When she chased those thoughts away, they were replaced by mixing and stirring the bits of data from the vicious vandalism of the newspaper office and the murder of Kyle Thompson…and the obvious agony of Lydia Thompson, left with a gigantic hole in her life.
Her mind refused to be disciplined. For a while, Estelle forced herself to ignore the clock, which didn’t help. The minutes were determined to drag. At one point she burrowed her head under the pillow, then groaned with pleasure as her husband’s warm hand traced images on her back, ending up at the base of her skull where he worked the tight muscles.
“We could get up and enjoy a high calorie, high cholesterol, high salt, high pleasure breakfast,” he whispered. He rumpled her pillow away from her ear. “Does that sound good?”
Eye now uncovered, she looked at the clock. 4:13. As she watched, the three changed to a four, about the fastest the clock read-out had moved all night.
“By the time you’re out of the shower, it’ll be ready.” Before she could answer, her cell phone began its dance to music on the nightstand. He leaned heavily on her, his weight crushing her into the bedding as he craned to see the incoming number. “It’s gotta be,” he said, “the man with absolutely no sense of timing.”
He slid partially off of her. “You want me to tell him you’ll call back?”
“He doesn’t call before the break of dawn to discuss the weather,” Estelle said. Squirming enough to reach the phone, she picked it up.
“Good morning, Robert.” Feel free to call just anytime, Estelle added silently.
The sheriff hesitated at the overly formal tone. “Got some bad news,” he said, and Estelle came fully awake.
“What’s going on?”
“It ain’t his gun.” He paused, as if that cryptic utterance would explain all.
Estelle relaxed back on the bed as Francis shifted a little to give her room. “Stop by my office. I got things to show you.”
“And how are Gail and Gabe doing?”
Torrez hesitated, as if the question was outside his ken. Then he said, “Gabe sleeps through the night now. So that’s pretty good.”
“Something you should try sometime,” Estelle said.
“Yeah, well. Not when we got things hangin’. I’ll wait for you. Then we got some visits to make.”
“Give me an hour. I’d actually like to have some breakfast this morning.”
“I got the coffee on here.”
Estelle laughed. “Oh, good, Bobby. I’m surprised you have any stomach left with that stuff you brew. Give me an hour.” She switched off and let her right arm fall across her eyes.
“Any menu changes?” Francis asked. He’d slipped out of bed and donned underwear and a clean set of light-blue scrubs.
“What you promised before sounds just right, Oso.”
“Then vamanos, muchacha.”
“Groan.” She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed, and then grinned at her husband’s habit of turning on every light switch he passed on his way out to the kitchen. She got up and entered the shower, letting the high pressure spray beat on her neck and shoulders, standing with both hands braced on the tile wall. She stood that way, right on the verge of dozing off, until a waft of cooking bacon found her and jolted her into motion.
With minimal attention to her short, salt-touched black hair and with no makeup, she slipped into a freshly pressed tan pants suit, the generous leather ranger’s belt far from high fashion, but offering secure support for gun, badge case, cuffs, spare magazines, and the Taser that had become a standard uniform accessory. Putting the suit’s jacket on was something of a struggle, hampered as she was by the bulk of the ballistic vest.
At 5:05, she joined her husband in the kitchen.
“Scrambled a la Carlos,” Francis announced, plating the eggs, bacon, and English muffin. “Moist, with a touch of gouda.” He returned to the stove. “Coffee or green tea?”
“Tea, please.”
“What did Bobby have that was so urgent?”
“He said, quote, ‘It ain’t his gun.’ Unquote. End of message or explanation.”
Francis brought his plate to the table. “The gun he confiscated from his nephew and did the ballistics on?”
“I assume so.”
“In any case, that rifle didn’t fire the bullets into the newspaper office.”
“Probably not. Although we have nothing that positively tells us that the expended shell casings scattered throughout Glenn Archer’s Navigator are from the same batch of ammo that strafed the Register office.”
“But probably a safe assumption.”
“Just too many ‘probablies,’ Oso.” She held up a forkful of scrambled eggs curtained with melted gouda. “This is wonderful, by the way.”
“Are we going to be home for dinner?” Francis grinned at his foolish question. “We don’t know, do we?”
“No, we don’t. But it’s the last evening before the kids take off for Hawaii, so I’m hoping for a quiet dinner with the whole crew.”
Francis reached across and tugged the visible edge of her vest. “It’s going to be hot today, but keep that on.”
“Of course.”
“And don’t send Alan and me any more autopsies.”
“I’m optimistic.”
She stayed that way until she walked into the sheriff’s barren office. Torrez relaxed in his squeaky, army-surplus swivel chair, one boot up on the corner of his scarred army-surplus metal desk—furniture that the sheriff preferred, even though the county had offered an office makeover into the twenty-first century on several occasions. County Manager Leona Spears had once ducked into Bob Torrez’s office, patted one of the gray, army-surplus filing cabinets, and sweetly announced that she was putting the sheriff’s name in for the Luddite of the Year award.
Torrez’s sole concession to the modern age was the new computer that dominated the corner of his desk. County IT guys hadn’t asked if he wanted it, and he rarely used it. But it looked official. What he used more was the current map of Posadas County that dominated one wall…a copy of the same map in Estelle’s office.
As Estelle entered, he turned slightly and reached for the twenty-two rifle that leaned against the wall beside the computer.
In his usual fashion, Torrez offered no greeting. “Here’s the deal. This rifle is not the gun that I gave my nephew for his sixteenth birthday,” he announced. His boot thumped off the desk to the floor and he sat up straight. An inch-thick, gray-colored ledger rested on his desk calendar. He laid the gun on the desk to his right, then flipped open the ledger. “I brought this in from the house,” he said.
Estelle knew what the book contained—all his ammunition reloading notes over the years, all his gun purchases or sales, some sample targets clipped and fitted neatly to the pages, and miscellaneous other data. She waited patiently for Torrez to find the marker.
“I gave him a Ruger ten-twenty-two on September 6, 2017.” He turned the journal so Estelle could see the entry, Torrez’s block printing regular and heavy. “It’s a rifle I bought from another guy about twenty years ago, so it’s seen some use. Quentin told me he was going to make a new stock for it,” and his hand drifted to the gun, almost caressing the fancy wood. “He’s pretty talented that way. He wanted one of these thumbhole things. If he did, I never saw him workin’ on it.” One stubby index finger indicated the serial number in the book, a lengthy string of digits with a dash separating the first three from the rest. “That’s the number of the gun I gave him.”
“All right.”
He picked up the short rifle, racked the bolt back and forth and handed the gun to Estelle. The serial number, stamped boldly on the left forward receiver flat, was not a match with Torrez’s book.
“If I wasn’t such a dumb ass, I woulda checked the number from the get-go. I just a
ssumed, and we all know about that. I was too damn eager to test fire and look for results.”
“It’s an easy oversight, Bobby.”
“Well, no, it ain’t. Dumb rookie thing to do.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Anyway, this ain’t the gun I gave him. Same model, same caliber, same everything, except for that.” He reached across and tapped the serial number. “It ain’t the same gun. Period. End of story.”
“When you asked him for the gun, he didn’t say anything one way or another—just asked when he was going to get it back.”
“Yep. And then he gives me this one.” He examined the gun once more, easing the bolt back and then forward on the empty chamber. “So. He knew what gun I meant, and he knew that this one wasn’t it. But he didn’t say shit. He just let me take it, knowing I’d test it.”
Estelle glanced up at the plain military-style wall clock. “He might have traded off the gun you gave him for his birthday. Maybe he saw this one, and liked it better.”
“Maybe. We’re sure as hell going to find out.”
“He would be home still, I imagine.”
“Yep.” The sheriff didn’t sound particularly eager. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.” He pushed back from the desk and stood.
“Is there something that makes you think that Quentin swapped guns with somebody, and then that somebody might have used your nephew’s gun in the newspaper shooting?”
“Don’t know, do we?” Torrez said flatly. “All kinds of mighta. Mighta shot up the place with his gun, then got rid of it, knowin’ I’d come lookin’.” He almost smiled. “Mighta. ’Cause at the moment there’s nothin’ else. And on the other side of the county, we got a man dead because someone mighta kicked him over that cliff. And he mighta just took a swan dive ’cause his depression at a dumb real estate purchase drove him to it.”
“There’s not a single thing that says the two incidents are related, Bobby. Nothing.”
“Except it’s a small county. I don’t know too many people that can come up with a flyin’ kick so hard it sends a man into space. Could probably count ’em on one hand. And my nephew happens to be one of ’em, don’t he?” He thumped the butt of the rifle on the desk. “You ready to rock and roll?”
“I am. You need your vest, Bobby.”
“My nephew ain’t going to shoot me,” the sheriff said. Nevertheless, he gathered up the vest from where it had been hanging, protecting the back of a metal folding chair.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Early morning sunshine glinted hard off the side of the small mobile home, and the chrome front fender of Quentin Torrez’s motorcycle was like a flashbulb as the two officers walked through the unkempt weeds toward the front door.
The young man appeared in the doorway, almost ready for the day in clean jeans and a black polo shirt with the NightZone logo on the left breast. He was still barefoot, though, and he didn’t venture beyond the top step.
“Hey. I thought maybe you’d bring my gun and truck back.”
“Keep thinkin’,” the sheriff said brusquely.
“Well, I made a bet with myself that it wouldn’t be long before you’d be back.”
“You win.”
“Well, okay. Here you are.” He glanced at his watch. “I got a little time, but not a whole lot. They won’t let me work the train, but Mr. Waddell hired me in maintenance topside.”
“Try not to screw that up,” the sheriff said, and Estelle winced. Torrez moved to the bottom of the steps and looked up at his nephew. “Whose gun was that you gave me?”
“Whose gun?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Quentin frowned and looked sideways at Estelle. “I don’t know what you two want from me.”
“For starters, let’s keep it simple,” Torrez said, his voice barely a whisper. “Where’s the twenty-two rifle I gave you for your birthday? That rifle you gave me sure as hell ain’t it, and don’t bother wastin’ my time tryin’ to tell me that it is. I keep serial number records.”
For a moment, Quentin hesitated. “I traded it off for the one you confiscated. The gun that you gave me? I traded it off.”
“When?”
“When did I trade it, you mean?”
The sheriff said nothing, as intimidating as if he’d shouted in uncontrolled anger.
“A year or so ago, I guess. I didn’t mention it to you ’cause I thought you might be angry that I did that.”
“Why would I give a shit what you did?” Torrez said. “Who did you trade with?”
Quentin fell silent. He stood with one butt cheek on the old two-by-four railing, most of his weight leaning back against the door frame. “Look,” he said finally. He held up a hand but didn’t continue.
“Quentin,” Estelle said, “just tell us what actually happened. We’re going to find out one way or another. Save yourself some time and trouble.”
For a long moment he stared at the flaked paint of the steps. “I don’t want to get nobody in trouble,” he said.
“You’re in it already,” Torrez snapped. “You want to stonewall this thing, all right. You know I don’t never give up, so have at it. And when we come for you, it won’t be for a polite little chat on the front steps.”
Quentin shrugged, and for a moment, Estelle was afraid that the young man was going to call his uncle’s hand.
“The gun you took belongs to Rolando Ortega. He and I hunt together sometimes.”
“You went to school with Rolando, didn’t you?” Estelle asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, he was a couple or three years ahead of me. But him and Rafael and Maddy…we’ve all been together a long time. And now we’re all workin’ up on the mesa. How cool is that.”
“Where’s the gun I gave you?” Torrez asked.
“Look, I told Rolando that it’s going to take me a while to finish up the stock work on his gun. So in the meantime, I loaned him mine. The one you gave me.”
“I want to see it.”
Quentin shrugged. “Then the guy to talk to is Rolando.”
Torrez took a long, deep breath. “You still lyin’ to me?”
“No, sir.”
“You going to work with us on this?”
The young man looked puzzled. “Means what? I told you what the deal was.”
“You don’t need to tell Rolando that we talked.”
“All right. That’s easy enough.”
“He rides the train topside?”
“As far as I know.”
“Do you?”
“Sure. They let us ride for free. It’s a long rough ride by road.”
“Play this straight with us, and maybe I’ll talk to the judge about gettin’ your truck back.”
Quentin grinned. “Maybe you will. What’s that mean?”
“Just what I said.” He pointed at the motorcycle. “And don’t be ridin’ that on the highway. The tag is expired.”
The young man bent at the waist, both hands clapped in prayer, and intoned, “Yes, High Sheriff Uncle Robert.”
Torrez raised a single index finger, aimed at his nephew. “Don’t be a wiseass. And if Rolando don’t have that gun, or tells us a different story, we’ll be back.”
Quentin bowed again.
Chapter Thirty
For several miles as they drove out beyond the airport, the sheriff said nothing. Estelle saw that he was obviously fuming, eyes narrowing now and then, glaring out at the vast prairie as if the answers lay there.
Finally, he seemed to relax a little. “It’s just a loose end,” he said, and Estelle wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to her.
“The gun you gave him?”
“Yup. See, what would be the natural thing? Quent knows what we’re after. If he knows that his rifle didn’t shoot up the newspaper office, I figure he’d say so.”
<
br /> “But he didn’t say anything about it.”
“Nope.”
“And even when that’s tidied up, what do we have? If ballistics match, that’s one thing. Then we’ll be hot on a trail. But if they don’t…”
“Then we don’t got shit.” He fell silent again as they turned south on County Road 14, a long, rough, graveled ribbon that cut down through the western side of the county, skirting mesas and boulder-studded arroyos.
“He could be a good kid if he half tried,” Torrez said abruptly. “He’s going to have to learn to stay off the sauce.”
“Is that a recent thing?”
The sheriff scoffed. “He’s been drinkin’ since he was ten years old. Gotta have that cerveza.” He glanced over at Estelle.
“You ride him pretty hard, Bobby.”
Torrez made a face that looked as if he’d bitten into something sour. “Well, somebody’s got to. His mother won’t. His grandma tries, but she’s a soft touch most of the time. Now that he’s moved into his own place, who the hell knows? You gotta remember…” and he paused. “You gotta remember that I had a younger brother killed while ridin’ with a drunk. So yeah, I guess I keep an eye on Quentin, maybe more’n I should. But that’s the way it is.”
“Maybe Maddy will be a good influence on him.”
Torrez offered one of his rare laughs. “Don’t hold your breath.” He slowed as a dust cloud approached, the billows engulfing a lumbering road grader pulling a pickup truck. Low-angle morning sun blasted through the cloud and bounced off the bright yellow of the grader, creating art that as quickly drifted away. The operator raised a couple fingers in greeting as they passed.
“Twelve million,” Torrez said.
“What is?”
“That’s what Waddell gave to the county as a down payment on pavin’ this road.”
“I hadn’t heard about that.”
“He don’t want the dust.”
“I can understand that.”
“Twelve million is a start. Won’t do the whole thing. Bottom half, maybe, just oil and stone.”
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