Bad Samaritan (20 page)

“Maybe she was the one who killed him,” Sister Agatha said.

“No way. Victoria had no need to kill him. She knew how to play him.” He pushed away from the car and stood up straight. “Besides, she never actually owned a gun. She just borrowed one of mine. She kept it for a few weeks during the time a residential burglar was working the area. After the cops caught the guy, she gave it back to me. She didn't want a pistol around her house. She was afraid RJ would get hold of it.”

“What caliber was it?”

“A nine-millimeter Walther P38. It was an old World War II German semiauto I'd carried back in the days when I was dealing drugs. But don't bother looking for it. I'm still on parole, and I'm not allowed to have a weapon, so I got rid of it.”

“When?”

“Months before Robert got shot, if that's what you're really asking.”

“Can you
prove
that you got rid of that gun before the murder?”

He shook his head. “I sold it one night to a guy outside a bar for two twenties and a beer. He didn't know me and I didn't know him. I realize that you're looking for a suspect other than your friend Sheriff Green, but I had nothing to do with what happened to Robert,” he said.

“If you say so,” she said with a skeptical smile.

“Look at it logically. I have too much to lose and nothing to gain. I'm a Garcia now, and I don't want to rock that boat. I get a lot of toys just by playing it cool,” he said, gesturing to his new car. “Victoria wouldn't have shot Robert, either. She'd be more inclined to twist the knife somebody else had placed in his gut.”

“You may be sure about yourself, but you can't speak for Victoria. You don't know what she might have done if pushed hard enough,” she said, mostly to see his reaction.

“Oh yeah, I'm positive. Victoria and Robert had a strange relationship, but they were two of a kind. Nothing was more important to Robert than status, power, and wealth. Victoria was perfect for him because she loved being the wife of a man people respected—and feared. She paid her dues for sure, but she got exactly what she wanted and needed—status.” He said nothing for several long moments, then, in a thoughtful, quiet voice, added, “Oh yeah, Sister, I know exactly how she thinks.”

“Because you're doing the same thing yourself?” Sister Agatha pressed. “You also married into the Garcia family. From small to tall, is that the way it is?”

“Yeah. Like that. As I said, Victoria and I understand each other.”

“There's more to it than that. Your eyes give you away, Mike. You're in love with her,” she said, playing a hunch to see how he'd react.

He shrugged. “So what? It doesn't alter anything. Neither of us wants to change our current arrangement.”

“Which is?”

“We're friends who keep each other's secrets.”

Sensing she'd gotten all she would from him, Sister Agatha raised her helmet to her head. “Okay, Mike, thanks for clearing things up a bit.”

“Sister, let me make a deal with you. If you keep quiet about that pistol, I'll do my best to find out who really shot Robert. Providing it turns out to be someone outside the Garcia family, I'll pass that information along to you just as soon as I have it.”

She lowered her helmet again. “What makes you think you can find out and I can't?”

“I know a lot of people, Sister, and we move in
way
different circles. You'd be surprised what someone like me can dig up.”

She had no doubt that Mike could be a valuable source, yet withholding information about that pistol might end up costing Tom in the long run.

“Look at it this way, Sister,” he said, as if he'd read her mind. “Even if I could find the gun again and turn it over to the police, what would it prove? That it wasn't the weapon that killed Robert? He was killed with the sheriff's own pistol, and everyone knows that. I could have gotten another gun, and so could Victoria. Bottom line is that I'd be putting my own freedom on the line for no reason at all.”

She considered it, then nodded. “All right. See what you can find out and get back to me.”

S
ISTER AGATHA WENT ALL THE WAY AROUND THE BLOCK
, in case Mike was watching or listening for the bike, and approached Leon Jones's home from the opposite direction. As she drove up the long driveway, a gray-haired man in his mid-sixties wearing jeans and a pullover shirt looked up. Stopping work trimming the hedge that separated his property from the Garcias, he waved at her.

She stopped the Harley, turned off the ignition, and flipped up her helmet visor.

“You have to be Sister Agatha. I saw you the other day and figured you'd be stopping by sooner or later. I'm Leon Jones,” he said, putting the hedge clippers down and wiping his brow. “You've got great timing, Sister. I was just about to take a break.”

He led the way inside the spacious Territorial-style house. The living room had the feeling of a cool, shady parlor, full of overstuffed furniture, but the large kitchen was bright and airy,
with Mexican tile counters and backsplash. He pulled out two Cokes from the old-style white fridge and placed one in front of her. “These are imported from Mexico. They're sweetened with sugar instead of corn syrup—just the way I like them. In the bottle okay with you?”

“Sure, that's fine.” She remembered how young Sister Jo had raved about Mexican Cokes.

Leon used a “church key” to remove the caps, which weren't twist-off, and handed her one of the icy bottles.

“So you're here wanting to know about that row I had with Robert several years ago, right? I actually had to get a restraining order against that lowlife, and he was a deputy at the time!”

“I've heard that Mr. Garcia could get violent,” she said with a nod. “What happened between you?”

“Our neighborhood association rules are clear. You're allowed to prune a neighbor's plants back if their branches extend over onto your yard, but you can't do anything that would kill the plant—in this case, a cottonwood. I'd asked Robert to give me a hand with the tree trimming several times, but he never got around to it. I was worried those cottonwood branches would come crashing down on my car during the next windstorm. You know how brittle they can be. So I finally decided to do the job myself.”

He took a long sip of the Coke, then continued. “It was bad timing on my part. He'd been arguing with Victoria that day. When he saw me on the ladder, he accused me of spying on him and his wife. I told him he was nuts, and that's when he pulled me off the ladder.”

“Were you okay?” she asked, leaning forward.

“He nearly broke my arm, and all over a stupid tree. That was just the beginning, though.” Leon paused, shaking his head. “I filed assault charges, and the judge ended up granting me a
restraining order. Robert was supposed to stay off my property and not come within fifty feet of me. Well, that order just made him crazier.”

“He came after you again?”

Leon nodded. “At first he was just trying to intimidate me. Whenever I went to the store, gas station, or anywhere in my car, he'd follow. He'd tailgate, even bumping into me at stop signs—just enough to shake me up. I tried using the camera on my cell phone, but I had my hands full driving most of the time. It was clear to me that he had a screw loose, and what's worse, he was in his patrol car and carrying a gun.”

Sister Agatha nodded but didn't interrupt.

“One day I finally had enough. I remembered that Smitty had told me that he'd installed new surveillance cameras in his parking lot, so I decided to set Robert up. He was tailgating me as usual, so I deliberately pulled into Smitty's parking lot. Robert blocked me in so I couldn't get back out, something he'd done before at other places. Knowing the cameras were rolling, I went over and asked him to move his car. When he laughed at me, I brought out my cell phone, took a photo of him, then started to call Sheriff Green. That's when he really went nuts. Robert jumped out of his car, knocked the cell phone out of my hand, and stomped on it. Then he grabbed my arm and swung me around, slamming me face-first into his car. When Robert started punching me in the kidneys, Smitty heard me yelling and came out. If Smitty hadn't been there, Robert would have put me in the hospital for sure.”

“Why wasn't he charged with assault?” Sister Agatha knew that could have led to a felony conviction, and a man with a record wouldn't have been able to run for sheriff.

Leon sighed loudly. “My print shop depended heavily on city business, and the sheriff didn't want a scandal, so we cut a deal.
Sheriff Green gave me his word that he'd handle the matter, and he did. I never had a problem with Robert again.”

“When Sheriff Green gives his word, you can count on it.”

“I agree with you, and I talk from experience,” he answered, then, giving her a long look, continued. “Detective Marquez came to talk to me about Robert yesterday. I think he thought
I
may have killed him.”

Sister Agatha didn't respond.

“Were you wondering the same thing?” He didn't wait for her answer. “The day Robert was killed, I was in the center of the park, playing my fiddle with the Good Gravy Band. We signaled for the start of the fireworks by playing the National Anthem, then performed five Sousa marches in a row. Everyone saw me. I was in the front row, sitting right beside the piccolo.”

“It sounds like you had a wonderful time,” Sister Agatha said, hoping to defuse the defensiveness she heard in his tone.

“The Fourth's my favorite holiday,” he said, sounding much happier. “I love the parade, the picnics, and the fireworks, too.” He paused, then went on in a thoughtful voice. “I remember seeing Robert and feeling sorry for him. He was missing the point—it was a holiday. A day to honor your country and have fun, but he was doing neither. He was busy campaigning and giving out political flyers. I figure he must have had hundreds in that large envelope he was lugging around tucked under his arm. Despite his casual clothing, it was obvious he didn't intend to give it a rest, even on his nation's birthday.”

“Envelope?”

“Yeah, one of those large manila ones with the string fasteners. The reason I noticed it was because of his son. RJ loves Mitch Landreth—Mitch the Missile, you know—star pitcher for the 'Topes. He was there in the afternoon, signing autographs before he left for the ballpark. RJ wouldn't leave Mitch's side, even after
the autograph. Finally Robert came over and hauled the kid away.” He shook his head slowly.

“RJ must not have been too happy about that,” she commented, hoping to keep him talking.

“You've got that right. I was sitting under a tree, working on my second hot dog, when I heard Robert tell RJ to hand over that autographed roster Mitch had signed, that he'd keep it safe for him. RJ didn't want to give it up, but Robert grabbed it away and started to put it in that big envelope. RJ reached for the envelope, and that got his dad
really
ticked off. He shoved the kid to the ground on his butt, then folded up the roster and jammed it into his shirt pocket. RJ was in tears by then. Robert just made it worse, yanking his son to his feet and telling him to quit acting like a girl.”

Leon scowled; then his expression turned to sheer loathing as he added, “He didn't have a clue on how to raise a kid.”

Sister Agatha leaned back in her chair and fingered her rosary beads, her thoughts on what she'd just learned. “Robert may have had lots of money, but he sure wasn't a happy man.”

Leon gave her a wry smile. “Maybe so, but money can usually make you comfortable in your misery.”

She smiled but said nothing for several long moments. At last she spoke. “Tell me, what actually happened to Robert after you turned him in to Sheriff Green?”

“I don't know firsthand. All I can tell you is what I heard through the grapevine. Robert was advised to resign or risk an internal affairs investigation that would have undoubtedly gotten him charged and fired. When I found out that . . . what . . . five years later, he was running for sheriff, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Had he been elected, I would have sold my house and moved out of town for good.”

“Do you think he could have actually won?” Sister Agatha
asked, wondering if someone else Robert had terrorized had decided to settle matters in his—or her—own way.

“Sheriff Green's a good man, and most of us are very happy with the way he's run his department. Robert would have kept throwing his money around and convinced some of the people, but the majority would have backed Sheriff Green. I'm pretty sure of that.”

“I guess we'll never know now,” Sister Agatha said pensively.

After saying good-bye to Leon, Sister Agatha and Pax set out once again, going the back way to avoid passing by Victoria Garcia's home a second time. What she needed most of all now was the opportunity to think, to assemble details in her mind and see what kind of picture emerged.

Close to the bosque and the river beyond, she decided to take a drive down the shady ditch bank road. As she passed a parked city pickup—one of a small fleet of vehicles that maintained the road and irrigation system—she waved to the driver. He was looking away at the moment, busy with something on the seat, and didn't glance up, even though the motorcycle and sidecar usually attracted attention.

Sister Agatha drove slowly, not wanting to generate any dust or excessive noise. Several residences lined the bosque—a quiet, peaceful location close to nature. It was easy to think here, among the willows and flowers of the wooded area and surrounded by the musky scent of the river beyond.

In the tranquility of that setting she allowed her thoughts free rein. There was so much that still wasn't adding up right, starting with Tom. Though Tom Green
knew
he could trust her, he was still holding something back. It just made no sense . . . unless he was protecting someone else. But who?