One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “Not hard or nothin’, but yeah…I connected. It looked kind of funny, you know. We all cracked up, ‘cause he lost his balance and stumbled backward. Well, Mo was pissed, and he ran back to the bike and took off. Mr. Z thought that was pretty funny.”

  “And you got the five bucks?”

  “’No fight, no money.’ That’s what Mr. Z said. I knew it was just a joke, anyway. Funny thing is that big as Mo is, if he got himself into shape, he’d probably be a pretty good boxer. Got real big hands.”

  “You saw Mo after that? What did he have to say?”

  Jason shook his head. “He dumped the bike back here, right in the front yard. I guess he just went home.”

  “When did you see him after that?”

  “Just when him and Tom and me went for a ride this past week. Tom invited him along, not me. Mo wasn’t talkin’ much. He wouldn’t say shit to me. Still mad, I guess.”

  “He was,” Tom Pasquale added. “He wondered what would happen if sometime he dropped one of those M-80’s he’s got down the fuel tank of Mr. Z’s road grader. See how he likes it. That’s what Mo said.”

  With a gentle tug, Jason set the bike wheel in motion again. “You’re not saying that Mo might have had something to do with the shooting, are you, sir?”

  “Nope…we’re not saying that.” Jason heard the ‘we’ and glanced across at Estelle, who true to form had remained silent through the whole chat. “Do either of you happen to know where Mo went this afternoon? Did he stop by here?”

  “No, sir,” Tom Pasquale said. “I haven’t seen him.”

  Jason shook his head, then smiled, an expression that would have been charming if someone had taken care of his dental needs when he was a squirt. “He’s probably still mad at me. He’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe so.” I wasn’t sure I believed that.

  Chapter Thirty

  Estelle Reyes picked at her chicken taco salad while I indulged my broad streak of gluttony with a green chile burrito that would no doubt give my ailing gall bladder fits. But what the hell. The person I most wanted to interview was seventeen year-old Maurice ‘Mo’ Arnett, but he’d played his wild card.

  Small as Posadas was, there were a myriad places to hide, and my inclination was to think that’s what Mo had done. I couldn’t see him taking off cross-country. South of the border wouldn’t appeal to him, a pudgy gringo who didn’t speak ten words of Spanish and for whom the vast northern Mexican desert would yawn as an endless threat.

  “So, where did he go?” I said around a mouthful of fragrant cheese and chile slices. “If you were seventeen and on the run, where would you go? You have a stolen car…well, a borrowed car. He can’t hide that very well. That’s a ton of metal that we’re going to find eventually.”

  “Relatives out of town?” Estelle toyed with a tiny slice of chicken.

  “No doubt. But how’s that going to work? Auntie sees Mo on her doorstep over in Calcutta, Texas, and what’s she going to do? Call Mindy and Mark, is what. And then it’s over. He can’t hide with friends, because he doesn’t have any. And I have a hard time believing he’s the sort of independent kid who could go to a strange place and just settle in. Not many kids are self-reliant enough to do that.”

  Before she could answer, my radio, standing like a sentinel beside the salt and pepper shaker, squelched to life.

  “Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty-one.” Baker’s voice held no particular urgency, but good dispatchers are like that. The world can be collapsing under them, and the voice on the radio is calm and mellow.

  I reached across and pushed the transmit button. “Ten four.” I shoved my plate forward a bit and pushed myself out of the booth. “In a minute,” I said, and made my way toward the front of the restaurant. A phone nestled under the short counter by the cash register, and I dialed the Sheriff’s Department. Barnes picked up on the first ring.

  “What’s up?” I leaned on the counter, looking down through the scratched glass at the tempting array of small cigars.

  “Sir, Mark Arnett is here and wants to talk with you. Hold on a minute, and I’ll get him.”

  “No, no, don’t bother with that. We’ll be back in the office in ten minutes. If he wants to wait, make him comfortable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that was quick,” I muttered as I hung up. Arnett had pounded the pavement home from Deming without delay, and that told me that the standard issue parental denial might not be the case here. I could make it back to the office in three minutes, but what the hell. A burrito was waiting back at the table, steaming and fragrant, and who knew—with the way the day was going to hell, the opportunity to eat might be as elusive as Mark Arnett’s son. A dozen pairs of eyes were now looking for Mo Arnett, and they didn’t need me for a few minutes.

  When I returned, Fernando Aragon, the restaurant’s owner and chief chef, was leaning against the back of the booth, hands clasped over his generous belly as he chatted with the department’s newest recruit. He laughed at something Estelle said, and looked up at me as I approached around the waitresses’ island.

  “Hey, Sheriff!” He thrust out a hand. His grip was strong, but his hand felt bloated, damp, and smooth from all the hot water, detergent, and hand cream. “You know, I met this young lady when she was this high.” He held his hand a couple of feet above the well-worn carpet. “What do you think of that?”

  “Small world,” I said. “How’s business for you?”

  “Ay.” He straightened up and moved so that I could slide in to my seat. “You know, with the mine closing, we’re going to be facing some lean times.”

  I wagged my eyebrows while readjusting the precise position of my plate. “I’ll always do my best to help.” I glanced at my watch. “I hate to eat and run, but we need to get back to the office.” Fernando took the hint—one of the many things I liked about him—and headed back to his kitchen, leaving us to our gastronomic delights.

  I shoveled two mouthfuls of burrito, and then paused. “So, your fiancé…you said he’s the only member of his family living in the United States? How did you two meet?”

  She thought about that for a piece of chicken or two. I was amused at the level of thought she gave the opening of each doorway into her personal history. “His aunt is a lawyer in Veracruz. She knows my mother. From years and years ago.”

  Teresa Reyes, Estelle’s stepmother, lived in Tres Santos, a miniscule hamlet south of the border and a scant fifty miles from where we now sat. Veracruz was a long, long trip south, on the east coast of the country a stone’s throw from the Yucatan—about the same distance from Posadas as Cleveland, but with no nifty interstates between to eat the miles. I made a mental note to pursue how an attorney in Veracruz had come to know a school teacher in Tres Santos—a school teacher who owned neither car nor telephone nor a long list of life’s other comforts.

  “Ah,” I said, and let it go at that. “The reason I asked about Francis is that one of the most interesting things that we end up doing in this crazy business is talking to parents, Estelle. Mom, Dad…that’s if the subject in question is lucky enough to have both, and both functional.”

  I speared another section of burrito, and worked at keeping the cheese from sagging down my shirt front. “I did my time as a parent—two sons, two daughters,” and I spread my hands. “Scattered all over the country. And,” I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m acutely aware of some of the mistakes that I made. Hell,” and I waved the fork. “I have a son who won’t even speak to me…how stupid is that? I also have a daughter who won’t stop speaking to me. That’s almost as bad.”

  Estelle listened politely, without comment or question. She absorbed information like a sponge. I wondered how well she’d be able to jump into an interrogation. The bad guys weren’t going to confess all just because it was the right thing to do.

 
“The phone call just now was Mark Arnett, father of Mo. He’s at the office and wants to talk to us, about what I don’t know. Mom Arnett is all bustle and control and whatnot, but did you get the feeling that she isn’t in touch with her son very much?” I didn’t give her time to answer. “Did she know that he wasn’t in school? No. Does she know that he has her car? No. Will she have a clue about where her son might have gone? I bet not. So…bossy, controlling, and clueless—a poor combination. And that brings us to Dad Arnett.”

  I held up a hand as I chewed. “I’m willing to bet that he’ll be defensive, that he’ll be ready to take the belt to his son…or at least he’ll make a big show about saying that he will. Lots of dads are all talk, no action.” I shrugged. “I’m not saying he is, but the odds are there. He doesn’t know Mo is pitching M-80’s around, or if he does, hasn’t done anything about it. The folks aren’t wild about Mo going on the Elephant Butte trips, but don’t prevent it. You see how it goes?” That earned a nod. “And I’m also willing to bet that he’ll be angry with us.” I chuckled. “That just comes with the turf. We generally end up as hated messengers.”

  Estelle nodded as if my lecture had made sense. I put both hands on the table. “Think about this, Estelle.” And she was thinking, I could see, her thick black eyebrows knitting to practically meet over her slender, aquiline nose. “A guy and a gal get married,” and I drew two imaginary circles on the table, then produced a third one between them, “and along comes the kid. Now, we have a triangle. Who controls the household? Who is the absolute authority? When there is a problem, what are the dynamics between family members? We know it’s not always dear old dad. He may be an authority figure, or he might be a wuss. Ditto for mom. And the kid? If the parents have given up and let him run things, well then. It becomes our business when the law is involved. The trick,” and I pushed my empty plate away, “is that when all the dust settles, for us not to have made things worse. And the sad thing is, that can’t always be helped.”

  I gazed across the restaurant at one of the waitresses as she chatted with a family of six about to have every sense assaulted with the best chile in the world. I envied them, since I had finished my treat and now had more mundane things to do, while they had the whole menu to explore.

  “Let me end the lecture by adding that I tell my deputies that how they respond to a domestic disturbance at 11 p.m. will determine what kind of ruckus they’ll have to return to a second time at 3 a.m. So we’ll listen to what Mark Arnett has to say without landing on him with both feet, without making him feel desperate. We try to keep him on an even keel, and then we wing it from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” I echoed. “And we can hope that in the meantime, someone stumbles across their son, alive and well and ready to come home.”

  “When you spoke with Mr. Arnett on the phone the first time, did he indicate that he was coming right home?”

  “Nope. Maybe he thought of something we need to know. We can always hope.” Her frown hadn’t relaxed, and I’m sure it wasn’t the remains on her modest plate that fascinated or perplexed her. “What?”

  She cocked her head, still regarding the plate. “Mrs. Arnett said a curious thing.”

  “Curious how?”

  “When she was talking about James Raught, sir. She referred to him as a shepherd who strayed.”

  “Vaguely I remember that, but I think she was referring to the Zipolis.”

  “When church people talk about shepherds, they’re referring to the priest—or pastor, or whatever.” Her tone was one of musing, not correction, and I waited for the rest of the thought. “Mrs. Arnett might have been referring to Larry Zipoli, leading the kids around. I suppose that could be what she meant.”

  “You’re still thinking about Tres Santos, aren’t you.”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I heard that one word, sir. Shepherd. The connotation of that is so strong to me, growing up where I did. And all of Raught’s art, his obvious interest in religious art—the icons of it all.”

  I sat back in the booth, both hands folded where my plate had been. For a full minute, we remained in silence. Estelle neither fussed nor elaborated. She was as comfortable with the silence as I was uncomfortable with her suggestion.

  Finally, I said, “You want to talk with him again?”

  She nodded. “My mother was going to talk with Sophia today.”

  “And who the hell is Sophia?”

  “My fiancé’s aunt, sir. The lawyer in Veracruz I mentioned.”

  “Ah.” To have a twenty-one year old memory again. “Tell me about this.”

  “Sophia Tournal is acusadora—a prosecuting attorney, sir. She was involved with the original Tres Santos case. At one time, they thought that they had arrested one of the suspects in the theft. But no.”

  “Poor bastard is probably still in the can, though,” I said. “I wondered how all this got around to your lovely mother.”

  “My mother was going to ask Sophia for some details, sir. If there are any identifying marks, characteristic things, that could help identify the retablos that Raught has in his home.”

  “Your mother has no phone. How is she going to accomplish all this?”

  “The Romeros, just down the lane.”

  “All right, then. Let’s see how it all washes out. You want to talk with Raught again?”

  “Yes. After I hear from my mother.”

  “Fair enough. In the meantime, we have a man waiting. A nervous man. Let’s not keep him waiting.” I stood up, intercepted the lunch ticket from the waitress, and folded it around a twenty. “Thanks, Jana Lynn.”

  Mark Arnett’s white three-quarter ton was parked in one of the two visitors’ spaces at the county building. Enough junk was loaded in the back to make it squat. But Mark wasn’t inside the truck, giving his son a tongue lashing. They weren’t sitting together, having a heart-to-heart father-son talk. Mo Arnett wasn’t slumped in an emotional heap on the front steps of the Sheriff’s Department building.

  Dispatcher T.C. Barnes looked up as we entered the employee’s entrance behind dispatch. “Sir, Mr. Arnett is waiting in conference.”

  I nodded and skirted the dispatch island. “Conference” was a grand term for the small room across the hall with a six-place table and a small cabinet that held the coffee maker, cups and such, two tape recorders that often didn’t work, and a video camera mounted on a tripod. Across the room was a small copier/fax that worked in the best of times.

  We had no fancy one-way observation glass like they always use in the movies, no place for an audience to stand and watch the interrogation process. Most of the time, deputies used the room as a spacious office and lounge, or a non-threatening place to interview minors whom the state’s Children, Youth and Families outfit wouldn’t let us just throw in the lock-up—although that approach would have done some kids a world of good.

  The conference room door opened soundlessly, and we caught Mark Arnett in a relaxed moment. He was seated in one of the side chairs at the table, leaning back, one boot up on the corner of the table. His chin rested in his hand pensively, elbow propped on the arm of the chair. Across the room, a four-by-five foot map of Posadas County was framed on the wall, the surface dotted with an array of colored pins, one of Sheriff Eduardo Salcido’s projects to visualize the pattern of every motor vehicle fatality in the county.

  Arnett swiveled his head just enough to see us, but otherwise remained motionless as we entered. A burly, powerful man used to hard labor dawn to dusk, Mark Arnett was likely forty years old or so but looked fifty-five, his broad face baked into lines and wrinkles by the sun reflecting off the roofs on which he worked.

  With exaggerated care, he swung his boot down to the floor and rose from the chair. At six-one, he had me by two inches, but I outweighed him by fifty pounds—all pork.

 
“You made it,” he said, his implication clear that the twelve or so minutes he had to wait had been too long. He eyed Estelle with interest. “And who’s this?” He gave her hand a perfunctory, single pump as I introduced them. “You don’t look like your average cop.” His smile was tight. It wasn’t a question, and sure enough—Estelle Reyes’ only response was the hint of a smile of her own.

  “Thanks for coming in.” I took the offered hand. “I know this isn’t the easiest thing.”

  “Goddamn right.” He slumped back down in the chair, and I took the one to his left at the end of the table. It would have been easy, in one of those mini-moments of control, to assign Estelle to a seat, but I made no motions or suggestions, curious about the little things in human behavior. She selected the chair to Mark Arnett’s right where she’d have a side view of his face, able to watch the flushes work on his neck, or the expressions touch the side of his mouth. To look at her, he’d have to twist in his chair…or he could just ignore her.

  “Okay, Mo is screwing up,” he said. “Goddamn kids. He took his mother’s car, the little shit.” He rapped the table sharply with the heavy class ring on his right hand. “He knows that’s not going to fly.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “Hell, no. He knows that if he takes the car or any other damn thing with a motor, his ass is grass.”

  “Some troubles in the past?”

  “Nah. Not really. For one thing, he’s skippin’ school, and that gets my goat. The last thing I want is him drivin’ around town with a carload of his buddies. You know how they are. Tomorrow is Friday, and that’s party time—even if they haven’t done a goddamn thing to deserve it.”

  “I suppose.” I regarded him long enough that he dropped his gaze and studied the class ring. “So tell me…when Mo was over at Larry Zipoli’s place, or off with him and the rest of the kids on one of those skiing trips, how did you feel about that?”

  Mark shifted in his seat, and the damn ring rapped again, this time a nervous little drumroll. “Look, Larry Zip is one of those guys who lives and breathes his boat, his beer, his football. You know, he’s just one of those guys. Kind of reminds me of that fat neighbor in the Sunday funnies…the one who’s always sittin’ in his recliner with a brew in his hands. Now, I’ve heard that he gives it to the kids sometimes. You know, a can now and then. I guess that’s no big deal.” He glanced up at me to see if I agreed that it was no big deal. “But there’s other things I wish Mo would do with his time.”