Red, Green, or Murder pc-16

by Steven F Havill

  Estelle sighed. “Ay,” she whispered. I wasn’t surprised that boot-on-the-lower-fence rail small talk, the straw-in-the-teeth sort of thing, was such a frustration to her, but it was the rule in this case.

  “Not everyone is as goddamn efficient as I am,” I chuckled. “The minute you and your hubby decided to take the property off my hands, it still took a month to move that measly four acres of mine from my deed to yours. And most of that month was because I didn’t get my carcass into gear. So what’s your theory?”

  “I need to know what was in the works,” she said. “The single question keeps nagging at me in all of this…why now?” She glanced across at me. “Something always is the trigger. Something precipitates, something motivates.” Her light accent touched each of the syllables, pre-cip-i-tates, mo-ti-vates, turning them into music for my dull ears. “If it’s not a crime of passion,” she added, “then it’s one of planning and opportunity.”

  “George wasn’t exactly a moving target,” I said.

  “That’s the whole point,” Estelle said.

  So, armed with the undersheriff’s concerns, I headed south once again, fortified with another cup of coffee to fight off the nap urge. The sun didn’t help as it roasted through the windshield. A phone call caught Herb just as he was walking from house to truck, and we agreed to meet at the intersection with the state highway.

  My SUV’s tires slapped the tar strip announcing the bridge across the Guijarro arroyo, and as if bumped into life, my phone warbled its high, thin alert. I wasn’t driving in a rush, but I took my time finding the phone, making sure that I didn’t have the damn thing upside down, or fumble it off into space.

  “Ah, my good friend.” The gentle voice was serene. Of course, Captain Tomás Naranjo could sound like that as his finger tightened on the trigger of his pump shotgun, too. “Are you aware of what is going on?”

  “I’m on my way down to meet with Herb Torrance, Tomás. Other than that, I’m not sure what kind of progress we’re making.”

  “I have spoken with the sheriff, and he suggested that I talk to you as well.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  The Mexican state policeman chuckled. “I would have called you first, but protocol, you know.”

  “I’m in your debt.”

  “You will be interested to know,” Naranjo continued, “that we have recovered the truck and trailer. So it’s fortunate I located you. You will have good news for Mr. Torrance.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Who had it?”

  “There is a certain small shop in Villa de Oposura that we have been watching, señor.” He paused, giving way to his habit of searching out the most politic way of phrasing things. “They have the habit of removing certain desirable parts that are then easily marketed.”

  “A chop shop,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. That is the colorful term. The vehicle is undamaged, I am happy to report. They had not started the chopping, so to speak. The owner of the shop was eager to give us a description of the two young people who sold them the vehicle.”

  I bet they were eager, I thought. “A boy and his girlfriend?”

  “Ah, no. Two young men. It is amazing how a wig can change things, ¿no? There was the impression that they were both in college, perhaps.”

  “How did they know that? About the wig, I mean?”

  “Well, apparently the two desperados were inordinately proud of their accomplishment at the border crossing,” Naranjo said. “And pride loosened the tongue. But the interesting thing,” and I could hear paperwork rustling in the background, “is that this is not their first accomplishment in this line of employment.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, I guess.”

  “I have here a description of another vehicle that they delivered to the same shop, less than forty-eight hours before. A certain Dodge Ram three-quarter ton extended cab truck, a most impressive beast. I relayed the license number to the sheriff, but I understand that it was taken from a shopping mall parking lot in Las Cruces. Or so our two industrious friends claimed.”

  An enormous RV had been growing in my rearview mirror, and now roared past me, its occupants impatient to be somewhere else.

  “I know nothing about the incident except that the vehicle originally had been left unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, while its owners went shopping,” Naranjo said.

  “That makes it easy. No witnesses?”

  “I don’t know, Bill. That is something…how do you say…beyond my jurisdiction. But Sheriff Torrez was most interested, and said that he would talk to authorities in Las Cruces.”

  “Wonderful work, Tomás. We appreciate it. What time did our two geniuses leave Oposura-with payment in cash, I presume?”

  “Now, that is curious,” Naranjo said. “They delivered the truck to the shop early this morning, not yesterday. They received payment upon delivery of the truck and then left promptly. The shop owner assures me that he warned the two young men that traveling in this part of the country with so much cash in hand might not be wise.”

  “We can always hope,” I said.

  “Another point of interest,” Naranjo said. “The village of Tres Santos was mentioned in passing, giving the impression that the two young men were planning to return to the United States by that route. Retracing their steps, so to speak. Unless they were simply mentioning it as a diversion.” The word rolled off his tongue with elegance.

  “Not east to the crossing at Juarez, then,” I mused.

  “I would guess not. A certain arrogance in that decision, what with the current interest of law enforcement agencies. But perhaps they considered it safer in other ways. By now…” he hesitated. “I would guess that they have already crossed back into the United States. They certainly have had enough time.”

  The Broken Spur saloon came into view, and I slowed, scanning the vehicles in the parking lot. One car, two pickups, all local. Midafternoon was a slow time in the bar business.

  “Tomás, I appreciate the heads-up. I’ll get with the sheriff and see what he’s found out. I don’t know if this is a couple of college kids pulling a quick one, or what. They had it easy the first time. The second time got messy.”

  “Perhaps so. The ugly assault on the young man-Gabaldon, is it? — that is more than a college prank.”

  “Indeed it is. We’ll do what we can to cut these two careers short.”

  Naranjo chuckled. “I have the impression, after talking with the shop owner, that our two young men aren’t looking over their shoulders. They are too smart for the rest of us.”

  “Let’s hope they keep thinking that way,” I said. “We’ll work on that. Thanks, Tomás. I’ll be in touch.”

  “We must do lunch, you know. It has been too long, my friend.”

  “Absolutely.” I switched off and slowed for the turn onto County Road 14. True to his work, Herb was headed southbound from the ranch, and he’d timed it just right.

  Bumping over the cattleguard, I pulled off into the gravel and waited. Herb’s pickup ground to a stop. At first, the rancher cranked down the window and lit a cigarette, but when I climbed down out of my SUV, he turned and said something to Socks, then stiffly worked his way out of the truck. His bandy legs didn’t work so well any more.

  “Hello again.” He eyed the manila folder that I placed on the SUV’s broad hood.

  “I was just headin’ to Cruces for a bit,” he said. “Dale’s doin’ okay. Comin’ home tomorrow, most likely. That’s what they say, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” I said.

  “Patrick’s folks made it to Albuquerque. I talked to them some,” Herb added. “They said that he come out of the surgery all right.”

  “Is he conscious yet?”

  “Nope.” Herb shook his head and glared at the gravel. “So,” he said slowly, as if having a hard time controlling his temper, “you got some news from down south, or what?”

  “That wasn’t the reason for my call, Herb, but as a matter of
fact, I just got off the phone with Naranjo. They have your truck and trailer.”

  Herb eyed me as if he didn’t understand English.

  “Delivered to a chop shop in Oposura,” I added.

  “Well, hell. Anything left of it?”

  “No damage whatsoever. Mexican bureaucracy and paperwork being what they are, you’ll probably be able to pick it up by spring.” The rancher looked heavenward.

  “That’s something, anyways.”

  I tapped the folder on the hood of the SUV. “We’ve been caught up in a few other things at the same time. You know how that goes.” I pulled one of the maps out of the folder. It was the section of George Payton’s land that included the windmill just south of Herb’s spread. “We need to ask you a couple of things about some of the properties around here.”

  “Don’t know what I can tell you,” Herb said, but he pulled a pair of variety-store reading glasses from his shirt pocket. Those adjusted, he supported himself with both hands on the hood and examined the map. “Okay, now,” he said. “That’s right out here.” I reached across and touched the spot marked as the windmill. “Right,” Herb said. “You lookin’ to buy a water well now?”

  “I wanted to ask what sort of arrangement you had worked out with George on that piece.”

  “You mean about me usin’ that mill?”

  “For the water, yes.”

  Herb looked askance at me, then took his time to grind out the cigarette butt in the gravel. I could see that he wanted to snap, “Why is that any of your business?” But he didn’t.

  “George just passed on yesterday,” he said, and here you are already. He didn’t have to add the latter. We’d known each other long enough that he was aware of my aversion to prying into other people’s business. If we belonged in this conversation-either the Sheriff’s Department or the State’s Livestock Board-then Herb could figure out for himself that we were on the trail of something.

  “That’s what prompts my question,” I said. “According to the assessor’s map, this is about seven acres surrounding a producing well. That must be important to you, as the nearest neighbor.”

  “’Course it’s important. Christ almighty, you know this country.”

  “Did you have a formal agreement of some sort with George?”

  Herb looked at me as if I had gone simple. “Well, I guess formal enough. Nothin’ in writing, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “Meaning that he said ‘go ahead and use it,’ and you did?”

  “That’s about it.” He dug out another cigarette and snapped the lighter.

  “Had you talked with George recently?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you two talk about the possibility of your buying this property?” The blunt question pulled the aging rancher up short. When Herb looked as if he was going to settle into ruminating too long about that, I added, “We’re trying to determine the status of several of George’s properties.” I knew that sounded lame. When a person dies, the status of property is hardly the province of law enforcement agencies. “That guy collected acreage like some folks collect stamps, and his estate is kind of complicated.”

  “He sure did that,” Herb agreed, and I could see him opening up.

  “You had talked with him about this parcel? About actually acquiring it?”

  “Well, look,” the rancher said. “Last month, I took a rifle over to George’s so he could see it. I wanted to see if he could tell me when it was made.” Herb took a deep drag on his cigarette. “An old Winchester that belonged to my dad. I was always going to do that, and one day here not too long ago, Dale was out shooting the ’86, and the subject come up. He said he’d like to have it someday. I told the boy that the rifle wasn’t never to be sold. He said he’d never do that. Then the both of us got to wondering more about it. So I took it over to George’s. Wasn’t much about guns that he didn’t know.”

  “That’s for sure,” I agreed.

  “Well, he looked up the serial number in one of his books, and sure enough, it was made right at 1927.” He looked off into the distance. “My dad bought that rifle brand-new from the old mercantile in Deming when he was twenty-one years old. He told me once it cost him two months’ pay.”

  “Still worth that,” I said, and Herb hacked out one of his short, rasping laughs.

  “God damn if that isn’t what George said, too. Little different wage scale now, though.”

  That’s the way it goes with conversations, and I maneuvered to bring us back to the present.

  “At that time you talked about the property as well, then.”

  Herb nodded. “One thing led to another, and we talked some about that land. George said he was thinkin’ of cleanin’ some things up, and that he’d sell that land to me for a dollar,” Herb said. “He said if he was ten years younger, he’d try to trade me out of that Winchester. Maybe swap for the land. Now, I wasn’t about to do that, then or now. You know, my father shot that rifle for sixty years. I wasn’t about to part with it, especially with Dale wantin’ it. I told George that I’d pay a fair enough price for the land, though.” He bent down and regarded the map once more. “I offered him a thousand an acre and figured that was fair. I kinda depend on that water.”

  “He took the offer?”

  Herb coughed another little chuckle. “Nope. He said I’d used the land all these years, that I’d fixed up the windmill and maintained it, fixed the fences…anyways, he said no. Pay him a buck, and that’d be it. Wouldn’t talk about havin’ it any other way.”

  “And did you do that?”

  “Not then, no. Maybe I should have, you know. But I wanted him to think on it some. I felt like that would be takin’ advantage, don’t you know. He said he’d dig out the abstract, and we’d settle up.” He smiled ruefully.

  “You hadn’t talked with him about the land since then? He hadn’t called you? You didn’t go over to see him again?”

  “Nope. Got busy. You know how that goes.”

  I shuffled papers for a moment, and selected the photocopy that included the land on top of the mesa. “And this piece?”

  Herb cocked his head sideways, regarding the small map. “Don’t need that more’n what a dollar would buy.” He traced the boundary line with a bent finger. “That’s the rimrock right behind my place. Nice view, and that’s about it. No water. Damn near no grass. Now, I know that Waddell wants it. He’s got some development in mind for right down here,” and he tapped the north side of the mesa, where I had seen the drill rig. “You know,” and his face wrinkled up in a grimace as he turned to stare up at the cloudless sky. “I’m tryin’ to recall how George got ahold of that piece of property on top, there. I think it comes out to about eleven acres. Anyways, I was thinkin’ of cuttin’ a deal with George on that, just so I didn’t end up with a damn parkin’ lot or something lookin’ down from the rimrock through my bedroom window.”

  “Had you mentioned it to George?” I turned a bit as an aging sedan headed by on the highway, a 1980s Chevy sedan that had once been dark blue but now bore faded patches on hood, roof, and trunk where the sun had fried the paint.

  “Nope. But the mood he was in last month, I damn sure coulda got it cheap.” He straightened up with a popping of joints. “It’s a damn shame how this country gets all chopped up. Give us another fifty years, and a fella will really think he’s got somethin’ when he signs for a quarter-acre lot.”

  I wasn’t about to argue that, but my attention followed the Chevy sedan. Now, a profiling cop would peg the big old sedan as a drug runner’s delight, running a little heavy in the rear, with all that trunk space and those nice nooks and crannies along the enormous undercarriage. But I knew the car, and I knew the driver, headed from his parish in Regál to another in María. No doubt he had visited his Mexican parish in Tres Santos, too, but border agents didn’t have to worry. Father Bertrand Anselmo would have no drugs in that old boat.

  The Chevy went by slowly enough that I could see two additio
nal passengers. Any other day, that wouldn’t have been unusual, either. Father Anselmo ferried parishioners on a regular basis. Herb Torrance said something else, but I was no longer paying attention. The left turn signal of the Chevy flashed and the car pulled into the Broken Spur Saloon. From that distance, Anselmo’s car was not much more than a dark dash, but I could tell the difference between pausing to drop someone off and nosing in to park.

  Chapter Thirty

  There was one thing wrong with what I was doing-I was no longer sheriff of Posada County…or undersheriff, or sergeant, or even a rookie deputy. As a livestock inspector, I was sworn to enforce any law, policy, or state edict that applied to the raising, marking, selling, or transferring of livestock.

  But I wasn’t ready to quibble over minor points. As I drove toward the Broken Spur Saloon, I searched the electronic phone directory, then punched the right button, pleased that the last time I’d looked the number up in a hard copy directory, I’d added it to the electronic gadget, too. In a moment, Christine Prescott’s cheerful voice answered.

  “Christine, this is Bill Gastner. I need to talk with Victor ASAP.”

  “He’s in the kitchen, sir.”

  “Tell him to pick up.” She didn’t argue, and when Victor came on the line-he took his sweet time doing so-I had slowed with the parking lot less than five hundred yards ahead. It appeared that Anselmo and his two passengers had gone inside.

  “What?” Mr. Cheerful would be balancing the phone receiver between shoulder and ear as he worked the grill.

  “Victor, Father Anselmo just entered your place with a couple of guys. Take a look through your kitchen door and tell me if they’re the same two that you saw yesterday. The two that Patrick Gabaldon picked up.”