Raught’s eyes narrowed a little with amusement. “You sound as if you’ve heard something, Undersheriff.” He set his glass on an end table with great care, then clasped his hands between his knees. “The last time I actually spoke to Larry Zipoli was…was.” He shrugged. “Was sometime. I would be making something up if I tried to pinpoint a time. This is one of those interesting neighborhoods where everybody keeps pretty much to themselves, Undersheriff. We don’t do community barbecues. I’ve never been in Zipoli’s home, or the Sandoval’s across the street, or in Mrs. Fernandez’s next door the other way, or the Arnetts’. And they haven’t been in here.” He sawed his hands back and forth. “Separate lives, so to speak.”
“I know exactly how that works,” I said. I would have been hard pressed to remember the last time someone had stepped across the threshold of my old adobe on the south side of town. “A quiet neighborhood where everybody minds his own business. Still, Mr. Raught, we hear things.” I slipped two fingers into my pocket and drew out the little business card wallet. “Do you remember what the discussion was about?”
“Actually, I do. Larry stuck one of those ugly little plastic fences in his front yard—a boundary marker, I suppose. In my usual tactless fashion, I told him it was the ugliest thing I could imagine, and that we could probably work out something more artistic.” He shrugged helplessly. “He didn’t like that.”
“And that’s as far as it went?”
“Well…I suppose not.”
“Which means what?”
“Not only was the fence ugly, he didn’t install it properly. The first wind gust grabbed it, and there you go. The next day, I found a piece in the middle of one of the cactus beds. I tossed it back in his yard.”
“You had words over that?”
“No. Apparently they got rid of it.”
“You didn’t throw it away?”
“Now why would I do that? I tossed the one piece—what, they’re about six feet long? I tossed it back into their yard.”
“This was recently?”
“No. Several days ago, I guess.”
I handed a business card to him. “If you happen to think of anything else, give me a call. I’d appreciate it.”
“I can’t imagine thinking of what, Undersheriff. Sure enough, sound carries easily. Last night was pretty grim. You know, I enjoy swimming. But I couldn’t last night. Marilyn Zipoli was in a way, let me tell you. My God, this must be hard for her. I crawled back into my cave so I didn’t have to listen…just heart wrenching.”
“And during those evening swims, when both Marilyn and Larry were home, you didn’t hear any ruckus of any kind in the past few days?”
“No.” He looked sideways, maybe a trifle embarrassed. “You know, I moved in here about seven years ago. I hadn’t been here for more than a month when Marilyn Zipoli made a forward pass. At me, if you can imagine. I sure as hell don’t want to encourage that sort of thing, so maybe I take to an extreme this keeping to myself business.”
He stood up and beckoned. “Let me show you something.” He included Estelle in the invitation. We followed Raught through the house, out into the back yard—a place to take the breath away. The yard, perhaps a hundred feet wide by eighty feet deep, was an incredible accomplishment, but this time, from the oriental corner of the world. Totally out of place in Posadas, New Mexico, the plantings heavily favored sculptured oriental evergreens, dense bushes the like of which I hadn’t seen since my brief military posting in Korea. And rocks, rocks everywhere, gorgeous sandstone things with more exotic plants tucked in crannies.
One long back wall was home to half a dozen grape vines, their tendrils winding and entwining, fruit already heavy by late summer.
The central feature of the yard was a redwood gazebo complete with high-end teak garden furniture, looking out across one of those narrow lap pools that jet a raging river so that you either exercise wildly to stay afloat or end up smashed against the downstream end, a drowned rat. Jim Raught’s physique said that he swam miles and miles upstream.
“An amazing place,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“I have photos of what it looked like when I first moved in,” he replied. “Lots and lots of desert weeds.”
“That’s what I specialize in,” I laughed. “You know, it’s amazing. I can drive up the street and never know this little paradise is here.”
“And that’s the whole point, I suppose,” Raught said. “I can enjoy old Mexico inside, and then duck outside for a touch of Japan.” He grinned “Visited there half a dozen times for Honda.” He nodded toward the east, toward Zipolis. “They took out a scruffy old elm that died a good number of years ago. I was using some of the dead limbs that spanned across the fence as part of the artwork, so I’ll have to work on that a bit now. It looks kind of bare.”
It didn’t to me, but then again, bare to me was clean gravel or sand. The wall separating the neighbors was a full six feet, concrete block plastered adobe color, supporting redwood lattice panels. There was so much vegetation on Raught’s side I could spot the wall only as a shadow in a few places. Interesting. I would have been able to stand in the Zipolis back yard and not be able to see anything of Jim Raught’s place…certainly not enough to be able to see a purported marijuana plant growing up his back porch.
I turned in place. Like everything else, the back porch was designed to blend with the entire motif. Very Architectural Digesty. Or Better Japanese Gardens. Lots of redwood, stout vertical lines that somehow managed to look airy and light, latticework that wasn’t just the cheap stapled together stuff from the home improvement center.
And sure enough, a hale and hearty Virginia Creeper grew up the side of the house, softening the abrupt corner, a transition of sorts from one dimension to another. A Virginia Creeper might be mistaken for marijuana, but only by one of those numb folks who have blown or snorted enough stuff to addle their brains.
I pivoted and looked back across the yard. How the hell did Larry Zipoli find a spot to peer into this enchanted place? Did he have a small step ladder on far side? Is that how he got his jollies? Well, he’d really have to work at it. Or had Marilyn been spying on her buff neighbor as Raught took his laps?
Raught spread his arms wide to encompass the little paradise. “This is my hobby, Undersheriff. If Posadas ever runs out of water, I suppose it’ll go back to desert.” He looked wistful. “It’ll be Mexico outside, as well as in.”
“You miss Japan?”
“Well…sure, in some ways. But it’s a very small island, Undersheriff. Very small. With lots of people.” He took a deep breath. “You know what’s nice? When I step out here at two in the morning and slip into the water, the only sounds are the coyotes out on the mesa. All the televisions are off, the kids are asleep, most of the dogs have shut up. Have you ever stood on a Tokyo street at two in the morning? Ye Gods.” He grinned benignly at Estelle, like a father proud of his daughter. “Rural Mexico, or the big metro areas? I would guess rural. Am I right?”
“Tres Santos.”
His head cocked to one side as if he’d been poked, but then he nodded in familiarity. “Well, it’s hard to be more rural than that. You would know what I’m talking about, then. The deep, deep quiet.” He took another deep breath. “Gotta have it. My drug of choice.”
He patted the redwood railing of the gazebo, brow furrowing. “I don’t know what else I can tell you folks. The Zipolis kept to themselves, and as far as I’m concerned, lived a nice quiet life. Nice kids. No loud pets. Some weekend outings that appeared to involve just about every youngster in the neighborhood. The Butte is one of their favorite spots, as I understand it. They invited me to go along once or twice, but I declined. Noisy ski boats, party-hearty teenagers, hot sun, hot sand, and murky Rio Grande water aren’t my idea of paradise, as you might assume by visiting here. Crowds don’t light my fires, Und
ersheriff. But around here? I can’t imagine who got crosswise with Larry Zipoli.”
“Did he have an alcohol problem?” The blunt question prompted a raised eye brow.
“That would be entirely none of my business, Undersheriff. Obvious it’s your business, but not mine.” He held out both hands, palms up. “Nothing I can tell you there. If I did, I’d just be making something up.” He looked at first me and then Estelle expectantly. As far as he was concerned, our conversation was over.
I offered my hand, and his grip was firm and brief. He made a point of shaking Estelle’s hand, too.
“I hope you enjoy your new adventure,” he said to her. A logical guess must have been what it was, but I was impressed never the less.
“Thank you, sir,” Ms. Reyes replied quietly.
Raught followed us back through the Mexican living room, and then out to the front yard deep in the Sonoran desert. If a kid lost his tricycle in there, it’d be gone forever—maybe the kid, too. “Folks, if there’s anything else you need from me, don’t hesitate. I’m here most of the time.”
I thanked him, and moseyed out to the sidewalk and 310. Raught’s front door closed out the sun and heat. Estelle Reyes read my hesitation correctly, and was in no hurry to slip into the car. I walked east a few feet, and looked at the small flower garden that edged the property boundaries. I didn’t see any stake holes that would indicate the presence of a little decorative fence, but those were so easily obliterated…and would have been by someone with a fetish for making every aspect of his yard just so.
Chapter Fourteen
“So.” I settled into the almost comfortable seat of the Crown Victoria. Its idle became a bit ragged as I kicked in the air conditioner. “We have about a million conversations like our little chat with Jim Raught for every stand-off with an armed and dangerous bank robber.” I looked down the quiet street. Two blocks away, a trio of little kids—maybe still too young to be excited about school looming on the immediate horizon—played with a lawn sprinkler. I could hear the kids’ chirps and screams.
I looked across at Estelle. “And what do you think about all this?”
She didn’t answer immediately, a characteristic reservation I was coming to accept as ingrained. “I can’t imagine Mr. Raught killing Mr. Zipoli out on a hot, dusty road with a lucky shot,” she said eventually. “It’s too messy, too inconsistent with the way he controls his universe.”
“His universe,” I repeated. “I would be willing to bet that if we opened his garage, we’d find a neat little imported car, something on the luxurious side, like a BMW or Porsche. It would be spotless, waxed, perfect. The garage would be a showplace, with even the paint arranged on the shelf alphabetically by color.”
“Something very like that, sir.” She watched the neighborhood slide by. “I picture James Raught as coldly calculating, should the need arise. I don’t picture him doing something as risky, as untidy, as what happened to Mr. Zipoli. I don’t picture him flying off the handle in a screaming rage over a little garden fence.”
“Believe it or not, people have been killed over less.”
“Sin duda,” she said, and just as quickly translated. “Without a doubt. But I would imagine that if the need arose, Mr. Raught would use some kind of distilled venom drawn from the pectoral fins of an oriental rock fish.”
I laughed loudly. “Maybe that’s what happened to his wife.”
“I didn’t see any family photos on display in that house.”
“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I assumed, based on what Marilyn Zipoli said. And that’s not very smart. We’ll have the chance to correct that.” The dash clock read 10:03. As we eased out on Grande Avenue, I reached out and slid the mike off the hook. Force of habit brought it toward me before I remembered, and handed it to the young lady. “I need to know what Bob Torrez has on his plate right now.” She took the mike, thought for five seconds, and then keyed it.
“Three oh eight, three ten. Ten twenty?”
The airwaves simmered in the August sunshine as the seconds ticked by. I couldn’t remember listing off deputies and their car numbers to my ride-along, but it’s something she had had the opportunity to pick up during the course of the morning’s activities. I glanced at her, impressed. She was gazing out the window, perhaps counting the appropriate number of seconds before repeating the message.
“Three ten, PCS.” Dispatch was paying attention.
“PCS, go ahead.”
“Three ten, be advised that three oh eight is ten-six with MacInerny.”
I nodded to assure Estelle that I understood, but before she could acknowledge, Torrez’s voice, so quiet he might have been inside a church, came on the air.
“Three ten, three oh eight. I’ll be here for a bit.”
“Three ten’s ETA is twelve minutes,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message.
“Ten four.” Torrez’s response was entirely unexcited.
Anyone who had spent significant time listening to the Sheriff’s Department radio chatter had no doubt been able to crack our sophisticated code. Dale and Perry MacInerny, of MacInerny Sand and Gravel, owned a gravel pit that was unused at the moment, as the family outfit was occupied up at the Consolidated Mine, part of the reclamation effort. While they were thus occupied and their big pit east of town was quiet, we used a portion of it as a shooting range.
I turned south on Grande, heading south-east on State 61. In five miles, we would reach the dirt road that took off straight to the east, a road packed hard by constant heavy truck traffic. The gravel pit turn-off was still two miles ahead when we rounded a gentle curve and saw the late model Cadillac pulled off the side of the road. Well, half pulled off. The ass end of the big barge draped out so that the back bumper hung over the white line.
We hadn’t had any rain lately, so the shoulders were nice firm sand, and the back tires were still on asphalt. After turning on all of my own emergency lights, I idled 310 up close behind the Caddy.
“Go ahead.” I nodded toward the radio mike. How many times had this young lady called in a plate? Maybe never? She’d had the opportunity to hear others do it during the past few hours riding with me. But radios find the tongled tangs among the best of us, and rookies are sure fodder for tales from the air waves.
“PCS, three ten,” she said, and released the mike key, about as excited as we sound when we say, “Hi, how are you?” to a stranger we meet while passing through the automatic doors at the grocery store.
“Three ten, PCS.”
“PCS, ten twenty-eight three-niner-seven Romeo, Alpha, Mike.”
“Ten four, three ten. Ten twenty?”
Yes, soon-to-be-officer Reyes. Where the hell are you? The request for a twenty came out clipped and fast enough that I knew Dispatcher Barnes really wanted to add, “Don’t make me have to ask, damn it.” He would already be typing the plate number into the computer as he spoke.
“Three ten is just beyond mile marker four, State 61.”
“Tennnn four, three ten,” Barnes drawled. His tone gave me the impression that he’d have taken delight in giving the young lady a hard time had he not known she was right seat with me.
I hadn’t even noticed the mile marker post, although I would hope that I knew where I was without it. “Ten six,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message that the officer would be busy with 397RAM for a few minutes.
“So why did he park half on the roadway?” I asked, in no hurry to get out of the car. I recognized the big sedan, and that in itself was a puzzle, since Jack Newton, with his wrecked knees, bad hip, and bunions, wouldn’t have hoofed back into Posadas. Jack wouldn’t hoof anywhere.
“I think he’s lying across the seat,” Estelle said quietly. “I saw his hand as we approached.”
I looked across at her with keen interest. “His hand?”
“Yes, sir. As if he were lying across the seat, and raised his arm up in the air for something. Just for an instant.”
A sage nod of agreement was the thing for that moment. Hell, I hadn’t seen any hand wave at us. Maybe I’d been busy looking for damage as we rolled up, or traffic coming up behind us, or for Jack’s body slumped in the thorny weeds along the shoulder. Jack Newton was at least seventy-five, and his body was no longer eighty percent water, or whatever that figure is supposed to be. He was too thin and emaciated for that.
“Three ten, PCS. Be advised that three-niner-seven Romeo Alpha Mike should appear on a 1983 Cadillac, color maroon, registered to a John R. Newton, 41 Third Street, Posadas, New Mexico. Negative wants or warrants.”
“Ten four.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” I said. “Stay in the car.” Sure enough, Jack Newton was stretched out across the back seat of the Cadillac. The back seat. His keys hung from the ignition, and his wallet appeared to be resting in the center console, along with a pair of sun glasses and a Styrofoam cup. When I opened the passenger side door, the effluvium charged out, thick and sweet with a hint of tangy gut juice.
A 750ml bottle lay on the floor, just a swallow or two left. Normally, Jack Newton kept his drinking inside his modest little mobile home on a quarter lot on Third Street. I’d never arrested him for DWI, and couldn‘t remember the last time one of the other deputies had.
His wrinkled old face was flat against the Caddy’s fancy seat cushion, a trail of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to stain the fabric.
“Jack, you with us? It’s Bill Gastner.” I swung the door as far as it would go and ducked inside far enough to be able to put two fingers on the side of his withered old neck. His pulse wasn’t paying much attention—a wandering beat just waiting for an excuse to lurch to a halt from the alcohol poisoning. And add a match and his breath would have made a cutting torch. He snuffled and jerked, and for a moment it appeared that he wanted to open his eyes.
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