One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “Well, maybe so. That’s between the two of you.” I couldn’t imagine it, but stranger things have happened. One of the major requirements of law enforcement is the long, hot shower, both to calm the nerves and to wash off the stink of nasty predicaments. Somehow, Estelle Reyes had managed to survive two years with her uncle—two years of high school with its peer pressures and other crap, while at the same time managing her personal life in her uncle’s rustic paradise. Using the showers in the high school’s girls’ locker room must have served the purpose, but after that, a college dorm would have seemed opulent. I couldn’t imagine her going back to the tiny cabin hidden among the piñons and junipers, sleeping on a sofa and looking forward to a nice hot sponge bath out of an enameled basin come morning.

  “Let me give you a ride, Reubén. She’ll be out first thing in the morning. We’ll get those hands of yours fixed up.”

  He didn’t argue. That told me how miserable he felt. I pulled his truck well off the highway. Now we had Jack Newton’s Cadillac on one side of the county and Reubén’s battered truck on the other. It seemed to me that things tend to go in series—a string of break-ins, a wash of domestic disputes, all the county’s speeders congregating on the same stretch of highway. This happened to be geriatric alcoholic week.

  Half an hour later, with the inside of my car smelling like old man, I pulled to a stop at the foot of a small mesa a mile or so off County 14. My headlights illuminated the squat adobe, rock, and log cottage, the back of the dwelling backed tight against a rock outcropping. A canopy of runty, gnarled trees found enough moisture in the cracks and crannies. An electric line ran along the two-track, and looped into the side of the building. At least there was that.

  In 1930, when Spartan living was a way of life in the rural west, the place would have seemed cozy, even hospitable. Now, more than half a century later, with lives flooded with cheap luxuries, Reubén’s home was an anachronism, damn near a tourist attraction.

  Two dogs stood at silent alert, tails waiting, and when they saw—or smelled—my passenger, they did their dog-thing, becoming dervishes of greeting.

  He hesitated, half in and half out of my car. “What am I going to do about my truck? My tools…”

  “We’ll get ’em back to you,” I promised. That’s the trouble with starting the taxi service, I would admonish deputies. One thing leads to another, and pretty soon you have a snarl. Good deeds rarely go unpunished.

  “I guess I can take the old Jeep down. But I hate to do that.” The ‘old jeep’ was just that, a topless old buggy with the seats showing springs in a dozen places. It was parked beside the house, its license clearly expired. I knew it was a ’47, worth something now to a collector who might restore it. A bullet crease on the flat of the left front fender drew my eye. I knew how it had gotten there, and if either of the Hidalgo brothers were still alive, they’d probably welcome the chance for another try.

  “Let Estelle help you with all this,” I said.

  “Maybe she’ll stop on her way back,” the old man said. “She went down to talk with her mother.”

  “Maybe she’ll do that.” What the hell. Dump all this on the young lady, who certainly had a full plate at the moment without worrying about her great-uncle. I left the old man safe in his own home with his aloe hand cream and bourbon, and by the time 310’s tires chirped back onto the state highway, it was nearly 1:30 in the morning. When I saw Estelle at the office in the morning, we’d take care of the truck.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Estelle Reyes appeared at the dispatch desk at 7:30 that Thursday morning looking well rested, well groomed, and just generally goddamned breathtaking, wide-eyed with interest for what the day might bring. For a moment, she seemed about 12 years old, eyes taking in everything and everyone.

  She wore a conservative tan pants suit and a simple white blouse with one button open below the businesslike collar, with no jewelry of any kind except a wristwatch. Her shoes were sturdy black oxfords polished to a military sheen, the cuffs of her trousers breaking over the tops in a fashion that brought joy to an old sergeant’s heart.

  I stood in the doorway of my office, watching for just a moment as she chatted with Ernie Wheeler, who no doubt wished at just that moment that he was working days rather than the soon-to-end graveyard shift.

  Estelle gripped a slender black briefcase, and I wondered what souvenirs she’d collected.

  “Good morning,” I greeted her, and Ernie looked disappointed. T.C. Barnes, already on deck, had been told that most likely he would be enjoying the young lady’s company all day, and would present a comprehensive orientation. He was about to be disappointed, too.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Change of plans, by the way,” I said. “Come on in.” She followed me into my office, but didn’t take a chair. I waved her toward them, her choice, and she took the old wooden monstrosity to one side of the desk. “Before we get into anything else, I had a chat with your great-uncle early this morning. He managed to lime burn his hands at work down at the church, and he’d driven into town to find some ointment. He couldn’t drive worth shit, and I took him home. His truck is parked along 56, just beyond the bridge.”

  “I saw it this morning on my way in,” she said. “Ernie told me what happened.”

  “He’ll be all right, I’m sure. And your mother? She’s well?”

  “She is.” Estelle held the briefcase in her lap, one hand over each latch, her body English saying that she wanted to open the thing. Maybe her mother had sent up a serving of galletas for us. I didn’t want to be sidetracked from the git-go, and handed the young lady a copy of the Simmons catalog that had been holding down the landslide of papers on the corner of my desk. “You’ll need a rig,” I said. A number of yellow tags marked various catalog pages. “We’re going to need to order soon if you want to be outfitted for the academy.” She hefted the catalog and tilted her head as she thumbed to the first tag.

  “The deputies wear the line that starts on page nineteen. The one named ‘Desert Tan’, appropriately enough. You get the first three sets free, then two a year after that. Shirts, pants, shoes. The utility rigs are all on page twenty-eight, the line they call ‘Borderland.’ Stetsons are on page something. You’ll find ’em. It’s the off-white low crown.”

  I grinned. “In case you’re marveling at my incredible memory, rest assured that I took a couple of minutes to look ’em up and mark ’em. Anyway, that’s what you’ll need for the academy starting in September, as well as a bunch of other things. Exercise sweats, that sort of thing. Barnes will walk you through the paperwork. Do it sometime today.” She nodded and closed the catalog.

  “One of these days when things slow down, Deputy Torrez and I will go out to the range with you and find out how much work needs to be done to make you safe with a three fifty-seven. I have some reservations about that, since your hands aren’t exactly hams.” I regarded her critically. It’s a hell of a note that someone’s good looks can actually be a liability, but she’d just have to work to overcome the challenge. The uniform might help. I’d always thought that uniforms, especially with gun belts loaded with twelve pounds of crap, did a good job of ruining a trim line. With my girth, I favored civilian duds.

  “You’re going to have to be goddamn proficient with whatever weapon we find for you, because that’s what you’ll take to the academy. And that’s what you’ll have to qualify with for the department.” I sat down heavily behind my desk. “Although I’m here to attest that a goddamn blind man can qualify.”

  The young woman absorbed all that without comment.

  “And about the change of plans…there’s all the time in the world for office orientation, but what the hell. We dropped you into the middle of something yesterday, and it’s too good an opportunity to miss.” I nodded at her outfit. “That’s perfect, by the way. Looks sharp and professional.
The sheriff wants you wearing a vest, so we’ll see what we have as a stopgap until you can order your own.” I looked at her critically again. Kevlar vests weren’t made for comfort, especially for folks who were blessed with curves—and at the risk of sounding like a chauvenist pig, she had curves. She’d end up like a Joan of Arc, trying to look like a boy in her French armor.

  “All right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “As a matter of fact…“ She snapped the latches on the briefcase. “May I show you two photos?”

  “Of course.”

  The first, an eight-by-ten glossy surprised the hell out of me. I leaned back in the chair, examining the photo. “You took this when?”

  “Yesterday at Raught’s. You followed him into the kitchen, and I took the opportunity then. Yesterday afternoon, I made it in time to the one-hour photo in Deming and then to the Regál border crossing before it closed.”

  “Huh.” The photo was clean, with no flash shadows, the tres retablos on Raught’s fireplace mantel framed dead center, edge to edge. While I pondered the logistics of what the young lady had done, she drew another photo out of the case.

  The similarity was startling, although the second photo captured three retablos far more primitive than Raught’s, and it did so in a little, square instant photo of dubious quality. Raught’s El Jardin de los Tres Santos, with gold leaf and startling detail, morphed into primitive folk art in the second photo, with faded colors, primitive technique, and chipped edges.

  Estelle leaned forward and touched the second photo. “This is from the iglesia in Tres Santos, sir. Where my great-uncle is working. I didn’t have time to take a quality photo and have it printed before the photo store closed, so I used the Polaroid.”

  “A common subject for a retablo?” I held the two photos side by side. “I don’t claim to be an art critic.”

  “The iglesia in Tres Santos is named for the original mission in Veracruz, sir.”

  “So…”

  She touched first one photo and then the other. “I took the second photograph at the iglesia in Tres Santos yesterday evening. The tres retablos are over the altar. My mother says that they’ve been there since the 1920s.”

  I glanced up at the clock. “Where are we going with all this?”

  “El Jardin in Veracruz was painted in 1869 by Manuel Orosco.” She touched a slender finger to the bottom edge of the eight by ten. “My mother says that he was one of the most famous religious and folk artists in Mexico.”

  “And this is a copy of the original that’s hanging in Veracruz?”

  “I think…I think that this is the original, sir.”

  “The original? How would that be?” The eagerness suffused her features, and I almost hated to throw a wet blanket on her enthusiasm.

  “Actually, that’s not true,” she said. “I don’t know enough about art to tell an Orosco from a…” She floundered for a name and gave up. “I don’t know. But my mother does, sir. First, I took her to the Iglesia in Tres Santos last night. I wanted to make sure that my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me. I remember the Jardin de los Tres Santos there from when I was little. I remember always wondering why the saints looked so miserable.” The ghost of a smile touched her features.

  “I had the same thought earlier today,” I said.

  “When I was sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks, I showed mamá the photo of Raught’s retablo. She looked at it for a long time, sir.” She touched her face under her left eye. “And then the tears started to roll.”

  “Teresa knows about the one in Veracruz well enough to recognize it? After all these years? How many times has she actually seen the Orosco piece?”

  “Half a dozen over the years.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ve seen it once, sir. When I was twelve.”

  “So there’s an obvious question here.” I handed the photos back to her.

  “Yes, sir. What’s interesting is that the original Orosco was stolen four years ago. Thieves hit significant art in three Veracruz locations, major places with showcase religious art. One of them was Los Jardins.”

  “Now wait a minute. Have some mercy on my poor, slow brain, sweetheart. You’re claiming that you knew about the Veracruz theft, one that happened four years ago, before we went over to Raught’s home? You knew about the theft and recognized the piece?”

  “No, sir. My mother knew about the theft, had heard about it, especially because of the emotional link with the church in Tres Santos.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, sir.” She looked puzzled.

  “You’re thinking that Raught stole the piece?”

  “I don’t know, sir. If it’s the Orosco in the first place. In all these years, it might have wended its way to a dealer in the states…or in Mexico. Mr. Raught has been in both places, sir. He worked in Verzcruz at one time.”

  “And in Ohio,” I added. “This was an emotional tug for your mother, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So explain to me how she thinks this is the original deal. How can she tell that from a photograph?”

  Estelle looked down at the photographs, brows knit. “I don’t see how she could, sir. Except that the level of skill, the level of art? If it isn’t the original, it’s certainly a powerful copy.”

  “This kind of thing gets copied? I can see copying a Picasso, maybe. Or a Rembrandt or the ear guy…Van Gogh. I mean, there’s millions at stake there. But this?”

  “It’s of significant value, sir.” Estelle reached into the briefcase and brought out a yellowing newspaper clipping.

  “Yes, uh huh,” I said, and handed it back. I didn’t read Spanish, but could see that the clipping was dated four years previous.

  Estelle flattened it out on my desk, skimmed quickly, and stopped at the third paragraph. She pointed out the figures. “Los Jardins was valued at more than two hundred thousand.”

  I whistled in appreciation. “Signed?”

  “No, sir. My mother said that Orosco used to say that all of his religious works belonged to God, not to him. That they were done by God’s hand, not his.”

  “That makes it a tough nut.”

  “Except the piece is well documented, sir.” By now I was expecting a rabbit, but she pulled a manila folder from her briefcase. “Los Jardins is in at least two art books that my mother owns. I have the books in my apartment, but these are fair copies that Ernie Wheeler did for me just this morning.”

  “You must have been first at the border gate,” I laughed.

  “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  I examined the best photocopy side by side with the eight-by-ten. My uneducated eye said they could be the same, but what the hell did I know.

  “The proverbial can of worms,” I murmured. After another minute of looking, I handed the material back. “It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr. Raught has to say. If he greets us this time and says, ‘Hey, come back with a warrant,’ we’re toast. What we have is the contents of your briefcase, and what your mother thinks that she remembers.” I smiled at her. “That isn’t much to chase an international art thief with.”

  “But we’re not saying that Mr. Raught stole the original,” Estelle said. “There may be a significant possibility that he now owns the original somehow.”

  I took a very deep breath and let it out in a loud, long hiss. “So, back on earth…” I slid my notebook toward her and tapped the page. “These are the kiddos that Marilyn Zipoli told us about—the Zipoli skiing and boating club. We want to talk with all these little bastards, and that’s a hell of a challenge. We’ll be over at the high school and that’s another challenge. You’ve met Glenn Archer?”

  “Yes, sir. My last year at the high school was Mr. Arche
r’s first. He was teaching biology that year.”

  “And now he’s superintendent and principal of the high school, both jobs rolled into one. Glenn is a good guy, and an ally. But the issue is cops interviewing minors,” I said. “Fortunately for us, the school operates in loco parentis, and Archer will be sitting in on any interviews that we have. We don’t need the parents there, but regardless, we need to be circumspect. For one thing, anything we talk about, we talk about with a blabby kid. His or her version of events is going back to all his friends.”

  “It’s interesting that Mr. Zipoli attracted a fair crowd of kids on occasion,” she said.

  “Well, a fast boat and a set of water skis will do that. It’s also interesting that a couple of kids were talking with him over on County Road 19 the day before the shooting. We don’t know who that was, but it’s a connection that we need to explore. I mean, if you’re grading a ditch and someone rides or drives by, the usual thing might be a simple greeting—a nod or a friendly wave. I’m surprised that Zipoli stopped what he was doing to shoot the bull.” I sighed. “And we need something, Ms. Reyes. We have nothing but blind alleys so far.” I rapped my ring on the desk. “And now we have the list of kiddos. It’ll be interesting to run them past Jim Raught.” I smiled at her. “No ulterior motives, of course.”

  I watched her face for a moment as she appeared to examine a smudge on my desk top. If she thought any harder, her brain synapses would start smoking.

  “What?” I prompted.

  “It’s difficult for me to believe that Mr. Zipoli didn’t share his stash with youngsters,” she said quietly. “The opportunities were obvious.”

  “You think?” I laughed. I would have liked to have heard something a little less obvious than that. After all, I’d had that same thought, and I hardly qualified as a forensic Einstein. “So on this occasion, some homicidal kid asked him for a beer, and he refused?”

  “Most likely not that,” she said soberly. “I can’t imagine someone being shot over a can of beer.”