One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “Jason lives and breathes 4-H, and we have fairs coming up. He could be busy with that, although how he does it caught between two places is beyond me.” Archer smiled gently. “That’s one of the amazing things about kids, sometimes. They can bounce back from the darnedest things.” He nodded at the computer. “Now Maurice ‘Mo’ Arnett? There’s no telling. He’s a senior, and I’m proud to report that he has an early admission at the University of New Mexico. He’ll be leaving us in January, and I know he’s pretty excited about it. He’s signed up for R.O.T.C., with a military career in mind. Military might be just what that kid needs. He’s one of those rascals who is seventeen going on eight, if you know what I mean. Some military discipline will do him good. Now,” and he scrolled the computer display to another screenful, “Mr. Thomas Pasquale? Again, who knows. He’s a junior, and if it has an engine, Tommy is operating it.”

  “Let’s start with the other two,” I said. “The ones in school. Matt Singer and the Zapia kid. Two birds in the hand.”

  “We can do that. Hang on just a minute.” He rose and left the office, this time leaving the door open.

  I leaned closer to Estelle. “Something to watch. The Zamora kid? His older brother is Mike, over at the Highway Department. The one who worked directly with Larry Zipoli.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  In the next few minutes, we learned little from Matt Singer and Eric Zapia that we didn’t already know. Both boys certainly knew Larry Zipoli, and had taken part in various recreational outings with him. There was no formal arrangement, no calendaring of events. Their participation was a spur of the moment thing. Eric Zapia’s folks hadn’t been thrilled with his taking part in the excursions over to Elephant Butte, and I got the impression that Eric was kept on a pretty short leash.

  Still, Zipoli didn’t actively recruit these boys from around the neighborhood. It appeared that he was a kid magnet whether he wanted to be or not. Fancy truck, fast boat, not the least bit circumspect about supplying the odd can of suds now and then…and his youngest attractive daughter who was home often enough to inspire lust in teenaged minds.

  During the brief interviews, Estelle Reyes kept her own council. She watched each kid, each twitch of the hand, each squirm in the chair. Matt Singer tried to ignore her for the first few minutes, then ended up talking directly to the young lady, despite the questions coming exclusively from me. Had the opportunity presented itself, he probably would have asked her out on a date.

  Watching the interplay between the two young people-and it was a one-way attraction, obviously-was fascinating. When he’d first come into the room, Matt Singer had been a bit stooped, affecting that backpack induced posture so many teens suffered, but now he sat with shoulders square, trying to add a couple of years of maturity. He had a nice smile, and apparently had decided during a session in front of the mirror that a slight Elvis curl of the lips added to his charm. He tried several versions of that on Estelle, all to no avail.

  For his turn, Eric Zapia impressed me as a harmless airhead, a kid who’d spent too long with the earphones cranked up to ten. It took him a while to find the superintendent’s office, and he sort of sidled through the door as if concerned that he might be entering the wrong room. I didn’t care what he wore, or how ridiculous his spiky hair looked, but he certainly did, and I think he hoped one of us would say something. His favorite word was, “whaaa?” as if either his hearing or his comprehension had headed south. Our interview with him didn’t last long-he was either dim-witted or a consummate actor. Apparently he enjoyed the lake outings because of the “chicks,” the parading laker groupies.

  We left the school with one little tidbit of information that pointed us toward something we already knew. Eric Zapia didn’t ride a bike-I’m not sure his reflexes were sharp enough for that, but he fingered two who did. Both Tom Pasquale and Jason Packard-two of the students enjoying hooky-were cyclists of some repute, and Larry Zipoli had been seem talking to cyclists sometime during his last hours on earth.

  In a world where the automobile was God, here were two kids who still pedaled. Jason missed his horses, I would guess, and Tommy Pasquale would have preferred something with a V-8. But according to Eric Zapia, both Pasquale and Packard were rabid fans of the professional teams-enough so that they wore the bright racing jerseys from time to time, even wore them in public, risking the scorn of peers. They had proposed a bike club at school, and were greeted with underwhelming enthusiasm.

  Riding bikes didn’t seem a likely thrill for either of them. Maybe some of the roads on the side of Cat Mesa were sufficiently vertical that they could reach escape velocity. Adrenalin junkies, both boys must have loved Larry Zipoli’s boat, with its rumbling V-8, chrome-plated air cleaners, and ear-busting exhaust stacks.

  “What do you think?” I asked Estelle as I eased the county car out of the school’s circle driveway. “Did that little session at the school bring back memories for you?”

  “In what regard, sir?”

  Well, of course she wasn’t going to babble on about her own high school experience, regardless of how recent it might be. I was coming to learn that Ms. Reyes’ reticence wasn’t just a passing phase. Most of us humans took some small delight in chatting about ourselves. Somebody tells us a yarn about their adventures, even if it was just a flat tire on the way to Walmart, and we respond with our own version, usually flavored with a little one-upsmanship. “Why, I had two flats last night in the middle of the worst electric storm of the century.”

  Estelle Reyes apparently didn’t feel even the slightest need to chat about her high school years, challenging as they must have been. I had no doubt that her thoughts were focused on El Jardin de los Tres Santos, but she didn’t continue her suppositions about that, either. She’d spoken her piece, displayed what little evidence there was, and got on with her day. And I liked that, from the very start. She kept her focus on the job at hand. That didn’t mean some small room in her brain wasn’t reserved for the welfare of the three saints.

  “Schools are a culture all their own,” I said by way of explanation.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I chuckled at that. “Who do you want to find first?”

  “The cyclists,” she said, cutting to the chase. The radio crackled, and I slowed and nodded at the mike. Sheriff Eduardo Salcido’s voice sounded tired.

  “Three ten, ten twenty.”

  Without a fraction of a second’s hesitation, Estelle unclipped the mike and replied, “Three ten is just leaving the high school, eastbound on Piñon.”

  “Stop for a minute at Handiway.”

  “Ten four.”

  I could see the sheriff’s vehicle at the convenience store before the young lady had racked the mike. “He sounds as if he spent a long night,” I said.

  The sheriff leaned against the fender of his unmarked county car, arms folded across his chest, boots crossed at the ankles. He didn’t shift position as I drove up, but surveyed 310 critically.

  “When are we going to get you a new car?” he greeted as I pulled myself out of the low-slung LTD.

  “Any decade now,” I replied, and patted the faded front fender. New vehicles, when they infrequently arrived, went to road deputies. “Old men get old cars.” Salcido smiled at that, and raised a hand to tip his hat at Estelle, who had remained in the car.

  “How is she getting along?”

  “Just fine. She’s a thinker, Eduardo. I like that.”

  Salcido nodded, but it wasn’t the talented young lady whom he had on his mind. “Jack Newton died early this morning.”

  I felt the same pang that most folks my age-or the sheriff’s-feel when someone near our own demographic dies. Mortality is a melancholy thing. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not surprising, I guess. He was in a bad way.”

  “That’s what Nicky said. It was coming, he said. The old man was just lucky that he didn’t drive that big Caddy into somebody first.” Salcido pushed himself away from the car. “Ay,” the sherif
f added, and shook his head. He straightened his shoulders, and I heard weary bones pop. “Bobby is working with George Payton this morning.”

  “What’s George got for us?”

  “I don’t know. Bobby thinks he’s got a lock on the bullet make, and that sent him off, you know. He wanted to paw through George’s stuff.”

  I frowned. “And George?” Payton owned the only gun shops in town, a nifty, memento-filled little place with more inventory than most shop five times its size. And the shop was his turf. George Payton didn’t let anyone forget that. I couldn’t imagine George opening his books to the cops, no matter how well he knew Bobby Torrez, or me, or Eduardo.

  “I think we’re going to need a warrant,” Eduardo said. “Bobby said no, but you know, I’ll be surprised if George opens his books to us. I was thinking that maybe you need to talk with him.”

  “What’s Bobby hunting?”

  Salcido pushed his Stetson back on his skull, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. “He’s sure now that the ammunition used was.30–30. And he thinks that he knows the brand of bullet.”

  “No one found a shell casing, Eduardo.”

  “No, no. Not the casing, Jefito. But the bullet. He says he’s sure it’s a Mountain States brand.”

  “Millions of those around, I suppose. He thinks that George Payton might have sold it originally?”

  Salcido’s shrug was deep and expressive. “Maybe he did.”

  “Or mail order. Mountain States has been in business for years.”

  “But it’s something, you know. If the ammunition was hand-loaded, rather than just off the shelf…” He shook his head slowly, gazing off into the distance. “This is a bad thing. A bad thing.”

  I nodded. “And any little bit is going to help.” I understood what had piqued Bobby Torrez’s curiosity. A box of loaded ammo, bought from the store shelf, would have generic bullets, either made by the ammo brand company itself, like Winchester or Remington, or purchased from a major bullet supplier, like Sierra, Speer, or Hornady. Mountain States was a smaller company, catering to handloaders rather than manufacturers.

  “You were at the school this morning?”

  “You bet. We talked with two of the kids-Matt Singer and Eric Zapia. The other four are ditching school today.”

  “Ditching.” Salcido savored the syllables. “I used to enjoy that. Maybe too much. Didn’t get me anywhere, though.” He flashed a smile. “You’re going to talk with them this morning?”

  “I’m curious, is all. Two of the kids are cyclists, and with weather like this, I’m not surprised that the bikes hold more attraction than school. We’ll start there. The Pasquale kid and Jason Packard.”

  Salcido bent and looked into my car. “What do you think, señorita?”

  “I’m curious to hear what they have to say, sir.”

  “We’re curious, all right,” he smiled, and looked across at me. “All this is muy curioso. You’ll have time to stop by George’s place? Bobby’s there right now.”

  “We’ll make the time,” I said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Home, I think. You know, I didn’t sleep so good last night.” He rubbed his chest over his breastbone. “This whole thing with Zipoli…” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s a bad thing, this not knowing. Something like this happening right in our own back yard.”

  “We’ll figure it out, Eduardo.” I saw my last chance to fill him on the Tres Santos, but he didn’t look as if he needed more weight on his shoulders.

  He held up a hand, and turned back to his car. From the avalanche on the front seat, he rescued a manila folder. “We got this late yesterday.” He handed it to me, and I flipped the cover. The application was generic, filled out in large, block letters that would have been appropriate for a ten year-old.

  “Jerome Jesse Murton. Not a chance, Eduardo,” I said, and snapped it shut. “J.J. Murton shouldn’t even be working for the village. Chief Martinez should have his head examined for allowing it.”

  Salcido’s smile was gentle. “He might fit into dispatch all right. He’s dependable, you know.”

  “J.J. Murton is an illiterate moron,” I snapped.

  “In three years with the PD, he’s never missed a day of work. That’s what the chief tells me.”

  “Whoopee. That means he’s a consistent illiterate moron. There are enough ways for a deputy to step into trouble without someone like Murton at his back in dispatch. Don’t do it, sheriff. You want my advice, don’t do it. Hell, if we get short, I’ll sit dispatch if it comes to that.”

  I handed the folder back. “Anyway, Miss Reyes can step in to dispatch as soon as I finish up some orientation.”

  “You sounded good on the radio,” the sheriff said to Estelle and straightened to pat me on the shoulder. “I guess we have her caught up in the middle of things, no?”

  “And that’s the way it is,” I replied. “It’s good for her to see how all this works. There’ll be plenty of time to swim in all the paperwork later.”

  “But then she goes to academy, and we won’t have her on staff for eight weeks. Maybe more. I was just thinking…”

  “You’ll get into trouble doing that, Eduardo. You want my advice, don’t do it.”

  The sheriff wobbled his head, neither a yes nor a no. “Let’s sit down this afternoon and see where all this is leading us,” he said. I didn’t want to spend five more minutes thinking about the Sleeping Beauty, but it was Salcido’s call. I appreciated that all employers faced the same conundrum-finding employees who showed up for work when they were supposed to, without going missing during the holidays or finding excuses on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons. But critical jobs deserved more than just a warm body.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We could have jogged over to George Payton’s modest shop in less time than it took to mount up, turn the LTD around, and cross traffic on Bustos to the little avenue behind Pershing Park. “Cross traffic” meant pausing for a second while Mimi Sloan drove through the intersection in her Oldsmobile.

  Deputy Torrez’s new Bronco was parked in front of Shooters’ Supply, taking advantage of a scraggly elm for a spot of shade. I swung in behind the Bronco.

  “You’ve met George Payton before?” I asked Estelle.

  “No, sir. I know who he is, that’s all. I’ve heard Reubén talk about him now and then.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Where else would Reubén find ammo for that antique of his.”

  “There’s a partial box of cartridges on the mantel above the fireplace,” Estelle said. “The dust on them is about this thick,” and she held her fingers an inch apart. “They haven’t been touched in a long time.”

  “And let’s hope they stay that way.” I perused the junk on the seat for a moment, wondering what I had forgotten. “You want to call us in? Leave us available, though.”

  She did so without fanfare, putting us ten-eight at 101 Baca. General Pershing was honored by the whole park and facing street named for him, while Elfego Baca’s memory was noted with a short cul-de-sac, more of an alley than a street.

  The front door of the shop opened with a single squeal, and George Payton looked up from the large book and brochure that engrossed him and Deputy Torrez. The deputy’s black briefcase rested on the counter.

  “What the hell do you want?” George’s warm, affectionate greeting was par for the course, and didn’t actually mean that he was an abrasive old son-of-a-bitch, which he was, or that he didn’t want to see us-which he probably didn’t. He squinted at me through his coke-bottle glasses. Diabetes was killing him just as surely as high blood pressure and arteriosclerosis were likely killing me, and he leaned his heavy body against the counter, taking the weight off his ballooning ankles. His gaze locked on Estelle as she gently closed the door behind us.

  “Showing your granddaughter around the big city, Billy?” Payton was the only person in the world who still used a nickname that had rested mercifully dormant since the days of Mrs. Lewis, my thi
rd grade teacher.

  “George Payton, this is Estelle Reyes.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” George said ungraciously. “I know who she is.” He nodded at Estelle, but didn’t offer a hand. “How’s the old man?”

  “He’s fine, sir,” Estelle replied.

  “So, what, you’re thinkin’ of workin’ at the funny farm now with these guys?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at me, rheumy blue eyes twinkling, then back at Estelle. “You know, they never come in here unless they want something. And it sure as hell ain’t never to buy anything.” He pulled back a little, surveying the row of handguns on the top shelf. He selected one boxed specimen, pulled it out, and slid it across the glass to me. “Got you one,” he said. “Came in with a collection yesterday.” The stainless Smith and Wesson Model 66 four-inch appeared flawless, but I didn’t dare pick it up, knowing the instant it nestled in my hand, I’d have to own it.

  “I’ll be back to talk with you about that,” I said.

  “Got about eight other people who want that one,” George said.

  “Well, go ahead and sell it to them, then,” I said. “I’d hate to barge in and cut my place in line.” That earned what passed for a smile.

  “Are you doing any good?” I asked Deputy Robert Torrez. He towered over the three of us, darkly handsome, and most of the time overly serious. His face could stand a little smile cracking now and then if he expected a Hollywood talent scout to pay him any mind. He and Estelle would make a hell of a couple, but nature didn’t need any help, or even suggestions, from me.

  “I was just telling the deputy that I don’t sell much Mountain States inventory,” George Payton said before Torrez had a chance to reply. He put the Model 66 away, and then slid a colorful brochure toward me with the Mountain States logo prominent across the top. “This was in my slush pile. They keep sendin’ me junk, even when I don’t order nothin’.”