One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “How’s Mo do?”

  “He’s…” Thomas paused and made a face. “He doesn’t try very hard. But his bike sucks, so that’s part of it. He’s got this old Schwinn three-speed that weighs a ton.”

  “Not a hot rod, eh.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How often does he go out with you?”

  “Just a couple of times.”

  “He’s not in school today, Thomas. I’m surprised he isn’t out with you.”

  “I don’t know where he is, sir.”

  “You didn’t talk with him this morning?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll see him this afternoon?”

  “Hmmm…might.”

  “Where were you guys headed the other day when you stopped to chat with Zipoli?”

  “We were thinking of the mesa top, but Mo was walking more than he was riding. Jason was way out ahead—he said he’d wait on top. So me and Mo were just makin’ it work. I was going to try and take Jason on the hill, but then Mo couldn’t keep up, and I didn’t want to just take off and leave him. I knew Jason wouldn’t wait, ‘cause him and Mo…” He stopped, as if embarrassed by this gusher of information.

  “Him and Mo what?”

  “They don’t get along so good any more. They used to, I guess, but…”

  “So you were riding with Mo, trying to coax him along.”

  “Yes, sir. And then we came around that corner there above the old drive-in and Jason was stopped, talkin’ with Mr. Zip.”

  Mr. Zip, your friendly circus clown. “For how long?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  I leaned back and rested my rump on the front fender of the county car, crossing my arms over my chest. “He offered you guys some refreshment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You accepted?”

  That prompted a long, uncomfortable silence. Self-incrimination wasn’t Tom Pasquale’s favorite sport.

  “I guess,” he said finally.

  “What, a beer or two?”

  “Me and Jason shared a beer. Mo didn’t.”

  “Really.” That was interesting, peer influence being the super-power that it was.

  “No, sir. He was workin’ on his bike, and rode on up the road a few feet. Something with his chain, but I don’t know what. I mean, what’s to go wrong with a chain? It’s either on or it isn’t.”

  “What did Zipoli talk about?”

  “Oh, just stuff, you know. He wanted to know if I was going to get a job with the county when I graduate.”

  “And are you?”

  Pasquale frowned in disbelief. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “He mentioned that he’d be taking a trip over to the Butte with the boat some Sunday comin’ up. That’d be cool.”

  “Indeed. So no mention of any arguments? Nothing like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And then you went on up the hill.”

  “Yes, sir. Mo went on ahead some while we was talking, working on his bike, but it only took us about ten seconds to catch him.”

  “You went all the way to the top?”

  “Me and Jason did. Mo turned back at the intersection with the paved road. That’s a nice coast back down into town.”

  “And the two of you—you and Jason—went on to the top of the mesa.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was that the last time you saw Mr. Zipoli?”

  He nodded silently and then shook his head. “Is there anything I can do, sir?”

  “You’re doing it,” I replied. I fished a business card out of my shirt pocket and handed it to him. “If you think of something else, don’t hesitate to call me. If you remember something that Zipoli said to you, or you hear some rumor at school. Any little nugget.” I pushed away from the car. “We’re in the information business, Thomas.”

  He tucked the card into a nifty little plastic container that took the place of a wallet.

  “And stop ditching school,” I added. “That’s a given. If I need to talk with you again, I want to know where to find you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jason’s not with you today either? You’re flying solo.”

  “He had to go to Cruces with his grandma for an eye appointment.”

  “And Mo? You don’t know where he’s at?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since…Tuesday morning? When the three of us went riding. If I saw him today, I was going to talk with him about a great bike deal for him. Jason’s got this older Peugeot he wants to sell. It’d be a whole lot better than that heap he’s got.”

  “Maybe it’ll work out.” I turned to Estelle. “Anything you need to know?”

  She’d been working with her notebook, and now regarded Thomas Pasquale curiously. I didn’t expect a flood of questions, but maybe one or two. She snapped the book closed. “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Then we’re off,” I said. “Pedal safe, son.”

  “I’ll try to remember the minimum speed,” he laughed.

  “And stop signs,” I added. “Stop actually means just that. Even for bikes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He lifted the bike back onto the pavement, and by the time Estelle and I were back in the car, Thomas Pasquale was already a hundred yards down the highway.

  “So, there we go,” I said. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Well, that’s twice,” Estelle said, and didn’t amplify the thought as I keyed the mike.

  “PCS, three ten is ten eight.”

  Dispatch acknowledged and went back to sleep.

  “Twice what?” I asked.

  “When Mo Arnett was having fun with the fire crackers, he made himself scarce when Larry Zipoli came home for lunch. No chit-chat, no greeting. According to Mr. Raught, Mo ran and hid. This time, the three boys come upon Mr. Zipoli out in the country, under relaxed conditions. Two of the boys stay and chat, even share a beer. Mo makes himself scarce again, heading on up the road while he monkeys with his bike.”

  I regarded the young lady carefully, damn impressed. “There could be dozens of explanations for that,” I said. “Or not.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If we assume that Mo Arnett was uneasy in Larry Zipoli’s company, then it would be interesting to find out why. Who knows what goes through a kid’s mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Arnetts owned three vehicles, one of which was parked in the driveway on North Fourth. A yellow late-model Jeep CJ-7 was parked in front of the two car garage, and records showed it was registered to Mark and Mindy Arnett. Little Maureen might be waiting until she was old enough to drive that little yellow gem to school.

  Mo would have his choice. He could walk to school, all of ten minutes. He could ride the Schwinn. He could—maybe—drive the Jeep. Fat chance. He’d catch less flack from his peers on the Schwinn, although half of his pals wouldn’t admit that they’d kill for the Jeep, yellow or not.

  Dad Arnett would be driving the dark blue three-quarter ton Ford crew cab, somewhere at the moment between Posadas and Mark’s potential roofing job in Deming.

  That left mom’s car, a gold late model Pontiac Grand Am, license Charlie Lincoln Thomas four niner niner. The Arnett home was six blocks from the Catholic Church on Bustos and Third. Would Mindy drive to work? Of course she would. The Pontiac was either hidden in the garage or over at the rectory.

  I parked a couple of houses down from the Arnetts and walked to the front door. No one answered my knock or the bell, and I could hear the dingdong echoing through what sounded like an empty house. I took my time, rapping and ringing again, then sauntered back toward the county car. As I passed by the side of
the house, I saw the heavy Schwinn bike resting against the side of the house in front of the garage.

  Back at the car, I sighed. “Let’s pay a visit to Mindy Arnett.”

  In a few minutes, Estelle and I entered the side door of the rectory, under the modest little sign that announced Father Carey’s office, and walked a couple steps down a polished, dark wood hallway to the office doorway.

  I earned only the briefest glance from Mindy Arnett, but she leaned to one side for a clear look at Estelle Reyes as we entered.

  “Mindy, this…”

  That’s as far as I got with my introduction. Mindy nearly bounded to her feet, and skirted the big desk with astounding agility for a woman of such matronly build, arms wide. “For HEAVEN’s sakes!” she cried. “Look who’s here!” She enveloped Estelle in a hug, then pushed her away, a hand on each shoulder. “Just look at you. Teresa’s little girl is all grown up!”

  That outburst earned Mindy Arnett a warm smile from the girl, all the encouragement Mindy needed. “The last time I saw this young lady was at baccalaureate, I do believe.” I never had been able to keep such meticulous track of acquaintances, but Mindy had no such trouble. “Of course, I see Teresa almost regularly, don’t you know.” She leaned well into Estelle’s airspace, but the young lady held her ground. “We all hope that one of these days she’ll move to Posadas, you know. I mean, Tres Santos is so picturesque, but still…” She took a quick breath. “I do hope you’ll be joining us now that you’re with the county. You know, I think that’s so exciting. I mean, have we ever had a woman deputy? I don’t think we have. And it’s long overdue, don’t you think so?” That was my cue to fit a word in edgewise, but I was slow on the uptake.

  I hadn’t told Mindy that Estelle had joined us, but the grapevine was efficient. And what I feared would happen was in full swing. Unless I could clap a hand over her mouth, Mindy Arnett would continue to gush. Certainly, Father Vince Carey had long since figured out how to manage the woman, but my strategy simply had been to ignore her.

  Mindy dropped her hands and reached across the desk to poke keys on the computer’s keyboard, then took me by surprise. “Now, did you want to visit with Father? I think he’s in his office this very minute.” Her face softened with concern. “And such a tragedy with Larry Zipoli.” Her hand drifted up to cover her mouth. “I just can’t imagine…”

  “Actually, I need to chat with you, Mindy,” I said, and toed her office door closed. “Do you have a moment?”

  “My word, of course I do.” She looked at me warily as she slid back into her chair. She waved toward two straight chairs that nestled tight against floral wall paper. “Such a tragic week we’ve had. First Mr. Newton passing away, then that awful thing with the Zipolis. Just awful. And I suppose you knew Miriam Archuleta?”

  I didn’t, but Mindy rattled on. “She had just gone to live with her son in El Paso, and died with the pneumonia, of all things.” She shook her head. “Such a wonderful woman she was.” Mindy folded her hands, either about to run down, or settling in. In her mind, apparently, Larry Zipoli’s murder was in the same category as a death from old age or pneumonia.

  “Mrs. Arnett, we’re in the process of talking to anyone who might have spent some time with Larry Zipoli just before his death.”

  “Well, I should think so,” she responded quickly. “You know, I haven’t talked with either Larry or Marilyn in quite some time.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice a bit. “They aren’t our most regular members here at the church, you know. Once in a while, I have the opportunity to chat with Jim next door to them.” She looked conspiratorial. “We’re always concerned with shepherds who stray, you know.”

  I didn’t know, and didn’t care. I kept my tone pleasant as I said, “Actually, I wasn’t concerned with you, Mrs. Arnett.” I held up a hand as she took a breath, winding up to begin another roll. “There’s a group of kids who hang out at the Zipolis at various times. On several occasions, they’ve gone to the lake with the family. Water skiing, that sort of thing.”

  Her right hand drifted to her mouth. “Oh, my, are you saying that one of the kids had something to do…”

  “Nope, I’m not saying that, Mrs. Arnett. I’m saying that several youngsters, your son Mo included, had occasion to spend time with Larry Zipoli—most often over at the lake, or working on the boat at his home.”

  “Mo and…”

  “At the moment, I’m concerned with Mo,” I nodded. She wanted the whole list, of course, but that wasn’t going to happen. “He’s not in school today, I understand.”

  “He most certainly is in school,” Mrs. Arnett said, and some steel crept into her voice, reprimanding me for making such a silly mistake.

  Her eyes narrowed when I added, “And I can understand that, the weather being what it is. A grand day for a little hooky.”

  She turned and regarded the telephone console. A call to the school would clear things up, but there lay the risk. Without making the call, Mindy Arnett could rest comfortable in the notion that I was wrong, and that her son was in fact sitting at an uncomfortable desk, listening to a litany of all the work the school year held in store, overlaying the assurances of all the fun he was certain to have.

  “Go ahead,” I said gently. “You’ll want confirmation, Mindy.”

  She sat back and looked at me. “Do you know where he’s been?”

  “No. That’s why we’re here.”

  “I don’t understand, then. You sound as if he’s involved in something. Since when did you folks become truant officers?”

  “Since never,” I said with a chuckle. “As I told you, we’re in the interview process. Now, it’s our understanding that Mo and some of his friends frequented the Zipoli casa, and even took some recreational trips to the Butte. The kids might not have a damn thing to tell us. Then again, we never know. They might have heard or seen something that could be a help.” I shrugged. “That’s the sum and substance of it.”

  “Let me,” she said, and picked up the phone. In a couple of minutes, she settled the receiver back in its cradle, clearly distressed at what the school secretary had reported. “All day today.” She dialed another number, and the phone at her home rang ten times before she gave up. With the efficiency of a practiced secretary, she punched in another number. “Is Mark back from Deming yet, Julie?” She listened in silence for a moment. “All right. What’s that number?” She jotted, broke off the call, and dialed again, this time long distance.

  We waited patiently while she tracked down her husband. Finally, after the usual back and forth of greetings and explanation, she asked with visible relief at having someone she trusted to talk with, “Mark, is Mo with you?” Obviously he wasn’t. “He’s not in school today.” She glanced at me. “Well, I’m not sure where he is. The sheriff is here and wants to talk with him.” I couldn’t hear Mark Arnett’s voice, but his tone was such that Mindy didn’t interrupt him. After a moment of nodding, she said, “No…it’s Bill Gastner. Here, why don’t you talk with him?”

  I took the receiver. “Mark? Bill Gastner. How are you.”

  “What’s the deal, sheriff?” In the background, I could hear traffic, and at least one piece of heavy equipment, its exhaust bark close by.

  “We’d like to chat with Mo about when he might have talked last with Larry Zipoli.”

  “Shit.”

  Exactly what Mark Arnett meant by that was unclear. “Just some things that we want to clear up,” I added.

  “Like what?”

  “When Mo last saw Mr. Zipoli, for example. Or if he heard Zipoli talk about any…what, issues that he might have had with anybody? Things like that.”

  “Why Mo? He’s not the only kid that hangs out over there.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s one of several. We’ve started the process of talking with them all.”

  �
��Huh. So what’s the deal, anyway?” He didn’t sound terribly concerned.

  “Just that. We want to talk with anyone who happened to see Zipoli recently.”

  “Well, Mo ought to be in school. That’s all I can tell you, sheriff.” He barked a short laugh. “He’s not the most motivated little bugger, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Any particular place that he likes to go?”

  “Nope. I mean, other than in front of the damn video games. Just out and about with his buddies. One of the kids has been trying to get him interested in ridin’ bikes. That’d be a good thing. He’s got the old Schwinn out and oiled up.”

  “Who does he hang out with, generally?”

  “Oh, you know…the Pasquale kid. Tommy, I think his name is. Once in a while with Louis Zamora or Jason Packard. Him and Packard used to hang out together a lot, but not so much any more. You know how those things go. His sister might know.”

  I took a slow breath. Of course—a fourth grader, in this case little Maureen Arnett, would know where her brother was if the folks didn’t.

  “Did Mo take the Pontiac today, do you know?” Even as I asked that, Mindy Arnett was shaking her head vehemently.

  “Damn well better not have,” dad said. “Why, did you see him in it?”

  “I thought he might have taken a trip to the city or something,” I said. “So you folks haven’t noticed anyone or anything unusual in the neighborhood these past few days? Strangers, that sort of thing?”

  “Hell, no. ‘Course, I ain’t home most of the time. And you’re right. The kids would have seen or heard more’n me. Them or Jim Raught across the street. Hell, he’s always home. Meditating or some damn thing.”

  “Look, thanks, Mark. We’ll touch bases with Mo later today sometime. No big deal. If you see him before I do, you might have him give me a call.”

  “You got it.”

  “And one of these days, I need to talk with you about an estimate on my old casa. I’ve got a couple of leaks that I can’t find.”

  “You got it. Let me bend Mindy’s ear for a minute.”