“Your truck broke?”
Lydia smiled. “No, it’s fine.” She nodded toward the Ortegas’. “Maybe from down there, it looks to them like it is.”
“What are you doing here?”
“My mistake. I thought this was a county road, open to the public.” Lydia regarded Torrez, not defiant, but certainly unperturbed. She lifted a small pair of expensive binoculars. “Pretty good view.” She was parked at enough of an angle that she could look out past the raised hood. She frowned. “I thought that your nephew and Miss Lucero were an item,” she said, and glanced at Torrez.
“It ain’t my week to keep track of his romances,” Torrez replied, and Estelle thought that he managed to sound much more disinterested than he really was.
“Right now, Maddy and Rolando Ortega have an argument going that’s heating up pretty good. And they’re both supposed to be at work, aren’t they?”
“So you’re just sittin’ here doing your own private surveillance.”
“Well, Sheriff Torrez, why not? Someone needs to. Maybe with what you’re learning”—she raised a hand, fingers spread, then raised the other, webbing the ten fingers together—“and with what I’m observing…”
Estelle leaned forward. “You haven’t been able to hear what they’re arguing about from here.”
“No. But it’s interesting watching the dynamics.” She clasped both hands and rested them on the steering wheel. “Rolando is one of those guys who can’t stand still when he’s arguing. He yells something, then stomps out of the house, walks a few feet, then turns around and comes back for another round. He can’t just hold still. Maddy won’t follow him out into the yard. She stops on that little front porch. Then they both go inside and go at it again.”
“And the mother?”
“Haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s inside, maybe she’s out and about with some friend. That might be her car that’s parked there.” Lydia pointed a crooked index finger at the two officers. “I’ve seen Maddy and Rolando together up at NightZone, though. More than just a little friendly.”
Torrez said nothing.
“I’d have to wonder how that sits with your nephew, Sheriff.” Lydia almost smiled. “Seems like there’s potential for an old-fashioned triangle going on.”
“You’ve caught on to a lot for someone who’s just spent a few days here,” Estelle observed.
“Back when I was a trooper, that’s the part of law enforcement that fascinated me the most,” Lydia replied. “Getting to know the people, all the sordid little secrets, all the sore spots. Every little town had them.” She flashed a smile. “And in New York, with a village about every six miles, that’s a lot of sore spots.” She nodded toward the Ortegas’. “That’s a sore spot down there, guys.”
“Tell me why you’re here, Lydia,” Estelle said, cutting off the sheriff. “And let’s cut to the chase. Tell me why you think that Rolando Ortega had anything at all to do with your husband’s murder.”
“You’re here, so you must think so, too.” Lydia squinted into the distance. “Rafael Gonzales likes to talk.” She shrugged and turned to look at Estelle with a half-smile. “The sweetheart at the gate?”
“When did you interview him?”
“First thing this morning. I was out wandering—and it’s great country for that. I walked across the mesa and then down the paved road, trying to clear my head. He met me at the gate.” She smiled. “I got the impression that he thought I should be curled into a helpless ball, using up half a ton of tissue. I told him I was too mad to cry, that I’d save that for later. He seemed to understand that. Anyway, one thing led to another.”
“That ‘other’ being Rolando? Or Rolando and Maddy? Or Quentin?”
She nodded. “I sat down on the bench by his little gate hut there, and offered an ear. It turns out that Rafael doesn’t need much prompting. He’ll talk about anyone and everything.”
“And somehow that led you out here.”
Torrez shifted with irritation, but he remained silent, letting Estelle guide the conversation.
“Mr. Waddell’s crew has developed an amazing sense of loyalty to that project. That’s obvious. And it’s not just the generous wages they earn. On top of that, or maybe because of that, they’re uneasy about how the land that borders them to the north is going to be developed. NightZone is one thing, way up on top of the mesa. But Rafael claims that most of the mesa crew believes that my husband wanted to develop that land into some sort of subdivision. We know what that means, right? Roads, lights, stores, dust. Everything Waddell doesn’t want.”
“And you’re thinking that maybe Rolando took the notion to confront your husband? That he followed him over there?”
“Well, someone did, Estelle.”
“But not necessarily from NightZone.”
“That’s right. It could have been someone just passing by on the county road. It could have been someone down from Albuquerque, someone with an issue. It could have been anyone. What’s most interesting is that Rolando was bitching about the development to Rafael. He told more than one person that he was going to talk to my husband to find out his plans.”
“That doesn’t sound like something Rolando Ortega would do, Lydia.”
“My thoughts exactly. I can hear a kid saying he’s going to kick someone’s ass, but I can’t imagine someone like Rolando being Mr. Diplomat.”
“He would have to know that he could easily get a job with your outfit, with all the building going on.”
“Maybe, on down the road, if he thinks that far ahead. He’s what, twenty-one or so? He’s just a kid. We’re not talking long-range, rational thought here. We’re talking impulse. He’s smart enough to know he’s got a good thing going with Waddell, and doesn’t want it threatened.”
“So you’re thinking that Rolando saw your husband over there on the property, and maybe hopped on his motorcycle, or into his truck, and drove over to talk to him.”
“Could have.”
“And yet you were in the neighborhood all the time, Lydia. He never talked to you? Rolando didn’t? You’re half of the outfit.”
Lydia smiled at that. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“I don’t think Rolando Ortega thinks that way, Estelle. I saw him outside the dining room before all this happened, said hello, and watched him try to stammer a reply. Nice blush he’s got, I’ll say that.”
“You think Rolando might have kicked your husband over that cliff? Saw the easy opportunity and took it?”
“I could imagine that, yes. And today, Rolando skips work. Why does he do that? Maddy skips work, and the two argue. So what’s going on?”
“If he did something as impulsive, as irrational, as kicking a man over a cliff, why would he draw attention to himself by then skipping work? Why not just business as usual?”
“Exactly. He’s maybe kinda panicky. Maybe he’s packing, and Maddy is trying to talk him out of it.”
Torrez muttered something to himself and then, looking hard at Lydia Thompson, said, “You’re going to stay right here.” He looked across at Estelle. “We ain’t here to push them into anything. Rolando has a rifle that I want to see, and that’s it. That’s it. Let’s see if we can collect it just on our say-so, without the warrant.” He looked across at Lydia. “You stay put, or better yet, go on home.”
He pulled the Expedition into gear and continued on to a spot where the bar ditch was almost nonexistent and swung the heavy vehicle around.
Even before they reached Lydia Thompson’s vehicle on the return, they saw her out of the Explorer, pushing the hood closed.
“We’re going to have to keep an eye on that one,” Torrez said. Lydia offered them a two-fingered salute as they passed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Music coming from the Ortegas’ home was loud, loud en
ough to seep through the old adobe walls. Twenty-six years before, when the Hockings lived here, the place had been storybook neat. Despite the prairie’s best efforts to take over, the place was still tidy. Torrez stepped to the front door, avoiding a cardboard carton of empty oil cans. There was no doorbell, and he rapped on the door frame. The music stopped abruptly, and he rapped again.
Maddy Lucero opened the door and peered through the fly screen. Her eyes were a little puffy and red, and for a long moment, she looked at the two officers without saying anything.
“I need to talk with Rolando,” Torrez said.
“Just a minute.”
Torrez stepped back away from the arc of the screen door and turned at the sound of a vehicle on the county road behind them. Lydia Thompson’s Explorer glided to a stop near the driveway.
“If she gets out of that vehicle, go explain the facts of life to her,” the sheriff said. “I don’t want her bargin’ in here and gettin’ people more excited than they need to be.”
He turned as the door opened again. Rolando Ortega looked as if he’d spent the night and day hiding in a dark, cramped cellar. He squinted in the bright sunlight, looking first at Torrez and then Estelle.
“What?”
“Good morning to you too, Rolando,” Estelle said pleasantly. “We tried to contact you up on the mesa, and were told you hadn’t come in to work today.”
It wasn’t a question, and for a moment Rolando seemed to debate with himself about what to say. Finally, he settled for, “Yeah, so?”
“I need to see my nephew’s rifle,” Torrez said.
“His what?”
“His twenty-two rifle. He’s got yours for a stockin’ job, and Quentin says that he loaned you his until he’s finished.”
Rolando’s thick eyebrows caterpillared toward each other. “That ain’t illegal, is it?”
“Nope.”
“And what’s she doin’ here?” Rolando nodded toward the road where Lydia Thompson now sat in her parked Explorer.
Without missing a beat, Torrez said, “She was wonderin’ what you and her husband were talkin’ about the other day.”
Rolando would not have made a good poker player, Estelle thought. She took the opportunity to add, “You rode your motorbike over there, Rolando.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You and Mr. Thompson had a chat about his plans?”
“He talked about it some. Mostly he was tellin’ me not to ride my bike around there, especially when they started work.” He shrugged, his expression going clever. “I saw him hackin’ around over there, and I thought maybe it was one of them guys who removed the surveyor stakes on him. So I stopped by.”
“You and he talked some?” Estelle asked.
“Well, sure. You know. Time of day and stuff like that.”
“Right at his car?”
“Mostly. He showed me some stuff.”
“Like…”
Rolando’s eyebrows twitched again. “Hey, look, I can talk to whoever I want. I don’t need to pass on what the…what the conversation was about.”
“Nope, you don’t,” the sheriff said. “You might be about the first person in the county who feels that way.”
Rolando tried a weak laugh.
“I need to see that rifle,” Torrez said.
“Well, I guess. If it’s okay with Quentin.”
“Tell me where it is and I’ll go get it.”
Rolando forced a humorless smile. “You want in my home, then come back with a warrant.” Too much television, Estelle thought. The kids didn’t know much else, but they all knew enough to demand warrants.
“Can do that.”
“Yeah, you would, too. You’d warrant your own mother, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard the stories.”
“You ain’t my mother, and yes…I would.”
Looking resigned, Rolando nodded at his truck. “It’s right over there in the window rack.”
Rolando started to turn that way and the sheriff reached out a hand. “I’ll get it.”
The young man held up a set of keys. “It’s locked. I got it.”
Torrez stepped forward quickly until he was within easy grabbing distance behind Rolando. Estelle followed them toward the truck. The lock was stubborn, and Rolando worked the key for a moment before the door yawned open. Slipping the small rifle out of the window rack, he turned and handed it to Torrez.
“You want to think some more about this.” The sheriff held the rifle without much interest beyond dropping the full magazine and jacking back the bolt to expel the loaded round from the chamber. “I need to see Quentin’s gun.”
“That’s…” Rolando started to say, but Torrez’s glare cut him off.
“No, it ain’t.”
“What do you mean, it ain’t?” Rolando mocked. “That’s the one.”
“One six zero,” Torrez said, and then recited the last five digits of a serial number, as familiar with it as he was with his own birthdate. “Quentin’s gun is a Ruger, and that’s the serial number. This is a Marlin.” He reached out and passed the rifle he held to Estelle.
“What, you’re takin’ that too?”
“Yep. And unless you start showin’ some sense, you’re goin’ with it.” He was reaching for his handcuffs when Rolando held up both hands.
“All right, all right. Just back off some.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ll get it.” He stalked off toward the house.
“Hold it right there,” Torrez snapped, but Rolando Ortega waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. The sheriff reacted quickly, covering the distance between himself and the young man in just a few steps. He clamped a hand on Rolando’s upper arm, spinning him around. Almost as if he expected it, Rolando used the momentum to rotate and lash out, this time a foot coming up in a fantastically quick and hard kick that caught Torrez on the side of the head, the blow only partially blocked by the sheriff’s left arm.
Off balance, Torrez stumbled to one side as Rolando broke away and darted toward the front door. Estelle reacted to her left at the same time as she drew her Taser. The screen door slammed against the wall, and the young man disappeared inside the house.
“Hold it,” Torrez barked at Estelle. Then he saw that it was a Taser in her hand and not her service automatic. “This don’t need to escalate.” His own automatic had been partially out of its holster, and he jammed it back in. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Lydia Thompson halfway up the driveway.
The sheriff’s bellow could have been heard downtown. “Get the hell off this property,” he roared, and Lydia stopped short. He turned to Estelle. “If she takes another step, arrest her ass.”
They heard thumping inside the house, and Estelle distinctly heard Maddy Lucero, her voice high and strained, cry out, “Rolando, stop it.”
“They ain’t never going to,” Rolando shouted in reply.
He slammed out through the screen door, a rifle at high port. No details of the weapon registered with Estelle, but the young man’s intent was clear.
“You want this rifle?” Rolando shouted. At the same time he snapped the gun to his shoulder, the weapon looking small in his big hands. Too far away to use the Taser, Estelle froze. The rifle spat three times in rapid succession, and Estelle saw one of the sheriff’s shirt buttons blown into bits. Even as she instinctively drew her own automatic, Rolando’s rifle shifted slightly and spat twice more. A ballpoint pen in her left breast pocket exploded and something stung her under the chin. Estelle wheeled to the side, bringing her own gun up. At the same time, Torrez roared out a single word…Estelle heard it as “Down!” and the twenty-two fired once, instantly followed by two heavy, unbearably loud reports from Torrez’s forty-five.
Rolando cried out a single, almost bleating “No!” and his rifle fired yet again, although the muzzle had rea
red skyward as the young man staggered backward on the small porch. Torrez fired a third time, and Rolando’s head snapped back and hit the doorjamb. He twisted sideways and fell in an awkward heap.
His service automatic extended, Torrez advanced across the yard and stepped up on the porch. With the toe of his boot, he nudged the rifle farther to one side, then spun around as Maddy Lucero appeared in the doorway.
“Freeze right there,” Torrez commanded.
“I’m not…” Maddy cried, and Estelle reached the screen door in three strides and pulled it open.
“Is Mrs. Ortega inside?” Estelle asked. Maddy didn’t seem to notice as Estelle maneuvered the young woman’s arms and then snapped on the handcuffs.
“She went out with a neighbor,” Maddy whimpered. Her unbelieving gaze locked on Rolando’s shattered form, and then she allowed herself to be led out to Torrez’s Expedition.
“We need you to wait here while we sort this out,” Estelle said gently.
“I was trying to talk to him,” Maddy wept. “Really, I was. I didn’t know…” Her voice trailed off. “Is that…?”
Estelle looked toward the driveway and saw Lydia Thompson pushing herself to her feet, right hand pressed to the side of her head, blood streaming down to soak her blouse and trousers.
“Sit,” Estelle commanded, and when the woman was clear of the SUV’s door, she slammed it shut and raced across to Lydia, reaching her just as Lydia sank to her knees.
“That bastard,” Lydia said.
“Move your hand,” Estelle ordered, taking Lydia by the right wrist. “Let me see.”
The twenty-two slug had grooved her cheek just in front of her right ear, ripped through the tragus, that little knob on the front margin of the ear that protects the ear canal itself, and then skipped on to punch through the antihelix fold at the back of her ear, exiting through her hair without touching the skull.
“Can you walk over to the sheriff’s truck?” She helped Lydia to her feet and they made their way to the back of the Expedition where Lydia could sit on the back tailgate ledge. “Let’s get something on that.” Estelle yanked open the big first aid kit that was bolted to the side panel. She slipped the packaging off a sterile four-by-six pad and pressed it gently to the young woman’s head. “Hold that like that.” The radio up front had come to life, with chatter from half a dozen directions as Torrez worked his handheld. “The ambulance will be here in just a minute or two.”
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