Bag Limit (19 page)
The undersheriff’s door was open, two doors downstream from my office and immediately across from the dispatcher’s island. One might have assumed that someone of Robert Torrez’s size would have sought out an office to match, a place where he could stretch out. Instead, he wore the room like a polished, tight military boot.
Small to begin with, the oddly shaped office featured one corner lopped off at an angle to accommodate ductwork for our recently updated heating and cooling system. Torrez had skewed his large metal desk so that the light coming in from the single tall, narrow window wouldn’t blanket the screens of his two computers with reflections. That desk, along with two filing cabinets and two chairs, didn’t leave room for amenities.
I stood in the doorway and regarded Torrez. He was leaning back in his swivel chair, one black boot on the corner of his desk, the other flat on the floor. One hand was poised over the keyboard of the nearest IBM, the other balled into a fist under his chin.
His dark brown eyes shifted to look at me. Other than that he didn’t move a muscle. His brow was locked in a frown, and after a long moment—during which I wasn’t able to tell if he was angry, tired, or just plain frustrated—he puffed out his cheeks and then slowly exhaled.
“That bad, eh?” I said. I hadn’t expected to hear a dissertation from Robert Torrez, but a simple “good morning” would have been nice.
Torrez nodded and his eyes flicked back to the computer. He jabbed at the keyboard with his index finger, swung his leg off the desk, and let the chair slam forward. If he hadn’t had an elbow on the desk, he would have fallen on his face.
I reached out a hand for the door. “You want this closed?”
He shook his head, then stood up, still leaning on the desk with one hand. “Coffee or something?”
“I’ll wait for breakfast,” I replied. “My treat.”
Torrez grimaced. “I don’t feel much like eating right now, thanks.”
“That’s bad, Roberto,” I said, although it was an accomplishment of sorts to have goaded him into a complete sentence.
“Uh-huh.” He sat back down, and I unloaded a stack of newspapers from one of the leather-bottomed chairs. He waved a hand at the top of one of the filing cabinets, and I thumped the newspapers there.
“So…explain why I’m paying you so much overtime,” I said.
“Don’t I wish,” Torrez replied.
I tried to squirm myself comfortable in the straight chair, and gave up. I held up both hands, waiting for an answer.
He nodded, leaned back again, and clasped his hands over his belly. “That license that Matt had? The one we found under the seat of the unit?” He stopped there.
“Pasquale’s triumph. Any ideas yet about where Matt dug that up?” I asked, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than a synapse or two fired inside my brain, faces snapped into place, and I knew exactly what was troubling the undersheriff.
“Your sister Melinda works in the Motor Vehicles Division office. She and Connie French. Melinda is the office manager, if my memory serves.” Torrez nodded ever so slightly, watching me, no doubt waiting to see what conclusions I had reached. After a moment he opened his desk drawer and pulled out the plastic evidence bag that contained the driver’s license.
“It’s the real thing, sir.”
For a moment I misunderstood. “I thought you said that Matt…”
“No.” He cut me off. “The dates are fake. Other than that, the license is real. It’s not made-up.”
“You mean it’s not something that was just pasted together out of bits and pieces, and then maybe run through a plastic laminator at school or something,” I said.
Torrez nodded. “I think that was issued by some MVD office. By one of their machines. It’s got the seals, the holograms or whatever you call ’em, the whole bit. As far as I can tell, it hasn’t been tampered with. It’s not something that somebody would just hack together with a home computer.”
“But we don’t know which office issued this, do we. They don’t put the office location code on them anymore.” I twisted the license this way and that, looking for its secrets. Both of us were silent for a bit, and then I looked up at Torrez. I saw the dark shadows under his eyes and knew why he wasn’t home snug in his bed.
“What does Melinda say?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it.”
“Are you going to? And you know—she’s not the only one in that office, Roberto. Like I said, Connie what’s-her-name works there too. Scott Gutierrez’s sister.”
A flicker of irritation surfaced and was as quickly hidden. “Yes, sir. Connie French. I don’t think so.”
“I know that we automatically think the worst, but in point of fact, there would be nothing to prevent Matthew from driving to Deming or Lordsburg or even Albuquerque for a license,” I said. “Anywhere in the state where there’s a field office. But…”
“But what?”
“I’m sure you remember the incident a couple of years ago where some MVD clerks got in trouble for making fake IDs. The state cracked down on that, and with the computerized systems, it’s not as easy as it was. I think it would be tough to find a clerk now who’d just take a kid’s word for his age, and run him through the licensing process just on his say-so.”
“There’s too much risk,” Torrez said. “And with a kid like Matt, there would be no big money involved.”
“Exactly.”
He fell silent again, brooding at the computer screen.
“It’d be easier if he knew somebody in the office,” I said. “Obviously, it’d be a lot easier.” Torrez didn’t respond. We both knew that one step better than knowing someone in the office was having a blood relative there. Matthew Baca was first cousin to the Torrez clan, with the undersheriff and his younger sister right on top of the list.
“What have you got there?” I prompted, nodding at the computer.
“I was trying to pull up something about the MVD,” he said. “I don’t even know what I want.” He poked at the keyboard. “Or where to start.”
“You need your own personal hacker.” I laughed. “And don’t look at me. Your wife always bails me out with the complicated stuff. Like how to turn the damn thing on.” The corners of the Torrez’s mouth didn’t even twitch. He was in no mood for humor.
He looked up at the small wall clock above the filing cabinets. “She’ll be in at seven-thirty,”
“Did you mention any of this to Gayle yet?”
He nodded slowly, rocking his head for about ten oscillations as if he didn’t have the energy to stop the motion once started.
“And she said…” I added, feeling like a dentist trying to extract an impacted wisdom tooth.
“She doesn’t think either Miranda or Connie are involved.”
I had known Gayle when she’d been Gayle Sedillos in high school. I’d hired her the summer of her senior year as a clerk trainee and on the first day knew I had a rare one in my charge. If Deputy Bob Torrez had noticed the almost exotically attractive teenager that first day, he hadn’t let anyone know it. It had taken eight years for their relationship to grow deep enough for him to pop the question. Gayle had been a study in patience.
As much as she loved her husband, I couldn’t picture Gayle Torrez avoiding the truth about a Torrez relative just to save her husband some pain.
Torrez twisted away from the computer, dropped his hands in his lap, and regarded me. “I just don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what bothers me,” I said. Torrez raised an eyebrow. “Your cousin was scared of you. Do you know that?”
He nodded. “We’ve had our encounters. He knew that if I caught him, I’d take care of him first. And then it’s the rest of the family’s turn.”
“So there you go,” I said. “Can you imagine Matt Baca doing something so foolish as tricking a fake license out of the local office, and running the risk of having you find out?”
Torrez rested his chin on his fist again. “Sure,” he said. “It’s called ‘rubbing my nose in it.’”
“Meaning?”
“His nickname for me is Big Bad Bob.”
I laughed. “Not to your face, I don’t imagine.”
“Oh, yes. He thinks…thought…that he could run faster than me.”
“So you think that he’d pull something like this, just to tweak you?”
“What better time to do that than when Triple B is running for office. Hell, why not. Pull this shit right under my nose. He was a clever kid.”
“Almost clever enough,” I said. “Almost. Look.” I leaned forward and held out a hand as if to stop Robert from doing something rash. He hadn’t moved. “Look. How about if I talk with Melinda? Hell, I’ve known her just as long as I’ve known you. She’s covered for me on more than one occasion when I’ve forgotten to renew my license. Let me talk to her.”
Bob looked skeptical and I pushed ahead. “Really. I’ve got an idea that I think might work out. And the news isn’t all good, Roberto. If your sister’s involved…” I paused and watched the flicker of emotion on Torrez’s dark face. “If she’s hiding something, I think that I’ll be able to tell. We’re going to have to move and move quickly. But it’d be easier if I did it.”
He shook his head. “I think it’s something I need to do, sir.”
“Bullshit, my friend. For one thing, when it’s family like this, it’s ten times as hard, election year or not. And no matter how hard you try to be impartial, you’ll have a set of family blinders on.” Torrez’s frown deepened.
“And I’ve been thinking about something else. The inscrutable one will be here later today.” Torrez knew exactly who I meant, and his expression turned guarded. “You know that while she’s here, Estelle doesn’t intend to sit on my back patio and knit—even if she could find the patio for all the weeds. The gals know each other really well. I think that if I go and talk with Melinda, and Estelle is along, we’ll know the truth by the time we’re done.”
“Melinda’s not even in town right now.”
“She’s not?” My stomach sank.
“No. She’ll be back on Monday afternoon sometime. Becky and Melinda and one of their cousins went to Albuquerque this afternoon. A weekend of doing malls or some damn thing.” He grinned. “I told ’em that if they weren’t back in time to vote, and if I lost…” He let the rest of the implied threat against his two sisters and their cousin dangle. And then his face lost all its brief humor. “And the double funeral for Matt and Uncle Sosimo is Monday afternoon at five. They have to be back for that.”
“The MVD office is open Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, right?” He nodded. “Then first thing Tuesday morning, before the herds arrive to take a number, Estelle and I will have a chat with Melinda.”
“And say what?”
“For one thing, I want to ask her how a clerk would go about making a fake license like that one,” and I jabbed the plastic bag with my forefinger. “We need to know that, regardless of what office is involved.”
Torrez’s eyes narrowed as he continued to assess what I was offering.
“If Melinda had nothing to do with this, I think it’ll be obvious. And I’ll have Estelle’s judgment to back me up.”
“Okay,” Torrez said. “Actually, that will work, because Melinda will be by herself on Tuesday. Connie French won’t be there. She’s taking a couple of days off to do some hunting.”
“With her stepdad and brother,” I said. “That’s what Scott told me earlier.”
“And that’s the other thing,” Torrez said. He took a deep breath, as if he needed to wind himself up like a friction motor to launch into the next explanation. “Now I keep asking myself these questions. First of all, Scott and Bergmann arrived on the scene when Matthew kicked out the car window. Fair enough. I checked with the Border Patrol district office, and Bergmann did just join this region, and a tour wouldn’t be unusual—although why at night I don’t know, except that’s the shift that Bergmann had been assigned to.”
He tapped his second finger. “Scott is in the area first thing Saturday morning. In fact, he was the first officer who responded to my call from the Baca house. He was quality assistance, too. He stayed around until we’d cleared the scene. And”—he tapped his third finger—“despite the fact that it wasn’t his case, and that he had no connection to it other than as courtesy backup, he stayed in the area most of Saturday. He was in the area and responded to the fracas at the Broken Spur when you took Dale Torrance into custody.”
“So he’s around a lot. That’s his job, Robert.”
“And he went on leave sometime Saturday.”
“That’s what he says.”
“He can’t sleep, so he’s prowling around Regal half the night, and according to Archie Sisneros, was actually inside the Baca house. I have to ask myself…looking for what?” He reached over and tapped the license. “This, maybe?”
“I mentioned to Scott that we’d recovered it, by the way. That might not have been too smart.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He was surprised.”
“I bet he was.” He hooked his little finger. “What about this. Suppose that his sister issued that license to Matthew Baca. Not my sister at all. Maybe Melinda didn’t even know anything about it. Connie French issues it, either as a favor, or for some bucks, or because she’s got a crush on Matthew. I don’t know if she did or didn’t, but anything is possible with that kid. If Scott Gutierrez found out about what was going on, he might try to protect his sister.”
“Maybe.”
Torrez frowned. “During the course of the investigation, he would have certainly heard someone in the department talking about a faked ID, about the interviews with Tommy Portillo at the convenience store, maybe even about Matthew’s attempt to buy booze at the Broken Spur. There’s lots of talk, and Scott would have heard.”
“It’s possible. And that might explain why he was inside the house tonight. He was looking for that license. And after I told him that we had it in evidence, he left Regal.” I spread my hands wide. “Not in a rush, but he gave up his vigil at the church.”
“I don’t know,” Torrez mused. “What doesn’t sit too easy with me is that there are other explanations, too.”
I knew what he was thinking and remained silent, letting him sort out in his own mind how he wanted to approach the next step.
“I don’t think that my sister would have issued the license,” he said after a moment. “But there’s that possibility, isn’t there?”
“I suppose there is. But I agree with you—it’s unlikely.” The undersheriff didn’t ask me
why
I thought it might be unlikely, and I would have been hard-pressed for an answer other than my high opinion of the Torrez family in general, and my regard for the pleasant young lady whom I saw regularly.
