“Caramba,” Estelle whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Why would I want to do all this?”
“Because you recognize that this is a good story. It’s not a question of what you have to gain from it, since I don’t really believe you’re concerned about that. It’s what our readers have to gain. Inspiration is a wonderful gift, Estelle.”
“This is all a good deal more than I expected,” the undersheriff said.
“I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. But I’ll add this, Estelle. It is so worthwhile.” Madelyn sat patiently, without moving a muscle, while the undersheriff mulled over the proposal.
“I have a couple of concerns,” Estelle said. “First of all, I hope you realize that if I agree to all of this, I won’t discuss the department employees with you, except in the most general sort of way. Their personnel files are not public record, and it’s not up to me to talk about them behind their backs. As I said in my e-mail to you, you’re welcome to initiate an interview with whomever you like. Some of the staff will talk with you, some may not.” She shrugged. “Bobby, for instance.”
“Yes,” Madelyn said, and Estelle found herself captivated by this bright woman.
“There’s that,” Estelle continued. “Some of them, I’m sure, will talk with you. One or two might even seek you out. I’ve already told all of them that they’re welcome to cooperate with you, and that if they do so, they don’t have to feel that they have to clear anything with me…or Bobby. They’re entitled to their own opinions.”
“That’s more than fair. Most bosses aren’t so secure.”
“Most important, though,” Estelle said. “I hope you appreciate that the nature of our work, much of the time, is confidential. For instance, at this moment, we’re right in the middle of a homicide investigation. That obviously takes priority. I will not discuss that case, or any other case, or release information to you that I would not release to any other journalist. I think that’s only fair. You’re welcome to watch us work and draw your own conclusions. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can, but understand that there are necessary constraints. I’d really take offense at seeing in print a comment that might be made offhandedly concerning an investigation.”
“Believe me, I understand the legal issues,” Madelyn said. “And rest assured that we are not Police Gazette. I’m not here to scoop the Posadas Register, either. By the time we publish, the daily details will be ancient history anyway. They don’t matter to us, except by way of example.” She cocked her head and toyed with the small gold earring in her left ear. “Frank Dayan is an interesting sort, by the way.”
“Yes, he is.”
“He wants to do more about your son’s accomplishments for his paper,” Madelyn said. “He cheerfully admits that he doesn’t know how. His editor-it’s Pam?” Estelle nodded. “I wanted to talk with her, but I understand that her daughter is in the hospital? That’s so sad, isn’t it.”
“Madelyn,” Estelle said, with no intention of entering into a discussion of publisher Frank Dayan’s relationship with editor/reporter/photographer/single mom Pam Gardiner, “you need to know from the very beginning that I have reservations about subjecting my family to media exposure. I’ve had that conversation with Frank a number of times. That’s why he hasn’t had articles about Francisco in the paper.”
“We can’t very well profile you without talking with your family,” the writer said. “And this isn’t like being on the front page of the Sunday paper, either. In the first place, we’re talking about six months, minimum, before the article even sees the light of day. But your two sons are remarkable boys. I was captivated by that photo of Francisco in concert over in Las Cruces.”
“My two sons are remarkable little boys, and that’s not just their mother talking. They are remarkable. Maybe they will talk to you. Maybe not. We’ll have to see. I won’t tell them that they have to.”
“I look forward to the challenge of winning their confidence,” Madelyn said. “And yours, if you’ll let me. How’s this for a deal?…I will never talk to your children when you or your husband aren’t present. How’s that?”
“It’s a place to start.”
“There’s an interesting question we could address right now, and it might be revealing for both of us.” She steepled her fingers, the tips of her index fingers resting on her lips. “I know what I want out of this article, Estelle. What do you want? Why have you agreed to see me? A moment ago, you wondered that very thing. Why didn’t you just press the delete key when you saw my initial e-mail?”
“Partly curiosity, I suppose.”
“It must be more than that.”
“I’m sure it is. I don’t know how to put it into words.”
“Think on that, then. That gives me an opportunity to do something meaningful for you, Estelle. That’s important to me. I don’t consider this a one-way street that we’re on here.” The writer nodded with finality. “Which brings us to mechanics, Estelle. May I be your shadow, then? This is a lot to ask, I know. If you’re awake and decent, I’d like to be with you.”
Estelle laughed. “That’s going to get tiresome for you, that’s for sure.”
“But here again, let’s set a ground rule we can work with. When you need privacy, I want you to feel free just to say, ‘Go away.’ And I will. No questions asked. But if you don’t tell me to go away, there I’ll be.”
“We’ll see how that works,” Estelle said. “That’s all I can say.”
“Fair enough. Might I make a suggestion, by the way? It’s inevitable that you’ll feel it necessary to introduce me to someone. Might I suggest that a simple ‘this is Madelyn Bolles’ is sufficient? No other explanation? It’s been my experience that most of the time, people will fill in the blanks to their own satisfaction.”
“Pecados de omisión,” Estelle said. “Sins of omission are one of law enforcement’s favorite tools.” The undersheriff glanced at the wall clock. “You’re staying over at Mrs. Melvin’s B and B, is that right?”
“That’s my base ops, yes. Room three, the one with the outside stairway around back.”
“Do you need to check in there today, or are we ready for a ride?”
“We’re ready,” Madelyn Bolles said. “I just need to fetch my laptop and briefcase from my car.”
Estelle rolled her chair back and stood up. “Oh…I noticed that you’ve already become acquainted with one of the state officers. I saw that he had you stopped down by Moore.”
Madelyn grimaced. “Ah, that. I wasn’t paying attention. He said I was driving eighty-four in a sixty-five zone. I’m sure he was right, radar being what it is. A nice enough young man. I don’t recall his name.”
“John Allen,” Estelle said. “He’s new.”
“Well, he’s also forgiving, and that’s what is important in this instance,” the writer said. “I’ll meet you-” Estelle’s desk phone interrupted her by buzzing line one.
“By the pumps outside,” Estelle finished for Madelyn. “Excuse me a minute.” She picked up the phone. “Guzman.”
“Estelle, this is Betty. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Of course not. What can I do for you?” She pulled a pad of paper close.
“I think there’s someone here you should talk to,” Betty Contreras said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Estelle’s plans to give Madelyn Bolles a proper orientation into passenger etiquette in a patrol car were reduced to a quick “buckle up tight.” The reporter was still fussing with belt and accoutrements as they charged out of the parking lot and onto Grande Avenue, the main north-south thoroughfare of Posadas. She finally settled for the laptop under her knees, and the soft briefcase clutched in her lap.
By the time they roared under the interstate overpass and took the long curve onto State 56, the speedometer had climbed past 80. Madelyn’s right hand crept forward on the door sill, looking for something to clutch, proving that riding fast was very different from driving fast.
Waiting until she had dusted past two southbound burros, Estelle reached out for the mike.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten.”
“Three-oh-three.” Jackie Taber didn’t sound as tired as she had to be.
“Ten-twenty?”
“Three-oh-three is just comin’ up on Victor’s place, northbound.”
Estelle took a deep breath of relief that Jackie Taber had been slow to call it a day. She was capable of sitting quietly for hours on a warm rock in the shade of a piñon with her pencil and sketch pad. At the same time, Jackie knew as well as anyone else that Tony Abeyta was on his way to Las Cruces and the other denizen of the day shift, Dennis Collins, was stuck firmly in limbo after the dropped-gun incident. What was important at that moment was that Jackie Taber, nearing Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon, was twenty-five miles closer to Regál than Estelle was.
“Three-oh-three, I’ll be ten-twenty-one.”
Taking her time, Estelle slowed the car a fraction and opened her cell phone. Madelyn watched closely, not losing her grip on briefcase and door.
“Jackie,” Estelle said as the phone connection went through, “Betty Contreras is waiting for us at her house. She says that an illegal who might have been the woodcutter up north just walked past her house.”
“Might have been,” Jackie said, alert to nuance as always, tired as she might be.
“She says that he’s headed toward Joe Baca’s.”
“Oh, crap,” Jackie said. In the background, Estelle could hear the squeal of tires and then hard acceleration. “And here we thought Betty didn’t know nuttin’ about nobody. All of a sudden she knows the woodcutter and his pal?”
“That’s what we’re headed to find out, Jackie. I’m southbound, but we’re just leaving town. I want the man detained, but as long as he doesn’t force his way inside or pose an immediate threat, hang back and wait for us.”
“You got it. Joe’s the one who’s got the money, am I right?”
“Yes, he does. Be careful.”
“Roger that.”
Estelle auto-dialed Dispatch. “Gayle, we’re responding to a complaint in Regál that I think is tied to Catron County’s case with the woodcutter. Has Tony left for Cruces yet?”
“He and John Allen are standing right here,” Gayle replied, and, after a moment of hurried conversation off-line, added, “and now they’re out the door.”
“Thanks. Jackie’s responding, and I’ll be about fifteen minutes behind her.”
“Got it.”
Without looking, the undersheriff placed the phone on the car’s computer keyboard that took up most of the center console. Ahead, a county dump truck, its flashers bright, rumbled along the shoulder behind a road grader.
“I have to ask,” Madelyn Bolles shouted over the roar of the car and the rushing slipstream. “Why the phone instead of the radio? I thought cops were always ten-fouring on the air.”
“Sometimes we are,” Estelle replied. “But sometimes, we don’t want the whole world listening in, and the phone is more private.” She let the county car drift into the oncoming lane so she could give the truck and grader plenty of space.
“Good heavens, who’s going to be listening?”
“You’d be amazed,” Estelle said. “It’s a hobby for some folks, why I couldn’t begin to tell you. Bill Gastner calls ’em ‘scanner ghouls.’ If we have a messy accident in the middle of the night, sometimes there isn’t room to park by the time we get there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I was. The less we can be on the air, the better.”
“It’s hard to imagine them sitting home in their bathrobes, huddled around the family scanner, waiting to race you to the scene.” The road straightened as they approached Moore, and now past traffic, Estelle held the speed at an even 90. “It’s also easier to hear the telephone sometimes. Remind me to tell you a story or two sometime,” she said. “By the way, a couple of things, Madelyn,” she said, speaking unnaturally loud to be heard. “When we’re on the scene of a call, I’m going to require that you stay in the vehicle, unless I specifically say otherwise. Understood?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The shotgun by your left knee?” Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached out with her right hand and touched a button on the radio-lights-siren console without pushing it. “This is the electric lock release. Have you ever used a shotgun before?”
“Well, years ago my dad and uncle-” Madelyn stopped short. “No. I haven’t.”
“Unlock the rack by pushing that button. When you have the gun clear, push the safety button behind the trigger to the left, and watch where you point the muzzle. There are three rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Just keep pumping until it goes click.”
“You think I’m going to remember all that?”
“Yes, I do. You remember everything.”
“I don’t think so,” Madelyn said fervently.
“Well, you should know it’s there.”
“I’ll sit here quiet as a church mouse,” the reporter said.
“Sometimes that’s not enough,” Estelle said, remembering Linda Real’s disastrous ride-along with one of the deputies seven years before, on this very stretch of highway. It was only a matter of time before Madelyn interviewed the photographer, and Linda would not bring up the memory. But Madelyn would see the scars on the photographer’s face, and she’d find a way to ask. And then, she might not be so eager for ride-alongs.
In another minute, they crossed the old concrete bridge over the Rio Salinas, and as they swept around the end of the mesa, Estelle saw a wink of lights in her rearview mirror. Deputy Tony Abeyta would be driving one of the Expeditions, and he wouldn’t have been gaining on her with that. In a moment, she could see the low, squat shape of one of the new State Police cruisers with the distinctive white pimple of the computer antenna on the roof. Despite her pace, the state car quickly pulled to within a hundred yards of her and then slowed, pacing her as they shot across the Rio Guigarro and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon and then the intersection with County Road 14.
“PCS all units, three-oh-three.”
“PCS. Go ahead, three-oh-three.”
“All units ten-twenty-six south of the pass.”
“Three-ten copies.” In a second, Abeyta also acknowledged Jackie Taber’s request that siren and lights not be used.
“Three-ten, Allen on tack two.”
Working by feel, her eyes glued to the road as they left the flat prairie behind and took the first dangerous curve up the north flank of the San Cristóbals, Estelle toggled one of the selectors on her radio to match the State Police car-to-car frequency.
“Three-ten.”
“What we got?” the State Policeman asked.
“One individual, a possible illegal who may have been involved with a death that Catron County is currently investigating.”
“He’s tryin’ to skip across the border?”
Estelle braked hard for the first switchback to the right, and her passenger’s left hand flew up to slap the dashboard for support. “Maybe,” Estelle said. “Right now it appears that he may be paying a visit to one of the residents down there.”
“Taber’s on it?”
“Ten-four.”
“Then there ain’t no rush,” Allen said. “I’ll be behind you. Lemme know what you need. This guy known to be armed?”
“That’s negative, but we never know. Thanks, John.”
She racked the mike and leaned forward slightly to look uphill through the sparse trees. The road was empty, and on the next, even sharper switchback she used both lanes. For a moment, they were heading due east along the ridge, and had she chosen to do so, she could have looked down and seen the saloon, the county road, and the spread of prairie all the way north to Cat Mesa behind Posadas. The road crumpled back on itself again, and after a switchback followed by a leisurely series of esses, they started up the long grade to the pass.
>
As they rushed past the sign announcing the pass elevation, Estelle flipped off the emergency lights and slowed her pace. The south side of the pass was an easier descent, long straights between gentle switchbacks. At one point, Estelle could look down directly into the heart of the village. She saw the white county Bronco just on the highway side of Betty Contreras’ house, but she couldn’t tell if the deputy’s truck was parked or just driving slowly. Joe Baca’s home was out of sight, hidden behind the bulk of the water tank.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten is just coming off the pass, ETA three minutes.”
“Ten-four. Ten-twenty-one.”
Estelle had enough time to hang up the mike and take the phone before it buzzed. “He’s sitting under one of the apple trees in front of Sosimo Baca’s place,” Jackie said. “I’m watchin’ him through the trees from just this side of Betty’s.”
“He’s just sitting?” The adobe that had once been home to Joe Baca’s older brother had stood empty since the old man’s death, the orchard going untended and gnarly as the little house gradually dissolved.
“Yeah, he is. But he’s looking up toward the pass. You got a state cruiser behind you?”
“Affirmative.”
“He saw it. He’s getting up now and headed west. He’s joggin’. You want me to intercept?”
“No. Hold off. I want to know where he’s going.”
“Evidently he knows,” Jackie said. “He isn’t just out for a stroll.”
“Just watch him then.” Keeping the phone connection open, Estelle slowed the car as they swept down the last stretch behind the water tank and pumping station. The church and its gravel parking lot was a quarter of a mile ahead, with the border crossing just beyond. Right at the bottom of the hill, Sanchez Street met the highway, and as she turned onto the narrow dirt lane, she grimaced in anticipation of the rough jounce.
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