sealed as it appeared.
Jim Raught peered out at me, his steel-gray hair wet and disheveled. He carried a towel in one hand, and when he had donned a t-shirt, he’d been wet enough that the shirt had blotched. His neatly creased khaki shorts were water-spotted as well.
“Well, hello there.” He cranked a corner of the towel into his left ear, opened his mouth wide, and when he was sure his Eustachian tubes were equalized, he shook his head hard, the sort of thing a movie starlet might do to settle her hair. It didn’t do much good.
“How’s the esteemed undersheriff this fine morning?” He grinned at that, a nice smile that lit up his pleasant features. Probably going on sixty-five, maybe a little older, he was a fine-looking senior citizen—fit, lightly tanned skin that somehow had avoided those nasty age spots that give us away, pleasant strong features, and a melodic voice just on the upside of baritone.
“I hope we didn’t catch you in the middle of something,” I said.
He made a face. “Just a cold shower, undersheriff. The nice thing about showers is that they’re
easily interrupted.” He mimed turning off a water valve, then squiggled the other ear with the towel, peering at Estelle. “And who might you be?”
“Estelle Reyes,” my companion said, and let it go at that.
“Well, Estelle Reyes, I’m Jim Raught. My pleasure.” The screen door remained between us and a handshake. He looked back at me. “This is about yesterday, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course I do. How about if you come inside out of the hot sun.” He snapped the lock button on the heavy screen and swung it open. “I happen to have some world class ice tea. May I tempt you?” Holding the storm door with one hand, he shook my hand with the other, a damp, cool grip.
“You may indeed,” I replied promptly. He raised an eyebrow at Estelle, who evidently had more self-discipline than I did. She accepted the handshake, but not the offer of tea.
“No, thank you, sir.”
“You’re sure? You don’t know what you’re missing. Traces of mint, just a hint of rock sugar, sun brewed. Thin shaved ice that brings the glass to a proper sweat.” He laughed, a deep, pleasant burble. “Listen to me.”
He waved a hand toward the living room, off to the left. “Take a seat wherever. I’ll just be a moment.”
I didn’t take a seat, as attractive as the heavy wood and leather furniture was. Instead, I ambled after Raught, which took only a couple of steps before I was standing in the kitchen archway, the living room behind my back. I watched as he selected two tall amber-colored glasses from the upper cabinet to the right of the fridge. Nice cabinets, too, the clear-pine doors and framework a soft honey—custom, not off the shelf from a box store. Mexican floral designs curled on the doors and around the window frames, hand done by someone with obvious talent.
“Really a terrible thing,” Raught said when the ice maker was finished with its automated crushing. He glanced back at me. “Next door, I mean. Hell of a thing.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Are you making progress?” He set the glass he was holding down on the tiled counter and held up a hand. “I know…I know. I don’t get to ask about an ongoing investigation.” He shot me that warm grin again. “Well, I can ask. That’s about as far as it goes.”
“As it happens, we are making some progress,” I said. “Some.”
“Well, that’s good.” The ice snapped and popped as the brilliantly clear tea flowed over it, and with his left hand, Raught reached out and selected a small spray of mint from a colander by the sink. “Ah…perfect.”
I accepted the glass and congratulated myself on accepting bribes so easily. After all, the perfect glass of iced tea is to be cherished. He watched as I took a tentative sip.
“Need sugar?”
“No, sir. This is perfect.” I watched as he fixed his own, and then he gestured toward the living room, where Estelle waited. She was standing in front of the fireplace, looking at a spectacular triple retablo displayed over the heavily carved mantle. One saint stood in each panel, but the background behind them flowed from one panel to the next, a floral garden of tendrils and blossoms and unlikely birds, all executed in powerful, vibrant colors.
“El Jardin do los Tres Santos,” Estelle said.
“Easy for you to say.” I stepped onto the tiled hearth for a closer look. I was no fan or patron of religious art, but even I could see that this piece was exquisite. Each retablo—each saint in his garden background—was eighteen inches tall and a foot wide, the entire triptych framed as a single work of art, touched here and there with what appeared to be gold inlay.
“San Mateo.” She indicated the figure on the left, whose expression suggested that he was stepping on something sharp. “San Juan in the middle, and,” she leaned forward a bit, cocking her head. “San Ignacio.” The other two saints didn’t look especially content, either.
“Now, I’m impressed,” Raught said.
I stepped off the hearth onto the saltillo tile of the living room floor, watching where I put my feet and keeping a tight grasp on the sweating tea glass. The floor tile was polished to resemble old leather, a deep rich brown touched with a scatter of finely woven rugs. Stepping through Jim Raught’s front door was like stepping into the heart of downtown Mexico, from the tile floors to the nichos in the walls and spread of spectacular artwork both secular and religious, right up to the hand-adzed ceiling beams.
“Quite a collection,” I said.
“Perhaps beyond a passion,” Raught laughed. “Closer to obsession.”
“You’ve lived in Mexico?”
“Two years,” he said. “I worked for Honda in Ohio for a lot of years, and then did a gig down in Mexico for them, setting up one of the new parts plants. That job didn’t last long enough by any means, but I make frequent trips. Just whenever I can.” He grinned. “Which, now that I’m retired, is whenever I please.”
I turned a slow, full circle, taking in the Mexican sanctuary. “I gotta ask. How did Posadas reach out and grab you?”
Raught laughed. “Ever lived through an Ohio winter?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“I thought about retiring to Mexico, but you know, when you get used to the infrastructure this country enjoys, and then you look at theirs…some things are hard to give up.” He turned to Estelle. “You probably know what I mean. You could be courting a job with the federales, but you chose the esteemed Posadas County Sheriff’s Department instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
He regarded her for a moment over the top of his glass. “Not long in this country, am I right?”
Estelle took her time. “Long enough to feel at home, sir.”
“Green card or naturalized?” The question was blunt, but offered with such off-hand, non-judgmental curiosity that I let it go, wondering how Estelle Reyes would react.
“I don’t think that my citizenship status is germane at the moment.” She said it without bark or umbrage, just a gentle statement of fact. Raught’s left hand fluttered up to his chest, as if his heart might be considering a little fibrillation.
“No, no,” he said, holding out a reassuring hand. “I don’t mean to pry, young lady. I just get so curious about this world and what wags it. That’s all. I mean no offense. Here thirty miles south of us, we have that line in the sand to make our lives interesting. I meant no offense.”
“None taken, sir.”
“But look,” Raught said, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my life at Marysville, or to be grilled by me about what’s new at the Sheriff’s Department.” He kept talking even as he walked into the kitchen, returning immediately with the glass tea jar. I held out my glass for a refill, he followed with his own, and returned the jug to the kitchen. “What do you need to know?”
I took another long sip of the tea. “As you know, Larry Zipoli was killed yesterday while he was out working on one of the county roads,” I said. “At this stage, we’re developing a profile of the incident, learning what we can about Mr. Zipoli and his activities leading up to the incident.”
“I see.” His tone said, “More, more.”
“It’s standard procedure to talk with neighbors, to talk with whomever we can.”
“I understand that. What can I tell you?”
“Actually, as the crow flies, you’re only a quarter mile or so from the scene,” I said. “Maybe a touch more than that. I’d be interested to know if you heard any gunshots yesterday.”
“Gunshots? No, I think not. Fire crackers, yes.”
“Fireworks…you’re sure?”
“Oh, perfectly sure. One of the kids across the street—“ He pointed diagonally toward the north. “He had what sounded like M-80’s. Is that what they call ’em? Those firecrackers that are just a bit too big for the average kid? KaBOOM! He let fly about four of them, and I thought t
he Sandoval’s old dog was going to go into orbit. I don’t know what the lad was blowing up, but he seemed to be having a good time.”
“That was what time?”
Raught frowned and looked at the immaculate tile under his bare feet. His face suddenly brightened. “That had to be just around noon or so. Maybe a little before. I happened to glance out the window—I was curious about what gangster was practicing to blow up the bank, you know. Larry Zipoli’s truck came around the corner just about then, and the kid took off. Don’t know why Zipoli would care about fire crackers, but the kid evidently thought he would.”
I paused a moment, sifting through some mental files about who lived where before I came up with a name. “The Arnett youngster, no doubt.” Mo Arnett was one of the Posadas Jaguars benchsitters. I cruised the village often enough to have seen him trudging home from school, megaton backpack sagging his pudgy shoulders.
“Indeed. I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble for a few firecrackers.”
“Not likely. So…Larry Zipoli came home for lunch yesterday?”
Raught nodded. “Well, maybe not to eat lunch. I heard him drive off just a couple of minutes later. Marilyn wasn’t home, so maybe he just had to pick something up. He was only here for a couple of minutes.”
“You’re here all day most of the time?”
“Well, more or less. This is my own private Eden, you know. I’ve seen the rest of the world. Now I’m ready to be a hermit, Undersheriff.”
“Marilyn Zipoli often comes home for lunch?”
“I wouldn’t say often. Once in a while. Once in a while one of them, once in a while both. You know,” and he sipped his tea. “I really don’t make a point of monitoring their habits.” He frowned and played with the sprig of mint on the edge of his glass, then, as if the thought that had wandered into his mind was inappropriate, shook his head quickly.
“In the past few days, did you have occasion to talk with Mr. Zipoli?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No neighborly chats, no property line disputes, nothing like that? No noisy children? No issues of any kind?”
One Perfect Shot Page 10
