The sheriff gave me time to mull that over. I could see the web glimmering, tendrils touching here and there. What better way for a prospective employee to impress a potential boss than to encourage a new contract…bring in the promise of a large payoff with the application. A little eco-terrorism should have gone a long way toward spooking Miles Waddell into seeking security services. That was but one possibility. They all made me nervous.
“I’ll be at Estelle’s for dinner here in a little bit. Browning is going to be there as well. And tomorrow, we’re flying a survey of the mesa.”
“Okay. Watch yourself.” The phone clicked off.
Chapter Twenty
“Frankie is coming tomorrow,” nine-year-old Carlos announced in a grave imitation of a butler. He held the door for me and bowed ever so slightly. “Welcome, and may I take your coat, Padrino?”
“What TV program has been frying your brain, Bud?” I asked, and swung out of my jacket. I kept the quilted vest.
Teresa Reyes, Estelle’s mother, offered me a nice smile of recognition. She was engulfed in a colorful afghan, nestled in her favorite rocker near the fireplace. It seemed to me that the favored chair grew larger each time I visited and saw the tiny woman sitting in it. Two more years, and the grand old lady would hit the century mark. Twenty years before, I would have predicted death’s door any day for her, but that door had slammed shut, locked, and bolted, and like a piece of petrified heartwood, her dark brown skin just kept adding polish to the wrinkles and crevasses. Estelle’s stepmother had me by twenty-four years, and damned if in all likelihood she’d probably outlive me.
I crossed the living room and with a hand on the arm of her chair and another on the back, bent down and pecked her on her high forehead. “How are you doing, Teresa?” I asked, looking forward to the standard answer.
“Too old,” she whispered. She patted my russet vest. “That’s a nice color on you.” She gazed up at me, and I’m not sure just what her dark eyes saw. The left was starting to cloud, and the coke-bottle glasses that hung around her neck would do little for the macular degeneration in her right eye. Losing the ability to read had to be a deep sadness for her—as would an unclear, smoky vision of her two grandchildren.
“What do you think of this, Francisco?” she asked as I straightened up, emphasizing the proper name for Carlos’ benefit. Not waiting for my answer, she added, “So young for such a thing.”
“I’m looking forward to the concert,” I said. “Quite a production they’ve planned. Our old gymnasium is going to shake to its foundations.”
Carlos reappeared after stashing my coat. He folded his hands reverentially. “May I get you something from the kitchen, Padrino?”
I regarded the kid soberly. Sprouting up now, developing some muscle definition, Carlos Guzman was every bit as handsome as his older brother. And, I had always thought, in his own way just as much a prodigy. For the past couple of years, he had developed an unshakable interest in designing anything that soared upward—buildings, bridges, aircraft—and despite being an otherwise normal nine-year-old, could concentrate on a project from start to finish…that same gene for concentration that guided his brother Francisco through five or six hours of nonstop piano practice.
I’d never met a kid with a wider imp streak. Now, Carlos the Butler waited patiently for my answer. He’d be disappointed if I demurred, so I screwed on a thoughtful expression. “What I’d really like…”
“Yes, Padrino?” He had settled on a modified British-Mexican accent, in itself quite an accomplishment.
“A cup of properly aged coffee, if you please.” I noticed that Addy Sedillos was peeking around the kitchen corner. Like her older sister Irma, who had worked for the Guzman corporation for years, Adorina had no trouble managing the household, regardless of the bizarre hours demanded by a doctor and an undersheriff.
“No cream, no sugar, but the oil skim on top should reflect aging in the pot for at least ten hours.”
Perfectly sober, Carlos allowed his face to fall, despite the twinkle in his eyes that he couldn’t suppress. “I’m sorry, Padrino. All we have at the moment is a nice dark Sumatran blend that will finish brewing in another minute.”
I sighed mightily, trying not to laugh at a nine-year-old saying the words ‘Sumatran blend.’ “I’ll just have to settle for that.” I glanced at Addy. “How are you doing, doll?”
“We’re surviving,” she said, and advanced with a hug. “Estelle just called a few minutes ago. She’ll be home around six. The doctor is in surgery, so…”
“Life as usual,” I laughed. “Thank you, sir,” I said to Carlos, who handed me a mug of dark, aromatic coffee and a small saucer heaped with gingersnaps.
“My pleasure, Padrino.”
I settled in a well-broken-in spot on the sofa with an end table near at hand. “So tell me what you’re building at the moment.”
The boy’s shoulders relaxed, and he became an excited nine-year-old rather than a reserved member of the household service staff. Perching on the sofa beside me, his hands were animated. “Have you seen the inside of the gymnasium?”
“Sure I’ve seen it.”
“The sound is going to be awful, Padrino. It will echo like some old cave.”
“Huh. So what do we do about that?” A Carlos without a solution was unthinkable.
“And Mateo plays the flute. That sound isn’t like some orchestra or something. It’ll just go out and get lost in all those trusses.”
Trusses. Such a nine-year-old’s word or concept. “Have you met this Mateo guy?”
“Yes. He’s…” and his voice dropped and took on an awful Texas twang, “a cool dude, man.” The boy’s hands drew something in the air, his forehead furrowed. “They need to hang acoustical baffles,” he said. Acoustical baffles? It was hard to keep a straight face, so I sipped delectable coffee and then tried a gingersnap. “I made those,” Carlos announced, and pushed himself off the sofa. “I have to show you something.” He vanished.
“This boy.” Teresa’s whisper was hoarse.
This boy returned immediately with a large sheet of paper, and I tabled my cup so he could spread the rendering across my lap. I recognized the sketch as the inside of the gym, the elevated stage at one end, four basketball backboards cranked up against the ceiling, an electronic scoreboard at the end opposite the stage. It was the sort of do-all gymnasium designed in the 1950s. The rendering betrayed Carlos Guzman’s age. He hadn’t yet mastered how to end lines crisply at the corners.
“Why didn’t they use the Little Theater?” I asked.
“Tooo little,” Carlos chirped. He started to say something else and I held up a hand. He slammed on the brakes and looked at me expectantly.
Tracing the lines of the walls, I asked, “So when did you learn all about perspective?”
“Oh, that’s easy, Padrino.” He held his hands apart, then zoomed them together as he pushed them away from his body, mimicking a set of disappearing railroad tracks. “All you have to do is decide where you want the horizon. Mrs. Carrillo showed me that last year.” He said it as if “last year” was decades ago.
“This is your solution?” I tapped one of the large tapestry-like things hanging from the ceiling, huge versions of the various championship flags that schools hang in gymnasiums. He nodded eagerly. Enjoying this peek into how his young mind worked, I asked, “What do they do, exactly?”
He frowned and took a deep breath, as if girding for the challenge of explaining something so simple to someone so dense. Touching the roughly drawn stage, he swept his fingers across the area where the audience would be sitting. “The sound can go this way,” he said. “But not up here.” His index finger traced several arrow-like paths upward where the sound would strike the baffles. “These stop it from bouncing all around among the girders.”
“Huh. I’ll buy that. You know, it’ll be interest
ing to see what the Leister stage crew comes up with.”
Carlos carefully rolled up his rendering and then shrugged expressively. “I faxed Francisco a copy of this,” he said. “They’ll have to do something.”
Silly me. Why wouldn’t a nine-year-old know all about acoustical engineering, or copying and faxing and the like? What did I think he would be doing, riding a bike all day? Or playing basketball? Or hiking?
As if reading my mind, he asked, “Were you out at the fort today?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Will you take me out there again sometime when you go? I mean, when I don’t have to be in school?”
“You got it, my friend.” I’d inflicted my Bennett theories on all of the Guzmans at one time or another, and both boys had tagged along with me on more than one occasion when I explored Bennett’s route. Carlos had been fascinated by the Colt, and the first thing he wanted to do was haul out the can of penetrating oil and try to free up the rust-frozen hammer. My edict that the revolver be left alone hadn’t made sense to him.
He leaned forward to check the coffee supply, then bounded back to the kitchen, returning with the pot. I know adults who can’t pour coffee and talk at the same time, but Carlos managed perfectly.
“Will Mamá catch the guys who sawed down the power line?”
“You have doubts?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not?”
He sighed. “She will. Her and Big, Bad Bobby.” I laughed, and the exchange earned a dark glower from Teresa. I don’t know which she disapproved of more, the boy’s slangy grammar or the nickname for a respected elder. Maybe both. “Do you think that someday…” He hesitated, on unsure ground. “Do you think I could talk to Mr. Waddell sometime?”
I regarded the boy with interest. “You’d like that?”
His eyes lit. “I really would like to see the plans for his idea. Mamá said that you saw them.”
I nodded sagely. “Yes, I’ve seen them. You think you could do that and be a good listener at the same time?”
“Yes, sir.” And Carlos Guzman probably could. I could imagine Miles Waddell’s eyes glazing over as a nine-year-old chattered on about improbable changes to the rancher’s cherished plans. The boy’s welcome would wear thin really quickly, especially since Miles Waddell wasn’t one of those folks whose world revolved around children. Seldom seen, never heard. If NightZone reached fruition, he’d have to get used to them—school buses by the fleet would be visiting. It would be good for Miles to see the sort of excitement his project could generate in minds other than his own.
“I’ll see if I can make that happen,” I said. “Not this weekend, though. We have a lot going on, don’t we?”
Carlos puffed out his cheeks in a very adult expression of overload.
“When your brother was home for Christmas, he didn’t say anything about the concert?”
“He’s got secrets,” the boy said. “I tried to find out, but he’s…” and he squeezed his lips together tightly.
“As some other boys should be,” Teresa observed dryly.
Headlights washed across the living room window and I heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. Carlos was at the door long before me, and I mentally thanked him for outgrowing the stage when he felt the need to screech his announcements. Now it was, “That would be Mamá.” He turned to me as I crossed the living room. “Has she given you a ride in the beast yet?”
“Yes.” I rubbed the small of my back. “I’m still recovering.”
I stood at the storm door and gazed out. The black “beast” was parked in the driveway facing out, and Estelle still sat in the driver’s seat, jotting notes in her log. Across the street, a dog launched into a frantic comment on the new arrival—a car and a person he’d seen a thousand times before. Farther down Twelfth a cat crossed, just touching the cone from a streetlight. Pausing in mid-stride, the cat turned to look back at the brainless dog, then ducked under the back end of a parked car. That didn’t draw my curiosity until I looked back at Estelle, now getting out of her vehicle. Then it felt as if someone had snapped my head back against a rubber band tether. A silver, mid-sized sedan. And inside, just visible under the streetlight, a single figure sat at the wheel.
A few seconds later, the airport courtesy car eased around the corner from Bustos Avenue, looking exactly like the cop car it had once been as it slid to a stop just beyond the Guzmans’ driveway. As Lynn Browning parked, the silver sedan fired up and pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the first cross street.
Chapter Twenty-one
“That’s Arturo Salazar,” Estelle said as she approached the front steps. She had seen my attention diverted by the departing sedan and guessed the reason.
“Junior,” I added, a little embarrassed at how easy it was to jump to ridiculous conclusions when the nerves are wound. Arturo Salazar had died the year before, but his son, who lived just two doors south of the Guzmans’, continued the family funeral home.
“How did your day finish up?” I held the storm door for her and her attached son.
“Some progress.” Estelle turned to wait for Lynn, who hustled up the sidewalk and joined us. She’d had time to change into casual jeans and a white sweatshirt, comfortably rumpled under a short down jacket. “And yours?” I added for her benefit.
“My day was spectacular,” Browning said. “More vacation than work.” She hefted the slender attaché case. “And the weather tomorrow is supposed to be just what we need. You still up for a little flying?”
“Sure.”
She turned her attention to the others as Estelle made introductions, and the usually ebullient Carlos appeared captivated. “Do you need to shed some weight?” Estelle asked. “I’ll put your jacket in on our bed.” As she slipped out of her coat, Lynn Browning unclipped the holstered handgun from her belt and tucked it in the jacket before handing it to Estelle. The movement wasn’t lost on Carlos. She kept the attaché case.
“What agency are you with, ma’am?” he asked, the picture of polite curiosity.
Lynn regarded him with interest as she first shook hands, and then held his for a longer moment. “I’m with United Security Resources out of Longmont,” she said, without adopting the overly sweet “everything must be a learning experience” tone that so many adults favored with kids. “We’re a private company.”
“Just outside of Denver,” Carlos clarified.
“Correct. We’re down for a couple of days to meet with Mr. Waddell.” She crossed to where Teresa sat in the rocker and combined a differential half-bow with a gentle two-handed shake. “Mrs. Reyes, what a pleasure. Do you remember that we met a long time ago? When Estelle and I graduated from the police academy?”
“I wish I did,” Teresa said dryly. “These days, I do well to remember where I am. But you’re welcome here.”
I watched the undersheriff shed gun, cuffs, and a few pounds of other junk as she relaxed into another life. When she returned from the bedroom, I asked, “Did you folks make any progress today?”
“We have some contacts out of state that are checking out possibilities,” Estelle said. “Mister Daniel wasn’t someone who spent his life lurking in the shadows. He’s left pretty big footprints, at least up until a couple of days ago. We were successful in opening up his credit card records, and Tom Mears is on that trail. We have both land line and cellular accounts.” She held both hands up as if holding an invisible basketball. “In short, he’s going to find life as a fugitive a challenge.”
“My sympathy goes out,” I scoffed. It would be perfect justice if Elliot Daniel didn’t enjoy a single peaceful moment until such time as a cop slapped on the cuffs. We—I—wanted him looking over his shoulder every minute. He’d make a mistake, and that would be all it would take.
Unfortunately, such mistakes could be long in coming. There were fugitives under ever
y rock, and some of them had evaded law enforcement for years, even decades…even a lifetime. But now, relaxed in this warm house with good food on the burner, I didn’t want to waste another moment considering the fate of Elliot Daniel. He’d find his own rock, and I hoped his life would remain bleak and empty.
“How did he come to know Boyd?”
“They both took the same adult ed computer class at the college. Similar interests, I guess. Similar politics. Boyd became fascinated with European politics between the two wars. His girlfriend told us that. He was incredulous at the way Hitler was able to come to power.”
“Ah. The old ‘those who don’t learn from their mistakes are bound to repeat them’ thing.”
“Perhaps so, Padrino.”
I didn’t want to weigh down a nice evening talking about a killer’s motivations. “And anything new from the pianist?” I asked.
Estelle laughed. “Ay…we’ll know tomorrow, Padrino. This has been an interesting experience.” She flopped onto the sofa after hugging her mother, and when settled, reached over to take the old woman’s left hand in both of hers. Lynn Browning had taken the rocker on the other side of the fireplace, the attaché case on the floor by her chair. “Parents are supposed to wean children, not vice versa.” Estelle shifted position slightly and touched the back of her mother’s hand to her lips. “I know more than I did a few days ago, at least.”
“I’m glad someone does.”
She smiled at her youngest son and reached out to accept a cup of tea that he delivered. Mother first, then company? What would the butler’s book say about that? He turned to Lynn. “What may I get for you, ma’am. Tea? Coffee? White or red wine? We’ll be serving smoked salmon under a dark chipotle sauce in a few minutes.”
Lynn pondered for a long moment then held up her thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “This much red would be wonderful, thank you.”
“I believe it’s a Merlot.”
“Perfect.” She watched him exit. “He’s nine?” Estelle nodded, and Lynn added, “Going on thirty.”
Nightzone Page 19