Bag Limit (20 page)

“Suppose Melinda was the one who issued the license. I couldn’t guess why she’d do a thing like that, but just suppose,” Torrez said, retracing his steps. “And in the first place, with the new computerized systems, I don’t even know how she’d do it, but like anything else, I imagine there’s a way. If she did that, what’s Scott’s interest in it?”

“From a cop’s point of view, he’d want to protect his sister, and nail Melinda. He’d want to make sure that Connie didn’t take a fall for something she didn’t do. It’s possible Connie got wind of the deal, and mentioned it to Scott.”

“Sure. That sort of thing is hardly the Border Patrol’s turf, but like you say, it’s family.” Torrez rested both forearms on the desk and fixed me with an unblinking stare. He didn’t say a word for a long time, and finally I broke the stalemate.

“What?” I asked.

“You talked with Tony Abeyta earlier tonight,” Torrez said. “Apparently Betty Contreras is saying that she saw a Border Patrol vehicle drive by around eight? Just before the Lucero kid wandered over and found Sosimo dead?”

“That’s what Betty says. She told me that she mentioned the incident to Scott, and that Scott then told her that the vehicle was probably him. But that’s not what he tells me. Tony agrees—he said the conversation never took place, at least in his presence. And he never left the room while Scott was there.”

“So Betty’s lying. On top of that, she told me the same thing.” Torrez turned and looked out the window. “Why would she do that?”

“I have no idea, Robert. Scott said that he never drove through the village.”

“Did you happen to ask him if he picked up Sosimo that morning? While my uncle was walking along the road?”

“No. But if he’d picked him up and took him home, then he would have driven through the village, wouldn’t he?” I shrugged. “And he would have said so.”

Torrez didn’t look as if he was listening. Instead, he said, “If Scott Gutierrez was the one who picked up Sosimo yesterday morning, I’d have to ask myself why he’d bother. He wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday during the day. Why is he there at all? If he saw an old man walking along the highway, why would he bother to pick him up?”

“Why not?” I might, if I knew him.”

“Sure,
you
would. But Scott Gutierrez wouldn’t, unless he had a good reason. If he takes Sosimo back home, what’s he want?”

“The license? If he knows about it, even if he doesn’t know where it is. He knew that it wasn’t in the kid’s wallet because he watched Jackie Taber search through it at the accident scene.”

“Maybe so. He thinks that Sosimo might have it, or he wants to search the house. Maybe Sosimo isn’t so fast to agree to that. A few threats, a scuffle, things don’t go quite the way Scott would have liked, and he’s out of there. My uncle is dead in the backyard with his arteries blown up.”

“But all of that means that Gutierrez knew about the license before that morning, then. Even before we did.”

“That’s right. And if that’s true, it puts a whole new spin on things.”

For a moment I studiously regarded the cuticles of my right hand. “Betty Contreras works just down the hall from the MVD office, doesn’t she?”

“Sure.”

“And she’d have occasion to talk with both your sister and Connie French on a daily basis.”

Torrez shrugged. “Sure. At least on the three days that the MVD is open. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“Have you talked with Betty since yesterday?”

“No, sir.”

“Let me take another swing at her, then.” I put both hands on the chair and leaned forward, gathering the ambition to get up. “Give me some time to talk with Betty and with your sister. You hang low for a little bit.” He looked uneasy. “I’m serious,” I continued. “You’re so tired you can’t see straight. Go home and get some sleep.”

Torrez reached across and picked up the plastic evidence bag. “I want to know how it’s possible to make this.”

“So do I. Let me find out.” I grunted to my feet. “Estelle and Francis should roll in sometime this afternoon,” I said. “Like I said, it wouldn’t hurt to run all this by her, to see what she thinks.”

Torrez laughed. “Just swear her in,” he said. “And by the way, speaking of swearing in, the preliminary hearing for the Torrance kid is nine o’clock Monday morning, if I can ask you to go. Dr. Perrone wanted to keep him in the hospital today, for observation. Apparently old Victor really belted him. There’s a little bleeding that Perrone’s worried about.”

“I’ll be happy to go, he lied,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Miles Waddell might drop the charges, but it wouldn’t hurt to pull him into a dark corner and ask him. It’ll be really interesting to see what Judge Hobart says, He’s known Herb Torrance longer than I have.”

“I heard by the grapevine that Cliff Larson wants you to work the inspector’s job for a while,” Torrez said.

“That’s what he wants,” I said, and moved toward the door. “I’d have to give that a really long think. There are other concerns hanging right now that are higher on my list.” I saw the undersheriff lean back and swing his boot back up on the desk. That didn’t look like movement out of the office to me.

“Go home, Robert. Let it ride.” I smiled. “And don’t worry. I know what I said, but I’m not going to just drop all this in your lap on Tuesday night and walk away. Not until we find out where that license came from. And not until we find out who killed your uncle.”

Chapter Thirty

I pushed open the heavy door and was about to step outside. The first slap of early morning air hit my face, but I stopped in midstride, hand on the brass door handle. For several long seconds I stood rooted in place, letting the November chill waft into the Public Safety Building.

“Huh,” I grunted to myself, and retreated back inside. In the few moments I’d been gone, it didn’t appear that Torrez had changed position.

“We’re missing something,” I said, and he glanced up.

“I have the feeling,” he said slowly, “that we’re missing a whole lot of things, sir.”

“No, really. Suppose this. Suppose that Matthew kicked out the window just because that’s the thing that you try to do if you’re a half-wild teenager out to test the world. He’ll show us, by God. Maybe next time we won’t be so quick to arrest him.”

“Oh, sure,” Torrez said, and actually managed a full-fledged smile.

“Think about this, though. Suppose that busting the window isn’t really important…no more than just a show of spite aimed as much against you and your department as anything else.”

“What’s important, then?”

“I pull off the road, the good Samaritan that I am, thinking that the kid is going to cut himself on busted glass or hang himself in the broken window. What happens next?”

Torrez had risen from his chair and walked around the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms folded across his chest. In the marines, I’d been five feet eleven inches when I was racked at attention, but in the fifty-two years since I’d enlisted, I’d settled some—and expanded horizontally. The undersheriff was a solid six feet four, and even with him leaning against the desk, I had to look up to talk to him. He waited for me to continue.

“Scott Gutierrez and Taylor Bergmann arrived. We chatted for a little bit, and Scott introduced me to Bergmann. And then Scott walked up to my car, leaned down, and shined his flashlight inside. Now, all this time, Matthew had been quiet as a church mouse in the backseat.”

“He recognized my nephew?”

“Hard to say. There’s no reason that Scott would know Matthew, is there? I mean, they may have crossed trails at one time or another, with Matt living in Regal, and Scott working the area. But there’s never been a gathering of the two families, has there?”

Torrez shook his head. “What did he actually say?”

“I don’t remember. Nothing threatening at that point as I recall. Scott asked Matthew why he’d broken the window. I do remember that.”

“What did Matthew say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say a word. It was at that point that Scott suggested that they take Matthew into Posadas in their vehicle. They were headed toward town anyway.” I turned at the sound of footsteps. Brent Sutherland approached, obviously not eager to intrude. When he saw that he had my attention, he quickened his step.

“Sir, Judge Hobart wants you to call him.”

“The judge? You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. He said just whenever you can get to it, as long as it’s in the next thirty seconds.”

I laughed, picturing the old, grizzle-headed, pock-faced alcoholic sitting up in bed, a glass in one hand, the phone in his lap, waiting for it to ring. The wall clock said it was five minutes before six on that Sunday morning. For the judge to begin his day any earlier than nine o’clock took an act of Congress, so his mood would be delightful.

I nodded at Brent, and he retreated. “I wonder what that’s all about,” I said, and then retraced my thoughts. “Anyway, that’s what we set out to do—transfer the kid to the Border Patrol vehicle. Scott was going to use some leg ties, and I remember that he half jokingly threatened Matt. Something about if he messed up the new Expedition, that he’d take him out into a field and do whatever.”

Torrez was staring out into space, and when I paused to take a breath, he turned back and gazed at me, head nodding in comprehension.

“The obvious question,” he said, taking care with each syllable, “is, what if my nephew bolted not because he was afraid of me or the thumping I might give him when he got to town, but he
was
, in fact, afraid of being put in the Border Patrol vehicle and taken somewhere.”

“Exactly,” I said. “What if Matt was running not from you, but was running from Scott Gutierrez?”

“Or…” Torrez said, and stopped.

“Or what?”

“Taylor Bergmann.”

“He didn’t even know Bergmann,” I said. “Not until that moment.”

“We’re not sure of that.”

“No,” I admitted. “We’re not.”

Torrez let his head hang, and he regarded the ugly green floor tiles for a moment. “Why would Matthew be afraid of Scott Gutierrez?” he asked, and then looked up at me. “I can think of one scenario.”

“That Matt got his fake license from Connie French, and Scott knew that he had it…and that if we found it, an investigation might backtrack to the source, and Connie would be in worse trouble than the kid. We’re back to brother protecting sister again.”

He nodded and went back to his examination of the floor tiles.

“Right now, let me see what’s on Hobart’s mind,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there any chance that you can contact your sister up in Albuquerque? Do we need to wait for Monday?”

“No…I can find her. She’s staying with an aunt up in Corrales.”

“Do that, then,” I said. “Get her to cut the shopping trip short. I’d like to talk with her today, before this has a chance to fester.”

Chapter Thirty-one

I began to think that Judge Lester Hobart had fallen back on the bed, sound asleep. The phone rang eight times, and I was about to hang up when I heard the click, followed by a fumble and clatter and a muffled, “Goddammit.”

“Yes,” the judge snapped. “What is it?”

“Good morning, Judge,” I said. “This is Gastner.”

“I know who the hell it is, and what’s so good about the morning?”

I laughed and swiveled in my chair so I could see out the window. The sky was deep indigo to the west, mellowing toward the sunrise. “It looks like a nice Sunday, for one thing,” I said.

“I suppose. So what do you need?”

“I don’t need anything. You called the office and wanted to talk to me, Judge.”

“Dammit, where the hell is my mind,” he muttered.

“Haven’t seen it,” I said. “Same place mine is, no doubt.”

“Let me look at my notes a second. Hang on.” More rummaging and scuffling followed, and I had the mental picture of the judge sitting on his rumpled bed, papers scattered all over the bedroom, his ancient and disheveled toy poodle cowering on the far corner of the bedspread. “My office is a goddamn mess,” he said. “But you ought to see the goddamn clutter here at the house.”

“No worse than mine, I’m sure.”

“I hear your son’s visiting,” the judge said.

“Yes, he is.”

“The one in the navy?”

“Yes. He and my grandson drove up for a few days.”

“Grandson, eh.”

“Yep. One of several. He’s a nice kid.”

“I’m sure,” the judge said. “He into drugs yet? Tattoos and earrings? That kind of shit?”

I laughed. “No. Not that I can see, anyway.”

“Not even a tongue stud?”

“Nope. He’s a pretty straight-arrow sort of kid. The last time I saw him, he was sitting in my living room, watching
High Noon
.”

“Damn,” the judge said. “Well, clone him, while you have the chance. Let me see, now. Here’s the deal, speaking of kids. This Dale Torrance. Shit, I’m surprised Herb hasn’t had a stroke. Or killed the kid. Or maybe both. I have on file that the boy is nineteen. Is that right?”

“To the best of my recollection.”

“And he’s never been in trouble. At least he’s never been in my courtroom.”

“Up to now, a clean slate. And this one is pretty simple. Dale fell for a girl, and did all the stupid things.”

“This is the Prescott girl, right? Christine Prescott?”

“Yes.”

“Well, hell, this deposition from Larson says that she’s almost twenty-eight.”

“Right. I’m not sure that Dale’s infatuation is a two-way street, Judge.”

“Yeah, well…hell.” He stopped as if he were reading something, and I waited. “Okay, here’s what I want to happen. Larson already talked to Schroeder, and I guess the DA’s got enough on his plate right now that a few head of livestock going for a joyride isn’t something that he wants to pursue hot and heavy…assuming that the cattle are returned in fair health and condition to their rightful owner. At the preliminary hearing on Monday, he’s going to bring up charges against the kid for grand larceny and exportation of cattle without inspection papers, as well as leaving the scene of an accident. Schroeder tells me that the kid deliberately backed his pickup truck into one owned by Miles Waddell.”

“That’s correct. He did. And for not wanting to pursue the case hot and heavy, two felonies sounds like quite a start.”

“Well, hell,” Hobart said, “that’s the tip of the iceberg, if Schroeder wanted to play every card in the deck.”

“It’ll make Waddell happy,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I heard a little bit of an edge creep into the judge’s voice. He wasn’t up for reelection, but the district attorney was.

“It means exactly what I said,” I replied. “I’m sure Waddell wants to pursue this for all it’s worth.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what Miles Waddell wants to do or doesn’t want to do,” Hobart snapped. “Miles Waddell isn’t the State of New Mexico, much as he’d like to be. Anyway, Herb called me last night, and we talked for a bit, and then I tried to get a hold of you, but I guess you had your hands full.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Well, here’s the deal, regardless. Doc Perrone was going to turn Dale loose this morning, if all goes well. And the minute he does, Larson is going to bring him on over for arraignment. I’m going to turn him loose to the custody of his pappy—if his pappy has five thousand bucks for bond.”

“He won’t go anywhere,” I said, feeling a little less sure of that promise than I would have liked.

“Well, he damn well
is
going somewhere,” Hobart said. “The minute we’re done here, Dale and his father are going to truck right back over to Lawton to pick up those steers. I’m going to tell Herb that I want the boy to use his own pickup, and to pay for the fuel out of his own pocket. I want to see the receipts with the boy’s signature on ’em.”

“Fair enough.”

“And then when they get back, Miles Waddell is going to hold the cattle in quarantine for thirty days, to make sure that none of them are hurt or sick, or any goddamn thing like that. Dale Torrance is going to pay for all that, too. All the feed, the inspections, whatever it takes. When Cliff gives the okay, Waddell can have ’em back, to rope or make hamburgers or whatever the hell it is that he does with the damn things. The dealer in Oklahoma gets his money back, Waddell gets his truck fixed, and the world is ready to start over again.” He coughed into the telephone.

“By the time we have the preliminary hearing on Monday morning, the cattle will be back in the county,” I said.

“They damn well better be. And then we’ll decide where to go from there. That sound good to you?”

“It’s what should happen,” I said, and Lester Hobart read the rest of my thoughts.

“And then on Monday all things being equal, Schroeder will agree to a year’s probation and a thousand bucks fine after all the expenses and damages are paid. That ought to get the kid’s attention. And after that, we’ll see about whether we wipe the slate clean or not as far as the boy’s record is concerned.”

“That will work.”

“All right, then. I wanted to run all that by you, just in case one of the deputies saw the Torrances on the road with a livestock trailer in tow. Didn’t want you cops to get excited.”

“They’ll be aware of the situation,” I said.

“I wish to hell the rest of the mess you’re in would clean up so nicely.” Hobart chuckled. “I can understand why Dan Schroeder is staying over in Deming. He sure as hell doesn’t want any of that shit to rub off on him.”

I started to say something inconsequential, but the judge interrupted. “And say, I have a question for you.”

“What?”

“Who’s Bobby Torrez going to pick for undersheriff? Has he said yet?”

“Bobby has to win the election first,” I replied.

The judge scoffed. “That’s a given, Bill. If Leona Spears wins the sheriff’s race in Posadas County, it’ll be because she’s the only one who voted.”

“I hope that’s true. For his sake, I’d like to see a landslide.”

He laughed. “He’ll get it. Now who’s on the short list?”

“He hasn’t shown it to me,” I said. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.” And it was almost the whole truth.

“I’ve heard some interesting rumors,” the judge said.

I took a deep breath. “Well, I tell you, Judge. Consider the source for each one. Unless you hear it from Robert himself, it ain’t worth much.”

“Well…” he said, turning coy. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

Judge Lester Hobart was a staunch Republican, and the only candidate in his party had pulled out of the race in late summer. That left Torrez as an Independent running against the loony Leona, the embarrassment of the Democrats. I could understand the judge’s desire to bring at least part of the department under the party wing. I didn’t envy the taciturn Torrez the politics he might have to play to work smoothly and productively with the Republican-controlled county commission.

“Is what Cliff Larson tells me true?” Hobart quickly added.

“About?”

“You and the livestock inspector’s job.”

“Yes. I guess it is.”

“You’ve decided to take it?”

“Until Cliff comes back. a couple of weeks. Sure. Why not?”

“Did he tell you the rest of it?”

I frowned. “The rest of what? About his parents, you mean?”

“No. None of that. About why he wants to step down from the job.”

“He didn’t say specifically that he did. He told me that he wants a break to take care of family matters.”

Hobart chuckled that “I know more than you know” laugh. “Sure enough.” He cleared his throat, changing leads. “Well, see you Tuesday, if not before.”

“I’ll be at the Torrance hearing tomorrow morning,” I said. “What’s on Tuesday?”

Hobart hesitated, then muttered something I didn’t catch, and said, “Well, I figured I’d catch up with you one way or another around the ballot boxes. It’s going to be a long day.”

When I hung up, I sat for a few minutes, doodling mindless circles with a pencil on my clean desk pad. Politics was one of my personal irritations, partial explanation of why, in thirty-plus years, I’d never run for the sheriff’s post. I had the distinct feeling that Judge Lester Hobart was playing a political game with me. I didn’t like the feeling.

“What the hell,” I said to no one in particular. I wrote
FRANK DAYAN
in heavy block letters, and scribbled a circle around the newspaper publisher’s name. If anyone knew which way the political winds were blowing, it would be him.