Bag Limit (8 page)

“If you’re asking my opinion, I’d prefer that you let it go,” I said.

“The skid marks show that when he finally did slam on his brakes, his right side tires were less than three feet from the white line on the right side of the road. That means that his outboard tires hadn’t even kissed the center line. He never pulled over.”

“I know that. But we see that all the time. Some folks tend to let their cars drift toward what they’re looking at. Anybody who walks along the side of the highway will tell you the same thing. Half the time, oncoming traffic drifts toward the pedestrians as the driver looks their way.”

Schroeder’s gaze drifted up from the legal pad and he regarded me with interest for several seconds. “You think this is your fault, don’t you.”

“It
is
my fault, Counselor.” I shrugged. “I should have had my hand on Baca long before he exited the vehicle, before he started to stand up. I should have been fully blocking the exit route from the vehicle. I wasn’t.”

Schroeder’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Monday morning quarterbacking is easy, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

Schroeder appeared to be doodling concentric circles on his legal pad. “What did the other two kids have to say for themselves?”

“The deputies are talking to them this morning. Toby Gordan has a mouthful of stitches, so we might not get much out of him for a little while.”

“What’s your theory?”

“About?”

“Why the kids spooked,” Schroeder said. “And why every chance he got, the Baca kid tried to take off.”

“For one thing, we’re pretty sure that he had a fake driver’s license. Tommy Portillo—the owner of the convenience store on Grande—saw it, and sold him some beer earlier in the evening. Later on, when he wanted to buy some more at the Broken Spur, Baca was about to pull it out to show the bartender. But Victor Sanchez kicked Matt out of the bar before the deal went through. The gal who was bartending never saw the license.”

“Why would Sanchez kick him out, no questions asked, unless he knew him, and knew how old he really was?” Schroeder said. “He probably borrowed someone else’s license and pasted his own picture over the top of the other. Kids try that all the time, and sometimes it works if the clerk really doesn’t give a shit.”

“Portillo says it was a real license.”

“He has every reason to want to be convinced of that,” the district attorney said. “He knows that if the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board comes down on his head, it’s going to cost him a bundle in fines and lost business. He’s not going to admit to making a mistake. But this is all penny-ante stuff, Sheriff. I’d like to know…”

He stopped in midsentence as the door behind him opened without even a perfunctory knock. I looked up in irritation, but caught my tongue when I saw Gayle Torrez’s face.

“Sir, Bobby just called from Regal requesting another officer. From Baca’s.”

For a moment, my brain refused to register what she meant. “Who’d he send down there?” I said, rising to my feet. “Is he on his way now?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I mean, it’s Bobby. He called from there. Tom Pasquale was in the office, so I sent him. Howard Bishop is up north, but he’s on his way down, too.”

“What now?” Schroeder said, twisting in his chair so he could see Gayle. I knew exactly what he meant. In the seventeen years that Robert Torrez had worked for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, he had never asked for assistance. Not once. Not for bar fights, family quarrels, or rabid dogs. Usually, it was his own hulking figure that arrived, to provide backup for another grateful deputy.

I charged out of the office, and it was only as I was slamming the unmarked car into reverse that I noticed that Dan Schroeder had piled into the passenger side, yanking his seat belt tight.

Chapter Ten

I saw the wink of red lights as Sergeant Howard Bishop approached the corner of Bustos and Grande from the north, skirting around Pershing Park. I accelerated hard, plunging our car out of the county building’s parking lot onto southbound Grande. In another block, Bishop’s unit blew by us as if we were parked.

“Christ,” Schroeder muttered and grabbed the padded dash. Bishop drifted the county car into the oncoming lane to pass a couple of panicked tourists whose idea of responding to emergency lights was to jar to a stop in the middle of the street. I passed on the right, and then both of us cleared the little knot of traffic and headed southwest on State 56.

“Find out where three oh six is,” I snapped, and Schroeder fumbled the mike out of its bracket.

It had been twenty-one years since he’d left the state police for law school, but he managed to clear the mental cobwebs.

“Three oh six, three ten. Ten-twenty.”

We waited for half a dozen heartbeats and then I heard Tom Pasquale’s tense voice. “Three oh six is coming up on Moore.”

There was no way to wave a magic wand that would vaporize the miles. Regal was twenty-six miles southwest from the intersection of Grande and State 56 at the outskirts of Posadas, and even at a hundred miles an hour that was a long sixteen minutes.

I could picture several scenarios in Regal, none of which would take sixteen minutes to play out. I reached over and took the mike from Schroeder. “Three oh eight, do you copy?”

Silence followed, but all that meant was that Torrez wasn’t standing beside his car, or within reach of a radio. We were all more apt to use the cellular phones if we had the time, keeping our business off the public airwaves. I lifted the mike again, but Gayle Torrez’s voice beat me to it.

“Three ten, be advised that three oh eight has requested an ambulance at the residence. They’re on their way.”

I glanced at Schroeder, and then acknowledged the message. “Gayle, contact any Border Patrol or state police that might be in the immediate area.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” the district attorney said when I was finished, and pulled his seat belt tighter.

From the pass through the San Cristóbals twelve minutes later, we could look down at the tiny village of Regal, and off to the south I could see the ruler-straight line that was the international border fence. The border crossing was open, and if an agent was available, he’d be only seconds away from Torrez’s location.

As we came down off the pass, a thin veil hung over Regal, a haze that was equal parts fragrant wood smoke and dust kicked up by traffic on the narrow, winding dirt lanes. The dust plumes led right to Sosimo Baca’s scruffy little adobe on the west side of the village.

When I had arrived at Sosimo Baca’s place the night before, there had been room for another vehicle to pass by on the dirt lane if I parked carefully, snugged in close to the fence. Now the west side of Regal was a goddamn parking lot, beginning just after “porch corner,” where the road nicked around someone’s front porch so close that over the years the corner column had collected a fair sample of automotive paint chips.

“This is going to be a mess,” Schroeder muttered.

I saw flashing red lights off to the left, where Tom Pasquale had taken a shortcut through first a backyard and then across a shallow arroyo, sliding his Bronco to a stop by a collection of rotten poles and sticks that might once have been Sosimo Baca’s back fence.

Weaving and dodging fenders, we managed another fifty yards before the road was corked by a fancy diesel pickup truck, last in line behind several other vehicles. Two men stood by the pickup’s front bumper, in animated discussion. Beyond the truck and a row of seven other vehicles including one with the green and white U.S. Border Patrol logo, I could see Sergeant Bishop’s patrol car. He had managed to skirt off to the right through a neighbor’s side yard, narrowly missing a chain-link enclosure that housed a pair of frantic yellow mutts. A board fence had stopped him within a dozen yards of Torrez’s Expedition, parked with its nose just east of Baca’s gate.

“We know it’s not a wedding,” Schroeder said. He braced his hands against the dash as I bounced the car over a hump of bunchgrass and a low rock border garden to the right. The dogs went nuts as I pulled past their enclosure, and I parked beside Bishop’s car.

One of the men who had been holding up the front of the Dodge pickup hustled toward us, as if I’d arrived with just the information he needed. “Hey, Sheriff,” he called, and I recognized Steve Parker, a county highway department foreman.

“The first thing you can do,” I barked before he had a chance to ask his question, “is to get all those goddamn vehicles out of the road so we can do our job. And no, I don’t know what the hell is going on.” Apparently that answered whatever question he had, because he stopped short.

Baca’s tiny front yard was a mass of people. If it had been the church, I’d have guessed that they were waiting for the bride and groom to come out. Then they would let fly with the rice. I picked what looked like the easiest route toward the front gate and then the passage across the dirt yard to the front door. That door was wide open—with the incomprehensible din of rapid-fire Spanish. The flow of people was outward from the house, though, and that’s what was causing the ruckus.

As we went through the front yard gate, Deputy Thomas Pasquale appeared from inside the house with his nightstick held in both hands like a bumper, herding a knot of jabbering sightseers out of the house. Schroeder and I stood to one side as the deputy escorted six people, every one of whom was talking a mile a minute, across the front yard toward us.

I held the little rickety gate as they passed through. Three I recognized by name. The others were only familiar faces I’d seen many times but never formally met. The largest and noisiest of the group was Clorinda Baca, Sosimo’s older sister. She was proving that she could talk louder and faster than her niece, Mary Silva, or Mary’s sister, Sabrina Torrez.

“We got here as quick as we could,” Pasquale said to me, “but it’s a mess.” I wasn’t sure to what he was referring, but unless the gathered herds were corralled and controlled, any evidence there might have been would be stamped to dust, regardless of what had happened to spark the crisis.

No doubt irritated that the deputy wasn’t paying any attention to her, Clorinda latched on to my forearm and directed her torrent of words at me, never bothering to switch languages so that I might understand.

I pried myself loose and held up a hand, shaking my head. “Not now, Ms. Baca,” I snapped. Off to the left, Scott Gutierrez appeared, his dark green Border Patrol uniform looking as if he’d been lying on his back under a car. He spun a large roll of yellow crime-scene tape across the side yard, looped it around a sagging juniper post at the corner, and headed across the front of the yard toward us.

“Where’s Torrez?” Schroeder asked, and Pasquale ducked his head toward the rear of the house.

“Backyard,” he said. “He wants the place cleared out to the road, no one inside.”

In another five minutes, without knowing anything about events that may have transpired, we had established a semblance of order with most of Regal’s population outside the yellow ribbon. Ten people wanted to talk to me at once, but I ignored them and entered the house, stopping just inside the door to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Nothing had changed in those few hours since I’d found Matt Baca asleep on the old sofa.

Bob Torrez appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, and he ducked to avoid cracking his skull on the low, narrow archway.

“Sosimo Baca’s out back. He’s dead,” Torrez said cryptically, and beckoned Schroeder and me to follow. The kitchen would never grace the pages of
House Beautiful
magazine. A dingy little room, it had stopped looking fresh and appealing sometime around 1937.

A white drop-leaf table stood in the center of the kitchen floor with four chairs neatly placed. That was the extent of any order. The old round-topped refrigerator graced a dusty corner under a two-door cabinet that had been first painted yellow, and then, probably years later, layered with not quite enough gloss white to hide the previous color. The door of the fridge, dented, scarred, and stained, stood ajar a couple of inches.

Several meals’ worth of dishes waited beside and in the old cast-iron sink, and underneath, jammed between the two-by-four sink supports, sat an incongruously bright and cheerful blue plastic trash can.

“Be careful,” Torrez said when he saw Schroeder beginning to drift toward the back door. The door swung inward, and was unlatched. Torrez toed it open with his boot. The upper glass door pane had been broken long ago and then repaired with cardboard and tape, the whole affair painted white to match the frame. The lower pane had been shattered outward, leaving long, ragged shards projecting from the glazing. The screen door, dilapidated to begin with, had been flung open so hard that the frame split and sagged against the side of the house, held in place by remnants of torn screen. The recoil spring hung limply along the doorjamb, a chunk of wood still attached to the eye hook that had pulled free.

“A little ruckus, it looks like,” I said, taking a careful step through the broken glass. Two concrete blocks served as a none-too-steady step to the backyard. A dozen paces beyond the house, its bright, shiny black stark against the bare earth, lay a plastic tarp.

“Sosimo?” I asked.

Torrez nodded. “We’ve got some clear shoe prints, so stay well over to the side.”

I took a step or two toward the tarp and then stopped, turning back to look at the house. I could see a knot of people who had drifted along the fence to the east so that they could see past the building, hoping for a glimpse of something. “What about the two girls? Where are they?”

For a moment, the undersheriff looked as if he hadn’t heard me, but then he said, “Josie was here earlier this morning. Father Anselmo was still here. Clorinda and a couple of others were too.” He saw the blank look on Schroeder’s face and added, “Josie is Sosimo’s wife. Clorinda says that Josie came and got the two girls. Maybe around seven-thirty or so.”

“She wasn’t living here? The wife?” Schroeder asked.

“No. She hasn’t been for almost two years now.”

“They were divorced?”

“No.”

“And who’s this Clorinda person?”

“My aunt. She’s Sosimo’s older sister.”

“Married?”

“Nope.”

“Terrific,” Schroeder said. “So the ruckus was with her? The wife? Ex-wife? Whatever she is?” I looked back at the shattered screen door, trying to picture what might have happened.

“We don’t know that,” Torrez said. “But the way the relatives were piling in here, I thought I’d better get some help…before everything was trampled.”

I sighed and regarded the tarp. The lump under it didn’t look big enough to be the man who’d been sitting in the passenger seat of my car less than twelve hours before.

Torrez bent down and peeled the plastic tarp away. Sosimo Baca was lying on his face, right knee drawn up and his arms under his body as if he’d been crawling and then collapsed. His eyes were open wide, staring at the dirt.

“Is Perrone on the way?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any ideas about what killed him?” I asked.

“Doesn’t look to be any wound that I can see,” the undersheriff said. He knelt down and gently touched what he could see of Sosimo’s left hand.

“Christ,” Schroeder said. “So he could just as easily have had a heart attack, or stroke, or something.”

“That’s possible,” Torrez said, and rose to his feet. “Dr. Perrone will tell us for sure. But I don’t think all that damage to the kitchen door is consistent with him having a heart attack.”

“Why not?” Schroeder said. “He panics, tries to go out the door. If he was off balance, he could ram his elbow through the glass as easy as not. Just his weight against that flimsy screen would do some damage.”

I looked at Torrez. His expression was skeptical. “What time did you arrive?” I asked.

He glanced at his watch. “A little after nine. Maybe a minute or two. The ladies were here at that time.”

I frowned. “The ladies? You mean Clorinda and…” My brain drew a blank. “The sisters? Your cousins?”

“Yes.”

“So when you arrived, and the women were already here, Josie and the girls were gone, and Sosimo was lying out here?”

“And who found the body?” Dan Schroeder asked before Torrez had a chance to answer.

“One of the neighbor kids, sir. She and her mother are sitting in the backseat of my car at the moment.”

I looked at Torrez incredulously. “How did that happen? And I glanced at your vehicle when we drove in. I didn’t see anybody.”

“I’m sure they’re making themselves very small, sir.”

Schroeder thrust his hands in his pockets and frowned with exasperation. “So what the hell do they say happened?”

The undersheriff took a deep breath and held it as he regarded the corpse of his dead uncle. “Josie and the girls left here about seven-thirty. The neighbor girl didn’t know that the girls were gone. She didn’t know about Matthew yet, or any of the events the night before.”

He turned and gestured off to the west. “She lives down this lane a ways, in that little stone house right below the water tank. She wouldn’t have heard anything if there was a ruckus. She says that she came over around eight, maybe eight-thirty, to play with the two Baca kids. She walked right in without knocking, which is what she usually does.”

“In a village like this,” Schroeder said, “she probably lives over here half the time anyway.”

Torrez nodded. “She said that no one appeared to be home-at least she didn’t hear anything. She came into the kitchen, happened to glance out the window by the sink, and then saw Sosimo’s body lying in the dirt outside. She ran home and told her mother. The mother’s first reaction was that Sosimo had blind-staggered drunk into something.”

“And the mother obviously didn’t call the police, since dispatch in Posadas didn’t know anything about all this when you responded,” Schroeder said.