Bag Limit pc-9

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Bag Limit pc-9 Page 19

by Steven F Havill


  “Pull into the church,” I said. “And none of that applies anymore, except maybe the gorgeous part. She’s happily married, two kids, no longer in police work. As far as I know. She doesn’t talk much about herself.”

  We turned off the asphalt and I leaned forward. “The deputy says that someone’s parked behind the church, so let’s go around the back side.”

  “It’s gravel all the way?” As if to punctuate his question, a stone pinged against the exhaust pipe directly under my rump.

  “No ruts. It’ll be all right.”

  We drove around the west side of La Iglesia de Nuestra Senora, and at the back corner there was just room to skirt the large chamisa plants that kept the inattentive from nicking the adobe corner of the building. The rear wall of the church, its smooth brown adobe expanse broken only by a single window that filtered light the length of the nave, rose more than fifteen feet from the ground to the rounded tops of walls.

  My window was down, and even before we started to nose around the east corner toward the side of the church opposite the highway, I heard an engine start. “I don’t think whoever it is plans to stick around and chat,” I said.

  But I was wrong. We rounded the corner and pulled in behind a late-model white Dodge Durango with Texas plates. Our headlights picked up the silhouette of a single occupant before we pulled so close that the back of the vehicle blocked the light.

  My son turned on one of the little aircraft-style interior lights so I could see the cell phone, and I dialed dispatch. “Hopefully young Sutherland is awake,” I said. Young Sutherland was, and answered on the second ring.

  “Run a plate for me, Brent,” I said. “Texas dealer plate November Hotel niner Baker Thomas six.” He repeated the number and I waited, the even rumbling of the Corvette’s idle marking time.

  “Sir,” Brent Sutherland said finally, “that tag is registered to Walsh Chrysler-Plymouth, two twenty-one Parkway Avenue, Del Rio, Texas. No wants or warrants. Just a second, sir.”

  I heard a voice in the background, and then the rattle of the phone being handed off to someone else.

  Robert Torrez’s voice came on the line. “Sir, we think that truck belongs to Scott Gutierrez’s stepfather, a Mr. Jerry Walsh. He owns a dealership in Del Rio. Where are you right now? Behind the church?”

  “That’s exactly where we are,” I said. “Jackie asked me to check out this vehicle for her. Why, I don’t know.” If the undersheriff knew where I was, he no doubt also knew that I was there by Deputy Taber’s request.

  “Does the driver know you’re there?”

  “Unless he’s asleep or dead, he knows there’s a noisy Corvette parked behind him. He would have no way of knowing who it is unless he’s psychic.”

  “Okay.” Torrez didn’t elaborate.

  “Assuming he doesn’t drive off in the next ten seconds, do you want me to talk to him?” I prompted.

  “Sure. Go ahead, sir.”

  “Robert,” I said, exasperated by his taciturnity, “what are you not telling me?”

  “Jackie has reason to believe that the occupant of that vehicle was inside Sosimo Baca’s house just a few minutes ago.”

  I sat silently digesting that. “She’s sure?”

  “No, sir, she’s not. But Archie Sisneros called here a while ago to ask if one of our people was still working the Baca place. Archie says he saw the white vehicle parked in front, and someone inside the house with a flashlight.”

  “He thought that was kind of odd, did he?” I said.

  “Yep. Jackie took the call. On her way down the hill from the pass, she saw a vehicle exit the lane and then park behind the church. She decided it would be better to hang back a little and see what developed.”

  “Well,” I said, “we developed. I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Walsh-or whoever has his truck.”

  “It might be useful if he didn’t know that the deputy was sitting up the hill.”

  “You got it.” I snapped off the phone. “Cat and mouse time.” I shook my head and looked across at my son. I handed him the cell phone. “That button right there”-and I pointed to one of the white buttons on the left side-“is the auto-dial to the Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Why am I going to need that?”

  “Hopefully, you won’t. But I have to try and pry myself out of your stealth bomber again. If I get stuck partway, we may need to call for assistance.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I was halfway out of the car, contorted like Houdini, when I started to count down all the stupid things I was doing. If I had caught one of the rookie deputies pulling the same dumb stunt, I’d have chewed his ass up one side and down the other. Had the person waiting in the dark vehicle ahead of us been an armed psychotic in a stolen truck, he needed to look no further for an easy target.

  The interior courtesy light of the Corvette wasn’t much, but it did a thorough job of illuminating my gyrations as soon as I opened the door. Finally struggling to my feet and taking a deep breath of relief, I pushed the door closed and walked around the front of the car.

  The dome light of the Durango snapped on just as I rounded the left rear fender. The driver’s side window was down, and I could see an elbow resting on the sill. The headlights of my son’s car behind me worked to my advantage.

  “Good morning,” I said as I came up behind the open window.

  Scott Gutierrez leaned forward a bit so that he could twist around to peer at me. He grinned and then turned away from the glare of the headlights. “Good morning, Sheriff. I was wondering who that might be.” He gestured toward the northwest.

  “I saw you turn into the lane down there, but I lost you through that grove of trees. And then I saw the Border Patrol unit do the same thing. I figured the two of you were having a chat.”

  “The night shift,” I said. “That was Bergmann and Tomlin-son chasing coyotes.” I moved forward so that I could lean on the Durango’s door. “My son and I are roaming around, sharing insomnia on a nice peaceful Sunday morning.”

  He laughed. “Yep.” He stretched, straight-arming the steering wheel with his left while thumping his right hand against the vehicle’s roof.

  “I thought you were on leave,” I said. “That’s what Bergmann told me. And you told me earlier that you were going hunting this weekend.”

  Gutierrez yawned and nodded. “I am. Or rather, we are. My sister and me. And my stepdad. He’s visiting from Del Rio.” He turned and looked up at me. “The annual pilgrimage.”

  “He’s staying in Posadas?”

  “Yes. With Connie French. My sister.”

  “Aren’t you still living in Deming?” Gutierrez caught the puzzled note in my voice and grinned.

  “I thought it would be easier if I bunked on sis’ floor for the weekend, rather than driving back and forth. We’re going out and set up camp this afternoon, over on the north side of the mountains.” He nodded at the San Cristobals. “Then, come first light Monday”-and he held up and sighted an imaginary rifle-“the champion twelve-point buck who’s waiting out there is mine.”

  He put down the rifle. “But see, the problem is that my step-dad sees it as his goal in life to rearrange my life to his satisfaction. We always end up arguing about something. There’s about a six-hour grace period after he and I show up in the same house. And then, it’s anybody’s guess.”

  “I know how that can be.”

  The young man’s expression turned to one of chagrin. “This time I didn’t even get the six hours. We had a good row earlier this evening. I went back to sis’ place after that ruckus at the Broken Spur, and I made the mistake of mentioning it to my stepdad…you know, about that stupid kid running from the cops.” He shook his head ruefully. “That lit the fuse, I guess. What he really wants is for me to be partners with him in the dealership in Del Rio.”

  “That doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “Jesus, no. I can’t even imagine that.”

  “He’s trying to bribe you into it by letting y
ou drive this fancy truck?”

  “Right.” He surveyed the inside of the Durango. “It’s not bad, either.”

  “I hope you left your stepdad a note.” I chuckled. “He’s apt to wake up, find his baby gone, and go ballistic.”

  “Not likely. He sleeps like a rock. In fact, he usually misses all the good dawn hunting when we go out.”

  “So,” I said, and paused. “Any brilliant ideas about this mess we’ve got on our hands?”

  “The Baca thing, you mean?” He shrugged. “There’s two possibilities that are the most logical. One is that the old man had an argument with a relative over something. Domestics are number one, right?” He laughed. “I should talk.”

  I nodded.

  “With what happened to his son and all, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened. And then you gotta figure”-and he swept his hand in a general arc that included all of Regal-“if he’s out on the highway, he’s fair game for just about the whole world. Somebody saw him, figured to take whatever money he had, maybe brought him back to the house by force.” He looked up at me again. “That’s what I think, for what it’s worth…which ain’t much.”

  I glanced at the digital clock on the Durango’s dashboard. “So how long have you been sitting here?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. A while.” He yawned. “I pulled in here on impulse. A good place to do a lot of thinking. You never know what you’re going to see.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Well, the old lady who lives in that adobe with the yellow window frames”-and he pointed to a single porch light across the way that wasn’t blocked by the bulk of the church-“she let her dogs out for about ten minutes, and then called ’em both back in again at three-oh-five. That’s big news. The Contreras’ kitchen light came on at three-thirty for a few minutes and then went off again, so husband or wife or both were up and got a snack. That’s big news.” Gutierrez laughed.

  “Hot times,” I said.

  “And then a little bit ago, at about oh four hundred hours, this big, bad-ass ’Vette sneaks down the hill into town. I thought I had something fun going on with that one, until the Border Patrol nailed him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it as sneaking,” I said.

  “Well.” Gutierrez looked at me sideways with a “gotcha” grin. “You were comin’ off the hill like some airplane. I could hear all the way down here. And then you slowed, and didn’t come out from behind that big foothill there for a long time. And when you did, you were just kinda of drifting along.”

  “Lots of deer out,” I said.

  “Ah,” Gutierrez agreed. “Leave some for me, all right?”

  I straightened up and stretched, and glanced back at my son sitting patiently in the car. “I have to climb back in that thing,” I said. “It’s a major undertaking.”

  “Life’s tough.” Scott chuckled.

  “Did you happen to drive through the village tonight?” Before he had a chance to respond, I added, “See any foot traffic? Hear any dogs going nuts?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I didn’t have to drive through. I can hear every sniffle and giggle right from here. The whole valley is as quiet as this church.” He sighed and settled even farther down in the seat. “One of the things that’s on my mind is seeing that youngster get hit. That’s one reason I’m out and around. I lie down to sleep, and that’s what I see.” With a grimace, he smacked one hand against the other. “Bam. Just like that. I don’t guess I’ll ever forget that sound.”

  “I sympathize,” I said, thumping the windowsill of the Durango with both hands. “It takes a while for things like that to heal-if ever.”

  “You still don’t know why he tried to run?”

  I shook my head. “The only thing I can figure is that he was afraid of his cousin. They’ve had more than one set-to over the years, and Bobby’s a little tough on the boy. I’ve been running it through my mind, and that’s all I can come up with. Just before he popped the window, I radioed the office and said I was bringing the kid in. At that point, Matthew was behaving himself. I made the comment that the dispatcher might want to contact Undersheriff Torrez and let him know. That’s when the kid went berserk.”

  “Huh,” Gutierrez said. “That might make sense, Sheriff. You stopped your unit and we pulled in on the shoulder behind you. With all the lights on, the kid couldn’t tell one unit from another. Bergmann’s a big fella. If the kid caught sight of him backlit by all the flashing lights, maybe he thought it was Torrez, comin’ to thump on him. So he bolted.”

  “Maybe so. At any rate, we got one thing cleared up. One of the deputies found a fake license that Baca had been using as an ID.”

  “No shit?” Gutierrez raised an eyebrow. “You mean a fake driver’s license?”

  “Sure enough. The little rat had stuffed it down behind the seat of the patrol car. And that makes sense, when you think about it. That’s the last thing he wanted any of us to find on him.”

  “I thought you looked in his wallet. I know Taber did. I saw her do it.”

  “We don’t think it was in his wallet, Scott. He had it stashed somewhere else.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Yep.” I pushed away from the truck. “Well, we best be heading back to town.” I stopped. “Oh, by the way, Tony Abeyta probably asked you about this already. When you drove through Regal yesterday…no, when the hell was it. Saturday morning? Before the ruckus? You didn’t see any vehicles that looked out of place?”

  Gutierrez’s eyebrows knitted together. “I didn’t drive through Regal on Saturday morning. I was at the crossing talking with one of the Customs guys, and caught the call on the scanner. That’s the first I heard about it. I heard the call, and drove over. Hell, it’s what, a little more than a mile? Half the town was there by then, already.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding in comprehension. “Somebody’s got their timing screwed up. I was told that you had driven around the village earlier.”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “Not me. I know that Taylor Bergmann is fascinated by this place. It might well have been him. Or maybe one of the other guys. It’s kind of on our route.” He flashed a sudden smile. “Bergmann’s from St. Louis. There are more cars at a single traffic light at any given moment on an average day than in all of Regal.” He scoffed. “He thinks Regal would be the ideal place to live.”

  “It might be,” I agreed.

  “Who told Abeyta that I drove through?”

  “That’s a good question. Maybe I heard him wrong.” I grinned. “We’ve heard a different story from every resident of the village. Makes a fascinating set of reports.” I reached in and tapped him on the shoulder with my index finger. “Don’t be dozing off now. Some illegal would really be tempted by this buggy. I’d hate to have to break the news to your stepfather that you’d been hijacked to Mexico.”

  “See, that’s what he expects,” Gutierrez said with a laugh. “That would-how does Bergmann put it-‘validate all his arguments.’ You guys have a good night. Keep it slow and easy.”

  Practice was paying off. When I settled into the Corvette this time, it almost qualified as a modern dance routine.

  “All set?” my son asked.

  “Yep.” I slammed the light fiberglass door and struggled with the seat belt. “It’s one of the Border Patrol officers, undercover in his stepfather’s truck.”

  “Well”-Buddy laughed-“you’re undercover in your son’s car, so that makes it even, right?”

  He backed up a couple of paces and cranked the front wheels to clear the Durango’s chrome back bumper. Despite his best egg-under-foot efforts, the wide back tires of the Corvette kicked a little gravel as we swung wide.

  “Where to, sahib?”

  I had the phone in hand and pointed up the hill with it. “I want to talk with the deputy. Make sure she hasn’t been inhaling the funny smoke or something. Somebody sure as hell is making up stories.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

&nbs
p; From her vantage point just south of the pass, Deputy Jackie Taber could see the entire village of Regal, and beyond the vast, yawning blackness that was Mexico. A single group of lights twinkled on the southern horizon, the tiny Mexican village of Tres Santos.

  “If you swing around and point downhill, we can park door to door, and I can talk to the deputy without getting out of this thing.”

  “That’s not going to work too well,” my son said, “but we’ll take a shot at it.” Cops become expert, over the years, at those door-to-door conferences. You can pass coffee and donuts back and forth, or hand over paperwork, or chew the fat-all those good things that we did while we waited for something exciting to happen.

  That didn’t work this time. When I turned my head and looked out the window, I’d be looking right at the bottom of the sheriff’s star on the driver’s door of Taber’s unit. Fortunately, the young deputy had anticipated that very problem, and as we rolled in, she got out of the truck to meet us.

  She knelt down beside my door. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “Have you met my son? Commander Bill Gastner Junior, this is Deputy Jackie Taber.”

  “Pleasure,” Buddy said.

  “Nice car, sir.” Jackie grinned. She stroked the top of the door with light fingers. “What did you find out down below?”

  “First of all, that’s Scott Gutierrez hanging out down there,”

  I said.

  “Really?”

  “Really. He’s driving a vehicle from his father’s dealership. The old man’s up visiting for a few days, and Scott decided to find some fresh air.”

  “Ah,” Jackie said. “Okay, that makes sense.”

  “I’m glad it does to you. This is a long way to drive just to get out of the house. Of course, like the rest of us, Scott’s got Matt Baca on his mind.”

  “Other people have been known to roam the county with no particular destination in mind, sir,” Jackie said, and grinned across at my son. She shifted her weight to favor the other knee. I motioned her away from the door.

 

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