by Don Travis
“Naw. I didn’t see nobody. But I heard something the night before.”
“What?” Aggie asked.
“Sounded like a shot.”
“Did you investigate?” I asked.
“Naw. You hear gunshots out here all the time—usually a .22 rifle. You know, somebody hunting rabbits or squirrels. So I didn’t think nothing of it. Not ’til I saw a couple of bullet holes in the rear quarter of the Porsche. Man, that was a bitchin’ car. And Marty tore it up going over the gorge, huh?”
“It’s in little pieces rusting away at the bottom right now. Do you have any idea what night that was?”
“Naw. Just a few nights back.”
“Petey, you come up with the date and time, and that ought to be worth a twenty. Anything additional might be worth more. But no bullshit, you hear?”
You could almost see the kid put on his thinking cap. His forehead wrinkled, the corners of his mouth turned down, and a forefinger came up to stroke his upper lip. One day he’d probably have a lush moustache there, but right now it wouldn’t support one.
“Maybe Thursday,” he said at last. “I remember I had a date, but she had to go to work the next day, so I took her home right after the early movie. Musta got back home around nine or so.”
“Was the car parked there when you went to pick up your date?”
“I left the house the other direction. You know, by the highway. Didn’t pass this spot, but when I came home, I came in the back way, and that’s when I saw it.”
“How long after you got home did you hear the shot—or shots?”
“The ten o’clock news was on the TV.”
“One shot or two?” I asked. He shrugged. “Could you tell the caliber of the weapon?”
“Naw, but it wasn’t big. I mean it wasn’t a shotgun. Not even a rifle. A pistol, I figure. Anyway, the next morning that orange car was still parked here. I saw the two bullet holes and figured somebody used it for target practice.”
“Were those holes there the first time you saw the car? Or did they look new?”
He answered with another shrug.
“Why didn’t you report it to the police?” Aggie asked.
“What am I, a cop?”
“You don’t get along with Farmington’s finest?”
Petey’s brown eyes narrowed. “Let’s just say me and Lonzo Joe don’t get along.”
“When did Martin Cruz decide to steal the Porsche?”
“When he saw the keys in the ignition, I guess. I told him he better let it alone. A car like that cost a big hunk of change, and they gonna come down hard on any homeboy boosting it.”
“Guess he didn’t pay any attention to you,” I said.
“Don’t put that on me. I didn’t even know for sure he took it. He left that Saturday, and when I checked it out on Sunday, it was gone. Hey, I remember Cruz left on Saturday, so I was right. I heard that gunshot on Thursday. Does that tie it down close enough for you?”
I agreed it did and handed over a twenty. As we started walking back to the Martinez place, I thought of something else.
“Where does this road lead?” I looked back toward the turnout.
“Nowhere. It goes on for a couple more miles, and then it loops back to the north and joins up with the highway again. There’s just a few houses along the way.”
“Then how come you took it to return home?”
“It meets the highway before a big curve to the east, so you knock off a quarter mile or so. But the highway’s faster, and that’s usually the way I go.”
“You heard anything about a stranger hanging around?”
“No, but somebody stole a pie from old lady Ingfield the other day.” Petey snickered. “It was like that old cartoon my granddaddy used to read us. You know, the Katzen-Something-or-Other Kids. Stealing pies out of the kitchen window while they cooled. That’s what happened to her. And she makes good apple pies.”
“She find out who took it?”
“Kids, she told my mom.”
I looked east down Halmstead Road. “Petey, if you wanted to get out of the area on foot without being seen, how would you do it?”
“Show you.” He took off in a quick gait back down the road.
An arroyo began about twenty feet beyond where the Porsche had been parked and ran south through a line of scraggly trees and brush, growing deeper as it snaked south. Then, according to Petey, it curved to the west and made its way beneath the highway and on toward the Animas River. Anyone walking that route would not be visible from the road.
After donating another twenty to Petey Martinez, Aggie and I walked the arroyo until it cut under the highway. Finding nothing useful, we retraced our steps to take a closer look at where the Porsche had been parked. Except for a few marks in the sandy soil and our own footprints, we found nothing.
Mrs. Ingfield, the pie maker, had turned philosophical by now and shrugged off the loss of the pastry, commenting she hoped the miscreant—her actual word—enjoyed his meal.
As we headed back downtown to look up Dix Lee, I sighed. “Well, we know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?” Aggie asked.
“The Porsche sat there a couple of days after the Martinez kid heard the shot or shots.”
“That’s not good news.”
“Afraid not. It was probably someone trying to prevent Lando from getting to his automobile.”
“Lord, this doesn’t look good.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I wheeled into the FPD parking lot.
After hearing our report, Dix got on the horn to a couple of officers who patrolled that end of town, but they had nothing to add. The two cops had not even seen the Porsche before the Cruz boys took it.
It was time to clue Lonzo in to what we had learned. We stepped outside, and I used the speakerphone again so both of us could listen in on the conversation. It took a few minutes to run him down and get connected.
“Thanks, BJ,” he said after hearing us out. “We’ll talk to the Martinez family, and I’ll get our technician out to the car site.”
“Nothing to see except our prints. The Porsche was parked in a relatively clear area, and the wind took care of any tire or footprint evidence.”
“Still, maybe they can pick up something. It’s worth a try. You think those kids held anything back?”
“Nothing except failing to report the Cruz boys stole the car. You come up with anything?”
“Nothing in the motel room, but we didn’t expect anything. Been too many people in and out since those guys were there. Alfano checked out of the Trail’s End on the fourteenth. I figure they were headed back to Albuquerque since you said they were still registered at the Sheraton. But they drove to Bisti first, and Norville died shortly thereafter.”
Lonzo hesitated before apparently deciding to contribute more. “We found a Giant station not far from the motel where he filled up the gas tank. Probably the last sighting of the guy before he went on the run.”
“Or was abducted,” Aggie put in. “My brother’s not on the run.”
“Or was abducted,” Lonzo conceded.
“When was that?” I asked.
“The fifteenth.”
“He must have abandoned or been taken from the car that evening or early the next morning. Petey Martinez said the car was sitting out on Halmstead Road for at least two days before the Cruz brothers heisted it on the eighteenth.”
I switched the cell phone to the other hand. “What’s the report on Norville’s body?”
“Strangled, just like we thought. Probably with a belt or a strap similar to a belt.”
“Any DNA on the body?” I asked.
The speakerphone hummed hollowly. “Lots,” he said finally. “The kid had had sex not long before he died. I know the two were boyfriends, but this looked like rape. There was considerable damage to the anal region.”
“Aw, shit.” Aggie turned away.
“That argues a third party committed the act,” I said.
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“I’d feel better about that if they hadn’t just had a fight,” Lonzo responded. “Over another guy, apparently.”
“A fellow named Jasper Penrod. He goes by the name of Jazz.”
“Yeah, I know Jazz. That matches my information. Have you talked to him?”
“Yes, but that was before Norville’s body was discovered. What else did the body tell you?” I asked.
“It pretty well told us how the murder happened. The killer approached him from behind, looped a belt or strap over Norville’s head, put a knee to the kid’s back and forced him to the ground. Then he just held the guy down and waited. There was the beginning of a bruise where the killer put his knee.”
“So he was probably a big man. Was there any sign of a struggle? Let me clarify that,” I said. “Any sign of a fight between the two?”
“No. The only fight Norville put up was against the strap or belt.”
“Anything under the fingernails?”
“Little flakes of leather he skinned off the weapon that killed him.”
“He didn’t get a piece of the killer?”
“Not under his nails.”
“Meaning you’re left with the sperm in the body.” He didn’t answer, so I continued. “Any hits on your bulletin?”
“Not a thing. Orlando Alfano’s still in the wind.”
“What in the hell could have happened to him?” Aggie asked.
I decided to be as cooperative as Lonzo had been and gave him the credit card numbers Gilda Gistafferson had provided for Lando and Dana. They were relatively useless to me, but perhaps he had the muscle to get cooperation from the companies. As we left the police parking lot in our rental, I caught Aggie’s sidelong look.
“The information I gave him might help Lonzo locate your brother,” I explained. “And right now, that’s our primary objective. And if he was kidnapped, he might help catch the person who took him.”
“Yeah, I know.” His breath caught in his throat. He looked away suddenly.
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Chapter 15
SAM DUNKARD, the old crab who managed the Giant service station on Main a few blocks from the Trail’s End, rightly assumed he didn’t need to talk to us because he’d already told everything he knew to the “effing” sheriff’s office. To make matters worse from his standpoint, Plainer had been by to ask his own questions. The attendant, somewhere in his midfifties, got as much out of his five-four frame as possible by standing ramrod straight in scuffed high-heeled cowboy boots. Thumbs hooked in old-fashioned yellow suspenders gave him an air of defiance. It took some patience on my part and some pleading by Aggie to get him to give us the time of day.
“I dunno why I gotta go to the trouble of doing this three times. Twice oughta be one too many.” But he was weakening.
“Because this man’s brother is missing and may be in trouble. The sheriff is looking for him, but Mr. Alfano would appreciate anything we can learn on our own.”
“Told them two law dogs the only reason I recall the guy is because of that flashy car. A fella could spot it coming a mile off even if it was dirty as hell.”
“Dirty?”
“You know, dusty. Kinda like the kid driving it. His eyeballs matched his car. You know, orange. Looked like he’d been driving all night. Figured he drove ten… twelve hours straight from somewhere or the other.”
“But he looked okay? I mean, he wasn’t hurt or anything?” Aggie fished around in his pocket. “I’ve got a picture of him. Could you confirm he was the driver?”
“Don’t need it,” Dunkard said. “Looked a whole lot like you. Like a clone that didn’t grow up as big as you.” Finally the man glanced at the picture. “Yep, that’s him.”
“And this was when?” I asked.
“Fifteenth,” he said after thinking it over. “My brother-in-law spells me at noon on Wednesdays, so I recollect what day it was.”
“What time?”
“Early morning. Maybe eight… nine.”
“And he was alone?”
“Yep. All by himself.” Sam Dunkard studied us a moment. “Nervous as hell, he was. Kept looking over his shoulder. Made me think it mighta had something to do with the fella asking about him a little later.”
“Asking about my brother?” Aggie said.
“Asking about the car. He wanted to know if I’d seen an orange Porsche.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Said sure. Not more’n an hour ago. Man claimed he was supposed to meet his friend but got held up by a detour on the way down from Colorado. I never heard of no detour. Course, coulda been up the road apiece, I suppose.”
“What did this man look like? Blond, around the same age as the driver?” I fed him a vague description of Norville.
“Naw. Older. Hard-looking customer. Don’t recall him too much, but think he was sandy-haired. Thinning. Probably somewhere around forty. Stocky.”
“What was he driving?” I asked.
“Don’t remember. Something bland. Brown Ford or something.”
“Any nicks, dings, dents, decals—anything that stood out?”
“Naw. It was just a plain manila envelope.”
“I don’t suppose you noticed his license plate?” I said.
“Sure did. It was a New Mexico plate. And he claimed he drove down from Colorado way.” Sam Dunkard frowned. “Could of, I guess, if he was on a trip.”
“How can you be so sure about the license plate?” Aggie asked. “You aren’t even sure what kind of car it was.”
“License plates is my hobby, son. Cars ain’t. Be surprised how many of these United States I can count every day.”
“Do you remember the plate number?” I asked.
“Hell no. That ain’t part of the game.”
“Did you tell Detective Joe about this man?”
“Sure did. Told Lonzo all of it.” He gave a sour look. “Maybe I held out on that other fella, that BLM man. Too smooth by half.”
By the time we got back into our rental, Aggie looked ten years older than when we had met a few days back. He was silent, and I left him alone.
I made a quick trip to FPD but learned the brown car hadn’t come to their attention. I wanted to talk to Jazz Penrod again to see if he noticed a car following them, but he proved hard to find. His nervous mother said he wasn’t home. We drove to the Sidewinder, which was a wasted trip, so we returned to wait outside his house. It was dusk before our stakeout bore fruit. The kid breezed out of the door dressed in black Levi’s, a purple golf shirt that fit him tight around the chest and loose around the slim hips. His sneakers appeared to be as black as the shock of hair crowning his head.
We let him get halfway down the block before pulling alongside and offering a ride. If he was surprised to see us again, he hid it well. He nodded and hopped into the backseat.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Sidewinder. Where else?”
“Sidewinder it is.”
“I heard about Dana. Man, that was a bummer. He was a cool dude. There was a whole bunch of good in him.”
“Yeah,” I said over my shoulder. “He didn’t deserve what he got.”
“Anything new on Lando? He show up okay?”
“No,” Aggie answered. “What do you think about that?”
“If you’re asking me if Lando did it, then no. Those guys were into each other big time. I don’t care if Dana did make it with me. He and Lando made a good team. I could see that even when they were arguing.” He paused. “I’m sorry I got in between them like I did.”
“Jazz, I’ve got to ask you a personal question.” I eased to a stop in a strip mall and twisted in the seat to face him. “When you made it with Dana, were you top or bottom?”
“Top, man. I’m always top.” Then he gave that slow grin. “Well, almost always. I make exceptions now and then.”
“Okay.” I turned away and adjusted the rearview mirror so I could see him without br
eaking my neck. “If I understand what you told us before, that was the day you went with them to the Salmon Ruins, right?”
“Yep.”
“That would have been Monday, the thirteenth. Did you use protection?”
“I always use protection. I’m not into suicide.”
“Okay. We figure they went to Bisti the next day.”
“Where Dana died,” he said.
“Did you go with them on that trip?”
“Uh-uh. Last time I saw them was the day Dana and me got it on. Like I said, I dropped by the motel once, but the car wasn’t there. Then I had a job out on the rez on Tuesday. My brother picked me up Monday night, and I stayed with him most of the rest of the week.”
“Okay. One more thing. Did you happen to notice anything while you were with them Monday?”
“Like what?”
“Like a car following the Porsche. Like somebody keeping an eye on the three of you at the ruins. Anything like that.”
“I don’t wanna sound like I got a swelled head or nothing, but guys watch me all the time. Lots of them hide it—you know, watch out of the corner of the eyes or something—but some stare right back at me. Like you did when you picked me up on Main.”
“I was trying to attract your attention. This guy would have been hiding his interest.”
A wrinkle creased his smooth brow for a moment. “No, nobody in particular. Wait a minute. You must mean Chrome Dome. What did the dude look like?”
“Around forty. Thinning sandy hair. Stocky.”
“Did he have a scar on his chin?”
“Possibly. Why did you call him Chrome Dome?”
“That big old forehead. The guy I saw getting out of his car in the parking lot at Salmon had a big forehead. I mean, a really big forehead, and shiny like, so I called him Chrome Dome. He was kinda pudgy, but not soft. Sorta hard-looking, matter of fact. Didn’t see him again, though.”
Jazz Penrod’s penchant for noticing men paid off. “What do you mean by hard-looking? Shaggy? Unshaven? What?”
“No, he was clean enough, but he’d come up hard, if you know what I mean. Wasn’t raised on the soccer fields, more like in boxing rings.”