And sure enough, a hale and hearty Virginia Creeper grew up the side of the house, softening the abrupt corner, a transition of sorts from one dimension to another. A Virginia Creeper might be mistaken for marijuana, but only by one of those numb folks who have blown or snorted enough stuff to addle their brains.
I pivoted and looked back across the yard. How the hell did Larry Zipoli find a spot to peer into this enchanted place? Did he have a small step ladder on far side? Is that how he got his jollies? Well, he’d really have to work at it. Or had Marilyn been spying on her buff neighbor as Raught took his laps?
Raught spread his arms wide to encompass the little paradise. “This is my hobby, Undersheriff. If Posadas ever runs out of water, I suppose it’ll go back to desert.” He looked wistful. “It’ll be Mexico outside, as well as in.”
“You miss Japan?”
“Well…sure, in some ways. But it’s a very small island, Undersheriff. Very small. With lots of people.” He took a deep breath. “You know what’s nice? When I step out here at two in the morning and slip into the water, the only sounds are the coyotes out on the mesa. All the televisions are off, the kids are asleep, most of the dogs have shut up. Have you ever stood on a Tokyo street at two in the morning? Ye Gods.” He grinned benignly at Estelle, like a father proud of his daughter. “Rural Mexico, or the big metro areas? I would guess rural. Am I right?”
“Tres Santos.”
His head cocked to one side as if he’d been poked, but then he nodded in familiarity. “Well, it’s hard to be more rural than that. You would know what I’m talking about, then. The deep, deep quiet.” He took another deep breath. “Gotta have it. My drug of choice.”
He patted the redwood railing of the gazebo, brow furrowing. “I don’t know what else I can tell you folks. The Zipolis kept to themselves, and as far as I’m concerned, lived a nice quiet life. Nice kids. No loud pets. Some weekend outings that appeared to involve just about every youngster in the neighborhood. The Butte is one of their favorite spots, as I understand it. They invited me to go along once or twice, but I declined. Noisy ski boats, party-hearty teenagers, hot sun, hot sand, and murky Rio Grande water aren’t my idea of paradise, as you might assume by visiting here. Crowds don’t light my fires, Undersheriff. But around here? I can’t imagine who got crosswise with Larry Zipoli.”
“Did he have an alcohol problem?” The blunt question prompted a raised eye brow.
“That would be entirely none of my business, Undersheriff. Obvious it’s your business, but not mine.” He held out both hands, palms up. “Nothing I can tell you there. If I did, I’d just be making something up.” He looked at first me and then Estelle expectantly. As far as he was concerned, our conversation was over.
I offered my hand, and his grip was firm and brief. He made a point of shaking Estelle’s hand, too.
“I hope you enjoy your new adventure,” he said to her. A logical guess must have been what it was, but I was impressed never the less.
“Thank you, sir,” Ms. Reyes replied quietly.
Raught followed us back through the Mexican living room, and then out to the front yard deep in the Sonoran desert. If a kid lost his tricycle in there, it’d be gone forever-maybe the kid, too. “Folks, if there’s anything else you need from me, don’t hesitate. I’m here most of the time.”
I thanked him, and moseyed out to the sidewalk and 310. Raught’s front door closed out the sun and heat. Estelle Reyes read my hesitation correctly, and was in no hurry to slip into the car. I walked east a few feet, and looked at the small flower garden that edged the property boundaries. I didn’t see any stake holes that would indicate the presence of a little decorative fence, but those were so easily obliterated…and would have been by someone with a fetish for making every aspect of his yard just so.
Chapter Fourteen
“So.” I settled into the almost comfortable seat of the Crown Victoria. Its idle became a bit ragged as I kicked in the air conditioner. “We have about a million conversations like our little chat with Jim Raught for every stand-off with an armed and dangerous bank robber.” I looked down the quiet street. Two blocks away, a trio of little kids-maybe still too young to be excited about school looming on the immediate horizon-played with a lawn sprinkler. I could hear the kids’ chirps and screams.
I looked across at Estelle. “And what do you think about all this?”
She didn’t answer immediately, a characteristic reservation I was coming to accept as ingrained. “I can’t imagine Mr. Raught killing Mr. Zipoli out on a hot, dusty road with a lucky shot,” she said eventually. “It’s too messy, too inconsistent with the way he controls his universe.”
“His universe,” I repeated. “I would be willing to bet that if we opened his garage, we’d find a neat little imported car, something on the luxurious side, like a BMW or Porsche. It would be spotless, waxed, perfect. The garage would be a showplace, with even the paint arranged on the shelf alphabetically by color.”
“Something very like that, sir.” She watched the neighborhood slide by. “I picture James Raught as coldly calculating, should the need arise. I don’t picture him doing something as risky, as untidy, as what happened to Mr. Zipoli. I don’t picture him flying off the handle in a screaming rage over a little garden fence.”
“Believe it or not, people have been killed over less.”
“Sin duda,” she said, and just as quickly translated. “Without a doubt. But I would imagine that if the need arose, Mr. Raught would use some kind of distilled venom drawn from the pectoral fins of an oriental rock fish.”
I laughed loudly. “Maybe that’s what happened to his wife.”
“I didn’t see any family photos on display in that house.”
“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I assumed, based on what Marilyn Zipoli said. And that’s not very smart. We’ll have the chance to correct that.” The dash clock read 10:03. As we eased out on Grande Avenue, I reached out and slid the mike off the hook. Force of habit brought it toward me before I remembered, and handed it to the young lady. “I need to know what Bob Torrez has on his plate right now.” She took the mike, thought for five seconds, and then keyed it.
“Three oh eight, three ten. Ten twenty?”
The airwaves simmered in the August sunshine as the seconds ticked by. I couldn’t remember listing off deputies and their car numbers to my ride-along, but it’s something she had had the opportunity to pick up during the course of the morning’s activities. I glanced at her, impressed. She was gazing out the window, perhaps counting the appropriate number of seconds before repeating the message.
“Three ten, PCS.” Dispatch was paying attention.
“PCS, go ahead.”
“Three ten, be advised that three oh eight is ten-six with MacInerny.”
I nodded to assure Estelle that I understood, but before she could acknowledge, Torrez’s voice, so quiet he might have been inside a church, came on the air.
“Three ten, three oh eight. I’ll be here for a bit.”
“Three ten’s ETA is twelve minutes,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message.
“Ten four.” Torrez’s response was entirely unexcited.
Anyone who had spent significant time listening to the Sheriff’s Department radio chatter had no doubt been able to crack our sophisticated code. Dale and Perry MacInerny, of MacInerny Sand and Gravel, owned a gravel pit that was unused at the moment, as the family outfit was occupied up at the Consolidated Mine, part of the reclamation effort. While they were thus occupied and their big pit east of town was quiet, we used a portion of it as a shooting range.
I turned south on Grande, heading south-east on State 61. In five miles, we would reach the dirt road that took off straight to the east, a road packed hard by constant heavy truck traffic. The gravel pit turn-off was still two miles ahead when we rounded a gentle curve and saw the late model Cadillac pulled off the side of the road. Well, half pulled off. The ass end of the big barge draped out so that the b
ack bumper hung over the white line.
We hadn’t had any rain lately, so the shoulders were nice firm sand, and the back tires were still on asphalt. After turning on all of my own emergency lights, I idled 310 up close behind the Caddy.
“Go ahead.” I nodded toward the radio mike. How many times had this young lady called in a plate? Maybe never? She’d had the opportunity to hear others do it during the past few hours riding with me. But radios find the tongled tangs among the best of us, and rookies are sure fodder for tales from the air waves.
“PCS, three ten,” she said, and released the mike key, about as excited as we sound when we say, “Hi, how are you?” to a stranger we meet while passing through the automatic doors at the grocery store.
“Three ten, PCS.”
“PCS, ten twenty-eight three-niner-seven Romeo, Alpha, Mike.”
“Ten four, three ten. Ten twenty?”
Yes, soon-to-be-officer Reyes. Where the hell are you? The request for a twenty came out clipped and fast enough that I knew Dispatcher Barnes really wanted to add, “Don’t make me have to ask, damn it.” He would already be typing the plate number into the computer as he spoke.
“Three ten is just beyond mile marker four, State 61.”
“Tennnn four, three ten,” Barnes drawled. His tone gave me the impression that he’d have taken delight in giving the young lady a hard time had he not known she was right seat with me.
I hadn’t even noticed the mile marker post, although I would hope that I knew where I was without it. “Ten six,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message that the officer would be busy with 397RAM for a few minutes.
“So why did he park half on the roadway?” I asked, in no hurry to get out of the car. I recognized the big sedan, and that in itself was a puzzle, since Jack Newton, with his wrecked knees, bad hip, and bunions, wouldn’t have hoofed back into Posadas. Jack wouldn’t hoof anywhere.
“I think he’s lying across the seat,” Estelle said quietly. “I saw his hand as we approached.”
I looked across at her with keen interest. “His hand?”
“Yes, sir. As if he were lying across the seat, and raised his arm up in the air for something. Just for an instant.”
A sage nod of agreement was the thing for that moment. Hell, I hadn’t seen any hand wave at us. Maybe I’d been busy looking for damage as we rolled up, or traffic coming up behind us, or for Jack’s body slumped in the thorny weeds along the shoulder. Jack Newton was at least seventy-five, and his body was no longer eighty percent water, or whatever that figure is supposed to be. He was too thin and emaciated for that.
“Three ten, PCS. Be advised that three-niner-seven Romeo Alpha Mike should appear on a 1983 Cadillac, color maroon, registered to a John R. Newton, 41 Third Street, Posadas, New Mexico. Negative wants or warrants.”
“Ten four.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” I said. “Stay in the car.” Sure enough, Jack Newton was stretched out across the back seat of the Cadillac. The back seat. His keys hung from the ignition, and his wallet appeared to be resting in the center console, along with a pair of sun glasses and a Styrofoam cup. When I opened the passenger side door, the effluvium charged out, thick and sweet with a hint of tangy gut juice.
A 750ml bottle lay on the floor, just a swallow or two left. Normally, Jack Newton kept his drinking inside his modest little mobile home on a quarter lot on Third Street. I’d never arrested him for DWI, and couldn‘t remember the last time one of the other deputies had.
His wrinkled old face was flat against the Caddy’s fancy seat cushion, a trail of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to stain the fabric.
“Jack, you with us? It’s Bill Gastner.” I swung the door as far as it would go and ducked inside far enough to be able to put two fingers on the side of his withered old neck. His pulse wasn’t paying much attention-a wandering beat just waiting for an excuse to lurch to a halt from the alcohol poisoning. And add a match and his breath would have made a cutting torch. He snuffled and jerked, and for a moment it appeared that he wanted to open his eyes.
A small man, Jack fitted neatly on the seat. Had I left him there, he no doubt would snooze the day away, or perhaps give it all up when some tired portion of his system collapsed. Or a semi might drift over a bit and smack the Caddy into the cacti. In the worst case scenario, Jack might awaken late in the afternoon, disoriented. He’d fumble behind the wheel again to weave his way home-and smack head-on into a station-wagon carrying the eight member Johnson family from Terre Haute, Indiana.
I sighed and glanced back. Ms. Reyes had stayed in the car, but her door was open.
“Oh,” Jack groaned, and a hand flopped unerringly toward the bottle.
“We’re going to get you out of here, Jack,” I said.
“I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled.
“I’m sure you don’t, Jack my friend. But you can’t sleep it off here.”
“Nicky…”
“Nick will come and pick you up,” I said. “Just hang in there, Jack.” His long-suffering son managed Posadas Auto Parts, and would be just delighted to break away to tend to his old man. Just delighted. The open bottle of bourbon on the floor, the Caddy skewed on the shoulder, the keys handy in the ignition…all those things sealed old Jack’s unhappy fate with this particular stunt. Nick would be doing a lot of waiting on this old man.
I hustled back to the car and settled behind the wheel.
“National Drunk Week. It’s not my favorite time,” I said to Estelle Reyes. “But I guess no time is a good time for Mr. Newton. He’s passed out on the back seat, and he’s got a pulse that would make a doctor go pale.” I keyed the mike.
“PCS, ten fifty-five this location. One adult male. Intoxication poisoning.”
“Ten four, three ten.”
“And expedite that,” I added. “Then call Nick Newton at Posadas Auto Supply and have him make arrangements to fetch the vehicle this location.” I saw the hand appear as Jack Newton tried to swim up from his alcoholic bog.
“Ten four, three ten.” We were three miles south of town, and it would be a couple of minutes before we had company. I watched a truck approach from behind us, and the driver swung all the way into the far lane to give us lots of room. Even so, his bow-wave rocked us. “We need to get Mr. Newton’s car off the highway,” I said. “The keys are in it, so as soon as the ambulance picks him up, we’ll move it. If we’re lucky…if Jack is lucky… we won’t have long to wait for transport.”
Back at the Caddy, I saw the restless, waving hand that said the old man was still trying to keep in touch. Mr. Newton probably weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds dripping drunk, and was as fragile as a sack of dishes. Leaning both hands on the Caddy’s roof, I chatted with him as if he was perfectly cogent. There would have been a time, I suppose, when I would have hauled his old butt out of the car, slapped the cuffs on him while spreading him over the trunk lid, and then marched him back to the patrol car for the ride back to town. But Jack Newton didn’t have that kind of reserve. We’d wait, and let the tax payers fork out a few extra bucks.
I reached out and checked his neck pulse again, grimacing at the aroma from inside the Caddy. As I straightened up, I heard approaching traffic slow abruptly.
The black and white Chevrolet Impala pulled off the highway and parked directly behind my unit, red lights winking. J.J. Murton got out of his patrol car without so much as a glance toward traffic that might be approaching from behind him. As he walked the length of my county vehicle, his eyes were locked on the passenger in 310. He nodded at Estelle Reyes as he passed.
The old man groaned again, and I eased him upright on the seat so that his head was cradled back. He couldn’t hold his mouth shut, and a string of drizzle escaped and ran down his chin.
“Oh, what have I been doing,” Jack moaned.
“Just take it easy now,” I said. Murton approached hesitantly, not sure if he should grab hold of something or someone.
&
nbsp; “Dispatch said you might need an assist?”
I hadn’t asked for assistance, and dispatch hadn’t put out the call…I would have heard the radio call. Murton had no reason to wander outside the village, either. But his intentions were good, so I didn’t bite his head off. “We’re just waiting on the ambulance,” I said, and about that time I could hear the siren in the distance.
“You want me to transport?”
I wasn’t sure that it was possible to educate J.J. Murton, but I made a stab at it. “No. He’s old and frail and seems to be suffering a little cardiac distress. The last thing you want is for him to crap out in the back seat of your patrol car.”
“Well, you got that right, Sheriff,” Murton replied.
“If you’d manage traffic for the ambulance, I’d appreciate it. They’re going to want to park right here.” I nodded at the southbound lane immediately beside the Cadillac. “You take north, I’ll take south.”
Murton nodded vigorously, perhaps a little relieved that I wasn’t going to go Marine Corps Sergeant on him. “You do the breathalyzer already?”
“No. He’s so high he’d probably break the scale. We’ll wait for the hospital to stabilize things before the law lands on him with both feet.”
“Damn good thing he pulled off the road when he did,” Murton observed. “Mighta killed someone.”
“True enough. His lucky day.” Lucky day or not, Jack’s tortured gut gave up just then. He managed to twist sideways just enough that when he tossed his cookies it didn’t spray all over the inside of the Cadillac-which meant that most of it was aimed at Murton and me. I danced sideways, damn near knocking Murton ass over teakettle. Then I just had time to dive forward and prevent Jack from collapsing headfirst out of the car.
“Oh, Jeez,” Murton bleated, making ineffectual little swipes at his trousers. His face had gone pale. Apparently he was one of those guys whose own stomach starts to gyrate with the permeating aroma of vomit.
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