Five minutes later, Torrez left the house, this time taking the county’s Expedition. Two blocks from his home on McArthur, he turned south on Grande, the interstate just ahead. Braking hard, he jolted a hard right onto the dirt frontage road, a narrow lane that allowed service to power lines.
Deputy Brent Sutherland’s county vehicle marked the spot with its own lightshow. Parked just ahead of him, half off the lane, was a dark-colored Jeep Wrangler. Sutherland was busy unwinding a yellow crime-scene tape.
Chapter Thirteen
Curled up in a stiff lounge chair tucked in the corner of Bill Gastner’s hospital room, Estelle Reyes-Guzman had managed fitful naps, awakened most often when the old man broke out in a string of colorful curses.
At one point, he raised his head slightly, heavy brows furrowed with annoyance.
“What the hell time is it?”
She stretched, taking her time unfolding stiff legs. “A little after three.”
“So why are you here? I’m sure as hell not going anywhere, but there’s no sense in you wasting your time.”
“I like hearing you snore, Padrino. Anyway, it feels good to sit in one spot for more than five minutes.”
“You have something going on? Did I manage to interrupt the flow of justice in Posadas County with my stunt?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t look especially contrite. “You’re holding that damn cell phone as if it’s your lifeline to someone.”
She touched the screen to wake the gadget up. No new messages. “My mother got a scam call that worries me.”
“Teresa did? Hell, I didn’t think that she ever answered the damn thing.”
“I suppose Addie was out of the room for a minute, and Mamá picked up. Anyway, the caller said that the boys are down in Mexico, in Mazatlán. Supposedly Mateo was in trouble with the law, and needed eight thousand dollars to spring him from jail.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” Gastner whispered, and cleared his throat. “That one’s as old as the hills.”
“Not to Mamá it isn’t. What makes it interesting is that the caller claimed to be Tomás Naranjo. He called Mamá by name.”
He motioned impatiently. “Come over here for a while. Trying to see you is breakin’ my neck.” When she stood by the bed, he continued, “So what did the Colonel have to say? Hell, he doesn’t even work over on the West Coast.”
“Just the point, sir. I can’t reach him, and he hasn’t returned my calls. I finally got through to Francisco, and he says everything is perfectly normal. But on any level, I can’t imagine Naranjo doing such a thing. If the boys needed bail money, he would have called me, not Mamá. And Teresa’s description of the way he talked didn’t sound like him one bit—fast, no preliminaries, hard sell.”
“Hell, with Naranjo, you could be on the phone for half an hour just with the preliminaries.” He closed one eye and said through a horrible Mexican accent, “So tell me, how is the family…” He made sure to give each syllable its full due. “Look, this is one of those things. It’s got to be. The scammer hopes to set off an unthinking panic attack. Especially if he can get to an elderly relative.”
He patted her hand with the one of his that wasn’t a pin cushion. “The jerk saw posters for the concert, maybe read something in the paper, if he can read in the first place. Forget about it.” He frowned. “Although you gotta wonder how he knew about your mother, how he knew about Naranjo. The concert is the easy part. That shows a little more effort than usual in these deals.” He raised an index finger. “So yeah, sweetheart. I guess you get to worry a little. When do the boys head home?”
“The group flies back on Sunday morning.”
Gastner nodded slightly and closed his eyes. “I guess you can hold tight, then. If you’re talking with the kid on a regular basis, everything is all right.”
“And then Carlos tells me that my uncle called.” She watched Gastner’s broad, bulldog face grimace as he digested that. He knew almost as much about Estelle’s unique past as she did, and he’d been involved with plenty of escapades with her great uncle, Reuben Fuentes, now dead for a dozen years. “Have you ever heard of a fellow named Benedicte Mazón?”
He regarded her with half-closed eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Be patient. I’m marshalling my incredible memory reserves.” Estelle could see that what he was actually doing was trying to twist away from the insistent pain in his hip—even with the IV potion dripping in his vein. She slipped a hand into his right, and he clenched hard.
“Benedicte…that sounds like some Latin scholar or monk or something. He’s the uncle? If he’s related to you somehow, your mother will know. What did he want?”
“Carlos was the one who talked with him. I wasn’t home. He left a message that I wasn’t supposed to worry about Mazatlán. I took that to mean the eight thousand-dollar episode.”
“This is bizarre,” Gastner said with relish—admittedly tired relish. “You know, I was sort of surprised that you and Francis didn’t go down for the concert. I mean, a big deal. Would have made a nice vacation. I was even thinking along those lines for a while. It’s been years since I’ve been there.”
Estelle could feel a flush working up her cheeks. “I didn’t read the conservatory bulletin carefully enough,” she said. “The whole thing took me by surprise. With what that city’s reputation has become here lately, I might not have let hijo go.”
“Oh, come on.” He shifted painfully again. “You let the thugs run your life, what’s the point?” He took a long, slow breath. “You know, I read my conservatory newsletter, and I saw that Mazatlán listing. That’s a beautiful place, most of the time. What a time they’ll have. And the way those guys will be chaperoned, everything’s going to be fine. Trust your son on this one, sweetheart. If he says that he’s fine, then he is.”
“He talked about all the security efforts,” she added. “Apparently he has a police captain who doesn’t let him out of his sight.”
“That’s good, then. But hey, what about the concert in Chicago after Labor Day? Eh?” He nodded at her.
“Camille reminded me. She and Mark are thinking of going.”
“Uh oh.” Gastner tried to smile. “I’m thinking seriously about that.”
“If you go, we’ll go,” Estelle said.
One finger lifted off the bedding in a slow wag. “No deals like that. You and hubby…don’t let these things pass you by.” He closed his eyes. “And that’s my wisdom for the moment.” His eyes sagged closed again. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“In a little bit.”
“If you’re still here wasting time when they trundle me off for surgery in a few minutes, I’m going to be pissed, sweetheart.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “What’s Roberto say about this scam thing?”
“I haven’t discussed it with him. He has his own concerns at the moment.” She briefly recounted what she understood of the shooting incident, and Gastner listened with closed eyes. “At the moment, he doesn’t know why or who.”
For a time, Gastner lay quietly, and she thought he might have fallen asleep. But eventually, when he opened his eyes, they were clear and bright. “Some creep with a grudge saw the chance to remove the man from office.”
“For what reason, sir?”
“Who knows what secrets this Robert Torrez person is harboring.”
Estelle laughed. “Bobby has no secrets, Padrino. I thought that when little Gabe came along, he’d soften up some. Not a chance. He treats everyone the same. You break the law, you get arrested. Period.”
“Like I said.” The half smile held for a moment, and then Estelle realized that the old man had fallen asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Deputy Sutherland had taped off a hundred-foot radius around the Jeep, and Bob Torrez stopped well short of the yellow ribbon, hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. He rested a hip against the front fender of Sutherland’s SUV. The panoply of stars stretched from horizon
to horizon, marred only by the sodium vapor lights along the interstate.
Above them and to the north, traffic on that thoroughfare continued its monotonous drone, punctuated by the loud diesel pounding of big rigs running through the night. The nearest neighborhood was the trailer park two blocks behind them, just off Grande.
“Why are you workin’?” Torrez asked, and Sutherland looked surprised.
“’Cause Pasquale was goin’ racing with Mears and wanted to work days for a little bit,” the young deputy said. “We traded. But then I was up for court this morning, and thought what the hell.”
“You fall asleep on me, and you’ll be back in dispatch.” He walked to within a dozen feet of the Jeep, one hand catching the yellow tape. “So what do you got?”
“One occupant,” Sutherland said. “I’m wondering if it’s suicide. Kind of looks like it to me.”
“You gave Linda a shout? And Perrone?”
“Sands is rounding up everyone. I haven’t called the EMTs yet. Our guy sure isn’t going anywhere.”
Torrez lifted the ribbon and slipped under. He stopped to play the flashlight back and forth. The dust of the two-track was fine, and captured the detail of the boot prints.
“These yours?”
“Yes, sir. I walked straight from my unit to the Jeep. Nowhere else, except to string the tape.”
“The engine was off when you got here?”
“Yes, sir. Key is in the ignition.”
“Driver’s window was down?”
“Yes, sir. From what I can see, it would be really awkward for someone to reach in to pop him that way.” Sutherland looked as if he expected the Sheriff to say, “What way?”
“Maybe so,” Torrez said quietly.
“I mean right under the chin like that.”
Keeping his flashlight moving, Torrez walked up the right track of the service road. The driver had stopped the Jeep just off the trail, parking in a stand of foot-high weeds, its nose close to an impressive creosote bush. Standing just behind the left taillight, he inspected the vehicle carefully. A rag top, the black canvas was stretched tight, with no damage. However the victim had died, the bullet had not exited through the fabric top. Letting the beam travel down the left flank of the Jeep, he paused and took a step to the passenger side, inspecting the exterior in the same methodical fashion.
Immediately below the passenger door, the scant grass and abundant weeds were bent where someone had walked.
“You came over here?”
“No, sir. To the driver’s door, and then back. That’s it.”
“Okay.”
An aging Expedition pulled into the two-track and stopped immediately behind the sheriff’s. Linda Pasquale, looking impossibly rested and refreshed, did not get out of the vehicle. Instead Torrez’s handheld radio crackled. “You want me to come up?”
“Right to where I’m standin’,” the sheriff replied. Sutherland stayed put as the sheriff made his way along the driver’s side of the small vehicle. The corpse was belted in, head back against the headrest, both hands and a large handgun in his lap. His black sweatshirt was soaked with blood from chin to lap, a thick puddle that washed out over his crotch and drained onto the seat. Torrez bent carefully, folding his six-foot four-inch frame until he could direct the flashlight. The bullet hole was large, with a corona of unburned powder stippling from one side of the man’s jaw to the other.
A Raiders baseball cap had fallen off and lay toward the rear of the center console.
The sheriff took a moment to stretch on a pair of latex gloves and then, reaching into the Jeep, gently placed his left hand on the man’s head, his fingertips feeling the skull.
“Huh,” he said, and swung the flashlight to focus on the automatic. “Well, that’ll work,” he said to no one in particular. The gun appeared new, one of the lower-priced, generic clones of the Colt 1911 .45 automatic. Nothing fancy, just large, dependable, and easy to feed.
“No exit wound?” Sutherland sounded uneasy.
“Nope. Not unless it’s somewhere we can’t see. But no damage to the canvas top.” He straightened up and beckoned to Linda Pasquale. “Everything,” he said. “Isolate the handgun in his lap, gettin’ closeups where you can. Everything else. The wound is under his chin, and I need that, too. And find a way to get me some of that rifle case that’s layin’ on the floor in the back.”
Sutherland’s flashlight swung that way. “I didn’t see that.”
“You weren’t supposed to be lookin’,” Torrez reminded him. “You were supposed to call it in and secure the scene. That’s what you did.” He glanced at Linda. “By the time you’re done, maybe Doc will be here,” Torrez added. “You can open both doors, but protect the latches. Gotta be prints there.” He reached out and dropped a huge hand on Sutherland’s shoulder. “Prints when Linda’s done.”
“Did you want me to call Mears for that?”
“No. You know what you’re doin’.” His gaze had drifted to the Jeep’s tires, aggressive tread that left a clear print in the dirt. “Willin’ to bet…” Torrez mused to himself.
“Match to the set out on 14?”
“Worth lookin’,” Torrez said. “And Linda, when you’re finished shootin’, I want to check out that rifle case.” For a long moment, he stood by the driver’s door, looking at the dead man. Olive skin, heavy features, a gaping mouth that showed lots of metalwork, the whole picture held nicely in place by the seatbelt/shoulder harness. The faint snick of Linda’s digital camera reminded him that he was standing in the way, and he moved to the front fender and rested a hand on the hood. Stone cold.
“What’d you come up with when you called in the plate?”
Sutherland looked up from his black plastic field kit and dug a small notebook out of his pocket. “The Jeep is registered to a Miguel A. Quesada, 101 Lincoln Circle in Prairie View Heights out in Tucson.”
Torrez stood behind Linda as she shot a series of the victim’s head against the head rest.
“Pretty ghastly.” She reset the camera and took several more from different angles. “Gun in place?”
“Yep. Everything, right from his shoes on up.”
“I think he was holding more than the official eleven quarts,” Linda said.
“Head shot like that, the heart keeps on pumpin’ for a minute or so.”
“I needed to know that, sir.” She shot a withering glance at the sheriff.
Torrez shrugged. “You’re doin’ good.” He straightened up at the approach of another vehicle, Dr. Alan Perrone’s red BMW. The slightly built, dapper physician swung out of the car and closed the door gently. He took a moment to pull on latex gloves.
“How are you folks doing this lovely morning?”
“Okay. Linda’s about finished the driver’s side.”
“Snowbird?” He tipped his head, reading the Arizona license.
“Maybe Tucson,” Torrez said.
“He found a nice quiet corner of the planet,” Perrone said. “By the way, I just talked to Dr. Guzman. He’s happy with the way Bill’s condition has stabilized. They expect him to go into surgery in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. So we won’t know nothin’ until mid-morning or so.”
“Most likely.” Perrone nodded at the Jeep. “I have a clear path?”
“Yep.”
For several minutes, the physician looked at the human wreckage from a distance, face locked in a severe frown. Eventually, he reached out and touched the corpse on the neck. “Someone made damn sure.” With both hands he worked the head this way and that as Torrez held both flashlights. “Jammed the gun right into the soft flesh under the jaw. Lots of gas damage, stippling, all of that. A contact shot.”
He examined the jaw, fingers light on both sides of the face. “Some cadaveric spasm, both here and in the hands. That’s not so unusual.” He straightened up and pointed with his own penlight. “Both hands curled hard, but not around the gun.”
“I’m thinkin’ that the gun was
placed there afterward,” Torrez said, and Perrone glanced up at him.
“I’d bet on it. And immediately so. It’s right in the center of that blood bath. It just doesn’t look as if he was hanging on to it.”
“So not suicide.”
Perrone made a small grunting sound. “Not likely. Unexpected, maybe.”
“No exit’s kind of unusual,” the sheriff said.
The medical examiner nodded. “And that’s interesting, with a big gun like this one. I mean, a forty-five is no magnum, but from the ones I’ve seen, there’s plenty of power there to disrupt the vault of the skull. Be interesting to see during autopsy.”
He examined the victim’s body, the flashlight beam brilliant against the reflective blood wash. “No other wounds?” He pulled the seatbelt outward a little. “Somebody got close to him. Surprise, surprise.”
He stepped back and removed the gloves. “You can go ahead and call it in,” he said. “There’s not much I can do with him out here.” Torrez nodded at Sutherland, who tended to the radio.
“I’ll let you know if there’s anything else of interest,” Perrone said. “If I had to guess right now, I’d bet on the one wound. There’s always room for a surprise at autopsy, but I’ll put my money on the one. The blood’s starting to crust around the edges of the flow, so a couple of hours at most. The jaw is frozen open from spasm, but the arms aren’t showing much rigor yet.”
He turned in place. “No neighbors, and parked off the street far enough that no one noticed the vehicle sitting here. How’d Sutherland find it?”
“He noticed.”
Perrone smiled at the sheriff. In the distance, they heard a heavy diesel, and the noise echoed and amplified as the ambulance passed under the interstate, then slowed to turn into the lane. The show of emergency lights died.
“I’ll let you know,” Perrone said. “And you’ll call in the I.D. as soon as you have it.”
“Yep.” But it was another half hour before Torrez was satisfied that the corpse could be moved, and the two EMTs remained at their unit, out of the way. The pistol itself presented a problem, since the slide was fully forward, and the hammer cocked. Torrez snugged a nylon zip tie around the hammer, blocking it. Should the trigger be jarred somehow, the hammer would jam harmlessly against the nylon. He snicked the safety up as well, but otherwise left the lethal pistol alone. With a short aluminum cleaning rod down the barrel, Torrez gently lifted the gun clear of the swamp of blood and eased it into a large evidence bag. Sutherland handed him a large, bright yellow adhesive label that announced “Loaded gun,” and the sheriff left the rest of the evidence tag labeling to the young deputy.
Blood Sweep Page 10