“Some measurements will be easy,” Taber added. “The way he pulled in there in front of your truck, that’s a tight turning radius.”
He held out his hand. “I need to take your unit,” he said to Linda. “If I ain’t back right away, you can ride with Sarge.”
“You got it. Let me get my camera bag.”
As she half skipped, half jogged off, little bursts of dust rising from her boot falls, the sheriff regarded Sergeant Taber. “Gonna be hard,” he said. “But from up there, you can get a good lay of the land. Maybe you’ll see something.” Torrez was not alone in believing that Jackie Taber saw patterns in the land that no one else did. Her thick sketch pad and art pencils always rode in the patrol unit for those quiet moments when sitting with windows open and listening to the prairie talk was more productive than racing back and forth on the highways.
She hitched her utility belt up on her generous waist, frowning toward the hill to the south. While the pudgy Linda Real looked as if she needed some concentrated time in a fitness center, Jackie Taber carried her heft with power and grace. “The shooter skirted from here around to the south somehow, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Yep.”
“And you never saw or heard a thing until your rifle scope exploded and then that was followed by the distant gun shot?”
“Suppose so.” That thought irked Torrez, who enjoyed quiet pride in his own hunting skills, his ability to outwait an animal until conditions were just right for the shot. That someone had been able to do that same thing to him, taking advantage of the same long-range shots that average hunters would neither consider nor accomplish, made him uneasy.
“And nothing after the shot?” Taber persisted. “No metallic noises of the rifle bolt being racked, or no boots crunching on gravel?”
“Nope.”
“But you’re thinking that he missed with that one shot, or just wanted to scare you?”
“Maybe he did.”
“Or not. May I see the rifle?”
Torrez opened the truck door and slid the case out. Opening it wide, he spread out the scope pieces. Taber leaned forward, but touched nothing. “Right on the windage adjustment knob, it looks like.”
“Just a little below it. Whole thing burst up and out.”
She reached up and touched Torrez’s left eyebrow. “Nice little souvenir.”
He flinched back, not from any pain, but from the discomfort of the close contact. “Couple of places. Nothin’ serious.”
Taber held her index fingers about a foot apart. “That far to the left, and your brain pan would have been frying in the sun along with the antelope’s.”
The sheriff looked irritated and zipped up the rifle case. “You need anything else before I go on down and see what Pasquale’s into?”
“I think we’re set, sir. We’ll see what we can find.”
“If somebody shows up with a coil cable, just put it on the driver’s seat.”
“I have it, sir. The invoice is stuck in the box.”
He nodded “Thanks. I shouldn’t be long.”
As he settled into Linda’s Expedition, the SUV now a decade and well over a hundred thousand miles old, he smelled the light fragrance of perfume. The girls talked, obviously. The perfume was the same fragrance favored by Gayle, his wife. And that thought brought him up short. He’d come within a few inches of leaving her a widow and his month-old son, Gabriel, fatherless.
Fifteen miles down County Road 14, he paused for the intersection and then turned east on State 56. The engine pulled strong, but at eighty miles an hour the approximate alignment and worn tires set up a shimmy that he could feel both through the steering wheel and his seat. He backed off, settling for seventy.
“304, 308 ETA eight minutes.”
“Ten-four, 308.” Pasquale sounded bored.
There was no point in pestering Pasquale for information—in a few miles he’d know for himself.
Not far southwest of the ghost town of Moore, the Rio Salinas crossed the highway, and just to the west of the sign announcing the grand name for that dry wash, Deputy Pasquale had stopped the Ford pickup. His SUV was parked well off the roadway, front wheels cocked toward the pavement. Sutherland’s vintage Crown Vic completed the bookends.
Torrez passed the three vehicles. The tailgate of the pickup was down, and a chubby man with well-oiled hair sat comfortably on it, feet swinging like a kid on a playground swing. The palms of his hands rested flat on the tailgate. His posture said he was merely waiting for a friend, not in the least defensive that the minions of the law were congregating around him. The sheriff swung onto the shoulder and parked.
Torrez was certain that the pickup, shiny new with just a blush of red dust, was the one he had watched through binoculars. Deputy Pasquale stood on the shoulder side of the truck where he could keep the man in view. Brent Sutherland was intent on inspecting the front of the 150, and moved around it as Torrez approached. The man craned his neck as the officers congregated, but none of the activity appeared to make him apprehensive. Pasquale intercepted the sheriff.
“Sheriff, this is Mr. Olveda,” he said quietly. “No wants or warrants, nothing inside the vehicle except personal luggage. He tells me that he drove down here from the airport, and is on his way back to town.”
“Huh,” Torrez murmured. The airport was seven miles out of town on State Road 76, and then from there, several miles west to the intersection of County Road 14. What followed, south to the sheriff’s hunt area, was about fifteen miles of dusty road, crowded with lumbering trucks and contractor traffic of all shapes and sizes.
Olveda offered the beginnings of a smile, and then glanced at his large watch and shrugged. When Torrez was within reach, the man bent forward and extended a hand. Torrez ignored it, but his attention was attracted to the gold watch, multi-dialed and probably expensive, nestled in the thatch of wrist hair. A linen short-sleeved shirt with just enough wrinkles to be fashionable, off-white chinos with a black leather belt, and pricey leather running shoes—and the shoes certainly did not have raised heels and smooth soles. He was not dressed for hunting.
“I hope you are having a pleasant day,” he said. “But I know how these things can be.” His accent was careful with the English, as if he rehearsed each line before uttering it.
“What things are that?” Torrez’s voice was flat and disinterested. Olveda tipped his head and looked at the sheriff curiously, taking in the size, the heft, the stance…even the lack of fashion statement in the sheriff’s hunting attire—worn, blood-spattered jeans; a work shirt in even worse condition; baseball cap with the brim crumpled.
“You are looking for something, no? Officer Pasquale stopped me when I was driving but fifty in a sixty zone. What do they say…rubbernecking at the countryside.” He mentioned the deputy’s name as if they had been acquaintances for years. He raised both hands in surrender. “Seat belt secure, all lights working. I wondered, of course, what he was seeking.” Olveda’s accent was modest, certainly not border Mexican. He looked at the watch again. “And now detained for close to an hour.” Again the shrug, as if the hour didn’t really matter. “So I assume that not all is as it seems.”
Torrez stepped to the truck and leaned an elbow on the side. Olveda could not have failed to notice that he was now flanked, the big, roughly dressed man on his right, the younger deputy in snappy uniform just behind his left shoulder, the second burly deputy filling in the middle.
“Were you on County 14 earlier, sir?”
“I was.” The answer surprised Torrez, who had expected to hear the standard, “Where’s that?” Olveda shrugged. “It seemed a natural way to go, you know. Earlier this morning, I was at the airport on business, meeting with the county manager. And then I had some questions for the developer who is funding this enormous project of which I’ve heard so much…this astronomy park? Really quite remarkable, really it is. I drove down then, but was told that the developer was not on site at the moment.” He smiled pleas
antly. “Then I proceeded south to this highway, planning to return to Posadas for a late lunch.” He shrugged. “And that’s it. That is what I did.” His expression clearly added, I’m telling you all of this because I’m a nice guy…and I know people.
Torrez was silent, and Olveda shrugged again. “I do not know why the officer stopped me.” He glanced over at Pasquale with good-natured patience. “Of course he has his reasons, and will tell me in due time. And then I was informed that we must wait for you, Sheriff. So here we are. Here you are.”
“Mr. Olveda, when you drove down 14, did you see an older model Chevrolet pickup pulled off the road? Maybe a mile short of the project?”
Olveda pooched out his lower lip and frowned. “I did. It was parked with the hood partially up. I wondered if assistance was needed. But there was no driver in sight, so…”
“The hood was up?”
“Well, unlatched, so to speak. As if it had been opened, and then not closed completely.”
An observant man. “You didn’t stop?”
“No. I slowed, but then continued on when I saw no one. I’m not sure what I could have done anyway, except possibly offer a ride. But, as I say…” Torrez’s eyes assessed the clean, neat business man with the immaculate, manicured hands. He didn’t look like the sort who stopped to render roadside assistance to strangers.
The sheriff dropped his arm off the truck, glanced back down the highway, and then stepped out so he could see the pickup’s tires. The highway tread on the Michelins was clearly no match for the heavier lug impressions left near his own truck.
“What time was that?”
“I did not check the time, Sheriff.”
“From there, where?”
Olveda frowned at Torrez’s shorthand grammar. “I drove to the project site, and spent some time there, inquiring about the whereabouts of the owner. I wanted to drive to the top, but it did not seem appropriate at that moment.”
“Mr. Olveda, what other vehicles did you see in that area?”
The man smiled. “That project that is underway…a most busy place. I suppose that from the time I left the state highway—the airport road, that is—to the time I passed the site gate, I was passed by a dozen vehicles of one description or another. And several overtook me.” He shook his head. “They do not waste any time raising a dust. Such enthusiasm!” He chuckled and shook his head.
“Where are you headed now?”
“Well, I’m just exploring. Now tomorrow, I will be talking with your county commission with a proposal for the airport. That’s why I was up there a bit ago.”
“Huh.” Torrez nodded. The mesa-top astronomy project had garnered nationwide attention, and with the construction phase now in full swing on several fronts, the population of Posadas County had taken an exponential leap. “What’s an Arizona interest in the Posadas Airport?” It was the sort of question that Olveda certainly had no need to answer, but he seemed bothered not in the least.
“Well, Sheriff, we’ll see,” Olveda said. “It’s a very long runway for such an underpopulated area. Much potential. I have several ideas that could be mutually beneficial to both my associates and the county.”
“Such as?”
Olveda looked askance at Torrez. “It’s best that we’re not premature,” he said simply.
“I need to see your license and registration,” Torrez said abruptly, as if the man’s answer had annoyed him. Before Olveda had a chance to reply, Deputy Tom Pasquale released the documents from his clipboard and extended them to the sheriff. The Tucson address matched what he had been told, the insurance was up to date, and the registration listed the truck as a 2013 Ford, color white. He handed the paperwork to Olveda. “Thanks for your cooperation,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
“If I can be of any further assistance,” Olveda said, “I’m staying at the Posadas Inn for a day or two.” He turned and slammed the tailgate closed. “It’s been pleasant meeting you gentlemen.” With a deferential nod, he got in the truck, started it, and turned onto the highway.
“What do you think, Sheriff?” Pasquale asked.
Torrez’s dark face remained expressionless. “I think I’d be pissed at being detained for an hour for no good reason.”
“He was way cool. Do you think he’s up to something?”
Torrez shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ll be interested to hear what he has to say to the commissioners.”
“Are you going to the meeting?”
“Well,” Torrez said, “that ain’t so rare, is it?”
“Yes.” Pasquale’s snappy response almost earned a smile from Torrez.
Chapter Seven
With her afghan enveloping her like a colorful tent, Teresa Reyes sat in her rocker, aluminum walker within easy reach. Her right elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and she cushioned her chin in her hand. Once a sturdy, bustling woman capable of managing a one-room schoolhouse filled with twenty-five noisy, obstreperous children, she was now a tiny sparrow of a person. Her gaze didn’t shift from her thoughts far away as Estelle entered the house.
“Mamá, are you doing okay?”
“Oh, sure.” The elderly woman ever so slowly pulling her gaze back from her personal horizon.
“I’m going to be flying with Padrino to Albuquerque here in a few minutes.” Soft footsteps in the hallway announced their housekeeper and Teresa’s caregiver, Addy Sedillos, and Estelle’s comment was as much to her as to Teresa. “He managed to break his hip somehow.”
“Should I go over?” Addy asked immediately.
“He won’t be home for a while, I’m afraid. He has to have surgery—Francis says a hip replacement. Maybe a plate besides. We don’t know what he’ll need.” She had crossed to her mother, and bent down to give the tiny woman a gentle hug. “We just don’t know yet.”
“Aye.” Teresa shook her head. “The hip…that’s a bad thing.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, raspy as a dried leaf.
“Yes it is, Mamá. But Padrino has a stout constitution. He’ll be all right. Anyway,” and she stood up and stretched, “the air ambulance will fly us up. And guess what?” She bent down again so that she was face-to-face with her mother. “Camille’s coming out. She’ll fly in tonight. I’ll be able to meet her at the airport.”
Teresa brightened. Despite what Bill Gastner might imply, his daughter Camille Stratton was indeed welcome company. She would pamper and chat with Teresa Reyes, drawing the elderly woman out, savoring Teresa’s stories of her childhood in northern Mexico, of life in Tres Santos, just a few miles south of the border.
Estelle quickly packed what she needed in one compact gym bag, and then returned to the living room. She sat down on the fireplace hearth next to her mother’s rocker. “Will you tell me about the cashier’s check, Mamá?”
The elderly woman looked blank for a moment, and then one expressive eyebrow lifted a bit. “Sometimes you find out things faster than you should,” she said. “I didn’t want you to worry. You have enough on your mind.”
“Tell me, Mamá. Is this about something with Francisco?” Her husband’s offhand remark about a new flute had seemed logical to her, since the boy’s passion had grown to include the wind instrument as well as the piano that he’d been playing since the age of five. But eight thousand dollars would pay for just a note or two from the sort of flute Francisco would favor.
With the fourteen-year-old boy hundreds of miles away from home, living at Leister Conservatory in Missouri with his world heavy with theory, practice, and performance, it wasn’t hard to imagine his agile mind coming up with some scheme—a new instrument of some kind, or perhaps he had changed his mind and was planning a personally produced CD of his music. But he would never try to cajole finances out of his grandmother, whom he revered.
“Do you recall…Francisco’s friend? Remember…” Teresa squinted at the window as if her memory lay outside…“Do you remember the boy who played in the concert…was it last winter?” Her speech was halting a
s she both tried to recall what she wanted to say from one sentence to the next, but also struggled to cope with English—not a language for which she had much affection.
“Of course I do.” Mateo Atencio, the fifteen-year-old youngster from a tiny village in south-central Texas and also a senior performance major at Leister Conservatory on a full-ride scholarship, had stunned the audience with his virtuosic flute performance, playing both solo and accompanied by Francisco Guzman on the piano.
“I hear that he got in trouble somehow,” Teresa said slowly. “In Mexico. Maybe it was Mazatlán.”
“Ay. Did my hijo call you?” Estelle knelt beside the chair, both of her hands covering her mother’s. And why would he do that? Estelle knew that both her sons treasured talking with their grandmother, who was now never left alone. The boys knew that. Had Francisco had such important news, he would have asked to speak with his brother, Carlos—who would receive and deliver messages with perfect accuracy. Failing that, he would have spoken with Nana, Addy Sedillos. If not her, then whichever dispatcher was on duty at the Sheriff’s Department. Or their father at the clinic. Or, or, or…
The Spanish word opened the floodgate, and when Teresa replied, it was in the elegant, old-fashioned borderlands Mexican dialect with which she’d spent the first eighty-five years of her life in Tres Santos.
“Su amigo, el Capitán…” and she stopped as if recalling that difficult name had exhausted her circuits.
“Tomás, you mean?” Now a colonel in the Mexican judiciales, Tomás Naranjo had been a valuable resource for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department when matters had spilled one way or another across the border. “He called here?”
“I told him that he could reach you at the office, but he seemed in such a hurry, that man.”
Estelle frowned. Naranjo being in a hurry was a difficult concept to accept. It was unlikely enough that he would have called Estelle’s home during the day—and even if he had, he would have been the epitome of genteel manners. He would have taken time to court Teresa over the phone, asking about each family member in turn. Eventually, he would have gotten around to the problem at hand. And what help would Teresa be? Naranjo would certainly have called Estelle at the Sheriff’s Office had something urgent arisen. That he might have called her home, choosing to speak with Teresa, was incomprehensible, and stirred Estelle’s suspicions.
Blood Sweep Page 5