“Did anyone recall markings on the truck?” Estelle asked.
“No. And the Tylers live right next door. Their kitchen window looks out on his trailer, and he parked the truck in the space between. They’d have seen door plaques.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “That doesn’t mean they remember diddly, though. They were a little bit of help, but not much.”
“What’s the manager have to say?”
“Marsh paid his rent on time. No loud music, no obnoxious pets, no wild parties. The manager doesn’t ask for references, and rentals are by the month. Mostly minimum wagers, a few students, a few snowbirds without a budget, a few down-and-outers. He said he runs about a third vacancies, so he’s eager to get anybody who’ll pay. It’s a dismal little place, Estelle. I can’t believe people live like that. It sure isn’t about location, location, location. They get all the noise from the interstate, and the trailer park isn’t convenient to much of anywhere.”
The deputy stretched out his legs and crossed his boots, slouching farther down in his chair. “One little thing, is all. The Tylers-Mrs. Tyler, that is-says that Marsh had a girlfriend.”
“I would think so. Before his truck did a tap dance on top of him, he was a pretty good-looking kid.”
“She remembered the girl clearly,” Abeyta said. “The manager didn’t, but the neighbor did. The girl and Marsh ‘smooched’ a lot, she said.” He looked up from his notes and grinned. “It’s been a while since I heard anyone use that word.”
“Does this Mrs. Tyler neighbor remember anything other than the smooching? A name would be nice.”
“We should be so lucky, Estelle. She described the girl as ‘willowy.’ That’s the term she used. Willowy like a fashion model, she said. Taller than Marsh by a little bit. Always showing lots of midriff. And one time here recently, she was driving a late model Mustang convertible.”
“Earning more than a casual glance from the neighbor, I would think,” Estelle added. “Just ‘one time’? What’s that mean?”
“The neighbor thought that the ‘kids’-that’s what she called ’em-were just trying it out. It had a dealer demo sticker instead of a plate.”
“The neighbors were keeping more than a casual watch, apparently,” Estelle said.
“Well, you gotta understand. This Tyler woman is on the slide way past fifty-five, and on the upside of two hundred and fifty pounds. She isn’t a happy camper. She must have told me five times about how her drunk husband won’t fix their ’84 Crown Vic and that’s why the tags were expired. Mr. Tyler didn’t remember anything, by the way…or doesn’t want to. Not even the midriff. The missus isn’t real happy with the world right now, and she’s got these two gorgeous lovebirds next door to watch, with the supermodel driving a fancy-schmancy convertible to rub it all in.”
“But she only saw that car once,” Estelle added.
“That’s what she said. Blue convertible with a white rocker panel stripe.”
“It’d be interesting to know where the supermodel lives,” Estelle mused. “A low-rent trailer in the middle of a mobile home park doesn’t sound like her kind of place-not if she can afford a ‘fancy-schmancy’ new set of wheels.”
“I think that just happens to be where the boyfriend is camped out. Why he’s chosen such a dump is the puzzle.”
“It might be worth paying a visit to the area Ford dealers tomorrow. Maybe even today if any of them have Sunday hours,” Estelle said. “We might get lucky. Some salesman might remember the circumstances of the test drive, if that’s what it was.”
“I’ll see who’s open today,” Abeyta said.
“What do we know about the girl, other than the ‘willowy midriff?’” Estelle asked. “Did anyone get beyond that?”
“Mrs. Tyler said she was Mexican. Long black hair that she tied back in a ponytail sometimes, and really olive skin.” Estelle cocked her head at that, and the deputy shrugged. “It’s something. Black hair and olive skin narrows it down to about what, forty-seven percent of the population now?” He regarded the backs of his own olive hands. “More than that in Cruces. Unless you consider the Italians, the Indians, the Spanish, the French, the Moroccans, the Iraqis…” He let the list trail off.
“We need to find her,” Estelle said. “Chris Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum, Tony. Someone was in the area when he picked up that last check from the Bacas on Wednesday night, and someone followed him, or was planning to meet him afterward. They were close enough that when he crashed the truck, they were Johnny-on-the-spot while he was still alive…and that’s looking like minutes.”
She glanced up as Brent Sutherland appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Bolles is here,” he said.
“We’re just about wrapped up,” Estelle said. “You can tell her to come on back.”
“Will do.”
In a moment the magazine reporter appeared, this time dressed entirely in black save for her off-white, frilly blouse and a modest squash blossom turquoise necklace. Deputy Abeyta snapped out of his slouch and pulled himself to his feet.
“Madelyn, this is Deputy Tony Abeyta,” Estelle said. “I don’t think you two have had a chance to meet yet. Ms. Bolles is a writer for A Woman’s World magazine, Tony. She has free run of the department while she’s here.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand. Estelle saw that the young man’s guard was up, his tone efficient, polite, but clipped and noncommittal.
“Deputy August,” Madelyn said, without looking at the framed photos on Estelle’s office wall-the “calendar” of employees. Linda Real’s portrait of Tony Abeyta showed the deputy standing beside a small dun pony. His right arm with lead rope in hand was draped over the horse’s neck as if the two of them were old friends. In his left hand, Abeyta held a small notebook, and it appeared that he was ruffling through the pages with his thumb. “I’d like to hear the story behind that photo some time.”
“I was just checking the mileage on my patrol unit,” Abeyta said with a straight face. “Nothing more mysterious than that.” He flashed a smile as he turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know,” he said to Estelle. “If we dig anything up, I’ll give you a call. Ma’am, nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Madelyn said warmly. She gazed out into the hall after the deputy had left. “He reminds me of someone,” she said after a moment. “I can’t remember who.” She turned and regarded Deputy August’s photo, but that didn’t prompt an answer, and she turned back to the undersheriff. “You had a quiet night for a change, I see,” she said. “Brent the dispatcher says that it was a long, boring shift.”
“That’s the way we like it,” Estelle said. She reached across her desk and x’d out of the Internet search she’d been exploring when Tony Abeyta had arrived. “You look elegant this morning.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Madelyn said. “Shed the squash blossom and change the shoes, and I’m ready to dig ditches.”
“How about Regál?”
“I thought that might be the case. We’re going to church?”
“Ah, no.” She saw the flicker of puzzlement on the writer’s face. “I don’t want those folks thinking that they’re under surveillance,” Estelle said. “Because they’re not. At least not by us.”
“I got the impression yesterday that the relationship with the feds is not always the warmest of friendships for some of those folks.”
Estelle laughed. “That’s an understatement. The problem right now is that everything is in flux. The Border Patrol has an impossible job to do, and that frustration boils over sometimes.” She watched the computer blink out. “If you’re going to write about that angle, you should spend a bunch of time riding with them. They’re in the epicenter, not us.”
“That might be on the agenda,” Madelyn replied. “But one thing at a time. Where are we headed?”
“I have a naggy little question that needs answering,” Estelle said. “And I want to follow up on what might just be an inconsequential coincidence.�
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“Wow,” Madelyn said. “‘Inconsequential coincidence.’ I like that.” She stepped over to the whiteboard schedule. “Estelle, when was the last time you said, ‘Oh, to hell with it. It can wait until Monday morning?’”
“All the time, when the it doesn’t involve murder,” Estelle replied.
Chapter Thirty
The highway southwest to Regál was empty that Sunday morning. Estelle slowed as they approached Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon. The parking lot in front was deserted, but Estelle could see Victor’s blue pickup truck parked in the back, sandwiched between the saloon and the mobile home where he, his wife, and their son lived.
Madelyn Bolles had been a silent passenger for most of the ride, and as Estelle slowed the car and pulled just off the highway on the verge of the saloon’s parking lot, she looked quizzically at the undersheriff. Estelle stopped the car. “If you look ahead toward the pass, you can see the switchback just below where the truck crashed,” she said. She leaned forward, both arms folded across the steering wheel. “One of the remaining questions.” She didn’t complete the thought but sat and gazed out at the rugged San Cristóbals.
After a moment she extended a finger and pointed toward Regál Pass. “Chris Marsh drove over the pass sometime Wednesday night. We don’t know exactly what time, but it was after dark. The highway was wet, and he swerved to avoid a deer. He lost control, and his truck flipped over the side, crashing down through the rocks.” She spread her hands, framing the mountain in front of them. “That’s what we know. There’s no spot that I can find, short of immediately at the accident site, where we could watch the highway and see headlights come over the pass.” She paused, regarding the mountain. “Not from this side. We could sit right on the pass, where the Forest Service sign is, and see the area.”
“If someone climbed down to the wreck immediately after it happened, you’re wondering where they were parked,” Madelyn said.
“Exactly. They were waiting for Chris Marsh. The pass is as far as he got. Someone was in a position to know what happened-or at least to guess what happened. We’re sure that someone climbed down to the wreck that night-almost immediately after the crash-and made sure that Marsh was dead. They took whatever documents he might have had with him, right down to the delivery service magnetic signs that were on the truck’s doors.”
“How could someone do such a thing? The beer down the gullet thing?” the writer asked, and then immediately corrected herself. “Don’t answer that,” she said. “Every corner of the planet has its share of wackos.”
“It seems to me,” Estelle said, “that this person was waiting for Chris Marsh somewhere…maybe right where we’re sitting now.”
“He couldn’t see the crash site, though,” Madelyn said.
“No. They might have been on the phone with each other. That might have been what distracted his attention so that he didn’t see the deer in time. He’s on the cell, boasting of what he did. ‘You’re there, I’m here, and I’m on my way with a fat check.’”
“After the wreck, could he have managed a call for help, then?”
“No, I don’t think so. My guess is that he could manage a gurgle. That’s the extent of it, if he was conscious at all. We never found a cell phone, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have one. In any event, he doesn’t show up, and he doesn’t ring back. His partner is going to go looking. Sure enough, there’s a dead deer, and maybe some skid marks.” Estelle surveyed the parking lot. “Whoever it was could have been waiting here, or on down at the intersection of the county road, or at any one of the pull-outs. She was close. She had to be.”
“She?”
“Could have been,” Estelle said. “We know that Chris Marsh had a girlfriend-whether it was just casual or not, we don’t know.”
“That would be cold,” Madelyn said.
“But it fits in some ways,” Estelle said, and released the brake. “That’s what Tony Abeyta’s been digging into. Marsh lived in Las Cruces. We don’t know much about him, other than that he was a part-time student, lived in a low-rent trailer park, and had a girlfriend.” She drove out of the lot, the car lurching across the shoulder and onto the pavement.
“What about this guy?” Madelyn turned and surveyed the saloon as they pulled away. “Could he have seen anything?”
“Victor? Unlikely. He has no view of any of that area from inside-he can’t even see his own parking lot. And I don’t think he’d notice, anyway. And he wouldn’t tell us if he did.”
“Oh,” Madelyn said, her eyes growing large. “Hostile country?”
“Oh, very.”
“Even something as nasty as this, he wouldn’t talk to you?”
“Oh, he might, between grumbles and growls. But he has an image to uphold, you know.”
“What about the boy’s parents? Have they been of any help?”
“None. They’ve given up on their son. Wrote him right off. They live back east, and aren’t interested in coming out. Cremate him and ship the ashes back, if we want. Or dispose of them here. Whatever.”
“You’re kidding,” Madelyn said.
“Oh, no.”
“Does that ever get to you?”
“Well…”
“I mean some of these people that you find yourself dealing with-just amazing. Every wrong decision that could be made, they make it. I’ve met people who seem to thrive on being miserable. If I had to be around ’em for any length of time, they’d drive me either into a grand funk depression, or to homicide. You must feel that way sometimes, don’t you?”
“I’d have to think about that,” Estelle replied. “I don’t spend a lot of time being depressed, though. Everybody has the opportunity to make choices. What they choose to do is their business. Up to a point, anyway. Most of the time the law is pretty clear-cut.”
“But don’t you wish that sometimes you could just wave a magic wand and make all the sadness, all the viciousness, all the stupidity, just go away?”
“Then I’d be out of a job,” Estelle quipped. “It’s all part of what Bill Gastner likes to quote as ‘the great human experiment.’”
“I can do without some parts of the experiment,” Madelyn said.
“Sure enough,” Estelle agreed. “But if we live in the middle of it, we don’t get to choose.”
The highway up through the pass was dappled here and there as the morning sun warmed through the stands of runty trees, and Estelle slowed the car to 30 miles an hour, the slope steep enough that the car shifted to second gear and then stayed there as they ambled up the flank of the mountain. She lowered the window, the flow of air chilly but lush with innocent fragrance.
They reached the short, straight stretch that rose to the pass itself, and after a glance in the rearview mirror, Estelle stopped the car. “He crests the top of the pass, and almost immediately collides with the deer. He loses it, and you can see right over there,” and she pointed at the hump of dirt just uphill of the guardrail, “where his truck vaulted over.”
“How fast do you think he was going?”
“Sixty, maybe. I don’t think much faster than that. That’s enough to do it.”
Madelyn turned in her seat, looking back the way they’d come. “And the highway department found him two days later.”
“Yes. It was more a misting than a rain. The highway was wet, but there wasn’t enough rain to flush away the marks. Linda even managed to take an exposure that shows them.”
“That answers my question then. If he called and said, ‘I’m leaving now,’ she…he…whoever it was would wait a few minutes. Late evening, she’d be looking for his headlights.”
“That’s right.”
“She’d still be waiting. After a few minutes, she’d try to call him to ask where he was. No response and she’d go looking. And that’s my question. Were there enough traces of the accident left to mark the site?”
“The answer to that is ‘yes,’ Madelyn. I can imagine her driving to the top of the pas
s, and maybe even down into Regál. When Marsh doesn’t show up, she would retrace the route. Coming northbound, there are the tracks, the dead deer, and a short section of mangled guardrail.”
She pulled the car into gear. “Let me move out of these people’s way.” She accelerated hard and pulled off near the Forest Service sign announcing the pass. An enormous camper towing a flashy SUV rumbled by, its occupants offering a friendly wave, their vehicle leaving a wake of diesel fumes.
“I wonder if she had a pang of doubt,” Madelyn said.
“About?”
“I wonder if there was a moment when she thought that the young man-Marsh was his name? When she thought that he was running with the money.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
“Otherwise, why would she have been in the area in the first place? If she trusted him to make the delivery…He had the cashier’s check, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“So then why is she dogging his tracks? Is she afraid he’s going to split on her?”
“Interesting,” Estelle said. “We’re going to make a convert out of you yet. While you’re considering all those questions, add this one to the list, Madelyn. Why didn’t she just ride along with Marsh in the first place?”
“Couriers don’t carry passengers?”
Estelle pulled the car back out on the highway. “Good point, but who’s going to think about that?” she said. “When a delivery truck pulls up at your driveway, do you check to make sure the driver is solo?”
“Huh. She could have just ridden with him.”
“And we would have found her bashed and broken on the cliff side along with Marsh,” Estelle said.
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