Bag Limit (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

I drove home just as the sun was cracking the horizon. We’d be first in line to sample Sunday breakfast at the Don Juan if I could pry my son and grandson out of the sack. I opened the front door and stopped short as an assault of aromas flooded out of the old house.

The place was accustomed to the fragrance of fresh coffee at any hour of the day or night—that was the staple fuel that kept my system going. But I didn’t cook, despite the pleas from my housekeeper. Every once in a while she’d leave something, usually a casserole of some sort, neatly packaged on my kitchen counter in the vain hope that I’d hack out a piece and nuke it for a snack.

What she didn’t realize, in her own sweet, innocent way, was that sitting alone at my kitchen counter to eat a meal was the most dismal way I could imagine to spend my time. I saw enough of myself during the day without wallowing in me at mealtimes. I liked to eat on someone else’s dishes, with the food served bubbling hot by someone else—and that someone else preferably wearing a nice smile with no personal complications that I was expected to solve.

And so the aroma of breakfast in my own home jolted me to a halt. Coffee, bacon, a host of other things. I advanced cautiously, because I could see Buddy sitting in my large leather recliner in the living room, reading a section of the Albuquerque Sunday paper. That meant someone else was tending the burners, and the only other someone else in the house was my grandson.

Buddy looked up, saw me, and grinned. “Hey there.”

“Good morning,” I said. “I was going to take you out to breakfast, but it smells like someone beat me to it.” Tadd stuck his head around the corner.

“Neat,” he said. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“Do you have time to eat?”

“I certainly do.” I walked into the kitchen, thrust my hands in my pockets, and surveyed the battleground. “And by the way, I don’t think that works.” I nodded at the old electric waffle iron sitting on the counter. The single idiot light that indicated preheat was dark, and I stepped over to it. From several steps away, I could feel the hot cast iron.

“I think it’s ready,” Tadd said, and opened the top. “One of the wires came off the contact in back,” he said. “I stuck it back on. It works fine.”

“It looks like my timing is impeccable,” I said, leaning over so that I could see the wires where they vanished into the chrome housing at the back of the waffle iron. “Where did you come by this interest?” I straightened up and moved to one side, watching as Tadd ladled the waffle batter onto the iron’s steaming surface.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with typical teenage vagueness.

“Tell him about Mrs. Hooper,” Buddy said from the living room.

“Well, yeah, her,” Tadd said, and closed the cover of the waffle iron. “She teaches home ec and foods and stuff. I took Foods I and II, and this year, I’m working in the Hospitality Suite.”

“And what’s that?”

He shrugged. “The school restaurant. We serve lunch three days a week. It’s kind of a big deal. Cloth napkins, fancy silverware, waiters and waitresses and stuff. The whole bit. It’s a fund-raiser, too. Most of the faculty eat there. A lot of people from town, too.”

I watched the kid move around my kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life. I calculated backward and decided this was the third time Tadd had set foot in my house. The first time, he’d been on all fours as his principle mode of locomotion, and during his second visit, he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.

“You can eat eggs, can’t you?” he asked, pausing in midstride from counter to refrigerator.

“I don’t have any,” I said, but he opened the door and took out a carton anyway.

“We did a little shopping,” Buddy said.

“I guess you did. And yes, I can and do eat eggs. And waffles. And anything else you know how to make.”

The breakfast progressed from there, served with perfect timing and a flair for presentation—green chile, cheese, and onion omelets, waffles and all the trimmings, along with what looked like a full pound of perfectly done bacon. He even knew how to con the drip machine into making hot, rich black coffee.

I did more than sample, too. I practically ate myself into a stupor, which amused and pleased my grandson no end. Finally, I put my fork down and leaned back, savoring a comforting sip of coffee.

“Amazing,” I said to Tadd. “And thank you.”

Buddy grinned. “We thought we’d keep him,” he said.

“Are you planning on doing this for a living?” I asked.

“Errrrr,”
the kid imitated a game-show penalty buzzer. “Not.”

“I’m surprised,” I said. “I would have guessed this is where your interests lie.”

Tadd managed an expression that said interests were pretty much classified as a bother, but then reconsidered. “It’s a good way to impress the chicks, though,” he said.

“I suppose it is,” I said.

“I saw this movie once,” he said. “This guy, I forget who it was, made this really elaborate gourmet dinner for this girl he wanted to impress and stuff? I remember thinking at the time, ‘Hey, it’d be neat to know how to do all that.’” He shrugged. “And Mrs. Hooper makes it fun, so…” He pushed his chair back, arose, and returned with the coffeepot.

“Impress the chicks,” I mused as he filled my cup. “Gourmet cooking sure beats stealing cattle.”

“Are you about wound down on that one?” Buddy asked.

“Just about.”

“And the Regal fracas?”

“Far from wound down. We haven’t heard a thing beyond the preliminary autopsy, and haven’t found anything in Baca’s house to give us a lead. What we’re left with is an inconsistency in some statements by the witnesses. That and a puzzle about where the driver’s license came from.” I blew across the coffee. “First things first. I’ve got a woman down in Regal who’s saying a couple of different things, and I thought I’d start with her. Backtrack a little and see what I can find. You want to come along?”

Buddy held up his hands. “We’re going to let you do that on your own, Dad. Tadd and I have a few errands that we need to run after a little bit.” He grinned. “Give folks a chance to get out of bed first.” He twisted and looked at the wall clock. “What time does the Guzman mob roll in?”

“Their plane arrives in El Paso at eleven-fifty. I suppose that puts them here around two or so, all things being equal.”

“That’s perfect,” Buddy said. “We’re going to do some grocery shopping as soon as the supermarket opens.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, I know it’s not. But it’s fun. We were going to see if we could get the grill working. Hell, the two Guzman brats would rather tear around your backyard and eat hot dogs than have to behave themselves out in public.”

“Just finding the grill will be a trick,” I said. “It hasn’t seen the light of day in fifteen years.” I groped in my pocket and pulled out my key ring. “Take my Blazer. It sits in the garage so much it’s starting to mold. You’ll have to move it anyway to get at the grill. Don’t get caught in an avalanche.”

Tadd had started methodically arranging the dishes by the sink, and Buddy caught the bemused expression on my face. “Mrs. Hooper taught them how to clean up
first
,” he said. “That’s what impresses the hell out of me. She deserves a Nobel prize.”

“I’d like to meet this woman,” I said.

“Well,” Buddy said, and pushed himself away from the table, “if you should ever decide to leave Posadas County, that could be arranged.”

“I do leave the county,” I said defensively, and took a final swig of coffee before handing the empty cup to Tadd. “Hell, just last week I was in Deming. And this morning, or yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, I drove through downtown Newton.”

“Positively cosmopolitan,” Buddy said. “Plan on lunch?”

“I’ll try my best,” I said, and turned to Tadd. “You cooking?”

“Yeah,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction, and then, with the odd raised, crooked elbow and three-fingered point of the Hollywood gang-banger amplified by a ridiculous caricature of a Mexican accent, he added, “The man be cookin’.”

“Then I wouldn’t miss it.”

I took a few moments to freshen up. When I left the house, my mood was upbeat. As I turned the car onto south Grande, I found myself still chuckling at my grandson’s comment. “The man be cookin’,” I said aloud, and then realized with a start that it had been a long time since I’d been preoccupied with something other than work.

Chapter Thirty-three

Betty Contreras was stepping out the back door of her home just as I pulled into her driveway shortly before eight that Sunday morning. She carried a wrapped parcel, the right size and shape for a pie.

“Well, good morning to you,” she said brightly and paused on the step.

“Betty, good morning. I need a minute or two of your time. You headed to church?” She nodded. “Is Emilio down there already?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “For sure. He’s been there since about six.”

“Gets the fire going, eh?”

“This time of year it sure feels good,” she agreed. “That big old high ceiling, you know. It’s like a barn.” She turned first to the left and then to the right, as if she were looking for a place to set the pie. “Why don’t we go inside, then,” she said.

The kitchen was warm and perfumed by baked apples. The clock over the refrigerator said Betty had four minutes if Father Anselmo was prompt with the 8:00
AM
mass.

“How about some coffee?” she said, but I shook my head.

“No. You’re busy, and this is a bad time. You’re about to head out the door. I’ll make it quick.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, and slid the heavy pie onto the counter beside the stove. She turned and waved a hand at one of the chairs at the table. “Sit. Sit.”

I did, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “Betty,” I said, watching her smooth, pretty face for some flash of emotion that might clue me into what she was thinking, “I’m confused. Let me spell it out.” I tapped the table with an index finger. “You told me yesterday that you saw a Border Patrol vehicle drive by on the road out front. You said just about eight o’clock in the morning. Saturday morning.”

She frowned and nodded. “I was out back,” she said. “I think I was feeding the cats.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.” I regarded her for a moment, and her face kept the slight frown of puzzlement. But her eyes returned my gaze without flinching. “You told me that you mentioned the vehicle to Scott Gutierrez, and that he said that it was probably him.”

This time, I saw a fine line of crimson creeping up her neck. I continued, “Tony Abeyta said that no such conversation took place while he was here, and that there wasn’t a time when he left Scott Gutierrez alone with you,” I paused, then added, “when such a conversation might have taken place.”

She leaned back against the counter, one hand on each side as if she were preparing to launch herself across the room. “Oh, brother,” she said, muttering the comment in the same tone that she might use with a county resident complaining about receiving the wrong tax notice.

I waited. Finally she released her hold on the counter and turned to the coffeemaker. “Let’s have a fresh cup,” she said, her back turned to me.

“That would be fine,” I said. “No cream, no sugar.” As she rummaged for the filter and the coffee and the spoon, I glanced at the clock. “You don’t mind missing mass?”

She laughed, a small, self-deprecating little puff of amusement. “There’s always ten,” she said. “That old barn will be warm by then.” Her voice took on a bit of an edge. “And I guess it doesn’t matter if I mind or not, Bill.”

When she’d finished prepping the coffee, she returned to the table and sat down at the end, in the chair nearest me. “This is embarrassing,” she said. She was an articulate woman, used to dealing with the public who entered the assessor’s office in all sorts of moods. I knew that she’d find the right gear if I left her alone.

“When I was out feeding the cats,” she said, “a vehicle
did
drive by. And that’s the truth. It was white, and I saw just a flash of green. I suppose that’s what put the Border Patrol in mind. I don’t know what the vehicle was, whether it was a Bronco or Suburban or Expedition, or what. It was one of those big boxy things, though. It could even have been a van. Big and boxy. Of that I’m sure.” She turned and glanced at the coffee-maker as it released a loud gurgle and a puff of steam.

“So you’re not sure that it was a government vehicle?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You didn’t see the driver, or the white government plate?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Number of occupants?”

“Bill, I think…I think…that there were two. But if I had to swear in a court of law, I’d have to say that I wasn’t sure. It seems to me that there were two. That’s as close as I can come.”

“But you didn’t recognize them?”

“No.”

“Did something lead you to believe that it might be a Border Patrol vehicle?”

She hesitated. “A natural assumption, I guess. They drive through here all the time. This street is the major one through this part of the village. If you wanted to drive through most of Regal, you’d end up on Sanchez Road, one way or another.” She nodded toward the front of the house, where Sanchez Road nicked perilously close to their front porch. “And the patch of green against white is what put the Border Patrol in mind, I’m sure. It wasn’t a neighbor’s car.”

She got up and took two coffee cups down from the upper cabinet, two fragile little things with flowers and vines and the sort of tiny handles that are difficult for big fingers.

“You’re sure, absolutely positive, that a vehicle drove by. You’d be able to testify to that in court without a problem?”

She nodded and poured the coffee.

“You could testify that it was white, that it was an SUV, that there was green on it.”

“Yes.”

“If I asked you if you were one hundred percent sure that it was a government vehicle, or a Border Patrol vehicle, you’d have to say no. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct, Sheriff.” She was smiling when she brought the coffee to the table. “Nothing in it, you’re sure?”

“It’s fine, thanks. And I know all this sounds as if I’m holding you over a hot burner, but I have to be sure.”

“I understand all that.”

I watched as she sipped the hot coffee. “How did it happen, Betty? Who’s right?”

“I saw the white vehicle,” she said, enunciating each word carefully, “and it wasn’t the sort of thing that I put any effort into remembering. You know how that goes? But then, after the deputies left—well, Tony and Scott, I mean—I remembered, and I knew that I
should
have mentioned it to them. I didn’t. It was an oversight. I got to thinking about it later, and knew that it might be important. I mean, we’re talking timing here, right?”

“Yes, we’re talking timing.”

“I should have remembered, and I should have mentioned it, and I felt really stupid for not doing so. And then
you
stopped by, and it was a good opportunity. I told you about it. And I made a mistake. Nobody likes to sound stupid. So it was just a manner of speaking, you know? I told you that I had mentioned the car passing by to the boys, and that Scott had said it was probably him. Well, I
didn’t
mention it to them, Bill. I didn’t mention it to them. I should have, obviously. And I
knew
I should have. So I told you, and stupid me—I made it sound as if I’d already remembered to tell the deputies when they were here.”

“Betty, did you tell anyone else, besides me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

I leaned back and looked out the window. I’d only had a sip or two of the coffee, good as it was. She pointed at the cup and I shook my head.

“That car might be important,” Betty said. “That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” I turned my gaze back to her. “Especially if you heard it stop at Baca’s. Or if you heard anything after that.”

“I wish I had,” she said. “The radio here in the kitchen was on, and I was thinking of a jillion other things. Who’s going to notice a car driving by, unless someone tells you in advance that you
should
be noticing? That’s the hard part of being a witness. Tell me beforehand that I should pay attention, and it’s easy.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I said. “One more thing. You told me that it was probably Scott Gutierrez who drove by. Now lots of agents work for the U.S. Border Patrol, and they rotate through here all the time. I could list you half a dozen that the Sheriff’s Department sees on a regular basis. Why did you think it might have been him?”

“I suppose because Scott is the one I see most often, and I know him pretty well, what with his sister working just down the hall from me. He stops in once in a while. I got to thinking about it, and he was the last one I happened to see. His name came to mind first. A good assumption.”

“If there is such a thing,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Scott Gutierrez drive by—and I mean the last time you were
sure
that it was Scott? When maybe you actually waved to him?”

She took a deep breath. “Friday evening,” she said.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m positive, I’m so sure. Emilio was with me. We were both on the front porch. He drove by then. He had someone else in the vehicle, but it was dark, I couldn’t see who it was.” This time her smile was strained. “My
assumption
was that it was another agent. Scott leaned forward when he saw us, though. And he waved.”

“Do you recall what time that was?”

“I’d be guessing,” she said. “Sometime between eight and nine, maybe. No later than nine, certainly. We were only outside for a little bit.”

“Stargazing, or what?”

She laughed. “The coyotes were giving a concert. It sounded so comical, like maybe a whole den of little ones were trying to learn how to howl the proper way. We stepped outside to listen.” Her face brightened. “And yes…I remember the time. We’d watched the first part of
StarTown
, and it was during a commercial break about halfway through. So that makes it sometime between eight-forty and eight-fifty.”

“And you’re sure it was Scott Gutierrez who was driving,” I said.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure. That’s probably why his name popped into my mind the next morning. It made sense to me. So much for trying to be helpful.”

I stood up with a sigh. “I’m sorry to have caught you at a bad time, Betty. But I appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry that I made problems for you,” she said. “It was just one of those things. We sometimes say things without stopping to think.” She smiled tightly. “A little embellishment sometimes sounds so good. At the time.”

I left the Contrerases’ feeling as if all I’d done was slip into deeper, murkier water. Betty had fabricated when she’d first talked to me, trying to make herself sound like a better witness. Hell, that happened all the time…it went with the turf. It was amazing how many witnesses told us what they saw, when in fact they never saw a damn thing. It felt good to tell a colorful story, I guess, to tell an officer what he wanted to hear.

Betty Contreras was unusual. She admitted what she’d done, instead of stubbornly trying to stonewall her mistake. Her years spent keeping track of all those tax numbers helped develop that skill, I was sure.

Scott Gutierrez had told me that he hadn’t driven through Regal Saturday morning, and now Betty’s recollection neither supported nor contradicted him. He hadn’t gone out of his way to tell me that he’d driven through the village on Friday night, either. Perhaps he didn’t consider it important. And maybe it wasn’t. After all, when the lame jokes of the sitcom
StarTown
were airing and the coyote pups were practicing their howling, both Matt Baca and his father were still very much alive.