“He’s cutting cross-lots,” Jackie said. “That’s going to take him right behind Joe’s woodpile.” And by now, Estelle thought, the man would be able to hear the traffic. Even with engines little more than idling, the tires of three vehicles crunching on gravel carried like gunshots. Betty Contreras was standing in her front yard, hands caught up in her apron. She bustled to meet them, but Estelle slowed only to a walk as she lowered the passenger window.
“We’ll be back to talk in a bit,” she called. Betty stopped, uncertain, looking first at Madelyn and then back at the State Police cruiser. The expression on Betty’s face was one of confusion and apprehension.
“He’s still behind the woodpile,” Jackie said, voice calm and almost bemused. “Maybe that’s where he’s staying. If he breaks for the house, he’ll be in plain sight.” Behind Joe Baca’s woodpile, enough piñon, juniper, scrub oak, and mesquite for ten winters, a jumble of boulders formed a giant’s necklace along the base of the foothills. Estelle turned the county car off onto the lane to Joe’s, and saw that Jackie’s vehicle was parked right by the Bacas’ mailbox. The man had nowhere to go. He could sprint to the house, a distance of twenty-five yards. He could clamber up into the rocks behind the village. He could dart from cover and try to zigzag through the village, heading for the border and custody.
“There’s Joe,” Jackie Taber said, but Estelle had already seen him. She pulled past Jackie’s unit and drove up the Bacas’ driveway.
“Keep watch,” Estelle said, and snapped the phone closed. Turning to Madelyn, whose wonderful eyes were now about the size of dinner plates, she said, “Stay in the car.”
“Oh, yes.”
Estelle had experienced passengers in the past who had said that very thing, then gotten out and found a way to get in the way.
“Stay in the car,” she said again, and raised the window.
“I heard and I understand,” Madelyn said.
“Thank you.”
Joe showed no signs of stepping off the house porch. Estelle unbuckled and took her time getting out of the car. She saw that the driver’s doors of both Jackie’s vehicle and the State Police cruiser were ajar, but the officers were staying put.
As Estelle walked past the front fender of her car, she reached back and adjusted the bulk of the.45 automatic. “Joe,” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “¿Cómo está?” As she expected, the old man was uneasy-anyone would be with an army just arrived in his front yard. A quick glance told her that Trooper Allen had gotten out of his car and stood relaxed by the front fender. He held a scoped semiautomatic rifle at high port. Jackie Taber still sat in her unit, ready to dive out or charge the Bronco forward, whatever the need might be.
Estelle could easily imagine the fugitive crouching behind the woodpile, his heart hammering. Did the policía know about the death up in Catron County? Were they actually after him, or was this some other problem-so close to the border, it could be anything. Better to crouch and wait. Nothing to lose.
The undersheriff took her time as she walked up the mild slope of the yard. She found it interesting that Joe Baca didn’t glance toward the woodpile where the fugitive was hidden. Perhaps Joe didn’t know the man was there…unless he had been looking out through the kitchen window. If he’d come outside in response to the three police vehicles, then he might not know. She thrust her hands in her jacket pockets, considering what tack to take, keeping the bulk of the woodpile between herself and the hidden man’s view.
“Joe, did Betty call you a little bit ago?” she asked in English.
Baca skillfully skirted that one. “We talk all the time,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”
She ambled up closer, still keeping several paces’ distance, wondering how fluent the illegal’s English was. The undersheriff kept her voice down. “I need to know what you can tell me about the second man. The one who was with Felix Otero up north.”
Joe looked puzzled, but he didn’t glance at the woodpile. Estelle continued, “Why would he want to come back here? To your house?”
“My house?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
Estelle hesitated. “But you know who I’m talking about, no?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said lamely.
“Can you and I go inside for a minute?”
“Sure. The others want something, too? I got coffee.”
“No thanks.”
He turned toward the door, and Estelle followed for only two steps, then turned abruptly and, with her right hand out of her pocket and sweeping the jacket back, gripped the butt of her automatic. Another step toward the house brought her into view of the corner of the woodpile nearest the house. She could rock back a step, and be protected by the firewood.
The young man, unkempt and clearly fatigued, sat on his rump, his back against the stack, arms clasped around drawn-up knees. His wary expression slowly dissolved to one of resignation as he saw the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department badge on Estelle’s belt. He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked from her as the roar of another vehicle attracted his attention. Deputy Taber had driven her Bronco right up into Joe Baca’s front yard, leaped out, and from her position could see both the undersheriff and the fugitive.
“Buenas tardes,” Estelle said gently. She could see no weapon, and the man’s body language said cower, but that could change in a heartbeat. “Levante las manos por encima de la cabeza.”
“Estoy descansando, nada más,” the young man whispered. His arms lifted slowly as if on hydraulics, and his eyes were locked not on Estelle, but on Jackie Taber a dozen yards away. Her threatening stance was obvious, but with the woodpile at his back, the man could move only deeper into her line of fire.
“Slowly now,” Estelle continued in English. “I want you to lie forward on your stomach.” The man’s confusion wasn’t at the change of language. To be seated firmly on his rump against the woodpile, with his knees drawn up in front of him, locked him in place. Any movement was awkward. He shouldered forward, moving his legs to one side, and flopped down, eyes still locked on the uniformed deputy.
“One hand behind your back,” Estelle said. She slipped her cuffs off her belt and approached quickly, staying close to the pile of fragrant split wood. Jackie had moved off to her left. “Ahora, la otra,” the undersheriff said, and finished cuffing the man. “Get up now,” she said. “Take it easy.”
“I have…,” the man started to say as he struggled to his feet. Estelle turned him in place and pushed him face-first against the woodpile. A pat-down discovered only a meager amount of change, a small pocket utility knife, and a wallet. Keeping her left hand on his shoulder, she thumbed open the billfold. Thirty-two dollars was the extent of his fortune. She nudged the Mexican driver’s license far enough out to see his name.
“Señor Ynostroza,” she said. “Ricardo Ynostroza. ¿Cómo está?” She pushed the wallet back into his hip pocket, and the small knife into her own. Deputy Taber had holstered her gun, and now stood with one hand resting on Joe Baca’s shoulder. The old man stood just off the front step of the house. Estelle turned the man around and regarded him. She guessed him to be perhaps thirty years old, no more, with a week’s sparse stubble of beard and dark circles under his eyes. His blue denim shirt hung loose on his wiry frame. His scuffed work boots hinted at plenty of mileage. He didn’t reply to her question but stood silent and watchful. She saw a flicker of apprehension cross his broad face as John Allen’s State Police cruiser pulled up beside Jackie’s unit.
“Señor Ynostroza,” she said, “Señora Contreras was concerned about you.”
“I have…” seemed to be the extent of the young man’s vocabulary.
“Do you understand English?”
“Yes, I do,” he said eagerly this time, nodding vigorously.
“Good, then. Where were you going, señor?”
“I thought perhaps…”
“Where is your home, señor
?”
“I am from Buenaventura,” he said. “It is a small town-”
“I know where it is,” Estelle said. “Is that where Felix Otero lived as well?”
“I don’t know.…”
“Yes, señor, you do.” She turned without taking her eyes off the young man and beckoned for Jackie. “Obviously, we must talk.” The young man’s eyes flicked toward the approaching deputy, and then to Joe Baca, who hadn’t moved but now stood in company with Allen.
“We’ll transport this young man in your vehicle,” Estelle said to Jackie. “I need to talk with Joe for a little bit.” She had been watching the old man, reading the confusion and concern in his posture. Ynostroza started to say something, but she ignored him, leaving the young man in the deputy’s custody.
Joe Baca studied the ground in front of his boots as Estelle approached.
“How do you know this man?” she asked without preamble.
“I don’t,” Baca said, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“He was coming to see you,” she pressed. “Betty Contreras said that she was worried about that. Why does he want to see you? Is he after money?”
Joe’s eyes flicked up at that. “Maybe. Maybe that’s it.”
“And maybe there’s more to it,” Estelle said. “It would be much simpler if you would tell me what’s going on, Joe.”
“He is just…” And his hands waved helplessly. “He is just like any of the others. You know.”
“Except you know him, Joe,” she said impatiently. “And so does Betty. And so does Father Anselmo. This man, Ricardo Ynostroza, was with Felix Otero, the young man who died up north. That’s what Betty says. Do you want to talk to me about that?”
Another vehicle appeared, and an expression of relief washed across Joe’s face. Estelle recognized Lucinda Baca’s car. “Maybe she knows,” he said.
“Officer Allen, would you take a statement from Mr. Baca?” Estelle asked. “I’ll talk with Lucinda.” She could see that obviously wasn’t what Joe Baca had in mind, but feeling adrift might loosen his tongue a bit.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Why would we know who this guy is?” Lucinda Baca snapped as she led Estelle inside the house. She was as thorny as her husband was mellow, a surprising woman who at first glance looked as soft and compliant as a marshmallow. “And what’s that state cop want with Joe, anyway?”
“He’s just taking a short statement, Mrs. Baca.”
“About what now, may I ask?”
“We have several unanswered questions. I stopped by earlier to talk to Joe about the sweepstakes.…” She hesitated. The young Mexican worker in the back of Jackie Taber’s Bronco was a separate issue, and if there were any ties between him and the case involving Chris Marsh and the lottery winners, they weren’t obvious at the moment-other than the natural attraction that piles of money presented.
Before Estelle could continue, Lucinda interrupted, “Sweepstakes? Por Dios, is that the whole county’s business now?” She turned to face Estelle, one hand on an ample hip. She punctuated with a wagging finger. “All of a sudden I got a yard full of cops because maybe we won a few dollars?”
“That’s not quite it,” Estelle said.
“Well, you tell me what is it, Estelle Guzman. We’ve known you since you were this high,” and she swept her hand down to her knees. “And now all of a sudden…” She might as well have just said, You remember your place, young lady.
“I stopped by to see if Joe recognized this man.” She held out the eight-by-ten glossy morgue photo of Christopher Marsh.
“Oh, my poor soul,” Lucinda said, instantly softening. “Isn’t that…That’s the boy who made the sweepstakes deliveries. Barry something.”
“His real name is Christopher Marsh, Lucinda. He was the driver of that truck that went over the side up on the pass.”
“Dios mío,” Lucinda breathed. “Is this the crash all the cops were at last night?”
“That’s when we found it. It happened sometime Wednesday evening. Right after he left you folks.”
Lucinda sat down abruptly, still holding the photo. She stared at the image for a long time, and Estelle didn’t interrupt her thoughts. The expression on the woman’s face was impossible to read. She could have been saying a prayer for the young man who had lost his life, or for the $30,413 check that police might have found in the wreckage.
“Betty said that he hit a deer,” Lucinda said finally.
“That appears to be the case, Mrs. Baca. I’m sorry.”
“They picked up all his deliveries and things? He’d just left here, you know.” A light came on. “Now wait a minute. You said the accident happened Wednesday night?”
“That’s what we think. You spoke with him sometime early that evening. He was found by a highway department patrol on Friday evening.”
“Oh, no,” and Lucinda softened again. “You mean this boy just lay out there all that time?”
“It appears that way.”
“Was he killed outright? Oh, how awful.” A single tear formed in the corner of Lucinda’s left eye, and she brushed at it with an index finger.
“Probably,” Estelle said. If you consider drowning in beer outright.
Some of Lucinda’s previous armor hardened again. “And now what does the lottery have to do with the cops?” she asked. “Sit down, at least.” She waved toward one of the chairs, and sat back, arms folded over her chest. The photo of Marsh lay on her lap. “The taxes were taken right off the top. We don’t owe anyone.”
“It’s not the state lottery that’s of interest,” Estelle said. “But the Canadian sweepstakes thing sets off some alarm bells.”
Lucinda fell silent, her small eyes assessing. She ran a hand around the crease at the base of her throat where a necklace would have been hidden had she been wearing one.
“Was Marsh alone when he came to your door?” Estelle asked.
“This boy?” She touched the photo. “Yes, he was alone. Both times. Just him and that little truck. You know the ones that they drive.”
“Mrs. Baca, when did you deposit the second check-the larger one?”
She bristled and hugged her ample bosom closer. “Who said that I did deposit it?”
“Did you, ma’am?”
“And now tell me why that should be the business of the Sheriff’s Department?” She lifted her lower jaw as if pointing at the horizon with her chin. “How’s your mother, by the way?” We’re all family, remember.
“She’s fine, thank you. If the check is bogus, Lucinda, then it is our business. Ours, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s, and then we can include the Internal Revenue Service, the U.S. Postal Service, and all sorts of other interesting people. We won’t know the answer to that until you take the check to the bank.”
“Well, I did that…Friday afternoon. We just-we just had things to do on Thursday and Friday morning, and we didn’t get to it.” She took a slow, deep breath. “Maybe it was partly…Well, it was for a lot of money. It was sitting there on the television set, and each time I walked by, I’d look at it just a little.” She smiled. “Like maybe it wasn’t real, you know? Like maybe one time I’d look, and it wouldn’t be there?”
“Lucinda, we have every reason to believe that Chris Marsh worked for a bogus company…a fake delivery service.”
“This boy? I don’t believe that,” Lucinda said smugly. “He had an ID, and he didn’t want anything, after all. And listen.…I cashed the check that we won the first time, and it cleared just fine. So there’s that. And-”
“And both of Serafina’s cleared, too,” Estelle interrupted. “We know that. But the fact of the matter is that if this fourth check doesn’t clear-if it’s as fake as we think it is-then you’ll be out more than thirty thousand dollars.”
“But we won already,” the woman insisted. “I cashed a check for something like eight thousand dollars, por Dios…It cleared. I paid the taxes and fees on that one, just like I did this last time.”
“You gave Chris Marsh a cashier’s check for thirty thousand this past Wednesday evening.”
“Yes. And received a sweepstakes check for more than $178,000 in return. So I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Estelle Guzman. Now I’ve heard of all those scams that are going around. What do they call it…the Niagara thing.”
“Nigerian, I think.”
“Whatever. Now how ridiculous is that one? Who’s going to send money or bank account information to some foreigner. If they’re anything like some of the telephone solicitors we get, por Dios, you can’t even understand a word they’re saying.”
Lucinda handed the photo of Chris Marsh back to Estelle. “You know, when Joe and I won that state lottery, it was almost as much nuisance as it was a blessing. And then the sweepstakes on top of it all? It takes the breath away.”
“What did the courier tell you about the sweepstakes?”
“What did he tell us? What did he have to tell us? It was all spelled out in the letters that they sent. We didn’t have much time, I know that.” She grimaced. “And you know, I think I might have just thrown everything away if it hadn’t been for Serafina. She won a little bit.…In fact it’s just like you said. She won twice. So I thought, Well, maybe. What will it hurt? It’s a nuisance driving to the bank for the cashier’s check, but it all worked out.”
“And it had to be a cashier’s check,” Estelle prodded.
“That’s right. He said that the delivery company only accepts cashier’s checks. The letter said the same thing. Not personal checks and not cash. Now, that’s the first thing, Estelle. If someone won’t take cash, doesn’t that tell you something?”
“I suppose that it does. Did he mention anything about multiple winners?”
“Yes, he did. He said that it happens often enough that he thinks there’s some kind of computer mix-up.” She shrugged, evidently sharing her husband’s view that if a mistake opened the doors of opportunity, why not walk on through?
The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15 Page 18