“Wow,” I managed, but the audience made sure I was the only one to hear my exclamation. We clapped until our hands hurt, and that drew the two performers out onto the stage twice more, but no more encores were forthcoming. I turned to say something to Estelle Reyes-Guzman and saw her folding a tissue into a small, wet wad. It was the first time I’d ever seen evidence of tears in the thirty years that I’d known her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Carlos wanted to remain at the gymnasium to help disassemble the venue, but when I told him that his famous presence was expected at the reception, he readily agreed, the little showman. There was an added incentive. Dr. Francis needed to make a visit to the hospital and his patient with the exploded appendix, and Estelle needed a few moments to confer with the sheriff before indulging herself with an evening in the role of proud mom. I offered to let Carlos accompany me over to the house where we’d be among the first on hand to welcome the Leister crew.
A chance to ride any old time in Padrino’s SUV was an incomprehensible treat for the youngster, and he and I escaped out through one of the gym’s side doors, the one nearest the temporary stage curtains, the one protected by the two signs, Emergency Exit Only and Alarm will Sound when Door is Opened. What a bad influence on the youth of America I was…but I knew that the door alarm wouldn’t sound, since kids popped in and out the E-doors all the time when the gym was a gym. The door opened onto a small concrete patio that surrounded part of the gym’s electrical substation, with a narrow sidewalk leading out toward the athletic field parking lot.
Carlos skipped ahead of me, still riding his Opus 7 high. At one point I caught his eye and held up the keys, then tossed them to him in an easy, high arc. “Over by the ticket booth,” I called. “Right in front of the bus.” He caught them and charged off toward where my SUV was parked, thumbing the key to flash the courtesy lights half a dozen times.
I was having such a good time watching the kid’s antics that my radar was turned off. He stood by the passenger door, waiting as I approached. The silly grin had vanished but his dark, deeply set eyes were hidden by the night shadows.
“Mount up,” I said, but Carlos didn’t move. That’s when the hair stood up on the back of my neck.
“Just get in the car,” a soft voice commanded. The bulk of the SUV hid the man from view, but through the wash of the courtesy lights, I could see that his hand rested on the boy’s right shoulder, essentially locking Carlos between himself and the Durango’s open door. Worse, he held what in the dome light’s glow appeared to be a small pistol, the barrel nestled under the boy’s right ear. I stopped short. What I could do if accosted on a level playing field, with both my assailant and myself armed, was one thing. Now, here I had a treasured youngster in peril. I couldn’t reach either him or our assailant. And the weight on my hip? I kept both hands in the open.
“Get in the car,” the dark shadow said again. “Nothing stupid, Sheriff.” I heard the shake in his voice, the sharp inhalations.
“I’m not the sheriff,” I said, for want of anything better. The voice wasn’t familiar, and I needed time more than anything else. “And who are you?” His “nothing stupid” remark was unnecessary. What could I do, leap in a single bound over the top of the tall SUV? Somehow dive through the interior? I could feign a heart attack, and writhe on the ground. Maybe in the process, Carlos would ram a sharp little elbow into the man’s cajones, then slam his head into the door. Sure enough.
“Get in the car.”
I could hear other voices, happy concert-goers heading home, oblivious. Unfortunately, a gaggle of them was not approaching us…in typical fashion, I had parked off to the side, close to one of the five rugged old elms that graced the parking lot. Behind me, the driver had parked the mammoth Leister bus. He’d be coming for it in a few minutes, but right now, it provided a most effective screen.
“Put the gun away first before someone gets hurt,” I ordered.
“You didn’t worry about that before,” he said. “Just shut up and do like I say.” He might have held the gun, but he wasn’t a pro at this. And that told me who he was.
“You want to talk to me, talk, Mr. Baum. We don’t have to drive anywhere. And none of this is going to bring your father back. All you’re guaranteeing is that your daughter will be able to visit you in prison.”
He took a shuddering breath as if what he really wanted to do was cry. That was good, since he wasn’t paying attention to the Leister bus. I wasn’t either. But I did see the enormous dark shadow that appeared behind him, a shadow that must have used the bus as easy cover. Perhaps our assailant heard a faint noise, or felt a shift in the air. That was all the warning he had. His right arm snapped up, the pistol arching toward the star-studded sky. Then it was wrenched from his hand, to go skittering across the hood of my SUV.
He let out a strangled cry and then he was wrenched backward, spinning in a blur to crash against the elm’s gnarly old trunk. I dove around the back of the SUV, grabbed the stunned Carlos and shoved him in the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. In those few seconds, my assailant found himself with his face buried in the elm bark, both arms twisted behind him, with the grim snick of handcuffs around his wrists.
“Just stand still, sir,” Sheriff Robert Torrez said. And then, with one hand on his radio and the other pinning the man to the elm by the neck, he lowered his voice. “Mears, ten twenty.”
For a dozen seconds, my heartbeat and the frantic breathing of the man pegged to the tree were the loudest things I could hear.
“I’m still in the gym.”
“Out back by the bus. I need some assistance. And on your way, find Real. ASAP.”
“Ten four.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man gasped, finding it difficult to enunciate with his face buried in the bark.
“Just relax, Mr. Baum,” Torrez muttered. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” And as the sheriff went through the rest of the Miranda rigamarole, I let out a long breath of relief, which the sheriff apparently misinterpreted.
He finished the Miranda and turned slightly toward me. “You all right, sir?”
“Just fine.”
“I want a photo of the gun before it gets moved,” he said. “Make sure nobody steps on it.”
Circling the SUV, I opened the driver’s door and peered inside. Carlos Guzman’s eyes were huge as he looked across at me.
“You doing okay?” I asked. He managed a nod. “Sorry I got a little rough with you. We’ll be out of here in just a minute or two.”
I could see the youngster trying to relax against the seat, his spine doing a fair imitation of steel rebar. He turned to stare out the window toward the tree, then back at me.
“Did you see that?” His natural excitement about life’s big adventure was returning.
“I did indeed.”
“The sheriff just levitated him.” I laughed and that felt good. A rumble of gruff exhaust announced the arrival of the undersheriff’s unit, and half a second later, Tom Mears’ marked county car. Before Estelle had the chance to clear her unit, the sheriff had walked George Baum over to catch his ride to perpetual care. That’s when I realized that I had seen the man before.
Transferring his grip on the cuffs to Mears, Torrez nodded at Estelle. “I want photos of the gun before anyone touches it. It’s on the ground in front of the vehicle,” he said. Estelle’s eyes weren’t searching for a now-impotent gun, and if Torrez wasn’t in the mood to dispense huggies, she felt the need. Without a doubt, she had been with her eldest son when the radio call came, and it must have been a wrench to leave him, only to find Carlos somehow in jeopardy.
But now, Estelle could see that Carlos was fine, the boy jittering with excitement. She scooped him out of the car, his feet airborne.
“Bobby thumped him into the tree, Mamá.” He squirmed loose and dashed to th
e tree, patting its rough bark. I could imagine some Baum relative adding police brutality charges to the looming lawsuit mania, using the boy’s description as damning testimony.
A red Honda materialized out of the darkness carrying Linda Real and her plethora of photographic gear.
“He was waiting for you?” the undersheriff asked. With one hand clamped on her son’s shoulder, she reached out with the other to me.
“Sure enough.” I frowned. “The son-of-a-bitch was inside the gym. I saw him during intermission. Nice guy. He even found time to help a little old lady.” Baum and I, with his photo in my pocket, had been within touching distance in that crowded gymnasium. The round, bowling ball head and stumpy body were unmistakable. Had I been paying attention…and that was a sobering thought.
A camera’s flash interrupted my ruminations. “The gun is right over here,” I said. Estelle ushered Carlos back into the SUV, a sign that my padrino status was still worth something.
The undersheriff’s flashlight beam circled the gun, and I didn’t feel any better. From a distance, even a hefty automatic can look small. But its magazine held a handful of rounds, and more important, the hammer was fully cocked, poised. It didn’t help my blood pressure any to realize that George Baum’s shaky trigger finger had been just a few ounces from compounding his father’s tragedy.
Chapter Thirty
The incident with George Baum came close to ruining the late evening. The sheriff wanted a deposition from me—the who, what, where, and when of the incident, beginning when I had first seen Baum in the gymnasium, cleverly using a little old lady for cover. Bobby was a little disappointed when I told him that I hadn’t recognized Baum at first—it hadn’t been a heroically thoughtful choice of mine to avoid an armed confrontation in a crowded venue. I just hadn’t recognized him. And if I had, the audience would likely have had something to talk about besides the music.
Procrastinating with legal stuff felt good just then, so I put off the deposition until the following day when I could sit back and reflect. But at that moment, my house was full of all kinds of chattering folks. I wouldn’t have trusted my home to many people, but Gayle Torrez and Addie Sedillos were two of them. They’d done a nice job planning for the reception, with a flood of goodies temptingly arranged on the kitchen counter and spread down through my sunken library. I don’t know how they’d found time to go to the concert.
Francisco Guzman, who had quickly changed out of his penguin suit to blue jeans and a flannel shirt, was holding court in company with Mateo Atencio, who had been content just to loosen his tie. Francisco’s brow was furrowed deeply, hands thrust in his pockets as he shook his head slowly in response to something Dr. Lott was saying. He saw Carlos and me walk in, and a look of relief brightened his features.
There had been a few minutes on the way over when I was able to coach Carlos a little. I could imagine his ebullient, story-telling nature taking the incident with Baum and turning it into a tale taller than his imaginary skyscraper.
Obviously someone had witnessed, or heard about the event, since it was the topic of conversation. I groaned inwardly and turned to Estelle, who had arrived just seconds after us.
“I’m going to say a few well-chosen words,” I said quietly to her. “Otherwise we’re going to have to fuss with it all evening. I don’t want that.” She nodded reluctantly.
“Good evening, folks,” I said, my voice a fair imitation of a bullhorn. The place had fallen quiet when we arrived anyway, and my tone surprised them into silence. “First of all, welcome to my home. We’re here to congratulate and thank two talented musicians. A stunning concert.” I flashed a smile. “Thanks to them and to Leister, who did all the heavy lifting.” I surveyed the expectant faces. “On the way out of the concert, we had a little parking lot confrontation with a disturbed fellow. I hope he enjoyed the concert, because right now he’s in the sheriff’s custody.” I smiled again and shrugged. “Everyone is fine, it’s all over, so enough said about that. I don’t want to talk about it tonight, because this little gathering is planned to honor Francisco and Mateo. Relax, enjoy the treats that Gayle and Addy prepared for you, and leave early.” When the laughter stopped, I held up a hand. “Just kidding about that. Thanks for coming. Enjoy.”
I turned away in time to accept a cup of coffee and a peck on the cheek from Gayle Torrez. “Baum?” the sheriff’s department’s chief dispatcher whispered toward my ear.
“Yep. All done. Bobby came to the rescue.” I made a chopping motion with my hand. “That’s it. And Gayle, thanks for all this. Great job.”
She patted my arm and winked at Estelle. The conversational noise in the library rose as if someone had turned a rheostat. A moment or two later, my mouth stuffed with little green chile things with a hell of a kick, I managed to avoid the knots of conversation—including the big one with Francisco and Mateo at the epicenter. I had questions and congratulations of my own for the musicians, but they could wait for private moments. And I think I resented, just a little bit, having those moments put off not so much by this smiling, happy crowd, as by the other events of the week—a week I was sure would be recorded as one of the crappiest in my autobiography.
I found a dark corner and counted. I couldn’t have explained why it was important to know how many people were in my library. Too goddamned many, and they overflowed into my kitchen and down the hall toward the bedroom suite, with a group of them looking at the family photos on my hall wall. I should have put those away for the duration. I started to feel the first twinges of the need to escape.
“You look numb,” Miles Waddell said. Somehow he’d managed to sneak up on my deaf and dumb side, despite hard-heeled cowboy boots on saltillo tile. A flash gun went off, and I turned to see Estelle popping photos of her sons and Mateo, and then her son and the Leister Conservatory folks. Five or six other photographers joined in.
“I am. Completely.”
“I’ve never heard a concert like that,” Waddell said. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Of course I did.”
“And did you know the kid plays flute? I thought he was a pianist.”
“We were all surprised, as promised.” I sipped the coffee while I regarded the rancher. “If Elliot Daniel was the one who stole the truck from the dealership,” I said, “number one, why? And number two, where the hell is he hiding it? That’s what we need to concentrate on.”
The rancher’s head tipped back and he enjoyed a hearty, but silent, guffaw. “Christ, Bill, you’re amazing. You can’t leave it alone, can you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, in a way, I suppose that’s good. I appreciate it. It tells me that you’re on the job, but I personally think this Daniel character has skipped the country. You kill a cop, you’re on the list.” He nodded grimly. “The top of the list. You know that better than I do.”
“If he didn’t take the truck, he knows who did.”
Waddell cocked an eyebrow at me. “Why would that be so?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence, Miles. Daniel and Boyd took down the power lines. When we get Daniel under the lights, we’ll find out exactly why. But then, someone takes the time and risk to steal a Posadas Electric Coop truck…same target, same outfit. My gut tells me it’s either Daniel or someone working with him.”
Waddell shrugged helplessly. “Maybe so. Maybe so. Is that what Bobby thinks?”
“I’ve never known what the sheriff thinks, Miles. But I’ll tell you one thing. Of all the hunters I’ve ever known, Bobby Torrez is the best. Period. Thinking all the time. This deal tonight? During intermission, I saw the sheriff in the gym foyer talking with a couple of his people.” I held up a hand, two fingers extended out from my eyes. “He’s looking at everyone. Now, if he hadn’t seen Baum then, he must have seen him follow us out the side door after the concert, because that son-of-a-bitch didn’t have time to squeeze in an extra fart, Miles. The s
heriff materialized out of the dark, disarmed him and pitched him into a tree.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”
“Everybody was lucky.”
“Damn right. But what I’m saying is that the sheriff has had the time to think about Daniel and what he might do next. He doesn’t need prompts from me.”
“If I was him, I’d take all the help I can get.”
“And he does. He knows how to work interagency; he knows when to scout out alone. And everything in between.”
“I saw Mrs. Browning in the audience.” Waddell surveyed the room. “I was hoping she’d make the reception.”
“No doubt. I heard her say that she has some photos to show you, for one thing.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. “I didn’t want to spend the evening beating my brains out with all this shit. I really didn’t. But it won’t leave me alone.” Punching the rancher lightly on the chest, I added, “It’s all your fault, you know.”
“That means I’m making progress.”
“Nothing more irritating than a goddamn optimist,” I grumbled. “If you were going to hide a truck, where would you put it?”
Miles Waddell frowned. “Where there are the fewest prying eyes. The fewest passersby.”
“And what would you do with it?”
He looked bewildered. “I’m not terrorist-minded. What am I going to do? Crash it through my gate? Into the well house? Into the new electric substation? I don’t know. Roll it off the mesa-top? Sell it in Mexico for a few pesos?”
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