“An hour or so to do that?”
“I suppose.”
“Huh.” Torrez frowned at the dog. “Why would Pat do that?”
“That’s the question,” I said.
“Nobody saw him?”
“Not that I’ve found. I stopped by the Broken Spur on a long shot.” I shook my head. “Nobody saw him. Well, I take that back. Roy Ocate claims that just as he was pulling into the saloon parking lot, he saw Herb’s rig northbound on 56. He didn’t take any particular notice of it, beyond just seeing it. He claims Pat was driving.”
Socks looked expectantly at Estelle, who knelt and stroked his pointy little head. She ran a hand under his collar to smooth his neck ruffles, and then rubbed the underside of his jaw. He responded by shuffling closer, hoping the attention would continue.
“That’s like leaving a member of the family behind,” she said.
“Well, we know that happens on occasion, too,” I said. “Mom and Dad forget that little Johnny is in the truck-stop restroom, and drive off and leave him. At least they claim they forget. They don’t often admit that their kid is a little rodent who deserves to be left behind, inflicted on somebody else.”
Estelle straightened up. “He looks good on you, sir. You should get yourself a dog.”
“Please. Besides, he makes my eyes itch.” I extended the lead rope toward her. “You want him?”
“Thanks for the offer, sir. Francisco and Carlos would be ecstatic.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“We can hope that Herb or Pat picks him up before dinner.” She smiled at me. “You wanted to see some photos?”
“Yep. I had a thought that damn near put me into the bar-ditch.”
“Oh? What do you want to see?”
“You said most of Linda’s photos from George’s kitchen are on the computer? Let’s start there.”
“Everybody’s keepin’ their eyes open,” Torrez said as he turned away toward his office. “For Patrick, I mean. State’s watchin’ the interstate.” He turned to look toward the two of us. “I’m going out here in a little bit. I was going to check down toward María.” He shrugged. “You never know.”
Socks watched him until he disappeared into the office as if there might be an opportunity of some sort there. But now that the heeler was on strange turf-turf that obviously wasn’t his-he behaved as if he’d had a lobotomy, staying close to my feet and not the least bit interested in extending the length of his leash. As we entered Estelle’s comfortable office, the undersheriff gestured toward her chair. “Take the computer, padrino.” I settled in the chair, and the heeler dived under the desk. Estelle reached past my shoulder, keying the computer to do its thing. In a moment, the thumbnail index including photos of George Payton’s kitchen appeared.
“I want the close-ups of the table,” I said, and she scrolled across the index. The first shot showed the table as a whole, and I reached out to tap the screen. “Just that.” I didn’t need to ask if Linda Real had taken any particular photos-the young lady didn’t miss a thing. Sure enough, a crystal clear portrait of the casserole dish popped up. The lid was in place, and the photo didn’t show me what I wanted to know. “How about the plate itself?”
That portrait appeared, and then expanded to fill the screen from border to border. The instant I saw it, I knew I was right, and I thumped the desk top with my fist. That didn’t make me feel any better. Reaching out for a pencil, I leaned one elbow on the edge of the desk and touched the screen with the eraser. And again, and again.
“Yes, sir,” Estelle said without surprise, and I turned to crank my neck around so I could look up at her. She rested one hand on my shoulder as she reached past me to select another photo. This one was the serving dish as a whole, with the glass cover removed.
I nodded and touched the image half a dozen times with the pencil eraser. “Damn it, are we chasing our imaginations here?” I asked. “This sure as hell is chopped green chile-and I’ll bet right out of a can. I saw the same thing on Gus Prescott’s plate down at the Broken Spur, and that got me to thinking. At the Don Juan, Fernando slices his into thin strips. I’m sure of it. Lord knows I’ve eaten enough of the stuff.” I tapped the screen again. “We need answers for this.”
“I wanted to wait for you before talking to Mr. Aragon,” Estelle said.
That surprised me, since the undersheriff certainly didn’t need to wait for anyone, least of all me. It didn’t surprise me that she’d obviously shared my suspicions…she was always miles ahead of me. “What did you request from the lab?”
“A full profile, sir. I pulled in a favor or two, and they’re asking for some help from the university labs as well. We’re looking at a weekend coming up, and that’ll put a damper on anything they might find.”
“So late today, maybe. More likely tomorrow,” I said. “They move fast, but usually not that fast.”
“Well, like I said, I asked a favor or two.”
I sat back in the chair, staring at the photo of the partial burrito. “We may be nuts,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“I thought about it this morning-the old bolt from the blue thing. Then I got distracted. Here a few minutes ago, I was down at the Broken Spur, standing at the bar beside Gus Prescott. He was eating one of Victor’s creations, and that’s what set me off. The whole thing was spread with diced green chile.”
“That raises some interesting questions, padrino.”
“Indeed. You can print this for me?”
“Of course.”
“Did you talk with Bobby about this?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. He’s pulling in some favors of his own. He sent Tony Abeyta to Albuquerque to deliver the evidence.”
“Does he think we’re nuts?” Most folks pondered about things, often out loud, often bouncing ideas off other folks. Bobby Torrez took taciturn to new heights, and I reflected with amusement that when we combined the sheriff and the inscrutable undersheriff, we’d be a good repository for the most sensitive super-spy information.
“That’s impossible to say, sir.” That reply didn’t surprise me. Estelle handed me the photo as it came out of the color printer, and I glanced at the clock.
“You have time to go right now?”
“Sure,” she said. “What about White Fang, here?” Socks looked up at her as if he’d recognized his real name.
“He’ll just have to rough it and stay in the truck,” I said. “You want to ride with me?”
“Ah,” and Estelle looked around the room as if she’d forgotten something. “Let me follow you down. That way if there’s a call, I’ll have my office with me.”
I laughed. “Gee, you mean the full power and authority of the Livestock Board isn’t enough?”
“I’m sure it would be,” she said diplomatically. Twelve blocks later, we parked nose to tail on Twelfth Street, in the shade of the Don Juan de Oñate. Turning on his best hang-dog expression of resignation, Socks didn’t bother this time with the dervish dance of impatience. He accepted two sloppy tongue-fulls of water, then settled on his seat with a great sigh. “You hungry?” I asked, then amended that. “Stupid question. You’re a dog. I’ll see what I can find.”
Swinging into the dinner hour, it wsn’t the best time to descend on the Don Juan for anything other than food. The place was surprisingly quiet, though, and JanaLynn Torrez greeted us with a sunny smile.
“We need to talk with Fernando, sweetheart,” I said.
“You go right on back,” she said. “Maybe you’ll cheer him up some.” She lowered her voice. “He’s in a rotten mood after hearing about Mr. Payton, sir.”
“It’s probably going to get rottener,” I said. Ever diplomatic, JanaLynn didn’t ask me what I meant, and Estelle and I headed for the swinging doors of the kitchen.
Chapter Eleven
When Estelle and I pushed our way through the swinging door to the kitchen of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant, the chef was standing with h
is arms folded across his chest, leaning a hip against one of the butcher block prep tables. Fernando Aragon looked every one of his sixty-five years. He appeared to be contemplating the floor tiles. His fleshy nose was bright red and dark circles made his dark eyes appear both huge and deep.
On a cutting board on the table, a modest-sized pork roast awaited processing. I knew where the thin-sliced meat was headed, and the thought made my stomach growl in anticipation. Fernando’s daughter Aileen stood at one of the large stainless steel prep sinks, washing and sorting a mound of vegetables. She saw us first, and raised her head in greeting. “Dad,” she called, and Fernando eased out of his fog, turned, and saw us.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed, and drew out the word this as if it had about five i’s and at least that many s’s. His speech had the music of Chihuahua, the state of his birth-a nice, rich accent that the years hadn’t diluted a bit. He wiped his hands on his apron and then locked mine in a double-handed grip. “Bill, mija said you were here earlier. I’m sorry I missed you. I don’t know where my mind is today. I’m thinking a lot about George, I guess. You know how that goes.”
“’Fraid so,” I said.
“It was his heart?”
“Most likely.”
He frowned and looked askance at me, then at Estelle. His gaze dropped to the manila envelope that she was carrying, and he waited for us to drop whatever bombshell we’d brought into his kitchen.
“We have a question or two, Fernando,” I said.
His eyebrows arched in surprise. “About the food, you mean? Was something wrong…”
I held up a hand. “Everything is preliminary…just a goddamn mess, is what it is. Look, we’re starting to think that George had an allergic reaction to something.”
“An allergic reaction? How…”
“It looks as if he passed away just after he sat down at the kitchen table to eat his lunch. A couple of bites, and something came apart.” I rested a hand on my own chest at that thought. “So it’s natural that we would have some questions.” I glanced at Estelle, wondering if she’d noticed how effortlessly I managed to slip back into the we business. But as usual, her lovely face gave no hints about what might be going on in that inscrutable mind.
“An allergic reaction?” Fernando repeated. The notion obviously didn’t compute. “Tell me what that means, Bill.”
I knew that he understood the word just fine-it was the context that puzzled. “Just that,” I said. “You know how some folks are super-allergic to something that doesn’t bother another person one bit, like a bee sting. Or pollen. Or juniper. It gets one person, and not another.”
“So George…”
“There’s some reason to believe that he reacted strongly to something, Fernando. To something. We don’t know what. I don’t know if a wasp flew in the kitchen and stung him, or what. It may turn out to be as simple as that.”
“A bee sting?” he said in disbelief, and he looked to Estelle for corroboration. “¿Y usted, señora?” he asked. Estelle had remained watchful but silent, simply a presence that I knew could make a person nervous.
“What I’d like to find out from you, Fernando,” she said, “is a list of ingredients. George had a take-out…”
“The burrito grande,” Fernando finished for her. “Almost every week, that’s what he has.” He laid a hand on his own chest. “By arreglo especial.” He grinned and pointed a stubby index finger at me. “And sometime he shares the festivities with a special friend, am I right?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Today was one of those days. Didn’t work out.”
Estelle rested a small note pad on the stainless table, pen poised. “Let’s start with that,” she said. “Just the ingredients.”
“You want…” Fernando began, then shook his head, his patience under the test. “You know, such a dish is a combination of so many things. And George, he’s been eating with us for years, agente. Why should something suddenly,” and he waved a hand in the air helplessly. “All of a sudden, as you say?”
“I’m looking for changes,” Estelle said. “So it will be helpful to know the ingredients. Especially if you have made a change recently.”
“There has been no change,” Fernando said vehemently. “That is part of the secret. But,” and he took a deep breath of resignation. “If you want a list, you want a list, ¿verdad?”
“Cada uno y todo,” Estelle said.
“Híjole, where do I begin with a thing like this,” he muttered, and he glanced over at the large wall clock by the door. “Mija, can you?” and he gestured at the waiting roast.
“Just take one part at a time,” Estelle said. “Begin with this, perhaps?” She pointed at the pork.
“That’s good,” Fernando agreed. “I oven-roast the pork, you know. The old fashioned way. Let me show you.” He strode to the large walk-in freezer and reappeared in a moment with another three or four pound package bundled in white butcher’s paper. “Little ones like this,” he said. “You know, most people don’t know what’s involved.”
“Me, for one,” I said. “You never know how many customers you’re going to have, do you? Or what they’re going to order.”
“That’s exactly right,” Fernando said. “One can never know.” He held up his left index finger. “There is an idea, but it cannot be exact. With small roasts, there is not so much waste. And the quality is better. That is always, what do I want to say, at the heart of what we do. Each ingredient must be quality, or the final result is not. Simple, ¿no?”
“May I have the label?” Estelle asked.
“Of course.” He peeled off the sticker and handed it to her. “This is not the same roast, you know.”
She stuck it neatly on the page of her notebook. “From the same vendor?”
“Yes, of course. But if you ask me what the pigs eat, I can’t tell you,” Fernando said. He crossed quickly to the stove, opened the oven, and removed a flat pan covered with aluminum foil cover, revealing a small quantity of sliced pork. “This is the remains from the roast used for George,” he said. “You want a sample?”
Estelle nodded and extended a small plastic bag to him, and he selected a forkful or two. An evidence bag wasn’t what the chef had in mind when he offered the sample, but he didn’t question her. “Is this enough?” She nodded again. “This comes from Aguirre’s Meats, of course,” he added. “In Deming. They are the best. They can tell you just what the pigs ate, if you are curious.” He pushed the pan back in the oven. “There’s no telling what is in meats these days. I won’t pay for the organic label-I don’t trust them, either.” His eyes twinkled. “What’s an organic pig, can you tell me that?” He put the frozen package back in the freezer. “I roast the meat, keeping it just a touch raro, ¿verdad? It’s going to be cooked again, you know.”
Aileen had left the sink, and was engaged with the finished roast, a large catch pan positioned at the outfeed side of a spotless stainless steel slicer. The gadget’s motor was an innocent, soft buzz, but that spinning blade captured my respect. I had visions of thin slices of fingers spraying out the back.
“We slice very thin, Bill.” Fernando stood at Aileen’s elbow and watched the preparations. “Very, very thin,” he said again as Aileen fed the first pass. “That’s one of the secrets. Like paper, eh?” He jerked his chin at me. “You know, don’t you. It’s best that way.” He held out his hand and caught a slice. As he folded it, he inspected it judiciously, then tore it in half, handing half to me and popping the rest into his mouth. How could I refuse?
“Seasoning on the meat?” Estelle prompted.
Fernando ticked them off on his fingers as his daughter continued to work. “Salt, pepper, maybe a touch of garlic. A little bit of sage. A tiny trace of chipotle, for the smoky quality. With good meat, you know, not so much is necessary.” He made a volcanic gesture with his fingers. “You want the pork to come through,” he said, and his hands settled. “You need some of each?”
“Probably not,” I
said, and realized I might be stepping on my own tongue. I didn’t know what Estelle wanted. I did know that it hadn’t been long since I’d finished eating my afternoon snack, but already my stomach rumbled in anticipation of further samples.
Fernando was patient and pre-dinner traffic slow, and Aileen adept at covering the orders that trickled in. He took us through the construction of a Burrito Grande step by step.
“And you know,” he said at one point in the tour, “some people think that the chile is the heart of Mexican cooking, but it is not. It is not. You cannot save bad food with good chile. That’s what most people forget. Use chile that is hot enough, and you might conceal some mistakes. But that’s all.” He held up an admonishing finger again. “The roast, whether it is pork, or chicken, or beef, must be the best. Some will prepare the dish with these enormous chunks of meat, you know, full of gristle and fat,” and he grimaced. “Like something dipped out of an old stew. And to make matters worse, they soak everything in some kind of soup until the meat is unrecognizable.” He shivered in mock horror. “That is not the way. The meat must be the best. Even if it’s but lowly ground beef, it should be the best.”
“Makes sense,” I said, marveling at how wonderfully detached and disciplined Estelle Reyes-Guzman could remain through this gustatory seminar right at dinner time, jotting her clinical notes without drooling.
“Now, the tortillas need to be as only my wonderful wife can make them-not like some of those things that stick to the roof of your mouth, they are so thick and gummy.”
He walked over to another cooler and opened the door to reveal shelves full of small, neatly wrapped packages. He slipped one out and opened it for inspection. The flour tortillas were generous in size, remarkably uniform in thickness and texture. Again he ticked off the ingredients for Estelle. He shrugged expressively. “Nothing has changed in the recipe for two hundred years.”
He watched Estelle jot notes and then slid the package back in the cooler, selecting a smaller one in its place. “If you use cheap, bulk cheese,” he said, “that’s what your dish tastes like.” He peeled off a label, handing it to Estelle. “This is made by the Costillo dairy in Mesilla. It is a sharp cheddar that has some life. I have been buying my cheese from them for twenty years. Never a change. Never.”
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