If, however, Tom Pasquale was guilty of using his badge, uniform, and gun as magic wands to create pocket money, then he deserved every ounce of the world that would come crashing down around his ears. And I’d be the one to kick the globe off its pedestal.
I left the office before Undersheriff Torrez came in, assuring Gayle that what I wanted wasn’t important and that I’d catch him sometime later in the evening. I took the unmarked car and drove home, drenched with sweat by the time I pulled into the driveway.
Inside, I sighed as the silent coolness of the old adobe seeped into my bones. No thundering swamp cooler, no whining refrigerated air-just musty coolness seeping out of the old twenty-four-inch-thick walls that rested in the shade of enormous spread-limbed cottonwoods.
While a fresh pot of coffee dripped, I leafed through the mail that I’d picked up earlier in the day and then ignored. All of it could remain ignored for a while longer. For several minutes I sat with elbows on the counter, chin propped in my hands, staring out across the dark sunken living room while the coffee trickled into the urn.
Whoever had written the goddamned note had already accomplished part of his goal. Without any hints of ownership, the note just sort of floated there in the ether, generic typing on generic paper. All I knew for sure was that the author wasn’t the world’s hottest speller or grammarian.
But the young deputy’s name had been mentioned, and I found myself trying to imagine whom Deputy Pasquale would stop and when he’d make the decision that the driver was an easy target, how he might twist the screws, and what he might do with the money.
If I drove over to his house, the one about which Carla Champlin was building a head of steam, would I find a flashy new boat in the yard, a fancy new truck parked in the driveway, and Deputy Pasquale sitting there on the porch sipping imported beer and wearing a new pair of snake-hide boots? Maybe he’d make enough scam money to pay for some water, at least making his landlady happy.
With disgust I bit off a curse and poured myself a cup of powerful coffee. With that in one hand, I juggled the telephone off the cradle and punched the auto dialer for the office. Gayle Torrez answered.
“I’m going to be occupied for most of the evening, Gayle, but I’ll have my phone with me, if you need anything.”
“Yes, sir. Did you need to talk to Robert? He’s right here.”
“No, that’s all right. Ernie’s on Dispatch tonight, right?”
“Yes, sir. He’s here, too, if you need to talk with him.”
I almost said, “I don’t need to talk to anybody,” but instead bit it off and settled for, “No, that’s fine. Just pass the message along. Have a good evening.”
I refilled my cup, snapped off the coffeemaker, and ambled through the cool maze of rooms to the inside door leading to the garage. The Blazer was tucked in between towering piles of junk that I’d never gotten around to sorting, and I grunted into it, careful not to nick the door against the aluminum stepladder.
As the garage door spooled open behind me, the engine kicked into velvety life, and I felt better. By the time I had enjoyed a massive burrito dinner at the Don Juan de Onate Restaurant, the sun would be on its way toward the back side of the San Cristobal Mountains. Things would start to cool down.
I could drop the windows and idle around the county in the cool of the night, listening and watching. If I was really lucky, I wouldn’t find a damn thing.
I backed out carefully, made sure the garage door lowered solidly into place, and turned out on Escondido, past the trailer park by the interstate and then northbound on Grande. I hadn’t driven more than four blocks before I saw the white-and-blue Posadas County patrol car coming in the opposite direction.
It flashed by, already well over the posted speed limit. Undersheriff Robert Torrez was behind the wheel, and he glanced my way at the same time the radio in the Blazer barked twice. I lifted a hand in salute, wondering why I had been expecting that it would be Deputy Thomas Pasquale, heading south toward State 56.
The Don Juan was quiet, and I slid into my favorite booth, the one whose window looked out across the parking lot toward the San Cristobals to the southwest. The blinds were turned to ward off the evening sun, and I could feel the heat through the glass. Bustos Avenue stretched flat and hot east-west, bordering the restaurant’s parking lot. Traffic was light.
I picked at my food, my irritation growing by the minute. I had time to dig my way through about a third of the Burrito Grande when my privacy vanished as Sam Carter appeared around the service island.
“Damn, he was right,” he said, and advanced until he was staring down at my burrito plate.
“Hello, Sam. Who was right?”
“Your dispatcher. Ernie Wheeler. He said odds were good that you’d be here.”
“And sure enough,” I said. “Pull up a chair.”
He slid into the booth, hands clasped in front of him, just like Dr. Arnold Gray a few hours earlier. It wasn’t yet six, and Carter’s Family SuperMarket hadn’t closed for the day. I was surprised to see Sam out and about, mingling with the public. He ducked his head, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, and glanced back the way he’d come.
“You being followed?” I said, but he didn’t take it as the joke I’d intended. His eyes widened for just a second, and he leaned forward. The waitress appeared by the service cart, hand reaching for the coffeepot. I caught her eye and shook my head. She nodded and vanished.
“What’s the problem, Sam?” I said. “Two county commissioners in one day in this same booth…that’s something of a record for me.”
Sam Carter’s narrow face crumpled up in a grimace, as if he was genuinely sorry to have to talk to me in public…or in private, either, for that matter.
“Somebody sent me an anonymous letter,” he blurted out, and his hand darted for the inside pocket of his limp blue seersucker jacket.
With anyone else, I could have made a wisecrack about the man cheating on his wife or not paying mounting gambling debts or something of the sort. But Sam Carter’s life was a mess, and both he and I knew it. His senior cashier had filed a complaint against him a couple of months before, charging him with making obscene phone calls to her home after she’d refused his amorous advances at the store.
I knew the woman and somehow found it hard to imagine the weasel-thin Sam Carter, semibalding, with a mouthful of perfect false teeth, bending the stout, frizzy-haired matron backward over the sour cream display while he attempted a quick, passionate smooch.
Taffy Hines had complained and even been brassy enough to sign her name. Estelle Reyes-Guzman, my chief of detectives at the time, and I had talked to old Sam and pointed out to him the error of his ways…and made it clear to him what a field day the Posadas Register would have if the story ever went public-which it would do if he didn’t button his mental trousers.
As far as I knew, he’d behaved himself since then, but our relationship had turned a touch chilly. When the previous sheriff had died in a plane crash, Carter had talked me into taking the post until after elections-but that was not because of any love for me on his part. Next in line was Estelle Reyes-Guzman, and the county fathers weren’t about to accept a young Mexican as the first woman sheriff of Posadas County. They needn’t have worried, since that’s not the way the cards were stacked, anyway.
Still, there was no trace of gloat in his expression when Sam Carter pulled the white piece of typing paper out of his pocket. I knew what it was before he handed it to me but took it nonetheless, looking at it as carefully as I had at the first one.
I read it through, wondering how many copies the author had printed.
“What do you think?” Carter asked.
I took a deep breath and pushed my plate off to one side. “It’s enough to give me gas, I’ll tell you that much.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
I looked at him for a long minute, then said, “I don’t guess I am. One of your brethren got a copy and shared it with me earlier
in the day.”
“You mean one of the other commissioners?” he asked, and I nodded. “Which one?”
“It probably doesn’t matter,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if all five of you got the same thing. Photocopies are cheap. You have the envelope?”
“Envelope?” he said.
“I assume it came to you in an envelope?”
“No…well, yes. It did. I didn’t even think about that. I’ll look for it.”
“That would be helpful.” I scanned the message again, and if my memory served me correctly, it was identical to Gray’s.
“Well,” Carter said, and watched as I carefully refolded the letter and placed it on top of my hat. “What do you think?”
I shrugged, hoping I looked far more casual than I felt. “It’s always welcome when concerned citizens give us these nice little tips,” I said, and smiled.
“This is serious, though,” Sam Carter said.
“Of course it is.”
“If this got out, it’d be a real mess.”
“Yes, it would. Did you show this to anyone else?”
He shook his head vehemently.
“But I tell you,” I said, and then stopped to take a deep drink of my iced tea, “it’s going to be all over the front page before we’re through, no matter which way it goes. The last thing we’re going to tolerate is a crooked cop…or someone writing libel about honest cops. We’ll find out which way it falls, and then you watch the headlines.”
Sam Carter leaned forward a bit. “You can’t just sort of…” and his voice trailed off as he made little chopping motions with his right hand. I didn’t have a clue what he was trying to suggest, and I didn’t want to pursue it.
“No,” I said. “I can’t. That’s not the way I work.” I smiled again, without much humor.
Sam reared back as if he’d seen an apparition seated across from him, maybe Don Juan in person. “You think someone would…” He stopped in midthought.
“Maybe they would, and maybe they wouldn’t,” I said. I pushed myself out of the booth, dropped a ten-dollar bill beside my plate, and patted Sam Carter on the shoulder as I stepped past him. “I try not to think too much at all these days, Sam. You take care.”
Chapter Five
Pounded into fragrance by the heat during the day, the prairie collected back its vapors when the sun set and the air lost its heat. I breathed deeply, savoring it all. The Blazer ticked gently as it cooled, parked with engine off, windows open, and police radio turned to a whisper.
About five miles southwest of Posadas, New Mexico 56 passed by the remains of Moore-a couple old wooden buildings long since wilted into disuse, an abandoned truck or two, the remains of a 1924 Moline tractor with steel wheels that I had once considered salvaging for restoration.
Just west of Moore, the highway bridged the Rio Salinas, a broad dry wash that in thirty years I’d never seen carry water. The grandly named arroyo formed the western border of Arturo Mesa, and I had bumped the truck up an abandoned two-track on the flank of the mesa until I had a view of the highway below.
To the northeast, the village lights shimmered in the last haze of the dwindling summer heat. To the southwest, the San Cristobals formed a massive featureless block against the darkening sky. Lights from a few ranches were sprinkled in between. Traffic on the interstate coalesced into a Morse code of lights running east-west, with few drivers bothering to swing off the highway at the Posadas interchange.
Arturo Mesa was a grand place to sit and watch, listen, and think. As the evening passed, I could no longer see the state highway below me. It remained yawning, featureless black until a set of headlights meandered through the curves east of Moore and then vanished southwestward, followed by amber taillights.
The restaurant’s Burrito Grande worked its wonders, and I shifted position, leaning heavily on the center console. A cigarette and a cup of coffee would have tasted good. I hadn’t bothered to bring the remains of the pot I’d brewed, and I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in six years.
With comfortable drowsy detachment I watched a pair of head-lights approach Moore from the northeast. The vehicle slowed and its lights swept across the broad black front of the Moore Mercantile building. A spotlight beam lanced out, darting down the flank of the building toward an old stone barn favored by high school kids for an occasional beer party.
The spotlight winked out and the car idled around and then backed in beside the mercantile. Headlights switched off. Odds were good the vehicle was one of ours. The state police didn’t spend much time on our county’s low-profit roads, preferring instead the bustle of the interstate with its high-speed traffic. If it was just some jack-lighter with a spotlight unit screwed to the wind-shield frame of his car, then he’d picked a poor place for nighttime game.
From where he was parked, the deputy had a commanding view of State 56 in both directions, a clean sweep for radar. My undersheriff, Robert Torrez, rarely ran traffic unless it was within line of sight with a bar where he could nail drunks, his personal passion. The only other deputy on duty was Thomas Pasquale.
“All right,” I said aloud. The highway was a pretty good route for whatever fishing the deputy was trying. By taking NM56 rather than the interstate, truckers could cut some time on their runs to some of the communities in eastern Arizona. The road was fast except for the pass through the mountains down through Regal. And for the heavy loads, there weren’t any of those pesky weigh stations where logbooks could take a beating.
For the tandem car business, those Mexican used-car dealers who purchased units in the United States and towed them across the border, 56 was a convenient route in the daytime if they wanted to cross into Mexico at Regal or at night, when the towing was cooler and easier on high-mileage engines, heading into Arizona for a morning crossing at Douglas.
As I waited, old-fat-dog comfortable with the night breeze starting to take a chill, the first set of headlights was local. Even from a mile away, I could hear the jingle and rattle of the empty stock trailer, towed behind a big diesel pickup truck with running lights across the top of the cab.
The truck wasn’t speeding, and the patrol car parked in the shadows never stirred. In the next ten minutes, three more vehicles drove by, all well under the speed limit. Not a murmur broke radio silence.
I frowned. Sitting there in the dark was fine with me. I was two months away from seventy years old, well fed, just about devoid of ambition, and lacked any significant hobbies that might draw my attention away from watching for shooting stars or smelling the fringe sage as its soft tips roasted against the Blazer’s catalytic converter. It made sense that I’d plunk down and watch the world go by for want of anything better to do.
On the other end of the scale, Thomas Pasquale was twenty-six years old and as close to a perpetual motion machine as a human could be. From his hero, Undersheriff Robert Torrez, he’d adopted the habit of prowling the county’s nethermost reaches, never content to orbit the village for the easy pickings. He had put the department four-wheel-drive Broncos in some of the damnedest places, more than once walking back.
Parking in the lee of an abandoned building beside a dull state highway didn’t sound like the Thomas Pasquale I had come to know…at least not if he was parked there for long.
I picked up the cell phone and pressed the auto dialer.
“Posadas County Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Wheeler.”
“Ernie, what’s Pasquale’s twenty?”
“Hang on, Sheriff.”
I reached out and turned the radio up just a bit.
“Three oh three, Posadas, ten-twenty.”
The reply was immediate, and if I’d been a few hundred yards closer, I probably could have heard it directly.
“Posadas, three oh three is ten-eight on Fifty-six, at Moore.”
“Ten-four. PCS two five one.”
Wheeler came back on the phone. “Sir…”
“I heard,” I said. “Thanks. Everything quiet?”
&
nbsp; “Except for the Sissons, I guess so.”
“The Sissons?”
“Jim and Grace Sisson. They’re at each other again. The undersheriff’s been out there a bunch today, the last time just a few minutes ago.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
I dropped the phone on the seat and watched a double set of headlights coming up from the south. One of the lights turned off about where the Broken Spur Saloon sat in the dust, and the second set continued on toward us.
In a few moments I could see the running lights on top, marking the hulk of a tractor trailer rig. The exhaust note was that of a big diesel wound tight, and it burped only slightly as the truck dived down across the Rio Guigarro just two miles west. The truck hit the flat, laser-straight stretch between the two rivers, the reports of its exhaust bouncing off the hills.
“Not a mile under seventy,” I muttered. If Pasquale was running radar, the trucker was dead meat. In a blast of sound, the rig flashed through Moore, and I heard the exhaust note change just a touch-the right timing as the trucker’s headlights picked up the sheriff’s star on the door of the patrol unit. The trucker evidently wasn’t impressed, because he swept on by without even a tentative touch of the brakes. Maybe the driver figured what the hell, he’d been nailed and that was that.
No red lights blossomed, and the patrol unit remained locked in the darkness beside the old building.
“Huh,” I grunted. For another ten minutes both of us sat in the stillness. Then the lights down below flicked on, and I watched the patrol car pull out onto the highway and cruise southwest for no more than a hundred yards before turning north on the narrow, rough two-track that cut across the rugged prairie. I’d driven that two-track myself a number of times and had gotten myself stuck on it once. Other than a couple of ranches, there wasn’t much to see.
After two miles of skirting the Rio Salinas, the two-track would fork, with one track angled west again, eventually emerging behind the Broken Spur Saloon. The other track continued north until it was sliced to a stop by the interstate right-of-way fence.
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