Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “Hang up the phone and step outside. Stay calm and nobody gets hurt.”

  On the porch step with his hands palms out and open, Lenny watched the four police cars come up the driveway. The front unit rolled to a stop and a uniformed sergeant with a stubby chin and square face got out of his cruiser and stood behind the car door. Behind him, three officers emerged from their units with guns drawn.

  “What’s this all about?” Lenny asked.

  Gabe studied Lenny before responding. Alarid wore a work shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots that added an inch to his five seven frame. A full mustache covered his upper lip, and deep worry lines creased his low forehead. His hands were shaking.

  Gabe didn’t see any bulges in Lenny’s clothing. He made a circular motion with his finger. “Very slowly, Lenny, I want you to make one complete turn and then stop. Keep your hands away from your body.”

  Lenny finished the turn to find two of the cops within striking distance. One held a gun on him while a baby-faced officer patted him down.

  “He’s clean,” the baby-faced cop said as he tossed Lenny’s truck keys to Gabe.

  “Check inside,” Gabe ordered.

  The cops moved into the house as Gabe walked to Lenny, smiled, and handed him some papers.

  Lenny couldn’t focus on the document. “What’s this?”

  “You want me to read it to you?”

  “No.”

  “What’s inside your trailer, Lenny?”

  “You tell me.”

  “How about a truckload of stolen goodies from Texas?” Gabe asked.

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  Gabe took the papers out of Lenny’s hand and waved them in his face. “This is a warrant to search your truck and trailer, Lenny. Let’s try again. What’s in the trailer?”

  Lenny’s shoulders sagged. “Water heaters, washing machines, and some other stuff.”

  “You got a bill of lading for the cargo?”

  “No.”

  Gabe stepped behind Lenny, pulled his hands to the small of his back, and cuffed him.

  “You arresting me?” Lenny asked.

  “Yeah. Let’s go take a look in the box,” Gabe said. “But first let me tell you about your rights.”

  • • •

  Lenny refused to confess to anything other than transporting one load of stolen property, still in original factory crates and boxes, boosted from a regional warehouse distribution center in El Paso.

  Gabe took Alarid into the kitchen, closed the door, sat him down at the table, and had him write a voluntary confession. The kitchen was right out of the late 1940s. It had a cast-iron enamel sink positioned under a window, a run of metal kitchen cabinets painted white with a battleship gray linoleum countertop, and a badly worn tile floor. The oval kitchen table had chrome legs and a yellow top, and the matching chairs were padded with cracked vinyl cushions. On one wall hung a framed photograph of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

  While Art Garcia and Abe Melendez inventoried the stolen merchandise, Russell Thorpe stood watch over Gloria, who was in the living room feeding Perfecta her meal. Gabe had let the senior citizen van driver deliver it on his way back to the village. Through the closed door, Gabe could hear the elderly woman complaining that she wanted lamb and peas, not fish.

  Gabe watched Lenny sign his name at the bottom of the paper. “Date it,” he said.

  Lenny scribbled the date and held out the confession.

  Gabe read it and shook his head. “This isn’t going to work, Lenny.”

  “Why not? I confessed, didn’t I?”

  “I forgot to explain a few things to you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m going to have to book you on a murder charge.”

  Lenny’s armpits got sweaty. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “I know that. But we found Rudy’s truck and the murder weapon hidden on your property. That makes you an accessory after the fact to murder.”

  “I didn’t know he’d killed Boaz.”

  “The law is funny about being an accessory. If you helped Rudy in any way, you can be charged with murder. Probably second degree.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Then there’s the conspiracy charge.”

  “What conspiracy?”

  “You paid Rudy for all that wood he poached. Don’t tell me you didn’t know where he got it.”

  Lenny rubbed his nose with a thumb. “He never told me.”

  “You’ll have to convince a jury of that. You’re looking at a shitload of felonies.” Gabe ticked them off on his fingers. “Murder, conspiracy, and multiple counts of receiving and transporting stolen property. Each item in the trailer can be a separate charge against you. Have you ever been in prison?”

  Lenny shook his head.

  “You could get over a hundred years. What about Gloria? Has she done time before?”

  “She can’t testify against me.”

  “She might want to, if it means staying out of the slammer. After all, she’s got a mother who needs looking after, and a brand-new baby grandson. You know how women get when it comes to families. I’ll talk to her.”

  Lenny held up a hand to stop Gabe. “What do you want?”

  Gabe tore off Lenny’s handwritten page from the tablet and slid the pad across the table. “All of it. Your Texas contacts, who you deliver to, what Rudy boosted that you trucked out of state, where you took it, and what arrangements you had with Joaquin Santistevan.”

  “What do I get?”

  “Probably a break from the district attorney, if you cooperate.”

  “What kind of break?”

  “Tell you what: I’ll ask the DA to drop the murder and conspiracy charges. He might even be willing to cut back on the number of receiving stolen property indictments. After all, you’ll be going into court as a first-time offender.”

  “I’ll do time?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Lenny reached for the pad and pencil.

  “Answer one question for me before you start writing,” Gabe said. “How did Joaquin tip off Rudy that I was nosing around? He didn’t use the office telephone.”

  “He used my cell phone.”

  “You were at the woodlot?”

  “I was on the office crapper when you came into the trailer. I just stayed out of sight until you split.”

  • • •

  By noontime, Kerney was down to the last person on the list of names Orlando Gonzales had given him. So far, none of Bernardo’s friends and former high school classmates had provided any relevant information.

  His last potential informant, Melissa Pena, now married and known as Melissa Valencia, worked as a secretary for an independent insurance agent. Kerney arrived at the agency and found the young woman standing behind a reception desk in a small, two-office suite, filing paperwork in a four-drawer metal cabinet.

  She had long dark hair that fell below her waist and wore a jumper over a short-sleeve turtleneck top that didn’t hide her pregnant belly. Kerney guessed she was in her last trimester. He identified himself and asked about Bernardo.

  “I really can’t tell you very much about him,” Melissa said as she eased herself into her secretarial chair.

  “I was told you were once good friends.”

  “Not me. He was my best friend’s boyfriend. I kinda put up with him because of her, but I never really liked him.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Patricia Gomez. She went with him for three years, during high school and her first year in college.”

  “Didn’t she have Bernardo’s baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t she marry him?”

  “They were going to get married.”

  “What happened?”

  “After high school, Patricia enrolled at the university and I started working here. We got an apartment together. She kept dating Bernardo. It was mo
re than dating, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she soon got pregnant.”

  “How did Bernardo handle it?”

  “He seemed real happy. They both did.”

  “And then what?”

  “Patricia had a lot of problems carrying the baby, especially morning sickness. One day I came home for lunch and found her crying. Bernardo had come over, wanting sex. When she said no, he beat her up.”

  “Was she badly beaten?”

  “Mostly he slapped her and pushed her around. She had some bruises and her face was all red.”

  “To your knowledge, had this happened before?”

  “No. Patricia was like in shock about it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She broke up with him right away. Patricia isn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to put up with an abusing asshole.”

  “What did Bernardo do?”

  “He kept calling and stopping by, trying to apologize. But Patricia wouldn’t see or talk to him.”

  “Did Patricia report the incident to the police?”

  Melissa shook her head. “No, but she told her parents. When school got out she moved back home and lived with them until the baby was born.”

  “Why did Patricia go to Denver?”

  “To get away from Bernardo. He was like stalking her.”

  “In what way?”

  “Mostly just following her when she left the house. But only when she went out alone. He wrote her a few letters about how she was making a big mistake by breaking up with him, and that he’d get even with her.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “Patricia showed me the letters.”

  “Did she get a restraining order against Bernardo?”

  “No. Her parents talked to Bernardo’s parents and it all just stopped.”

  “I understand Bernardo pays child support.”

  “From what Patricia told me, Bernardo’s parents had to force him to do it.”

  “Has Patricia had any problems with Bernardo since her move to Denver?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Would Patricia tell you if Bernardo was giving her grief?”

  “Sure. She’s my oldest friend. We talk on the phone a couple times a month, and she comes home to visit at least twice a year. If Bernardo was acting like a jerk, I’m sure I’d know about it.”

  “Do you know of any other women Bernardo has bothered?”

  Melissa inclined her head and thought about the question for a moment. “It may be nothing, but talk to Jimmy Wooten.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Kerney. “Why should I speak to him?”

  “Jimmy’s home on leave from the air force. He and my husband were good friends in high school. He told my husband that he ran into Bernardo at a bar recently, and that Bernardo acted like a real creep toward some cocktail waitress. I don’t know anything more than that.”

  Kerney got an address for Jimmy Wooten and smiled at Melissa. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Why are you investigating Bernardo?”

  “It’s a small matter,” Kerney said as he walked to the office door.

  • • •

  Jimmy Wooten, dressed in jeans and an air force sweatshirt, stood outside his parents’ ranch-style subdivision house. He ran a hand through his short, light blond hair and gave Kerney a puzzled look.

  “I didn’t know that hustling a barmaid was against the law,” he said in response to Kerney’s question about Bernardo. “Did she file a complaint, or something?”

  “No,” Kerney replied.

  “Then what’s the problem?” Jimmy asked.

  “There might not be one,” Kerney said. “I understand you told Melissa’s husband that Bernardo acted like a creep toward the barmaid. I’d like to hear what happened.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Melissa has never liked Bernardo.”

  “Is he your friend?”

  “Not really. I knew him in high school.” Jimmy’s eyes narrowed. “You still haven’t told me what’s up.”

  “I’m interested in Bernardo’s attitude toward women.”

  “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  Kerney nodded. “For now. Did Bernardo come on to the waitress?”

  “He tried, but she just blew him off. That got him pretty angry.”

  “In what way?”

  “He started calling her names.”

  “To her face?”

  “Nah, behind her back.”

  “What did he say to you about her?”

  “That she was probably nothing but a slut who put out for anybody with a six-pack of beer and a hard dick.”

  “Did you think that was true?”

  “From what I could tell, he was way off base.”

  “How so?”

  “When Bernardo hit on her, she handled it real well. She showed him her wedding ring and made like a joke out of it—said her husband didn’t let her date other men.”

  “The barmaid didn’t play up to Bernardo or lead him on?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How did Bernardo handle her rejection?”

  “It pissed him off. He didn’t believe she was married. He wanted to bet me he could get in her pants.”

  “Did you take him up on the bet?”

  “No way. I told him he was full of shit and to leave her alone.”

  “Did anything else happen between Bernardo and the barmaid?”

  “Not while I was there.”

  “Did you leave the bar with Bernardo?”

  Wooten shook his head. “Nope. Bernardo said he was going to stay until the place closed. I don’t do that kind of drinking.”

  “Do you remember the barmaid’s name?”

  “Kerri something.”

  “What bar does she work at?”

  “The Rough Rider.”

  “Thanks,” Kerney said. “Enjoy your leave time at home.”

  “You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”

  Kerney smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

  • • •

  Kerney made a quick stop at the Rough Rider Bar and spoke with the owner, who told him that Kerri Crombie had worked all her regular shifts, including last night, and was due back at six o’clock in the evening.

  He found out Crombie was married, had a little girl, and lived in a subdivision near a postsecondary vocational school just outside of the city limits.

  The working-class neighborhood sat on a small bluff overlooking the Gallinas River on a parcel of land that had once been part of a National Guard training encampment. Members of the 200th Coast Artillery Battalion had trained at the camp prior to the start of World War II. Many of them died during the infamous Bataan death march after the Japanese invasion of the Philippines.

  The neighborhood consisted of older flat-roof frame and stucco houses on small, rectangular lots. Over the years, some of the homeowners had converted the attached single-car garages into living spaces, added carports, and enclosed the front porches to create sunrooms. Their front yards were neat and tidy.

  Other dwellings were in disrepair. Blistered paint peeled off trim work, porches sagged, and yards were littered with discarded auto parts, motor oil cans, old water heaters, and broken lawn mowers.

  Two large evergreen trees towered over the Crombie house. Planting beds bordered the walkway to the house, and a carpet of Bermuda grass stretched from the porch to the sidewalk. On the porch was a child-size plastic play table, with a miniature tea service neatly arranged for two.

  Kerney knocked, got no answer, and found a woman in the backyard hanging laundry. A little girl, no more than five years old, stood at her side.

  The girl saw Kerney as he walked through the backyard gate and skipped to him. She wore bib overalls, sneakers, and a ribbon in her hair. She clutched a doll in her hand.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked. She had bright red hair, just like her mother’s.

  “I’m Kerney. What’s your name?”

 
“Sherry.”

  The woman stopped what she was doing and came toward Kerney.

  “Is your last name Crombie?” he asked the girl.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Don’t talk to strangers, honey,” Kerri Crombie said, as she pulled the girl away by the hand. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, Mrs. Crombie.” Kerney showed his ID and studied the woman. Of medium build and about thirty years old, Kerri Crombie had a narrow head, curly red hair, a pale complexion, and tired eyes.

  “Have you had any problems with prowlers?” he asked.

  “Prowlers? No. Has somebody reported prowlers?”

  “Have you seen any strange vehicles in the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “Have you received any hang-up phone calls recently?”

  “No.”

  “Have any cars followed you home from work in the last week or so?”

  “No. What’s this all about?”

  Kerney held out Bernardo Barela’s driver’s license photograph. “Do you know this person?”

  Kerri Crombie took the photograph and looked at it. “I know who he is. He drinks at the bar where I work.”

  “Has he given you any trouble?”

  “No more than any other drunk who thinks barmaids are easy targets.”

  “Do you know him by name?”

  “I think it’s Bernard. No, it’s Bernardo. He comes into the bar a couple of times a week.”

  “How long has he been drinking at the Rough Rider?”

  “Ever since he turned twenty-one.”

  “Has he shown any unusual interest in you?”

  “Mister, I’ve been working in bars and nightclubs for seven years. To me he’s just another horny drunk with a foul mouth and wandering hands.”

  “You haven’t seen him around your house?”

  Kerri Crombie pulled her head back and the expression on her face turned serious. “Do you think he might be a stalker?”

  “It’s possible. I understand that you’re married. Is your husband usually here when you get home from work?”

  “Always. He works days and I work nights.”

  Kerri Crombie gave the photograph back to Kerney. He knelt down and showed it to the little girl. “Have you seen this man, Sherry?”

  Sherry inspected the photograph and nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh huh,” Sherry said.

  “Take a real close look to make sure it’s not just somebody who looks like this man.”