Double Prey (20 page)
“We’ll find it, sir.” She reached across and turned the tape recorder slightly, as if Miles Waddell needed to be reminded of its presence. “How is it that you didn’t inquire about Mr. Johns when he didn’t turn up again? You’ve known him for how long?”
“Off and on for maybe twenty years. Knew him when he was a detective over in Grant County…even before that.” Waddell shrugged. “I don’t know, sheriff.”
“You didn’t try to call him? You didn’t wonder when he never showed his face around the ranch? Never saw him at the Broken Spur?”
Waddell studied his fingernails. “Time slips by, I guess.” That sounded lame, and Waddell obviously knew it. “Look…you ever had an acquaintance that you’d just as soon see vanish off the face of the earth one day? Me and Herb Torrance used to joke about Eddie now and then. ‘Surprised nobody’s shot that son-of-a-bitch,’ Herb used to say. If this was the 1880s, Eddie Johns would be the sort of bully who’d end up face down in some muddy street.” He shrugged again. “So maybe I didn’t care that he went missing. Didn’t think about it too much. Hate to say it, but that’s the way it is.”
“What was Eddie driving the last time you saw him, sir?”
The question caught Waddell by surprise, and his face went blank. “Driving?” He frowned and stared at the floor. “A nice rig, that’s what he always drove.” He looked up quickly. “Ford three-quarter ton. Diesel. I remember that, for sure. He’d never shut the damn thing off. Seemed to think that was the thing with diesels. Have to let ’em run. I could never figure that one out. A black Ford.”
“That’s what he took to the mesa top?”
Waddell nodded. “Without a scratch. He was a hell of a driver, I’ll give him that. I’d ride with him anywhere.”
“Regular cab?”
“Crew cab. Big as a ship.”
“Camper shell or anything like that?”
“Nope.”
“Texas plates the last time you saw him?”
Waddell smiled. “Maybe so. Maybe not. I couldn’t swear to it. Never paid attention.” He heaved a sigh. “You know what I figured all along? God’s honest truth? I figured Eddie got crosswise with some of those folks south of the border. I figured his bones were bleaching out in the Mexican desert somewhere. And you know, that’s probably where his truck ended up, too.”
“He certainly got crosswise with someone, sir,” Estelle said.
The undersheriff could hear Miles Waddell’s boots rapping on the polished tile as he walked out past the dispatch island, and then he paused. A warbling voice greeted him, but the conversation didn’t last long.
A moment later, County Manager Leona Speers appeared in Estelle’s office doorway. She had changed her clothes too, favoring this time an enormous, shapeless, violet muumuu that featured an endless world of grape vines twining here and there, full of creatures and fruit. The muumuu meant that even though she might be in the building that Sunday afternoon, she was off the county’s clock.
“My dear,” she said dramatically, “have you
by any chance
noticed the time in the past few moments? Or even the day of the week?”
Estelle smiled and did so, startled to see 6:39. “¡
Ay, caramba
! she groaned. She pushed back from the desk. “You look ready to do the town, Leona.”
“Oh…rest assured, I am, I am.” She put one hand behind her head and the other on her hip, pivoting a quarter turn. “What if I take you out to dinner?”
“I’d love that, but…”
“Oh, but, but.” Leona swished into the office, bringing with her a small cloud of hibiscus perfume. She stopped in front of the calendar by the filing cabinet, looking not at the dates but at the photograph of Sergeant Tom Mears, Mr. September. He was sitting on the huge back tire of his Sportsman race car, helmet resting on his thigh. So relaxed did he appear in the glare of the night lights that it was only on second glance that the viewer would notice his car lying upside down, battered chassis to the stars.
The county manager tapped the page that featured Linda Real’s candid portrait of Mears. “I watched Miss Linda working out there today. She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she is.”
“She and Deputy Pasquale make a lovely couple. Makes me wistful. And you know, Miles Waddell appeared relieved not to be wearing handcuffs. Perhaps I should see if
he’s
free for dinner.”
“That might work, Leona.”
“I become impatient with these confirmed bachelors,” Leona sighed. “Do you think he had a hand in any of this?” Leona let the
this
remain self-explanatory.
“I don’t think so. It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
“Mr. Smooth.”
“He is that.”
“What now? May I ask? I mean other than a shower and nice dinner and some entertainment from your two darling little boys and that gorgeous husband of yours?”
Estelle looked down at her tan pants suit and the coating of dust and grime from the prairie and the cave. Her hair felt heavy, as if dust had seeped under her cap and hardhat. If she patted the top of her skull, she was sure a cloud of powdered cave would billow upward.
“That’s first,” she laughed. “We have inquiries going out in about a dozen directions. By morning, we’ll have something to put together.”
“You have someone working tonight?”
“Sure. Our part-timer is staying central. Everyone else is on call.”
“That would be Kenderman?”
“Yes. He needs the experience.”
“Who’s dispatching with him?”
“Wheeler.” Estelle glanced at Leona, puzzled at the question. The county manager was usually most careful about treading on turf where her authority didn’t extend. As an elected official, Sheriff Robert Torrez didn’t answer to the county manager—and the sheriff’s deputies and staff were under his charge, not the manager’s.
“Will that young man move into one of the vacancies?” Leona frowned. “And that’s assuming I’m successful in twisting money from the commissioners.” The department budget was also Torrez’s province…once the county commission approved it. Without the county manager’s support, the sheriff faced tough times.
“I don’t think so, Leona.”
“May I ask why, even though it is
absolutely
none of my business?”
Estelle took a moment to frame her thoughts. “I use Deputy Kenderman as support and back-up, and occasionally under circumstances like tonight, when we just don’t have the staff. We’ll have state police in the area as well, so he’s not working alone. Beyond that, I don’t think so.”
“He has an attitude, I’ve noticed.”
“On occasion, yes, he does.”
“And on occasion, he seems to favor inventing the law himself.”
“You’ve had dealings with him personally, Leona?”
“Others have whose opinions I trust, my dear.”
“Then if they have complaints, they should come to either the sheriff or to me, Leona. I hope you tell them that.”
“I’m meddling, aren’t I?” The county manager bent and circled an arm around Estelle’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Well, I do suggest that they refer their complaints to you, but you know how gutless some people are. On a happier note, you know the budget workshops loom next week. Will you let me know when we can meet for a few moments?” She drew back, regarding Estelle critically. “About a week of sleep would do wonders for you, but that’s not going to happen, is it.”
“Things will work out.” Estelle did not believe that platitude for an instant. She saw the expression that flitted across Leona’s broad face, and knew the county manager didn’t either.
“We don’t know yet how young Freddy’s death is related to the skeleton, do we?” Leona paused in the office doorway.
“Not yet.”
“But you will, my dear.”
Estelle smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“One has to wonder.” Leona wiggled five fingers as a farewell, leaving behind only the scent of hibiscus.
After another five minutes of fussing, Estelle finally shut down her computer and locked the files. Out in dispatch, Ernie Wheeler’s tall, angular figure was bent over a cabinet drawer, a sheaf of papers on one hand, fingers of the other puzzling through file headings.
“You out of here?” he asked as Estelle appeared.
“I am. I’ll be home.”
“Jackie’s comin’ back on at midnight.” He glanced at the assignment board. “I guess Kenderman can keep himself out of trouble until then.”
“Let us hope so, Ernie. Do your best.”
The village was quiet as she pulled the Crown Victoria out of the parking lot. She looked down Grande Avenue in time to see Sheriff Robert Torrez’s battered Chevy pickup truck, its wrought iron bed and roof rack distinctive, pull out of McArthur and head south. If she had interrupted his solitude to ask, she could predict what he would reply. “Just some thinkin’,” he would say, and let it go at that.
Turning onto Twelfth Street, she saw that solitude wasn’t in the cards for her. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her tired brain had reached a stage of repetitive and unproductive thought, and she welcomed the mob scene that the parking lot in front of her house promised. Irma Sedillos’ Datsun was snuggled into the curb with Bill Gastner’s SUV just behind. Her husband’s new BMW sedan left just enough room in the driveway for her county car.
After backing into her slot, she let the car idle for a moment as she sorted through her mobile office, then reached for the radio as she jotted down a final entry in her log.
“PCS, three ten is ten-forty-two.”
“Ten four, three ten,” Wheeler acknowledged.
Officer at home
. That had a far warmer ring than the sterile ten code, Estelle thought. With briefcase in hand, she slid out of the car, and then stopped, one hand on the door frame. Down the street, George Romero’s Suburban was parked, but Tata’s sedan was gone. The front yard was clear of other machines—not the usual squadron of motorcycles, scooters, powered skateboards, ATVs, or dual-spring, chromed pogo sticks. Estelle gently pushed the cruiser’s door closed. The street was so quiet that the metallic
chunk
of the door seemed an intrusion.
The front door of her own home opened.
“Hey, there,” her husband called. “You okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine. Just slow.” Francis met her at the bottom step, and by the time she reached him, she could smell the aroma wafting from the house.
“You look like you’ve been playing in Carlos’ dirt pit,” the physician said. He engulfed her in a fierce hug. “That’s nice.”
“What’s nice?” she murmured, face buried in his soft polo shirt.
“
Eau de packrat
, ” he laughed, and reached up to ruffle her hair. “Alan told me what you guys were doing.”
“You should probably turn me upside down and shake me.” She pushed him away as he stooped to do that very thing. He ushered her inside, and Carlos appeared from the kitchen holding a colander, several other ingredients of the evening meal smeared on his face.
“Better hurry up,
mamá
, ” he called. “We gots it almost all done.”
“You gots it, all right,
hijo
, ” she replied. In the living room, Bill Gastner sat on the end of the sofa nearest the fireplace and the rocking chair, where Estelle’s mother sat wrapped in a white Afghan.
“You go clean yourself up,” Teresa said as Estelle started to cross the living room. Her voice was as tiny as she was, raspy and cracked, but her black eyes sparkled. She had drawn the Afghan up around her face as if the gentle gas fire beyond her chair produced no heat at all on this mild late summer evening. “
Por Dios
, ” she groused as Estelle bent to kiss her cheek. “Where have you been,
hija
? ” Her aquiline nose wrinkled and she waved an arthritis-clawed hand.
“Doing a little spelunking,” Estelle laughed, and she glanced at Gastner.
“Yeah, I told her some of it.” He raised the can of dark ale to salute her. “I hope you didn’t forget that you invited me for dinner, sweetheart.”
“I had ulterior motives,
Padrino
. But let me get cleaned up a little.”
“
Por favor
, ” Teresa snipped. Nevertheless, her face, as wrinkled as the surface of a walnut, lit with a proud smile.
In the kitchen, Irma and Francisco were working together at the window counter, the pan of lasagna bubbling as it rested on hot pads between them. Now tall enough that he didn’t have to reach up to the counter surface, Francisco was sculpting green chiles on a wooden board. As the boy deftly fashioned each piece of chile, he scooted it toward Irma, who slipped a fork under it and transferred it to the top of the lasagna.
“You have fifteen minutes,” Irma said when she saw Estelle. “Or so,” she amended.
“You’re staying to enjoy all this, aren’t you?”
“If I may. Gary has a game in Artesia today. I’m a football widow.”
“Ah. Well, that’s good for us.” She leaned over her son, resting a hand lightly on his bony shoulder. With the razor sharp knife, he was cutting the slabs of skinned and seeded chile into small rosettes, little green bursts of flavor and aroma that Irma then arranged on top of the lasagna. To her left was a second pan, already decorated.
“This is an experiment,” Francisco explained. “Ten minutes should be just enough to make them curl and crisp just right.” His brown was furrowed with concentration.
“If it doesn’t work, I brought over some hot dogs,” Gastner called from the living room. Francisco ducked his head with pleasure. Estelle squeezed his shoulder.
“You’ve made enough for an army,” she said.
“That one’s for Mr. and Mrs. Romero,” Francisco said without pausing in his work.
“Oh,” she sighed, “They’ll appreciate that,
querido
.” She gave him another quick hug and then turned toward the sink where Carlos, just tall enough to see over the rim, was attacking carrots with the peeler, sculpting the roots into fantastic shapes that only he recognized.
“Will you take us to see the cave sometime?” he asked, pausing in his work.
“I’ll have to think about that,” Estelle replied. “It’s just a dusty hole in the ground,
hijo
. ” That was hardly a deterrent, she knew, since excavating holes in the ground was the little boy’s passion.
She felt grubby and out of place in this center of industrious creation, but five minutes later the blast of hot water from the shower began to pound away the grime and fatigue. For a long moment, she let the stream beat on her forehead and shampooed hair. She was standing thus when she heard the first shout.