Red, Green, or Murder

by Steven F Havill

  “Marcario Diaz was on the stick,” he said, referring to one of the Mexican officers who worked the south side of the Regál border crossing. I knew Officer Diaz in passing, enough to pick him out of a crowd but not enough to know his work habits. I fumbled out my glasses and scanned the sheriff’s angular writing.

  “Fifteen seventeen,” I said, and frowned—not at the military notation, but at how the timing fitted in with the rest of my day’s events. The note recorded that at 4:17 p.m., Officer Diaz had recorded New Mexico license double niner two one wild life, appearing on a white 2007 Ford F-350 crew-cab pulling a CloudLiner double-axle livestock trailer into Mexico. I looked across at Bobby. “Sure as shit that’s Herb’s rig.”

  “Diaz said that the trailer appeared to be empty.” The sheriff almost smiled.

  “Appeared to be?”

  “He says he had no reason to investigate. He claims the trailer rattled like it was empty.”

  “Wonderful,” I groused, growing angry all over again at Patrick Gabaldon, try as I might not to leap to more conclusions. “Just goddamn wonderful. And what’s he say about who was driving? He saw a girl, too?”

  “Yep. A young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, muy bonita,” Torrez said. “Diaz says that her passenger was a young man in shorts and t-shirt, brown hair pulled behind his head in a pony-tail.”

  “Well, hell. At least Diaz stepped close enough to see all that. A man in shorts and t-shirt sure as hell isn’t Patrick,” I said. “For him, if it’s not denim, it’s not clothes. Well, that’s helpful.” I handed the paper to Estelle. “Where were they headed? And I mean other than ‘south,’” I added. “Did Diaz think to ask?”

  “He says that the girl claimed they were on their way to the Hernán Domingo ranch outside of Janos. Diaz says that he didn’t detain the truck because both the occupants were relaxed, and nothing fitted any wants or warrants his agency has posted. No reason to detain the two young gringos.”

  “Not to mention the obvious,” I said wryly. “Domingo is a big fish. Unless young Officer Diaz wants to end up on a fire watch tower somewhere out in the Chihuahuan desert, he’s not going to go out of his way to inconvenience don Hernán.”

  “Something like that, maybe. Anyway, they ain’t comin’ back with that truck,” Torrez said. “You can count on it.”

  I sighed and took a deep breath. Vehicles being transported south for sale in Mexico was not a new undertaking. The burros diligently proved that on a daily basis. The tandem vehicles heading south on the Interstate through the heart of New Mexico were a common sight, all of those vehicles long of tooth, many missing parts or with quarter panels bashed in. For the most part, the international trade was legit and served a useful purpose, too. Cars bound for the scrap heap in the United States saw a new life wheezing down the awful dirt roads of northern Mexico, where missing a headlight or two, or a bumper, or a fender was no big deal.

  On the other hand, Herb’s late model truck and stock trailer were many cuts more valuable than those heaps. On a dealer’s lot north of the border, the whole rig, truck and trailer both, might bring $40,000. But down in Old Mexico, $15,000 would be a good haul, no questions asked in the right places. Sure, it was below book, but it was quick money, with a minimum of palms reaching out for a cut.

  I could tell that my blood pressure was escalating exponentially, and it had nothing to do with rich food interrupted.

  “I feel like a goddamn idiot twice over,” I said. One of Sheriff Torrez’s eyebrows arched up. “I want to go back up on the mesa,” I said. “I need to start from the goddamn beginning on this whole sorry mess.” I turned and glared at Estelle as if she would have the answers. “Look,” I said, “I saw Pat out at the ranch, right around two o’clock this afternoon. Nothing was amiss. He had the cattle loaded in Herb’s truck, and he was headed for the grazing allotment on Cat Mesa.”

  “He didn’t mention to you that he was going somewhere else.” It wasn’t a question, but I frowned and closed my eyes for a second, trying to remember Pat Gabaldon’s exact words during our brief meeting out at the ranch. “And there was no one else at the ranch at the time?” Estelle added.

  “No,” I said. “And no. Nobody that I saw. I mean, who would there be? And there was nothing about Patrick’s manner that suggested he was planning something cute, either. I think he’s a straight-shooting kid. If he’d been thinking of weaseling his boss with some scheme, his face would have showed a hint. Anyway, not long after I left him, maybe an hour or two, your deputy finds the cattle and dog heading back down the hill. And my first thought is that Pat just got careless somehow. Or that he had some goddamn chore that involved the use of Herb’s rig while Herb was occupied out of town. Well, goddamn it, that earns the stupid award.”

  Torrez nodded slowly, gazing out through the windshield. “You think that Patrick unloaded up there on the Cat Mesa allotment, and then somehow, these other two entered the picture? Took his truck and trailer, and left the cattle behind?”

  “That’s what I think now, yes. Especially because the cattle and the dog both were left behind, Bobby. And remember…” I whacked the palm of my hand on the Expedition’s door. “She left a footprint up there on the mesa. That’s what we have by way of hard evidence. It’s one thing to drive across the border—hell, our side just says, “Don’t let the slamming door smack you in the ass. Their side sees an obviously empty farm truck…so what. If it was a load of cattle, there’d be paperwork and some scrutiny. More going north rather than south, but some never the less.” I took a deep breath. “And stupid again. I didn’t think to check the border crossing. If I had, Diaz would have told me two hours ago what he just told you, Bobby. We need to turn that mesa inside out, is what we need to do. Here Pat’s probably lying up there under some bush with his skull cracked open, and we’re standing around with our heads up our asses.” I turned and slapped the door of the sheriff’s truck again.

  “Unless he’s in cahoots with those two,” Torrez observed. “The three of them workin’ together? No problem comin’ up with something like this. He sells them the rig and splits. He’s got family in Mexico. Maybe he headed for the big city—any big city. He’s up in Albuquerque right now, havin’ steak and beer.”

  “No,” I said abruptly, but then remembered the stunt pulled by Herb Torrance’s son the year before. Dale Torrance had managed his escapade with the purloined cattle all by himself, hauling the steers all the way to a willing dealer in Oklahoma. Young minds were inventive and daring. But they were also like a dog chasing a car—once the critter caught the car, then what? Once Patrick sold the rig—if indeed he had—then what? He’d be on the run for the rest of his life. Besides, I’d spent decades studying people’s faces. None of that had been lurking in Patrick Gabaldon’s.

  Torrez pulled his seatbelt across his lap. “You want to go up now?”

  “I do. We have an hour or two of daylight. And I’d like help from better eyes than mine.”

  “You got that,” the sheriff said emphatically. “I’ll spring Pasquale free, too. He’ll meet us up there.” The sheriff glanced at his watch. “I have a couple of quick errands, then I’ll be along.” I stepped back as he pulled the Expedition into gear.

  “He wouldn’t have left his dog,” I repeated as a parting shot, and Torrez shrugged agreement with that, and releasing the brakes. I turned to Estelle. “Do you want to follow me up?”

  “Ride with me,” the undersheriff said, and by the time we were backing out of the driveway in her county car, I was on the phone to one of the numbers I kept in my wallet.

  “Señora Naranjo,” a musical, alto voice said after half a dozen rings.

  “Ah, Nadja,” I said, grateful that she, rather than her house staff, had answered the telephone. My command of Spanish was hardly commanding, so I stayed with English. “This is Bill Gastner up in Posadas. I hope I didn’t catch you at an awkward time.”

  After a second or two of silence while she rum
maged through her memory to recall who the hell Bill Gastner was, the esposa of Capitán Tomás Naranjo sounded pleased and appropriately surprised. “Well, my goodness,” she said in faultless English only slightly touched with accent. “This is certainly an unexpected pleasure.” I heard a thump as if she’d just set down something heavy. “Tomás is out in the garden. May I tell him that you’ve called?”

  “If you would be so kind,” I said, enjoying the odd feeling that, by speaking with Nadja Naranjo, I’d somehow slipped back into another far more genteel era.

  I heard a sharp rapping sound. “It will be only a moment.” I could picture her beckoning her husband through the window. “Your family is well, I trust?”

  “They are,” I said. “How has business been?” Nadja owned a classy gift shop in Villaneuva—her husband’s travels about his state police district kept them apprised of the best work of the Mexican artisans whose work she featured.

  “Ah, well…that’s another matter,” she said. “I’ve created, how does the expression go, something of a monster. Is there such a thing as too much business?”

  “Keeping you hopping, then.”

  “That’s most accurate. I must remember that expression. Ah, here is Tomás. You must come down and see us, Bill. Don’t be such a stranger.”

  “I’ll do it. Thanks.” Another click, and the captain’s voice, equally quiet and refined, came on the line.

  “Señor Gastner, what a pleasure,” Tomás Naranjo said. “This is like a fine brandy at the end of an interesting day. How have you been, my old friend?” The Mexican cop and I weren’t exactly drinking buddies, and we didn’t exchange Christmas or birthday cards. But I’d always had the comfortable feeling that, if I needed something on the down side of the border, Tomás Naranjo could be trusted to deliver both efficiently and discreetly. He had a positive genius for circumnavigating the avalanche of impossible Mexican paperwork.

  “I’ve been all right,” I said. “We’ve got an interesting problem that’s brewing. I thought you should know about it.”

  “Ah…”

  “You recall Herb Torrance? He has the H bar T ranch southwest of here.”

  “Not far from the Broken Spur,” Naranjo supplied. His knowledge of our county always surprised me, but then again, it was easy to forget that the border was just an arbitrary, political boot heel mark kicked in the dust.

  “That’s it. We’re pretty sure that one of his vehicles was stolen and headed into your country just a bit ago.” I fumbled out the slip of paper that Torrez had given me and read off the details for Naranjo. “Officer Diaz says that the driver was a young woman and that she mentioned something about the Domingo ranch in Janos.”

  “Really.” Naranjo sounded skeptical. “A truly small world, this. As it happens, I had lunch with Don Hernán and one of his sons but yesterday. His son is something of an artist with the welding torch.”

  “It may have been just a comment in passing to allay suspicions,” I said. “Look, our concern at the moment is finding Torrance’s hired hand, Patrick Gabaldon.” I briefly recited the events of the day, and Naranjo listened without interruption.

  “Would that the dog could talk,” Naranjo observed dryly when I finished.

  “Well, in a sense, he has,” I said. “The cowboy might be careless with a livestock gate, although that’s unlikely. But he would never willingly leave the dog behind. If Pat had wanted to heist the truck and trailer himself and head south of the border, he would take the dog along. He wouldn’t just leave the pup out in the boonies, confused and thirsty.”

  “Most interesting. What else did the corporal tell you?”

  “Only that he let the vehicle pass without question, and without a search. He said that the trailer appeared empty.”

  “I see.” The two words managed to sound nonjudgmental.

  I braced a hand against the dash board as Estelle pushed the county car through a tight corner on County 43. Apparently Naranjo could hear the engine in the background.

  “And now? You’re headed this way?” the captain asked.

  “Up to Cat Mesa first,” I said. “We know that Pat Gabaldon was there—at least we think we know that. That’s where it all starts, Tomás. He unloaded the cattle up on the allotment, and then…well, and then, I’m damned if I know. They didn’t waste any time. We know that if they crossed the border shortly after four, they didn’t hang around thinking about it.”

  “And at this end, you have only the girl’s mention of Don Hernán’s operation. That is the place for me to start. Let me talk with him, and in addition, I will circulate the description of the vehicle. But this is a large country, with so few officers.” He chuckled. “You have heard that before, of course.”

  “That’s why I called you, Captain,” I said, and if I sounded differential, I meant it. Tomás Naranjo had earned my unqualified respect over the years. Working for a bureaucracy that blew this way and that with the winds of political opportunity and sometimes corruption, Naranjo had carved out his own methods of operation, taking shortcuts with a charm and good humor that kept him in favor with his superiors.

  “You are proceeding on the assumption that the truck is stolen, then,” Naranjo said. “Not some other scheme concocted by these agile young minds. You don’t expect to see either truck or trailer heading back across the border.”

  “No, I don’t. And I hope I’m wrong.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  We searched, and we searched hard. Frustration grew as we discovered nothing that I hadn’t already seen: a few scuffs in the dirt, tire marks, the sudden appearance of hoof prints at the spot where the twenty-four cattle had disembarked from the stock trailer. Estelle found a single print that featured a clear heel mark, made by typical work boots such as those that Patrick Gabaldon would wear. Despite the cowboy legend, he’d taken time to slip out of his pointy-toed, high-heeled riding boots when the corral work was finished, and into the comfortable, blunt-toed, waffle-soled, lace-up Wellingtons.

  I showed Estelle the smaller print that the deputy’s sharp eyes had found by the ant mound, and we agreed it might be a woman’s size. It wasn’t clear enough to make out tread patterns, but it lacked distinctive, elevated heels. And that was it.

  As the light mellowed toward twilight and the breeze swept the mesa from the northwest, we widened the search area, hoping to find signs of a scuffle or something that might give us a hint of what had happened on this lonely spot.

  Deputy Pasquale backtracked and, as Sheriff Torrez had suggested, drove down Forest Road 128, and I could hear his vehicle clearly as he idled it along the narrow two-track that paralleled the rim of Cat Mesa. I knew that it was a long shot that Patrick would drive Herb’s rig that way. For one thing, the fifth-wheel stock trailer was a monster—twenty-four feet at least. Once committed to FR 128, it would be a challenge to find a place to turn the rig around. There was no other way off the mesa rim that would be practical with a truck and trailer like that.

  Sheriff Bobby Torrez stood with his hands on his hips, apparently absorbed in watching the last of the sunshine filtering through the piñons and junipers. He switched his gaze to me as I ambled up to him.

  “Busy dog.” He pointed a toe at a welter of dog prints near the gate. “Why would Pat let the dog out when he was unloading the cattle?” He waited as if I had the answers.

  “I can’t imagine why he would,” I said. The unloaded cattle didn’t need to be herded anywhere—once out of the trailer, they were free to roam and munch. They didn’t need their heels nipped.

  “But somebody did,” the sheriff said. “And that’s interesting. Why leave the dog behind?”

  “Any number of reasons. He’d yap and fuss and fight, especially if Pat wasn’t with him. Hell, the mutt knows me, sort of, and he and I were together most of the afternoon. But I gotta tell you, it was an uneasy truce, Bobby. And I like dogs, even though they plug up my sinuses. Now, you take somebody who doesn’t, and the fi
rst thing they’re going to do is kick the little nuisance out of the truck.”

  “Maybe so. Pat wouldn’t let them do that, if he was still able.” He leaned his back against the gate post and rocked back and forth to scratch his back.

  “My point exactly,” I said.

  “I put all the information out,” the sheriff said. “Every agency in the southwest.”

  “The truck’s not coming back,” I said. “Naranjo told me that he’d check with the rancher down in Janos, and in the meantime, he has all his officers looking in the dark corners, too.”

  “Both officers,” Torrez quipped. “With all the problems they have, they aren’t going to put much effort into looking for a pickup truck. Or a single kid.” Estelle Reyes-Guzman was standing a dozen yards away near a slate-gray stump, cell phone stuck to her ear. My own phone chirped, and I dug it out of my shirt pocket, the ludicrous notion shooting through my mind that she was calling me.

  “Bill,” Herb Torrance said. “You’re up on the mesa?”

  “We are,” I said. “Chasing our tails. There’s no sign of Patrick, Herb. What have you heard?”

  “Well, not a damn thing,” the rancher replied.

  “Look, there’s one major bit of news, though, and you’re not going to like it. Your rig is in Mexico. One of the Mexican cops remembers it at the crossing.”

  “Well, hell.” He fell silent for a moment. “I don’t see Patrick doin’ that.”

  “I don’t think he did. It’s looking like someone took the truck. Somebody who was with him up here on the mesa. You have any ideas how that might have worked? Patrick had friends he take along on a ride like this?”

  “Well, hell,” he said, “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t think so. But what, like somebody hijacked him, you mean? The border cops actually seen this, or what?”

  “Yes, they’re sure. Two people in the truck. The descriptions don’t fit Pat. He sure as hell wasn’t driving. Go figure that. A young couple, the Mexican cop says. He says there was a girl behind the wheel, a real looker. He remembers the long blond hair. But no sign of Patrick.”