“Didn’t look for it.” Four words, and then his mouth clamped shut, a hard line.
“You and Eddie didn’t get on too well?” Gastner asked. Prescott just shrugged. “I mean, you didn’t exactly see eye to eye?”
“Man chooses his own.”
Estelle cocked her head, regarding Prescott with interest. “Mr. Waddell said that you had done some of the grading on that road cut up the mesa.”
Prescott took his time lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, I done that.”
“Is that your machine over beyond the corral?”
He pivoted and looked across the paddock. The yellow road grader, still bearing the round scar on the door where the county emblem had been stripped before the machine was auctioned as surplus, was parked beside a forlorn box trailer. “Got a bad cylinder. I think it ate a valve or something like that. And I can tell you right now, that’s going to cost a fortune to fix.” He turned back to Estelle. “I’ll get to it. Ain’t needed it, so I ain’t fixed it yet. Get some of this junk sold off, and maybe.”
For a moment they watched the front loader pummel another hulk, this one not much more than a chassis with fire-wall still attached.
“He’s going to finish up here in a few minutes,” Prescott said.
“And then Cam Florek will have work to do,” Gastner said with satisfaction.
“You bet. Look,” and Prescott spread his hands in apology. “I’m sorry I ain’t been much help, but that’s the way it is. I ain’t seen Eddie Johns for years, and I don’t know what the Romero kid was up to…except what I read in the papers, and what my neighbors tell me, and what little I can dig out of Casey. And there ain’t no guarantee they got it right. So things will just sort of sift out.”
“They will indeed,” Gastner agreed emphatically.
“Interesting about that damn cat, though. I woulda liked to have seen that. Gonna have to stop by the school sometime. That’s where it ended up?”
“Yes, sir,” Estelle said. “At least that’s where it probably will end up.” She didn’t add that the skull had been transferred to the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department evidence locker. “The last time you saw Mr. Johns, did you have any occasion to argue with him about anything? Did he seem upset or preoccupied? Like something might be on his mind?”
Prescott laughed softly. “If you’d wanted to know that, you shoulda been around years ago, when I mighta remembered.”
“But you had no cause to argue with him?”
“Don’t guess I did. He liked dealin’ with the Mexicans, and I guess that’s his privilege.”
Estelle nodded, thumbing through her notes, and then looked at Bill Gastner. “Sir, did you have any questions?” Gastner shook his head, still obviously intrigued with the junk loading process. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Hey, you,” a melodious voice said, and they turned to see Christine Prescott walking toward them from the house. Dressed in a simple white western style shirt and tight blue jeans and trainers, she beamed at Bill Gastner, heading directly to him first. As she passed her father, one hand reached out and touched his elbow, a small intimate gesture of affection before she held out both arms and engulfed the former sheriff in a hug.
“How’s my favorite lawman?” Christine asked. It occurred to Estelle that, until this moment, she had only seen Christine Prescott behind the bar in the Broken Spur. The girl’s strawberry-blonde hair, now free of her bartender’s ponytail, was striking in the sunshine. The resemblance to her younger sister was strong.
“Well,” Gastner said, “for an old fat man, I’m doing okay. How’s college?”
“Bizarre,” Christine laughed. “Ma’am, it’s good to see you again.” She held out a hand and shook Estelle’s, her grip strong and lingering. Her expression became serious. “This is all so sad, this whole thing,” she said. “Casey’s a wreck over Freddy.” Her father grunted something, but Christine ignored him. “Do you need to talk to her again?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Estelle responded. “Maybe later.”
“She told me about Butchie,” Christine said. Her amber-green eyes flooded with sympathy. “How horrible. Your son was with him?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s okay?”
“Francisco is fine. Shaken, but fine.”
Christine blinked hard. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for George and Tata right now.”
“A hard time,” Estelle said.
“You let ’em run wild, that’s what you get,” Prescott said ungraciously, and Christine shot him a withering glance.
“I came out to tell you that Cam Florek wants you to call him,” Christine said to her father.
“Now I’m crushed,” Gastner quipped. “I thought you came out to deliver a much needed hug.”
“Oh, I did, I did,” Christine laughed, and she slid her arm through Gastner’s, ready to promenade.
“I got to make that call,” Prescott said, obviously thankful for a handy excuse. “You need anything else from me?”
“Thank you for taking the time, sir.” Estelle watched the rancher stalk off and then turned to Gastner and Christine. “Christine, do you recall a fellow named Eddie Johns?”
“Dad and mom were talking about that earlier,” Christine replied incredulously. “They were saying that somebody’s skeleton was found over on the neighbor’s, and that it might be Eddie Johns?”
“That’s correct.”
“My God. Is that…Freddy’s accident, I mean…are they…”
“We’re not sure,” Estelle said.
“My God.”
“You remember Johns, then?”
“Who doesn’t,” Christine said. “I didn’t like him, and I know daddy didn’t.”
“You remember why not?”
“Well, sure. I mean, I know why I didn’t like him much. Johns was a bully. You know the type. Pushy, loud, my way or the highway.” She glanced at the house as if she didn’t want her father to overhear. “You know what I think? I used to watch Johns, you know. In the saloon. You do that with someone who’s going to cause trouble. And that’s the deal with Eddie Johns. Every time he came into the saloon, I was always half expecting him to get in a tangle with somebody, just because he couldn’t keep his fat mouth shut. He couldn’t just take a beer and drink it and leave. He liked to scare people. He got a kick out of that.”
“He carried a gun from time to time,” Gastner offered.
“Oh, yeah, he carried a gun. I once told Victor that I was going to call the cops, but he always waved it off. It would have been one thing if Johns kept it concealed, but it always seemed important to him that other people know he was armed. Packing, he called it. What a jerk. I mean, I suppose I shouldn’t talk ill of the dead, but that’s what he was…a jerk.”
“Did he ever argue with your father, Christine?” Estelle asked.
“He argued with everybody, sheriff. My dad didn’t like him, and tried his best to ignore him. Johns liked to pick at him, you know. See if he could get a rise out of him.”
“With any success?” Gastner asked.
“My dad’s patient most of the time,” Christine replied grimly. “He drinks too much, but he has a lot on his mind. He just did his best to ignore Mr. Johns. I did too, but sometimes a bartender has to be more of an actress than anything else.”
“To put up with the jerks?”
“That’s exactly it, Bill. Victor doesn’t like to see the paying customers driven away. So we have to pretend sometimes.”
“And you had to do that with Eddie Johns?” Estelle asked.
“Too much,” Christine replied. “Mr. Johns assumed that women were naturally attracted to him. Dream on. He needed to look in the mirror more often and spend some time considering his ‘yuck’ factor. I know that when he was flirting with me, my dad was on a low boil. But he didn’t say anything. He knows I can take care of myself.”
“He just worried a lot,” Gastner added.
“That’s what dads do, right? Now
he’s worried about Casey. He didn’t like Freddy Romero very much, but I know he’s sorry Casey has to go through all this.” She smiled faintly. “That’s why I showed up on the doorstep, I guess. I’m sort of the de facto family mediator, and it’s hard to meddle from Las Cruces.”
“I’m sure no one considers it meddling, Christine,” Gastner said. “Damn hard times for everybody involved.”
“It is.” She turned as her father reappeared from the house, then looked back at Estelle. “Any notions about Johns? Who he tangled with?”
“Not yet,” Estelle replied.
“He talked about his connections south of the border.”
“So I understand. We’re looking at that, but it’s a slim trail.”
“He was shot?”
“It appears so.”
Christine shook her head slowly. “Makes you wonder. Shows that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t inquire about Eddie Johns going missing. Doesn’t look like anyone missed him enough to look into it.”
“We’re getting a late start,” Gastner said. “Like five or six years too late.”
“You think it happened that long ago?”
“It could have,” Estelle said. “You were full time at the saloon around then?”
“I was. I just quit last year, you know. And here I am, twenty-seven years old, and only a sophomore in college.” She chuckled. “Slow starter, that’s me.”
“What do you think of this college kid?” Gus Prescott said as he approached. Christine reached out and hooked his arm once more, a protective gesture as if she were the parent and he the child. Estelle slipped her notebook into her hip pocket.
“You must be proud, sir. I may need to talk with you again.” When Prescott nodded, he was looking at Gastner, not her. “Christine, how long will you be home?”
“Just this week, probably. I really need to get back to class. I’m not one of those fireballs who can miss half the lectures and still sail through. I want to be able to go to Freddy’s funeral with Casey. I think it’s on Thursday.”
“Well, we’re gonna talk about that,” Prescott muttered, but Christine ignored him.
As they walked back to their respective vehicles, Estelle noticed that Gastner’s gait was even more leisurely than before, but his face wasn’t its usual cheerful self, despite a warm final hug from Christine Prescott. His brow was furrowed in thought and she recognized the vexed set of his mouth and heavy chin. He walked with head down, not soaking in the pleasures of a sunny day on the prairie.
“Check with you in about a mile,” he said cryptically, and headed for his truck. Behind them, Stub Moore was putting the finishing touches on the top of the load, adding the remains of a Chevy Suburban to even the pack. “Oh,” and he stopped short. “You got your camera?”
“Of course, Padrino. ”
“ Do me a favor and take a good picture of that load before Florek gets here with the tractor,” he said. He pointed his index finger pistol-fashion at the trailer.
“Easily done.”
“I’ll meet you in Moore.”
Estelle watched him settle into the truck, and saw him glare at the steering wheel for a moment, then shake his head in disgust. Bill Gastner’s usual unflappable humor had been flapped by something. She unzipped her digital camera and walked off to one side, framing the loaded trailer neatly from margin to margin using the zoom. Both Stub Moore and Gus Prescott watched her, but didn’t intrude. She took a series of a dozen shots, and by the time she closed up the camera, the dust from Bill Gastner’s pickup had dissipated across the prairie.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“You know,” Bill Gastner said, “there’s a lot to be said for being wrong.” He leaned hard against Estelle’s county car, both hands flat on the roof above the window. “I hope to hell that I am.” He nodded toward her camera, still sitting in its boot on the center console. “Lemme have a look at what you took.”
The camera’s preview window was tiny, and when she found the first of the series taken of Florek’s trailer, she held it out toward him, earning a disgusted grimace.
“God damn it, how am I supposed to see that,” he said. “Do some magic or something.”
The “magic” was a simple connection to her lap top computer. Gastner drummed his fingers impatiently on the sedan’s roof. Eventually, the photo popped up in brilliant color. Gastner reached in with his hand and gestured for her to advance the image. Two of the photos included both Stub and Prescott, both staring directly at the camera. Gastner peered at them, frowning. “Back,” he said, and she scrolled the photos back to the first.
“Can you make it bigger?” he asked. “Take my advice, and don’t ever get old.” He touched the screen, indicating the front half of the trailer. “I want to see that.” The image expanded, cropping the edges away. “More. More. And down a little bit.” For a long time, Gastner rested on the window sill as Estelle held the computer balanced on the steering wheel.
“See,” he said, and touched the screen. “This first vehicle. The very bottom one.”
“Not a lot to see,” Estelle said.
“Exactly. Can you tell what it is?”
“No. It appears to be burned, though. Burned and rusted. They’re all rusted. If I had to guess, I’d say that it was a pickup. That’s what Gus Prescott seems to prefer.”
“Don’t think he ever sold one in his life,” Gastner said. “They crap out, and he parks the damn things. ‘Oh, I’ll fix it someday.’ And the someday never comes.”
“The country is littered with them, Padrino. You know, when Francis and I were up in Minnesota, I thought at first that they didn’t collect junk. Everything so clean and green. And then one day I had the opportunity to hike a long, wooded hedgerow between a couple of fields? From a distance, so picturesque. And sure enough…the hedgerow was full of junk.”
“Down south, that’s what the damn kudzu is good for,” Gastner said. “And that’s the whole point. There’s people who trade in their vehicles when they get a new one, and there’s people who don’t. People like Gus Prescott just park the dead stuff. And you know what? They never get rid of it.” He thumped the door sill. “That’s my theory. Even a row of junk is part of their wealth…their accumulated wealth. And then they die before they ever have the chance to clean up their mess. They leave hedgerows of junk behind.”
Estelle looked up at him, and saw that he was staring off across the prairie, jaw set.
“I’m not seeing what has you so upset, Padrino. ”
“ Well, hell. Look at what we got here. Maybe you can’t see it in the picture so well, but I took a good long look. Damned odd that Gus chooses to take this day to get rid of old junk, don’t you think?”
“He wants the money, maybe to fix his grader.”
“ Hell, that grader’s been out of commission for a couple of years. He’s no more going to do a deep overhaul on a big diesel engine than I am.” He reached across and tapped a finger on the screen, none too gently. “That’s a crew cab,” he said, and slapped the door frame with his other hand. “A God damn crew cab. And right there,” and he touched the image again, “you can see the end of the tailpipe.”
“The tailpipe?”
“See it? Crunched up right into the fender?”
“All right.”
“Diesel,” Gastner said. “Turbo diesel with a tail pipe as big as a sewer line. They didn’t do that on older trucks.”
“What are you saying, sir?” Estelle asked, even though she knew exactly what had turned his mood upside down. “That this is Eddie Johns’ s truck?”
He slapped the roof. “I hope to hell not, but…” He turned as the sound of a large truck floated toward them, and in a moment an aging semi without a trailer slowed and pulled off the paved road. In the cab, they could see the heavy, mountain-man image of Cameron Florek. He raised a hand in salute as he drove by, massive tires kicking up a cloud of dust.
“He’s going to be able to cross the arroyo?”
Estelle asked.
“He got in with the trailer, so he can get out,” Gastner said. “It’s wide enough that he won’t scrape much.” He patted the door again. “Look, I may well be wrong as hell, but it’s something that needs scrutiny, sweetheart. What color was Johns’ truck?”
“Black.”
“You want to bet me that if we look hard enough, we’ll find a splash of black paint that survived the fire? And a VIN number would be helpful as hell, but I’ll bet that’s gone.”
Estelle looked off across the prairie, watching the big tractor negotiate the twists and turns until it disappeared around the mesa. “Not good,” she said finally.
“I tell ya, sweetheart, this is one of those times when I’d much rather be wrong than right.” He pushed himself back. “But I’ve been stewing about this.” He held out a stubby index finger. “Somebody plugged Johns in the back of the head. Okay, that means he was either riding with Johns in the pickup, or driving himself. What’s that leave, when all is said and done?”
“If he’s riding with Johns, he takes the victim’s truck when it’s over. If he was driving himself, then he would take off, leaving Johns’ truck behind.”
“And what happened to it, then?”
“He came back and got it later, maybe.”
“No hurry about that, lonesome as that country is. That’s one possibility, and I’m sure there’s a whole platterful of others.” He looked at Estelle again. “So what do you think?”
Estelle took her time folding the computer and storing it in its boot. “I think,” she said, “that we take a very, very close look, Padrino. ”
It took an hour for Cameron Florek to secure his towering load, and then to hook up the tractor, and finally, to maneuver along the narrow two-track to the Rio Salinas, where Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Deputy Tony Abeyta watched the mammoth beast discharge billows of black exhaust from dual stacks as it lurched up the steep grade out of the dry crossing. During that hour, a warrant from Judge Lester Hobart had been secured and delivered by the deputy.
As he handed the warrant to Estelle, Abeyta nodded at Bill Gastner. “Judge Hobart said just because it’s you, sir.”
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