Bag Limit (24 page)
I knew that Robert Torrez wanted to talk to his sister about the bogus license, but when I’d first broached the idea earlier, I thought that I’d made myself clear—that just I, or maybe Estelle and I if she was so inclined, would go chat with Melinda. We’d keep it informal, unthreatening—but we would keep big brother out of it.
Torrez may have agreed with that idea originally, but when he and Gayle arrived at the house, he seemed determined to accompany us to the MVD office later that afternoon.
Eventually, he grudgingly agreed that if he went along, no matter how silent he remained, no matter how he tried to blend with the wallpaper, it would be a case of big brother hovering protectively over his little sister.
“And that’s just a bad idea, Robert,” I said.
“You need to let the sheriff and Estelle go,” Gayle Torrez said at one point after we all had bandied the idea back and forth. Torrez said nothing, but turned and looked at Estelle. Estelle’s head moved, the faintest hint of a nod. Evidently that was enough.
Torrez put his fork down. He hadn’t touched most of the food. “Okay,” he said. “You two go.”
After another half hour, a nap would have been in order, but instead I fueled up on three or four cups of strong coffee and the assurance from Buddy and Francis that the house would be in safe hands during our absence. I saw that I didn’t need to worry about the kids. Tadd had both Francisco and Carlos in tow, the two dervishes ready to do anything he asked.
Robert and Gayle Torrez left, and I knew by the look on his face that he’d head for his office and sit there in the silence of a Sunday afternoon, fuming and fussing until he heard from me.
I settled into the unmarked car and watched Estelle slide into the passenger seat. She finally found the other end of the seat belt amid the welter of junk. “Feels about right, doesn’t it?” I said as I backed out of the driveway, maneuvering through the clutter of vehicles.
Estelle didn’t immediately agree, which was something of a disappointment, but she didn’t disagree, either. Instead she said, “Your grandson is a remarkable young man.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ve never seen Francisco eat bell peppers before. Tadd ate ’em, so he did too.”
“It was interesting to watch,” I said. “Carlos wasn’t so easy to convince, though.” I laughed at the memory of the smallest Guzman pushing the unidentifiable green lizards around on his plate, dark brows furrowed in critical concentration. He hadn’t been taken in by any smooth talk. Those bell peppers weren’t green chile, and the kid knew it. “Can you believe that the last time I saw my grandson, he wasn’t all that much older than Francisco? Christ, time just slips away, doesn’t it?”
“Way, way too fast.”
Robert had called his sister and told her that we’d meet at the MVD office at 4:30, and we were a few minutes early. I idled the car along and Estelle appeared to be examining every building en route.
“I don’t guess the place has changed much,” I said, and gestured at the supermarket, a new sign molded in gaudy plastic above the door. “The Carter family sold the store earlier this fall. Some outfit from El Paso.”
“Old Sam,” Estelle murmured, “he was a real creep.”
That comment took me by surprise, since the Estelle I knew kept opinions so closely guarded that they could qualify as state secrets. Not that I didn’t agree with her assessment. Sam Carter had indeed been a crooked, philandering creep. He’d also been chairman of the County Commission, and on more than one occasion had made our lives downright interesting.
Less than two blocks farther on, the Posadas County complex on Bustos Avenue included a small annex that housed the state’s Motor Vehicle Division field office, and I pulled into the parking lot and nosed the car into a slot beside Melinda Torrez’s blue Datsun pickup.
“I appreciate your doing this,” I said to Estelle. “And so does Bob.”
“He’s a basket case,” Estelle said. “But then, he has good reason to be. I can’t even imagine what’s going through his mind right now. First his cousin, then his uncle.”
“And he liked Sosimo, too, for all his faults,” I added. “The old guy was a family favorite.”
“That’s right. And now this.” We got out of the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. The office door was locked, and I peered inside. A blind on the window and a partition just beyond shielded the office from view. I rapped on the glass with a knuckle, and almost instantly, Melinda Torrez appeared from the left and came in front of the counter. Her key ring still hung in the lock, and she opened the dead bolt.
Three years younger than her brother at thirty-four, Melinda was the oldest daughter of the late Rafael Torrez and his wife, Elsa. There had been nine children livening up that household, with Robert the oldest of four boys.
One brother had been killed fifteen years before. A drunken driver had clipped the boy, pulverizing his motorcycle and throwing him nearly fifty feet into a guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The drunk had been trying to negotiate his way out of the parking lot of a bar. He’d seen the truck that young Torrez was following, but he claimed he never saw the motorcycle.
Robert Torrez had been a Posadas County sheriff’s deputy for four months at the time. Mercifully, he hadn’t been on duty.
Except for that tragedy, the Torrez children prospered as a diverse, huge, and as far as I could tell, happy family whose holiday gatherings were legendary for grid-locking MacArthur Street.
Melinda hadn’t yet found a man she wanted to marry, and she and her mother, Elsa, presided over the family, deferring to the oldest son and future sheriff of Posadas County just enough that he felt in control.
“How are you doing, Melinda?” I said. “I’m sorry to wreck your Sunday in the big city.”
“You haven’t wrecked a thing,” Melinda said. She was a handsome woman, tall and big-boned like her brother, with sharp features and a high, broad forehead. She held open the door and stood to one side, her smile for Estelle wide and genuine. “And look who’s here,” she said. The two women embraced. “Two minutes in town, and you let the boys drag you out already?” She released just enough of the hug to free one hand. Drilling her strong index finger into my biceps, she said, “See how you are?”
“Yep,” I said. “A hopeless case. I admit it.”
“And where’s the hunk?” Melinda stepped back a pace, holding Estelle with a hand on each shoulder like an elementary school teacher grabbing the attention of a seven-year-old.
“He’s back at the house, trying to make sure that
los niños
don’t wreck their host’s home.”
“All right. I can understand that.” She shot a look of sympathy my way. “You’re a brave man, Bill.” She gestured back behind the counter and when we’d cleared the door, turned the dead bolt. “Come on back.” She rounded the corner and then stopped. “God, how have you guys been? It’s been
forever
! ”
“We’re fine,” Estelle said.
“How long are you here for?”
“Just until Thursday,” I said. “Not long enough, I keep telling them.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” She lifted both hands palms up to encompass the entire office. “So here we are. Bobby was…what…a little vague about what was going on? I put two and two together and decided it had to have something to do with Mateo and Uncle Sosimo. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I said. I turned the license so that Melinda could read it clearly and laid it on the counter.
“What’s this?” she said automatically. She leaned on the counter with an elbow on each side of the license, hands clasped together. For a long minute, she examined it without touching it. Then she turned the license over, scrutinizing the magnetic strip and the empty line for endorsements.
“Oh, boy,” she said.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She sucked air between clenched teeth, making funny little noises with her tongue. As if another examination might change things, she picked up the plastic card again. This time she looked so closely her eyes crossed. “Oh, boy,” she said again. “Matthew had this with him?”
“It would appear so.”
“Oh, boy,” she muttered. Her eyes narrowed just a tad when she looked at me. “And you want to know where he got it.”
“Yes.” My interest was tweaked. Melinda asked her question in that rhetorical tone of voice that hinted she might have heard the same question before.
She turned the license over several times, quick motions with two fingers and a thumb. She would have made a good blackjack dealer at one of the tribal casinos. “God, I hate to see this,” she said, and leaned on the counter. “You know, there’s just no way to fake one of these things.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
Holding up a hand, she added, “Well…I should say that
as far as we know
, there’s no way to fake one. Any security device—like these little holograms here of the state seal? They’re supposed to help make these things tamperproof. And then there’s this,” and she ran her fingers along the magnetic strip on the back. “So my first thought is that this was issued somewhere through our system. Sure enough, it was. That’s what I’d say.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Melinda.”
“You’re thinking it was done here?”
“I don’t know where it was done.”
She cupped her chin in one hand, fingers rubbing her right eye, and regarded me with her left. “If it was done here, then it could have been done anywhere in the state. Anywhere that’s connected to the same data system that we are. We don’t even use location codes anymore. We used to, but not now. If it was done here in Posadas, then it was done by either me or Connie. We’re the only ones who work in the office.”
“Or someone who slipped in after hours.”
“That’s not likely. One of us would have to let them in. And besides”—she turned and looked at the two computers—“this would be tough if you didn’t have the training. All the time is logged, things like that. And the preformatted forms that we feed into the printer can be a real pain if you’re not experienced.”
“So how could it happen?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”
“Can you pull up information on Matthew for us?”
“I
can
,” Melinda said, sounding as if she wanted to add, “but I won’t.”
“I’d be interested to see what comes up,” I said. “Especially about his birth date.”
The computer was running, and Melinda circled around the desk and settled into her chair that faced the computer screen.
“Do you leave these running all weekend?” I asked.
“No,” she answered. “I booted up just a few minutes ago because I knew you’d want to see something.” She grinned at the
two of us. “What’s to see at a MVD office other than the computers?” Carefully, she placed the license next to the keyboard, and then said, “Let’s see what the number brings up.”
In a moment, she frowned. “It brings up nothing. Well, it’s voided. That’s not nothing.”
“Meaning…”
Melinda leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can void whatever you’re working on, anytime in the process.”
“Okay. Could someone make a license out of parts?”
“Out of parts?”
“Sure. Take the picture, fabricate the right numbers, put it through the laminator?”
“No. See—”and she leaned forward and pointed at the gadget that took the license photos—“that used to be separate, years ago. Now everything is linked together. The camera takes a photo when the computer tells it to, and the image goes right into the processor. Everything comes together as a package. It’s all digital.” She meshed her fingers together. “I don’t know of any way to make the different parts of the process work independently.”
“You couldn’t just take my picture now, and not do anything else, you mean?”
“No. I couldn’t do that.” She frowned and then said with considerable feeling, “Shit.” She handed me the license but didn’t elaborate on her comment.
“How can I make this?” I asked.
“Well, it’s no problem to type in bogus information,” Melinda said. “That’s not hard to do. We’re supposed to ask to see various things, and there’s some tick-offs, but…” She shrugged. “Like so many things, who’s to know most of the time? I mean, we used to hand-score the drivers’ tests, remember that? Santa Fe changed that so the tests are all automatically machine-scored, and the information goes right into the computer.”
“But there’s nothing to prevent you from giving the correct answers, is there,” I asked. “Whisper over someone’s shoulder.”
“No, of course not. Just the memory of that incident a few years ago when two MVD clerks got themselves led out of the office in handcuffs.”
I leaned back and nodded at the small sign taped to the front panel of the counter. “And it says here that they have to present proof of insurance to obtain or renew a registration. You could just let that slide, too, right?”
“Sure. And like most things, no one would be the wiser until something happened.”
“So back to the original question. How do I make one of these?”
She leaned back again and surveyed her machinery. Her cheeks moved as if she were puffing a silent tune while she thought, and then she closed her eyes, head moving this way and that. I glanced over at Estelle. Her black eyebrows lifted a fraction in acknowledgment, even though she didn’t take her eyes off Melinda.
“The easiest way is just to process it, just like normal,” Melinda said. “This birth date is fake, that’s for sure. But there’s no big bell or whistle that goes off if you type in the wrong date. The customer is supposed to have proof of age the first time he applies for a license, and after that, the D.O.B. is in the system. It’s automatic. Here, let me bring this up.” She rapped keys and the screen blinked, and eventually Matthew Baca’s operator’s license information appeared.
“Here’s his D.O.B., right there.” She highlighted the numbers. “Twelve thirteen, 1982.” She twisted in her chair to look at me. “And if my math is correct, that would make him nineteen next month.”
“And that’s what he was?”
“Yes. Last night, Mama and I were talking about him. Mama remembers birthdays just as good as this thing.” She nodded at the computer. “They agree. It’s written in the family Bible that she keeps too, so I know this is right.”