by Don Travis
I’m not as good at searching the internet as Hazel, but eventually I located a used car dealership in Carlsbad with registered owners named Hadley and Jane Forsyth. Forsyth Motors was located in the 1100 block of North Canal, which seemed to be a popular street for used car dealers. The Forsyths had operated their business at that site for over ten years, so they likely had a decent reputation. There were no customer reviews, so I got no help in coming to that conclusion.
I sat back in the Impala’s seat and considered my options. Carlsbad lay to the east of Las Cruces, which was toward Texas. When Paul and I trailed James Dayton in his new Lincoln, he’d taken the road to El Paso, which was one way to reach Carlsbad. Chances were decent that’s where he was headed. That left me with two options: phone the dealership and speak to one of the owners about little David James Dayton, or spend three hours driving 200 miles to do the same in person. I’m a great believer in face-to-face interviewing, but a phone call might at least establish that Aunt Jane was in Carlsbad at the moment. I dialed the number provided by my search for the dealership and moments later was greeted by a pleasant contralto.
“May I speak to Mrs. Jane Dayton Forsyth?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, sir, but she’s not in at the moment. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Has she been in today?”
“Yes, sir. Earlier today, but she’s left for the day. May I—”
“Thank you, I’ll call later.”
I ended the call. The receptionist hadn’t reacted negatively to my request for Jane Dayton Forsyth. Of course, that might mean nothing. We often hear only what we’re expecting to hear, but the call was enough to send me to a service station for a refill before heading down I-10, where I would eventually pick up US 62 E and breeze into Carlsbad. Would it prove to be a fool’s errand? Tomorrow was the Fourth, a holiday. But what better day to car shop than Independence Day? Betting that the Forsyths would be tending to business tomorrow rather than taking a holiday, I reluctantly dialed Paul’s cell phone and left a message, saying I wouldn’t be home until sometime later tomorrow.
Chapter 19
THE CITY of Carlsbad straddled the Pecos River near the edge of the Guadalupe Mountains. Located in an ecoregion designated as the Chihuahuan Desert—which covered 140,000 to 200,000 square miles of west Texas, southeastern New Mexico, and northern Mexico—the town was born sometime in the 1880s. Originally named Eddy for a local cowman, the fledgling village was rechristened Carlsbad after the famous Bohemian Karlsbad Spa in the early 1900s. This renaming was presumably an effort to advertise mineral springs discovered near what is now the Pecos Flume. Eighteen miles southwest of the town lay Carlsbad Caverns National Park. As an inveterate history fan, facts like this clogged my brain… likely crowding out more useful things.
I arrived in the community Friday night after a nonstop drive from Las Cruces. Tired from what was essentially a day of driving, I took a room at the Holiday Inn Express on West Pierce, grabbed a bite to eat, cleaned up, and then reached Hazel at home. She had little new to tell me, so I closed the call and dialed my home phone, doubtful if I’d reach Paul. This morning he’d expressed interest in going dancing at the C&M, so I was gratified to hear his smoky baritone.
“Thought you’d be out dancing.”
“Then why didn’t you call my cell?”
“Didn’t want to disturb you if you were shaking your thing.”
“Disturb me, guy. Anywhere, anytime. Please.”
My heart did the two-step. “Wish I was there right now.”
“Wish you were too. We’d celebrate my new wheels by making love.”
“Don’t wanna slide over that ‘making love’ part too quickly, but you have a new car?”
“New to me, anyway. A 2006 Dodge Charger.”
“Stayed with Chrysler Corp., did you? Is it purple like the Plymouth?”
“Coal black. Cuts through the air like shadowy seduction.”
“Oh man, I wish I were there.”
“Me too. We’d go up in the mountains and break it in.”
“You stay out of the mountains until I get back. Hear me?”
His laugh was golden. “I hear you. When will that be?”
I brought him up-to-date on what I was doing and finished by saying I hoped to be back tomorrow night.
“I figured that,” he said. “Someday next week we can drive up Sandia Peak and christen the Dodge.”
I slept restlessly that night. Too many dreams about seductive pectoral dragons and black automobiles.
FORSYTH MOTORS looked to be a substantial operation for a used car dealership. From the look of the lot, they specialized in late-model mid-to-large-sized luxury models. Such as a certain cinnamon-colored 2008 Lincoln Continental.
I sat for a while observing the comings and goings—and recording them on my digital recorder—until a low-slung green Jaguar XJ-Series automobile pulled into the lot and took one of the reserved parking spots near the showroom doors. The fact a man got out of the Jag rather than a woman disconcerted me. Nonetheless, I was pretty certain I’d found Aunt Jane’s green car. Was that enough to tie the Forsyths to Ariel’s grandson? Enough to take the next step, anyway.
I pulled into the lot, parked in a convenient customer parking space, and got out, eluding two salesmen on my determined march into the showroom. The silver-haired, fiftyish-something gentleman who’d exited the Jag was talking to an attractive young receptionist at the front of the vast room. I walked up and interrupted their conversation.
“Excuse me, Mr. Forsyth, may I speak to you?”
A slight frown marred his distinguished features momentarily before the super salesman took over.
“Certainly, Mister…?”
I rushed through the introduction as I slowly walked toward a late-model Cadillac a few paces away from the receptionist’s desk.
He smoothed the silver wing of hair over his left temple. “And what would a private detective want with me?”
“I was hoping to talk to you and your wife. I represent the child’s paternal grandfather.”
He was good, but the slight tightening around his eyes belied his next words. “And what child is that?”
“The two-year-old boy your wife took from the home of her brother, James Dayton, last month. The child called David James Dayton.”
From the look on his face, he considered denying everything but relented. “You are speaking of my wife’s dead niece’s child. Our understanding was that she died without revealing the father of the child. We are in the process of legally adopting David.”
“The father was a young man well-known to the Dayton family named Bascomb Zuniga. Mr. Zuniga was murdered about a month ago outside the place where he worked. There is, of course, a criminal investigation into his death, conducted jointly by the New Mexico State Police and the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Office. Lt. Ray Yardley and Sgt. Roma Muñoz, respectively. As you can imagine, there is a possibility the murder revolves around the child, so I suspect the adoption will not be approved until this is cleared up. Then there is my client’s interest to be considered.”
“I think it best you speak to our attorney William Jenkins. You can find him in the book. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Stiff-backed, Hadley Forsyth disappeared through a walnut-paneled door and out of my sight.
Locating William Jenkins’s office wasn’t difficult. Finding William Jenkins was another matter. Not only was it Saturday, it was also the Fourth of July, as attested by the groups of people lining the street, apparently in preparation for a parade. The only individual I found in Jenkins’s two-story building was a custodian who had no interest in helping me find the attorney. I tried the home phone listing my database search provided, but it went unanswered except for the automated voicemail. When invited, I left a lengthy message. Then I did an even more detailed message to the email address it also provided.
Understanding that Ariel would want to know that I saw the child with my own eyes, I further intruded on the F
orsyths’ privacy and pulled up to the curb in front of their two-story, white brick residence of no particular style and walked up the sidewalk to their door. The green Jag sat in the driveway. Forsyth had rushed home to alert his wife to a possible hitch in their plans. He answered my ring with a scowl on his face. I snapped on the recorder at my waist.
“Told you to see—”
I put some steel in my voice. “It’s a holiday, Forsyth. His office is closed, and I’m not about to leave until I can tell my client—whose name is Ariel Gonda, by the way—that I have seen with my own eyes that his grandchild is in good health.” I eased up. “And judging from what I’ve learned about you and Mrs. Forsyth, I suspect that is the case.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he stood back from the door. “You might as well come in. William is here. I called him as soon as you left the lot. Maybe you can clear up a few things for us.” He led me to a bright, spotlessly clean living room filled with Hepplewhite, some originals and some knockoffs. The man standing at the window turned and walked to meet us.
William Jenkins should have been anathema to people like the Forsyths. He wore a rumpled, disheveled, and rough demeanor, which I took to be habitual. He accepted my hand and examined me through shrewd gray eyes.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Vinson. Do some business with the Stone Hedges firm up in Albuquerque occasionally. Thought I needed a private investigator on a case once, and Del Dahlman picked your name out of the air. Turned out we didn’t need nobody.”
“Del and I go back a long way. Knew him when I was with APD.”
He nodded and released my hand. “Hmm. What’s your client’s interest in this adoption?”
“The welfare of his grandchild is his first interest. His rights in the matter are his second.”
“Hmm. Explain.”
“He’s only recently learned of his grandchild’s existence when his son, a decent young man named Bascomb Zuniga, was shot down in the middle of the night as he left work at Mr. Gonda’s Lovely Pines Winery. Naturally, he wants to make sure the child, his own blood, is provided for.”
“He wants to take the child?” Jenkins shot back at me.
“He’s not made that clear. Depends on circumstances, I imagine.”
“Who’s handling the murder?”
“It’s a joint investigation by the state police and the county.”
“Where are they on the murder investigation?”
“They don’t confide in me. Right now I’m tasked with locating the missing child, making sure he’s safe and being well taken care of.”
“Child ain’t missing, Vinson. He’s here with his aunt and uncle, who intend on adopting him now that both his mother and father are dead. Nothing standing in the way of this adoption.”
“That depends upon where the murder investigation leads.”
“Meaning to the Daytons, I guess you’re saying.”
“I need to see the boy.”
Jenkins eyed me speculatively. “The Daytons ain’t murderers.”
“Not for me to say. I’d like to see the boy,” I said again.
When the attorney nodded, Forsyth called out, “Bring the boy in here, Jane.”
My first glimpse of Jane Dayton Forsyth startled me. Tall, thin, she wasn’t the suave, sophisticated woman I would have thought a man like Forsyth favored. Her voice redeemed her. It was a strong, determined contralto.
“Davy is not leaving my side.”
“Not my intention, ma’am,” I said. “I just want to see him and reassure his grandfather he’s being well taken care of.”
“Taken care of and loved,” she said, a protective hand on the boy’s dark hair. David James Dayton was a miniature Bas Zuniga. No doubt this was Ariel’s grandson.
I knelt down in front of the child. Jane Forsyth bent over to place both hands on his shoulders, protecting him from the big, bad detective. “Hi. My name’s BJ, what’s yours?”
The boy popped a finger into his mouth for a second before removing it and stuttering, “D-David.”
I coaxed a few more words out of the shy child before taking out my phone and snapping two pictures before anyone could object. “Just for proof the boy’s healthy and happy,” I said.
“Why ain’t this client of yours, this Ariel Gonda, demonstrated no interest in the boy before this?” Jenkins asked.
I’d already admitted that Gonda wasn’t aware of David until recently, but this was a matter that might well end up in court, and I didn’t want to say any more than necessary. I detected a sharp mind behind Jenkins’s homespun appearance and folksy manner.
“You’ll have to ask his attorney,” I said. “And that would be the Del Dahlman you mentioned earlier, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Hmm” was all he said.
With that noncommittal comment ringing in my ear, I thanked them for their hospitality and took my leave. My business done in Carlsbad, I dodged the local Independence Day parade and headed up US 285 on the 300-mile trek to Albuquerque. If the holiday drunks didn’t slow me down too much, I’d be home tonight to inspect Paul’s 2006 Charger intimately… as well as its owner.
Chapter 20
AS IT turned out, I reached 5229 Post Oak Drive before either the Charger or my lover. I showered and shaved and started a couple of sirloins before I heard the growl of an unfamiliar motor outside on the driveway. A moment later, Paul burst through the back door with a huge grin on his face. After those strong, wiry arms closed about me and his face was buried in my neck, I truly felt at home.
“Sorry to be late,” he said after a kiss. “Big doings at the country club. Swim team had its own party after that, so I got roped into staying.”
“What was that noise I heard in the driveway?”
“That was the sound of brute power, my man. Come on.”
He released me and rushed out the door. I rounded the corner from the backyard to the driveway and saw the familiar crossbar grille of the Charger. Black and beautiful and sleek.
“Low miles, two-owner, no body damage. It’s a Hemi,” he said, referring to a type of motor in Chrysler vehicles. “Puts out 340 hp and 525 torque. A muscle car.”
“Hope they didn’t burn you.” The comment was teasing. Paul was too levelheaded to be taken financially.
“Decent price, decent down, decent interest. And I can afford it. If you ask nicely, I’ll let you drive it… while I’m in the car.”
“Tomorrow. I want to head for the hills and christen it tomorrow.”
He leaned close and leered. “You can drive up, but you won’t have the stamina to drive down. I’ll take care of that.”
PAUL PRETTY well called it. After a wonderful romp Saturday night, I drove the Charger up Sandia Crest, where we found a secluded spot. I normally lock my semiautomatic S&W in the car trunk, but out of innate caution over driving into the mountains where we were isolated from the usual human traffic, I’d tucked it into the belt at my back. That proved a problem during the gymnastics that followed, so it ended up lying in the driver’s seat as we gloried in nature and one another… in the car and on the car.
After a couple of wonderful hours, Paul handed me my S&W as he climbed—on shaky legs, I’m proud to say—into the driver’s seat. Too exhausted to put the weapon in the Dodge’s trunk, I restored it to the belt at my back. Then he drove down the back way so we could stop at the Pines to report the results of my Las Cruces and Carlsbad trips to Ariel. The parking lot held more cars than usual, so there must be a tasting underway.
Even so, I spotted Ariel sitting in the salon as soon as I walked through the front doors. He was talking to Margot and Marc Juisson. Upon spotting me, he bounced to his feet and called my name.
“Have you found the boy?” he asked.
“I have.” After the trio acknowledged Paul, I gave them a full report on my recent trip. “The Forsyths’ lawyer, Mr. Jenkins, asked me an interesting question,” I said after finishing my narration. “He wanted to know if you intended to press for custody of the ch
ild.”
He and Margot exchanged glances before he turned back to me. “At this point I do not know. Depends upon the circumstances, I suppose. Is he being well cared for in a good environment?”
I pulled out my phone. “You tell me.”
Soon the Gondas were oohing and aahing over the two images I’d snapped of the handsome child. Marc seemed to take a more considered attitude but made appropriate remarks. “Cute little guy. Looks like he’s being cared for okay.”
“I’ll have my report typed up tomorrow morning and get a copy of it to Del Dahlman, along with the photos.”
“May we have prints of the photographs, as well?” Ariel asked.
“I’ll see to it. Since I’ve located your grandchild, you interface with Del from now on.”
“Have you learned any more about who killed Bas?” Gonda asked, tugging on that invisible beard again. I decided it was a sign of stress.
“The state and county police are on that, so I made it my priority to trace the child.”
“But you will keep looking for the killer,” Ariel said. “Please, BJ. I’m counting on you.”
“The authorities are far more likely to solve this thing than I am.”
Marc spoke up. “I thought it was those two AWOLs who were stalking Diego C de Baca. You know, mistaken identity.”
“Possible.”
“Or that family down in Las Cruces that has the baby,” he went on. “Bad blood between Bas and the brothers, I heard. Over knock—” He stumbled over his tongue. “—over getting their sister pregnant.”
“They’re looking into Bas’s murder from several different viewpoints,” I said.
Gonda dropped a hand on my shoulder. “BJ, I saw what you did for the Alfano brothers when Lando went missing up in the Bisti Wilderness area. Stay on this for me, please.”
“I’ll monitor the police’s progress. Save you some money that way.”
Ariel’s face went red. “Money be damned! Find my boy’s killer.”