Torrez looked at me steadily, as if seeking permission. “And so,” I echoed, even though I had already guessed what the young man was thinking. Torrez reached across and touched an index finger to the gouged ring on the windmill.
“I think a bullet ricocheted off here. From here,” and he touched the photo taken from the ground, “you can’t see the log where you’re standin’.” He touched the landscape taken from atop the windmill. “You can, from here.” He drew a diagonal, downward tilted line, in a slight arc, through the air with one hand. He fell silent.
I pushed my empty plate to one side, pulled the photo enlargements close, and leaned on my elbows to study the images. “All the other holes through the sails are nice and round,” I said. “Back sides?”
He slid another photo across.
“Blown out, as we would expect,” I said. “And if I had micrometers for eyeballs, I’d guess at about thirty-caliber.” I looked at the damage wrought on the support ring. “Can’t tell from this, though. It might even be a little bigger.”
When the deputy didn’t respond, Markham said skeptically, “You’re saying that you think a ricochet hit the girl in the eye?”
“Yep.” Torrez didn’t bother to modify his answer with an “I think that…” or “In my opinion…”
“Perrone recovered the projectile,” I said. “That’s our next step, then.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the film canister that contained the results of my photography of the stump, but didn’t bother to pop the plastic lid. “Interesting thing. Reuben Fuentes heard what might have been a wreck of some kind last night on the county road. Just beyond the turnoff to Herb Torrance’s place, there’s a sharp, graveled curve. Lots of tire scuffs in the gravel, and a spot where someone bashed their vehicle into an old stump. Herb didn’t hear it, but Reuben says that he did. Then later in the evening, Miss Victoria isn’t sure just when, but not really late, a guy came in here to use the phone…to call a wrecker, Victoria tells me. Les Attawene came down and towed away a damaged pickup. Victoria happened to see it out the window. Pickup, not a car.”
Torrez waited, silent. I added, “It’s not going to be hard to find that truck, if it was damaged enough to require a tow.”
“You have something that ties those guys in with either the tank shooting or with the girl?” Markham asked. A fair question.
“So far, not a thing,” I said. “Except they’re in the same part of the county—and maybe at the right time.” I drained my coffee. “I don’t like coincidences. As far as we can determine, the kids had only one firearm with them. And, as far as we can determine, something like three or four different firearms took part in the tank party.” I leaned back in my chair. “Now, were the tank shooters there at the same time as the kids? We don’t know.”
“I need to see that truck.” Torrez manipulated the eight-by-tens back into the envelope. I looked at the clock over the bar, one of those novelty things shaped like a black cat whose tail swung back and forth as the pendulum. It reminded me that we were moving close to twenty-four hours after the fatal crash, and every minute counted as things cooled down.
“You’re right—we need to see the truck. We need to know. In the meantime, you’re meeting Mears and Garcia at nine with the Luminol,” I said. “I’ll cruise around and see where the damaged truck turns up.” I’d known Les Attawene for years, and he worked closely with us any time there was an MVA that required his services. He’d volunteer information to me that he might not to a rookie whom he didn’t know well. However it sounded, Torrez nodded agreement. I turned to Posey. “You’re sticking close tonight?”
“You bet.”
“I’ve got until midnight,” Markham offered. No overtime for state employees, apparently.
“Who comes on after you?”
“Nobody until seven. Just the guys runnin’ the interstate. But their ears are open. There’ll always be somebody in the neighborhood.” He grinned and pointed. Victor Sanchez had emerged from his kitchen, and he surveyed his domain with a frown. We four cops were his only company, and that didn’t make him giggle.
I got up and crossed to the register, gave Victoria what the ticket asked for, and tipped altogether too much on top of that. “Anybody want something to go?”
Torrez, Posey, and Markham all shook their heads, and Victor’s frown deepened.
“Victor, thanks for your hospitality,” I said. “Great burger.”
“’Course it was,” Mr. Congeniality huffed.
Chapter Sixteen
On the other hand, Les Attawene didn’t sound put out that I was disturbing his evening. Part of his livelihood depended on emergency calls, and circumstances usually dictated that most human mistakes behind the wheel occurred after the sun went down. But he did his best not to sound too eager. He read the VIN and license from his notes.
“That one went to D’Anzo,” he said. “He ran off the road into a darn old stump down south. He bent some pieces back away from the wheel by hand, enough to make it back as far as the saloon. That’s where he was when he called me.”
“Did he say exactly where he had the accident?”
“Somewhere down by Regál, he said. I don’t know…maybe that old spur road off the highway right at the top? That’s all I can figure. Don’t know of any stumps right along the highway.”
There was nothing illegal about running off the road and hitting an old stump. If the damage had been done on County Road 14, why bother inventing another tale?
“He hit a hell of a clout,” Attawene added. “Drove the bumper back into the wheel, bent a couple of the suspension parts. Carmen said she could scavenge some parts off a couple of wrecks they have. If she don’t have it, Florek does.”
“Is Carmen D’Anzo who you talked to at D’Anzo’s?”
“Yup. She checked ’er in.”
“I guess I’ll run over that way, then.” It was no hardship rendezvousing with Carmen. I’d watched a couple of the high school/community theater productions that featured the young lady’s talents, and heard several folks wonder why Carmen was still in Posadas, rather than rich and idolized in Hollywood or on Broadway. Most recently, I’d seen her in a production of The Crucible. Her performance had given me goose bumps. But I’d talked to her often enough to know her first love was auto mechanics, and she had sense enough to hold to that.
“You need me to meet up with you there?” He enjoyed talking with Carmen as well.
“I don’t think so, Les, thanks. I’ve got the VIN number and license tag. I’m good to go.”
Judge Lester Hobart, on the other hand, wasn’t wild with enthusiasm. I called him first, then walked down the hall to his office. His insomnia was as bad as mine, and he had returned to the dark cave of his office to catch up on paperwork in lieu of lying on his back, staring at the bedroom ceiling. He was deep in the statutes, hunting who knew what when I arrived. I explained what I wanted, and his wizened face crumpled in skepticism.
“The only thing that keeps me from just saying ‘no’ is that you usually don’t pester me with nonsense,” he groused. “This guy hits a stump, and somehow you’re thinking that’s related to the girl’s death?” He scoffed. “That’s what I’m hearing you say, Bill.”
“Essentially. But there’s a question of where and when. This may not be the truck that Reuben heard, or that scarred up the stump on 43. The driver may have gone off the road down by Regál Pass, like he told Les. Two trucks hitting two stumps in one night is a stretch, Judge. If the driver made up the story about Regál…”
“Huh.”
“And if it is the same truck,” I said, “why would he concoct the story about where the accident happened? Lots of folks slide their vehicles off 14. It’s a nasty road. Why bother with the yarn?”
“Tell me what you’re looking for.” Hobart rested his chin in his hand, eyelids heavy.
“Evidence
of firearms, for one thing. Whoever ventilated Herb’s water tank used several different kinds. The kids had only one with them.” I held up both hands and sawed them back and forth. “It’s a question of who was where…and when.”
“And am I right? You haven’t ID’d the projectile that killed the Spencer girl?”
“Not yet. That’s coming.”
“But if it was fired from a gun other than the one the kids had with them…”
“Then that’s a step.”
“Either way. Goddamn shame, that accident. Three kids, just like that. And then this thing with the other girl.” He shook his head in despair. “You know, I always enjoyed working with Willis. Dying of a broken heart is no way to go.”
In another few minutes, I had the warrant.
Chapter Seventeen
As the night deepened, the otherwise quiet village of Posadas became even quieter. A tractor trailer in the distance, dogs in every neighborhood exercising their vocal cords, now and then a car or truck on the main drag. I rolled through the village with the Crown Vic’s windows down, maybe touching fifteen miles an hour. This early in the evening, even the six bars were quiet.
D’Anzo’s lot was starting to show the pressures of a faltering economy. At one time, a couple dozen cars had graced the front row of the parking lot, with another row of trucks behind that. The inventory was sparse now. The sign still tried to read D’Anzo Chrysler-Plymouth, even though the ‘L’ had dropped off some time ago.
Saul D’Anzo had been dead for years, and neither of his sons had showed much interest in selling cars and trucks. Nick D’Anzo, one of Saul’s nephews, managed the business now. In an unusual turn of events, Nick’s sister, Carmen, was the shop manager, and she eagerly broke lots of stereotypes.
Nick hadn’t sounded super-enthusiastic when he answered my phone call, but reluctantly agreed to haul his shop manager-sister down to the dealership to meet with me. The word “warrant” may have stirred them a little.
Chubby in a rumpled sweatshirt and jeans, Nick arrived first in an aging pickup truck with the dealership’s logo on the door.
“Are you going to need inside?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. He didn’t ask what the evening visit was about, but we chatted about inconsequentials for only a couple of minutes before a dark green Road Runner rumbled in. If you put his Carmen on a game show, not many contestants would guess that she was service manager for a car dealership. Hollywood starlet, maybe. Her ash-blond hair was ponytailed under the Snap-On Tools ball cap, and the carefully ironed denim shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, did little to hide her astounding figure.
“Yo, Sheriff,” she greeted. One hand gave mine a warm shake, while the other rested affectionately on her brother’s shoulder. “What’s up?” Her voice was a nice, husky alto.
“I was telling your brother that last night, Les Attawene brought in a 1982 Dodge half-ton with right front-end damage.” I didn’t bother to take the warrant out of my clipboard. “I’d like to take a look at it.”
Nick looked at Carmen, and she looked at me…a long, silent, speculating gaze, her green eyes almost hidden under the bill of her cap.
“There’s a lot going on, isn’t there?” she said. “God almighty, last night. Les said he picked up that Suburban in pieces. That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk with Bobby. He must be heartbroken.” Her eyes searched my face. “Both a brother and a sister. It’s hard to imagine that.”
“A hard time,” I nodded. After our greeting, her hands had settled in the hip pockets of her blue jeans, and they stayed there. But her head tipped one way and then the other, as if judging the scales as they loaded.
“Now what’s with the stump truck?” she asked. “All I know is that Les picked it up down at the Spur. The driver didn’t ride in with it. Go figure that. So I thought he might be stopping by today to sign the work order. But no show. Maybe in the morning. I have the estimate ready for the repair job, if he wants it. It’s going to be an expensive stump, even with salvage parts.”
I handed her one of my cards. “I’d appreciate meeting the driver myself, if you’d give me a call when he contacts you.” I opened my clipboard and reviewed the information that Les Attawene had passed on to me. “So you haven’t actually met Mr. Clifton Bailey.”
“No, sir. And, Sheriff, we won’t start any work on his truck until we do. Les said that Mr. Bailey told him that they’re staying with friends, but he didn’t say who. He gave Les a verbal work order to forward to us, but that doesn’t work for me. No way we’re going to put a couple thousand into fixing up the truck, and then have him holler that he never gave us a written authorization.” She looked a little disgusted. “He knows where his truck is, so sooner or later he’ll show.”
“Sooner rather than later, hopefully. I need to see the unit, if I may.”
“It’s in the back boneyard. Let me turn on some floods so you don’t trip over something. Nicky, will you get the gate?”
I retrieved my briefcase and heavy flashlight from the car. After a rattle of keys and chain, Nick D’Anzo pushed the wheeled gate open just far enough for us to squeeze through, and in a moment the yard lights snapped on. There was a time, and not long before, that merchants had burned the watts all night. As times tightened, such luxuries went by the wayside. I’d always thought it odd to leave lights on, since that provided a really helpful assist for vandals and burglars.
The Dodge in question was parked in the front row, its bruised nose facing the street. I set my briefcase down, knelt in front of the truck, and used the flashlight to break the hard shadows from the overheads and what little remained of the sunset.
“It took a pretty good lick,” Nick observed.
“Indeed, it did.”
“Nobody hurt, though?”
“Not this time. Not that they’ve admitted, anyhow.”
The polished chrome bumper had caught the stump just outboard of the right-front bumper guard, directly under the single rectangular headlight unit. Bumper chrome and juniper had melded, and the stump hadn’t given any quarter. The collision had crushed the bumper inward toward the tire and wheel, crushing some of the lower fender around the wheel well far enough to crinkle the upper body work. The narrow chrome strip that bordered the wheel well hung loose. Some work had been done to free the wheel from bodywork, but it was raked out of alignment so badly that even I could see the damage.
“No one hurt in this?” I hadn’t heard Carmen’s approach.
“I don’t think so. Nobody reported it to us, and I haven’t had a chance to talk with them. As far as we know, it was just an off-road miscalculation. If he had collision insurance and wants to use it, then he’ll need a report from us anyway. They took a hard enough lick that I’m surprised someone’s dentures aren’t still stuck in the dash.”
“I didn’t look,” Carmen said matter-of-factly. “Maybe they are.” She dangled the key ring toward me. She watched as I found a pair of blue latex gloves in the briefcase and pulled them on.
“I know I shouldn’t ask this,” she said, “but all this just for bumping into a stump out in the boonies? I don’t think so.”
“And you’d be right on both counts,” I said. The door lock opened easily, but the overhead light wasn’t working. I reached out and tried the switch on the back of the little fixture, and the light clicked on. I stood still for a long moment, letting the interior fragrance of the truck waft out. Aftershave had a clingy, lingering smell. The truck was three years old, and in that time a lot of skin bracer molecules had found a home inside. To add to the potpourri, the ashtray was hanging open and choked with butts. And mixed in was the one odor that was one of my personal least-favorites, the stale aroma of cheap beer.
An empty rifle rack was mounted behind the seat, a triple rack adequate for a
n arsenal. I leaned in and popped open the glove box. All the expected paperwork was there, including an envelope of receipts from Discount Tire World in Fort Riley, Kansas. A plastic box containing four archery broadheads with razor-edged hunting tips was nestled among the papers. A box of fuses. A tire gauge. A small box of mints. A roll of antacid tablets.
I frowned and retrieved the box of broadheads, holding the light close for a better look. “Hog Slayers,” I read. “Nasty.” I put them back in the glove box and slammed the door. I bent down and directed the flashlight beam under the seat. It illuminated the usual clutter that gravity deposits over time and that the vacuum cleaner missed: a few kernels of popcorn, two peanuts, assorted toothpicks, and a crumpled gasoline receipt from Full-Stop Auto Plaza in Fort Riley.
I straightened up and surveyed the cab. Nothing special there. In fact, it appeared as if the cab had been cleaned in anticipation of a long trip. Dust had been wiped off the dash, and the blue scum on the inside of the windshield had been cleaned. Maybe Mr. Bailey had been planning on a little Mexican pig hunting of his own. Maybe he was one of the trio that the border agents had met earlier in the day.
“How about the back?” I said. The brother and sister duo followed me around and watched as I tried the most likely key for the low camper shell. It yawned open, the hinges already protesting from the collection of road dust. A narrow futon was spread in the back, looking comfortable with its pillow, flannel sheets, and blanket.
Ahead of the wheel wells, snugged up against the back of the cab, a steel tool chest fitted securely. It was one of those with the diamond plate pattern on the steel, and in addition to actually being bolted to the truck, the box was secured closed with two padlocks, both on heavy-duty hasps.
I patted the thick futon and regarded the toolbox. Curiosity is a powerful motivator. I edged back out of the truckbed, knees protesting. “Give me a minute,” I said, and trudged back to the car. Tucked away in the Crown Vic’s trunk with all the other accoutrements of law enforcement was a large set of bolt-cutters. When I returned to the Dodge, I held them up. “And, yes…I do have a warrant,” I said when it looked as if Carmen was going to protest.
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