Scavengers pc-10

by Steven F Havill

  Torrez, who had been back in Posadas for less than 30 minutes after a night as sleepless as the rest of his staff, sat heavy-lidded in his swivel chair, watching his undersheriff examine the rifle. Estelle pulled the lever down and saw the rifle’s bolt draw rearward from the empty chamber, cocking the hammer. Sure enough, the hammer spur cleared the bottom of the telescopic sight by a fraction of an inch-not enough for a thumb’s clearance if the weapon was cocked and the shooter wished to lower the hammer and still leave a shell in the chamber. The small cocking extension projected sideways, away from the body of the scope, allowing convenient access to the hammer.

  After glancing inside the action, Estelle closed the lever, then used the extension to gently lower the hammer as she pulled the trigger. She rocked the cylinder with her thumb, frowning.

  “And that one’s loose, I see,” Bishop said. He turned and grinned at the silent Torrez.

  “It wouldn’t be unusual for one to fall off, then,” Estelle said.

  “Easiest thing in the world,” Bishop replied.

  She handed him the rifle. “And these are made in forty-four magnum as well as whatever this is?”

  Bishop nodded. “Correcto.”

  “Who’s doing the weapon trace?” Torrez asked. He leaned his head back against the chair, folding his hands over his belly.

  “Abeyta.”

  He nodded slowly. “What if Eurelio really didn’t know that the shell casing was in the truck? Or that cocker doohickey either.”

  “Then someone else used the truck.”

  “Uh-huh. There’s a pretty simple scenario that would explain a lot of this,” he said. “From all I’ve ever heard, Eurelio’s a pretty law-abiding kid. If he’s as nervous about all this as you guys say he is…how about this. What if Eurelio purchased the rifle, and then sold it to someone else who turned out to be the shooter…”

  “He’s got to be thinking he’s in deep, deep trouble,” Estelle said.

  “Which he is,” Torrez added. “I don’t think there were hundreds and hundreds of those rifles sold around these parts in the past year or so. Find a rifle, it’ll be real easy to match the fired shell casing. The bolt face and firing pin will leave a real individual print in the primer face.” He looked at Estelle quizzically. “What’s bothering you?”

  “I can imagine Eurelio going to Albuquerque or Cruces, or some place like that to buy a rifle, and I can imagine him selling it to a friend-even a friend from Mexico. I’m sure it happens all the time. But I agree with Pasquale. When Eurelio came up to the crime scene with Marvin Hudson, we think he already knew what had happened. Maybe not the details, but he knew there’d been a killing. At the very least, that’s what he guessed.”

  “Easy guess, Estelle. Why else would there have been a gathering of cops out there? You either have a homicide or a plane crash.”

  “But Eurelio knew.”

  “That’s just an impression,” Torrez said.

  “Yes.”

  “A Tom Pasquale impression at that,” he added, and a ghost of a smile touched his heavy face. “Taking his girlfriend up there last night might have been a pretty natural thing for Eurelio to do, anyway,” Torrez said. “Everybody’s talking about it, he’d already been up there and knew the layout. Take along the girl and impress the hell out of her.” He pursed his lips. “Natural as can be. Or he could be taking the opportunity to look for something that got left behind. There’s all kinds of possibilities.”

  He put his big hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. “Okay, so who’s doing what?”

  Estelle held up her left hand, hooking her little finger with her right index. “Abeyta is looking into recent firearms sales that might give us a match. Collins is going to find out if Eleanor Pope had home owner’s insurance as well as life insurance.”

  “How’s he doing, by the way?”

  “Collins? He’s doing okay. He’s eager.”

  “Keep the directions simple,” Bishop said dryly.

  Estelle held up her hand again. “Mears is working the fire scene with Todd Paul, when Paul gets here from Santa Fe. I’m going to be talking with Tomás Naranjo this afternoon. He might be able to help us out with IDing the two victims. Paulita Saenz says they were from Mexico, going up north to cut wood.”

  “You’re running out of fingers,” Torrez said.

  “I know it,” Estelle said with a grin. “It’s a great time for someone to rob Posadas National Bank, that’s for sure. Anyway, Paulita remembers the two men mentioning that they were cutting wood up around Mule Creek, and there’s no reason to suspect that she’d make that up. I was going to ask Jackie Taber if she’d work that angle.”

  “Let me do that,” Torrez said. “I’ve hunted up in Grant County a few times, and know a few folks. It’ll give me something to do. You said that the nearest thing we have to a name is Rafael?”

  “Correct. Rafael and Juan.”

  “And while all this is happening, who’s sitting on young Mr. Eurelio?”

  “I was going back down to Maria this morning for a little while,” Estelle said. “A couple of names came up in all this mess. The Madrid brothers?”

  “Oh,sí,” Torrez said with a resignation that surprised Estelle.

  “You know them?”

  “Oh, sí,” he repeated.

  “Apparently, they were working earlier in the winter, putting a new roof on the gas station for their father.”

  “Working is the interesting word,” Torrez said. “Their mother, Lucy, owns that little diner just around the corner from Wally’s place. Wally and Lucy haven’t spoken to each other in a lifetime.”

  “They’re divorced?”

  “Sort of. Apart might be more accurate. Benny and Isidro live in old Mexico. Last I heard, down in Asunción or someplace like that. They drift back and forth across the border when the opportunity presents itself. Or when they want to hit Mamá up for a few bucks.”

  “They were working in Asunción,” Estelle said. “That’s what Paulita told me. And they were in the taberna the night that the two nationals stopped there. Rafael and his partner.”

  Torrez reached down and flipped open the manila folder. He stood with his head down, looking hard at the faces of the two victims. “Huh,” he said finally, and flipped the folder closed. “These two guys work for a month in Mule Creek, earn some pretty good money, and head for home. You suppose it’s ever happened before? Somebody with a good wad of bills flashes his money in a bar and gets rolled for his efforts when he walks outside?”

  “About as common as dirt,” Bishop said. “What happened to their vehicle, by the way?”

  “That’s part of the puzzle,” Estelle said. “The last time Rafael and Juan were seen was when they drove away from the taberna on their way north, supposedly to Mule Creek. We don’t know what happened after that.”

  Bishop looked resigned. “Anything you want me to work on?” he said, glancing first at Estelle and then at the sheriff.

  “Actually, it’d be good if we had one officer who was freed up to do a little law enforcement,” Torrez said. Bishop shifted position, straightening his back just enough to relieve the weight on his belt for a few seconds. “But that’s wishful thinking. It’d help if you’d touched bases with Bill Gastner to find out what the deal is with the Pope livestock.” He turned to look at Estelle. “You took some pictures for him whenever it was…last night?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Did he say why he didn’t just go talk to the Popes then? I don’t understand this surveillance business.”

  “He wanted to see where the animals were going,” Estelle said. “It wasn’t that the animals were being mistreated or something like that. It’s that they were apparently being shipped without a permit. He thought that the easiest way to find out what was really happening was just to watch and see, rather than listening to someone’s tall story.”

  “Huh,” Torrez said. “Bizarre. Bill’s got too much free time on his h
ands. Did the Popes see you two while you were taking pictures? Were you on their property?”

  “No. We were behind Florek’s fence.”

  Torrez grinned at that. “Knothole pictures,” he said.

  “Well, not quite. But it was a good view.”

  “Could Denton have seen you, and that maybe precipitated his little brain into doing something stupid?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. Had he been looking out a window at the time, he would have seen us, no doubt. We weren’t sneaking, exactly.”

  “It’s hard to imagine Bill sneaking,” Torrez said. “So Denton might have seen you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Torrez took a deep breath and stood up straight, hooking his hands behind his head. Joints popped. “It’d be so much easier if we could just hit the replay button,” he said.

  “How was your seminar, by the way?” Estelle asked.

  “What I paid attention to was fine,” Torrez said, and looked a little sheepish. “I’m going back in June.”

  “Choose a quiet two weeks, please,” Estelle said. She picked up the manila folders from Torrez’s desk. “I’m going to make a couple of calls, check out a couple of things, and then take my mother to Mexico.”

  “If you work it just right, she won’t know it’s a business trip,” Torrez said. “Although knowing Teresa Reyes, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s figured that out for herself already.”

  “More than likely,” Estelle said.

  “And by the way,” Torrez said, “you might ask her about Lucy and Wally Madrid, and that whole gang down in Maria. Tres Santos isn’t that far away and her Uncle Reuben used to hang out down that way. He liked la taberna, as I recall. I would be surprised if Teresa didn’t know all about that.”

  Estelle nodded, not bothering to remind Torrez that what Teresa Reyes knew, and what she would choose to talk about, were often two very different things.

  “Gayle tells me that Teresa’s not doing too well,” Torrez said.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Well, take your time this afternoon,” he said. “The rest of the world will wait. You taking Carlos and Francisco with you?” Estelle shook her head, and Torrez looked surprised. “I thought grandparents lived and breathed for the company of los nietos. ”

  “The past is on her mind just now, I think,” Estelle said. “They’d wear her out.”

  “They’d wear me out,” Torrez said, and rapped his knuckle on the edge of his desk. It was a small gesture that said the meeting was over. “Let me know what else I can do to help,” the sheriff said.

  As Estelle left the sheriff’s office, she reflected that she’d never heard Robert Torrez, legendary for his taciturn, monosyllabic communications, so downright efficient and administrative. Perhaps the sheriff had listened to the seminars more carefully than he had supposed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  An exuberantly cheerful officer-and Estelle couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female-informed her that Capt. Tomás Naranjo was not in his office. Somehow the dispatcher managed to sound triumphant, as if the good capitán had been locked in the district office of the Judiciales for weeks or even months and finally had managed to break out into the light of day, the dust cloud from his escaping truck rolling across the Chihuahuan countryside.

  On the off chance that Naranjo might check with his office or that his infuriatingly vague office might initiate contact with him, Estelle left word that she would be in Tres Santos that afternoon and if the capitán ’s dust cloud could drift over that way sometime between one and three, it would be appreciated. The dispatcher said that he-or she-would see what could be done.

  By the time Estelle had returned to the hospital shortly after eight that morning, her mother’s status had been upgraded from patient to guest, and a few minutes later, she sat comfortably in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, ready for the short trip out the front door to the parking lot. A warm blanket had been draped over her lap, and another one wrapped around her tiny shoulders.

  Francis hung the oxygen canister over one of the chair’s push handles.

  “Is it nasty outside?” Teresa asked as they rolled down the polished hallway floor toward the double doors. “Earlier, it was nice. I know that.”

  “It’s like spring,” Francis said.

  “That means windy,” Teresa said, and pulled at the blankets.

  “No wind,” Francis assured her. “For a change, no wind. And it’s going to be warm, too. Just perfect.”

  The doors slid open and he maneuvered the chair across the rubber entry mat. The county car was parked directly in front of the sidewalk and as her son-in-law rolled her wheelchair toward the dark blue sedan, Teresa Reyes grimaced with displeasure.

  “I don’t want to ride in that thing,” she said, just loud enough to be heard but not vocal enough to make it a serious refusal.

  “I guess we could always walk home, Teresa,” Francis said cheerfully.

  “You can take me in your car,” she said, and leaned back in the chair as the physician pulled it to a stop at the Ford’s front door.

  “Just ten blocks, Mamá,” Estelle said as she came around the front fender of the car. “It won’t hurt a bit.”

  “They’ll think I’ve been arrested,” Teresa grumbled.

  “A desperado,” Francis said as he maneuvered the chair close to the curb and locked the wheels. With surprising agility, Teresa stood up, her daughter assisting at her elbow. She stretched out a hand to the car’s roof for support, and Francis and Estelle eased her down into the seat.

  “You’d think I was made of glass,” Teresa muttered, and hauled her other leg into the car. “There. Close the door.”

  Estelle did so, and grinned at Francis. He slid the oxygen bottle into the back seat, along with the aluminum walker.

  “Still Mexico this afternoon?” he asked in English.

  “If we’re up to it,” Estelle said.

  “Oh, she’s up to it,” Francis replied. “Just take things real slow. And encourage her to stay close to the oxygen bottle.”

  “We’ll only be gone a couple of hours. I think while I’m down there, I’m going to see if I can talk to Naranjo. He’s usually pretty cooperative. Is there anything new from Alan?”

  Francis shook his head. “Not that we didn’t already know. Except maybe the alcohol blood level. That came back moderate on both men. They’d had a few. The rest of the tox tests are going to take a while.”

  “I’m not expecting anything there,” Estelle said. She stretched up and kissed Francis and then stood with her left hand hooked around his neck. “You’ll be home in a bit?”

  “Yep.”

  As Estelle slipped behind the wheel, her mother watched with a scowl. Teresa reached out with her left hand and with the back of her fingers flicked at the barrel of the shotgun that rested in its vertical bracket beside the radio stack as if it were an annoying insect. “This is nice,” she said.

  “It goes with the car,Mamá.”

  Teresa Reyes sniffed and turned to study the world out the side window as Estelle pulled away from the curb.

  “Do you remember Paulita Saenz, Mamá? ” For a moment she didn’t think that Teresa had heard her, and she glanced across at the tiny woman. Her mother sat with her right elbow on the door’s armrest, index finger lying pensively across her lips.

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  Taking that as a yes, Estelle added, “Her son’s in trouble. Do you remember Eurelio?”

  Teresa’s eyebrows went up a little. “I don’t think I ever met him, you know,” she said. “The last time I saw that girl Paulita was…” She hesitated, lower lip projected in thought. “Maybe twenty years ago. Maybe that long.” She leaned her head on her hand. “What’s her boy done?”

  “We’re not sure. We think he’s involved somehow in the death of a couple of Mexican nationals.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you remember the Madrids? Lucy and Wa
lly?”

  “They live down in Maria.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t recall them.”

  Estelle smiled at the contradiction, the standard tactic to steer away from disagreeable topics of conversation. “They have two sons we need to talk to as well.”

  “Los hijos…” Teresa murmured.

  “I think Reuben knew them, didn’t he? Lucy and Wally, I mean?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Your great-uncle knew everybody.”

  With a pang of nostalgia, Estelle remembered her great-uncle as she had seen him last-eighty-nine years old, unable to attend to even the most basic bodily functions. One by one, those functions had switched off until he lay in the hospital bed an empty shell. “I wish I had known him better when I was younger,” Estelle said.

  “No, you don’t,” Teresa replied, and the starch in her reply surprised Estelle. She could remember the man’s quick, white-toothed smile and his mane of hair that had turned gray before he was thirty. Of the man himself, Estelle could remember little beyond those final impressions. “He cut a swath on both sides of the border,” Teresa said. “I always thought some jealous husband was going to shoot him.”

  “I guess they never caught up with him,” Estelle laughed. They turned south from Bustos onto Twelfth Street. “I need to go down to Maria for a few minutes this morning, Mamá. Then after lunch you and I will go to Tres Santos.”

  Teresa nodded. “That’s good.” Her arthritic fingers were already fumbling for the door handle as the patrol car pulled into the driveway.

  Estelle switched off the car and got out.

  “Hi, gang!”

  She turned and saw Irma Sedillos standing on the small porch, holding the storm door open. Irma stepped outside and let the door close behind her.

  “Captain Naranjo is on the phone, Estelle. From Mexico.”

  Estelle stopped, her mother’s door half open. “Right now, you mean?”

  “I told him you had just driven up, and he said he’d wait.”

  “You go ahead,” Teresa Reyes said. She had both feet out of the car and one hand on the door, preparing for the effort to stand upright.