“I thought…” She shrugged helplessly. “I thought I could persuade him. I’m so sorry.”
“When you were outside the rancher’s barn, did you see any vehicles parked on the county road?”
“I told them I did. I went inside and warned Elliot.”
“Why would you do that?”
“When we talked on the phone, he’d made this grandstand speech about how everyone was after him. But how they weren’t going to be able to stop him.”
“You believed him?”
“Yes.”
“You knew that he was armed?”
“Yes.”
“So you drove all the way up from Las Cruces just because he told you to.”
“Yes.”
“The thought never occurred to you to call the police instead? Wouldn’t that have been simpler? You knew where he was hiding, you knew that he was alone.”
Julie released a great, choking sigh. “I knew…I knew they’d kill him.”
And sure enough, I thought.
Estelle looked across at me, and then beckoned. We stepped outside the conference room, and she took a moment to make sure the door was securely shut. “Do you recognize her, Padrino?”
“Ah, no. I mean, it could be the girl with Daniel. But it was dark, she was wrapped in a blanket. When I heard her speak, she was calling to him, she outside, he in. So no. I can’t swear it’s her. But she says she is, so there you are.”
“She didn’t sound worried, or distraught when she talked to Daniel?”
“No. If I had to guess, I’d say they might have been having a pretty good time in there.”
“No arguing?”
“None that I could hear. What charges are being filed against her?”
“Conspiracy, among other things. If she’s linked to any of Daniel’s activities before tonight, it’ll go worse for her. We just don’t know yet.”
“Too bad. Nice kid.”
“She could have been,” Estelle said, “except she had the hots for the wrong guys.” She stepped farther away from the door. “Is Miles all right?”
“Just sore. The slug was full-metal jacket. Nice ugly hole, no fractures, no nerve damage. He’ll use a cane for a while…a fashionable one, of course.” I reached out and touched her elbow. “I wanted to ask you. Are you guys still going to drive over to Texas to see the Dos Pasos concert next weekend?”
She smiled that deep, lovely smile that she didn’t offer up very often. “We were considering it. Assuming you can behave yourself for the week between now and then. We don’t need any more bodies littering the landscape.”
I held up both hands in surrender. “My best behavior. I wanted to ask, though. If you do drive over there, I’d like to ride along, if you can stand it. I never got the chance to talk as much as I’d like with Francisco.”
“Of course. Carlos will be in seventh heaven to have you along. He might forgive you for bailing out of the reception.”
“I appreciate that, but I was more worried about what mom and dad wanted, sweetheart.”
She smiled again. “We’d appreciate your company.”
“We’ll talk about it, then. Do you need anything else from me tonight? I’m against the wall at the moment. I’ll be in first thing to write up the depositions, though.”
“Go get some sleep. You managed half an hour snoozing on the gurney. Go dive for cover now before Frank Dayan finds you.”
I would have had to have put a garbage bag over my head to achieve that, since the newspaper publisher was standing at dispatch when I rounded the corner.
“Who the hell called you out?” I said with mock impatience.
He shook his head in wonder and thrust out his hand. “Are we going to be able to straighten this all out? Jeez…”
I glanced at the wall clock and saw that it was coming up on five. Fernando Aragon would be at the Don Juan prepping for his day. “Tell you what, Frank. Buy me a quick breakfast and I’ll fill you in.”
His eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. The sheriff…” and he lowered his voice to a husky whisper, “the sheriff just told me that he wouldn’t have anything until tomorrow. Maybe not even then.”
“This is tomorrow, and I’m not the sheriff. And I can be bought with a green chile omelet.” I held out a hand toward the door. “Lead on.” Frank looked skeptical, but he fell for it.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Despite Grand Jury appearances that resulted in Julie Warner’s being indicted on charges of conspiracy and second-degree manslaughter that would eventually net her seven years as a guest of the state, despite notification of a lawsuit from the late Nathan Baum’s sister, who hadn’t seen or talked to her late brother in a dozen years but who wailed in misery as she pleaded her case to a hungry lawyer, despite a second breathtaking concert in Dos Pasos by the child prodigies, the anticipation that kept me on pins and needles mounted with each passing week.
I returned home from lunch in mid-April, and struggled the bulky mail out of the slot. And there it was. The upper left corner of the envelope sported the legendary prancing horse with the broken spear in its mouth. My pulse soared. To my credit, I didn’t rip it open then and there. I went inside, laid the envelope on the table, made fresh coffee, filled a cup, and found my silver letter opener.
Seated in my library, old Colt relic on the table within reach, I took a deep breath and examined the envelope once more. Sure enough. The opener made smooth work, and I pulled out the unfolded letter. There lay all the details.
When it left the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut in 1889, my Colt .44-40 sported a seven and one half-inch barrel, blued with case-hardened frame and rubber grips.
It had been mailed as part of a shipment of two to Rosenblat and Son’s Mercantile in Silver City. My pulse kicked up another notch or two. In 1889, Silver City was a tiny place, home to miners and thieves and all sorts of interesting folks. On top of that, Silver City was the right neighborhood. Colt could have told me the gun was shipped to Danville, Illinois, and I would have been sorely disappointed. But Silver City? Had Josiah Bennett wandered into Rosenblat’s, seen the Colt and plunked down his $17.50 then and there?
The possibilities whirled as I read and reread the short letter half a dozen times. Nothing was hidden between the lines, and of course Colt didn’t have a clue to whom Rosenblat and Son might have sold the revolver. My coffee gradually cooled as I pondered that. Had Rosenblat kept records? Even if the firm no longer existed, did the old record book still molder somewhere, waiting for me?
It was the sort of stuff of which good, high-quality insomnia is made.
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