Double Prey (22 page)
An hour at the Sheriff’s Office in the quiet of early Monday morning was more than adequate to review the depressingly short list of evidence. The bullet fragment in the front tire of the four-wheeler was brass, which meant a jacketed projectile, rather than the pure lead of a .22 rimfire. The Smith and Wesson that Freddy had recovered offered two clear fingerprints that belonged to the young man, along with some smudgy, useless prints, but nothing more. Fingerprints on the magazine and a thumbprint on each cartridge belonged to the gun’s owner, Eddie Johns, matched to a set faxed to their department by Grant County. No longer did they have to depend on Miles Waddell’s opinion for the corpse’s identity. Where Johns had purchased the weapon was still open to question, but Estelle expected no great revelations there.
Sgt. Tom Mears had found an address in Las Cruces that appeared to be the most recent residence for Johns, and had set out for the city before dawn to start the process toward obtaining a warrant. The man’s landlord—if there was one—might have interesting things to say, as might a mortgage holder. That no one had reported Johns missing in the first place didn’t surprise Estelle. Johns wasn’t the sort who would be missed—or at least whose absence would be regretted, except by those to whom he owed money.
The puzzle remained about one boot—the remains found in the cave included remnants of shirt, trousers, and underwear and a sock. Coyotes could account for that, tugging the boots away as playthings, the leather soles offering a pleasant chew.
The single pistol bullet recovered from the cave ceiling was a tentative match with the slug found in the cat’s skull, and the loaded rounds remaining in the Smith and Wesson. The single .40 shell casing, the packrat’s prize, was a certain match with the handgun.
Tires had bent grass near the homestead but little else—enough only for a rough measurement that would fit the track of any modern, full-sized pickup, or even some sedans. Nothing linked those tracks to either the evidence in the cave, or for that matter, to Freddy’s fatal dive. The oil seep that Jackie Taber had found was just that, indicating only that someone had recently parked beside the old homestead.
Recently
, so that the oil hadn’t soaked away. But that was no certain clock.
Shortly before eight that Monday morning, Estelle left the office and drove south on State 56, mulling the added puzzle of the five years that had passed between the deaths of Eddie Johns and Freddy Romero. Freddy’s lie about the cave location was simple enough—he’d found something intriguing, and with a teenager’s confidence that his actions would prompt no consequences, had kept the cave’s location a secret so he could explore further. He’d then found the pistol, and bolted, speeding back toward town. To inform authorities? Probably not. To return better equipped for exploration and recovery? Probably. Had someone chased him off the site? Had someone chased him
toward
another party, lying in wait with a rifle?
The tires of her Crown Victoria thumped across the expansion joints of the Rio Guijarro bridge, and Estelle realized that so preoccupied was she that she had no recollection of the twenty-six miles that had passed. As she braked to turn off the highway, she keyed the mike and checked in with dispatch, but the rest of the county was thankfully quiet.
No patrons were parked in front of the Broken Spur Saloon, but the establishment’s hours were flexible—the bar was open whenever owner Victor Sanchez decided to turn the key—sometimes by seven in the morning to catch the traveling breakfast flock, sometimes by ten. The sign on the front door claimed 8:00
AM
to midnight daily except a sleep-in until 1:00
PM
on Sunday. Victor managed his somewhat casual version of that 107 hour workweek with assistance from his son, Victor Junior, and the mother-daughter team of Mary and Macie Trujillo, who commuted over the pass from Regál each day.
The Trujillos had worked at Victor’s for less than a year, hired after Gus Prescott’s eldest daughter Christine had resigned from bartending to attend college in Las Cruces.
As Estelle pulled into the Broken Spur’s parking lot, she saw the Trujillos’ Jeep nosed in along the east side of the adobe building. Just visible behind the squat saloon was Victor Junior’s aging Dodge Ram Charger. Estelle drove around the rear of the saloon, and saw that Victor’s semi-vintage Cadillac was missing from its usual spot beside the mobile home that teed into the saloon itself.
She parked beside the Jeep. The dash clock read 8:12
AM
, and Estelle made the notation in her log before climbing out of the car. She stood in the blast of morning sunshine for a moment, looking down the highway. The sun would have been at her back on Thursday, when she’d seen the ATV roaring down the highway shoulder. She hadn’t paid any attention at the time. There had been no other traffic that she could remember. If someone had been pursuing Freddy, he wouldn’t have seen the boy turn off the highway, swerving down behind the saloon.
But someone at the saloon
could
have. She turned and surveyed the building. Only the small, frosted restroom window faced east, but someone standing in either the saloon’s front door or the kitchen entrance would have an unobstructed view. The undersheriff closed her eyes, forcing her memory to concentrate, but there had been no reason to pay attention at the time. She’d been preoccupied with paperwork, remembered catching a glimpse of an ATV, and that had been it.
She could
imagine
the agile little machine cutting across the saloon’s parking lot, but she had no clear recollection of it. The ATV
had
to have done that—or disappear into thin air. The ATV and rider would have been momentarily obscured by patrons’ vehicles…a handful of pickups and SUVs, perhaps?
She shook her head with impatience and walked toward the back door. The kitchen door was open, and she rapped on the screen’s frame.
“Hey, in here,” a husky woman’s voice called, and Estelle tipped the door open and stepped inside. Mary Trujillo was standing on a short, three-step ladder, hard at work on the stainless stove hood with bucket and sponge. “Well, how about that,” she said with a broad smile. She stepped down carefully and set the bucket on the floor. “You come for some coffee? Just made a pot.”
“No thanks. How are you doing, Mary?”
“Well, when it comes down to it, I’m just fine. Victor had to go to Cruces, if it’s him you’re looking for.”
“Probably not,” Estelle replied. Victor Sanchez had not built his moderately successful business with pleasant personality. In fact, his foul temper was legendary. Bill Gastner could usually goad the saloonkeeper to civility, and Bobby Torrez could but didn’t bother. Estelle had noticed that on the rare occasions when she’d been in the Broken Spur, Victor had simply ignored her. He had no love of law enforcement, and Estelle respected his reasons.
Mary Trujillo, on the other hand, was a plump, bustling ray of sunshine who managed to avoid Victor’s personal cloud of gloom and grump.
“So, what are you all about this lovely morning?” she asked, and snapped off her rubber gloves. She fetched a coffee mug and held it toward Estelle. “Sure?”
“Really, no thanks. I’m looking for a little information, Mary. I was wondering if you worked last Thursday?”
“Thursday?” The woman regarded the ceiling for just a moment. “Sure I worked Thursday.”
“Both you and Macie?”
“You get one, you get the other,” Mary quipped. She pulled a hand towel off the rack beside the sink and wiped her face and neck, patting at the various rings of fat under her chin. “I
hate
that cleaning fluid,” she said, nodding at the bucket. “Victor says it’s the best, but the fumes are positively
hell
on my skin.”
She snapped the towel out, folded it neatly, and hung it up. “So…”
“Do you remember somebody on an ATV riding in the area?”
The woman closed her eyes and drew in a breath through open mouth. She held that thoughtful pose for a moment, and then said, “Oh,
him
. ” She didn’t open her eyes. “You know, was
that
the youngster that they say ran into the canyon? What, later on Thursday?” She opened her eyes and stared at Estelle, her hands entwining in her apron. “One of the guys said that’s who it was.”
“You saw him?”
“I did. Heard first. That thing he was on was
loud
, you know. Don’t they make mufflers for those things?”
Estelle smiled. “It’s supposed to sound powerful and aggressive, Mary.”
“Well, it did that. Junior and I were standing by the back door, taking a smoke break. Down the road comes this kid, and when he cut across the parking lot, I was sure that he was going to slide right into the side of the building.”
“He saw you?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. He looked right at us. And that’s who that was? The Romero boy?”
“We think so.”
“Well, I’m sorry it happened, but I’m not the least bit surprised. He was riding like a maniac. But that’s what those kids do when they’re on those things, isn’t it.” She sipped her coffee while the other hand groped in her apron for a pack of cigarettes. “Right out here,” she said. Estelle followed her back outside.
“What a view, you know?” She gazed off across the prairie toward the east, the hand that held the cigarette shielding her eyes from the sun. “Anyway, we were right here. He cut down off the highway, and right through here.” The sweep of her arm included the parking lot and then the country to the north. “In fact, you can still see his tracks, over there where the dirt’s kind of soft.”
“Victor Junior was with you?”
“Yep.”
“Is he here today?”
“He will be. He took the truck and went to town for a bit. But he was right here with me. That’s the truth.”
“And anyone else?”
“Just him and me, sheriff. That’s all. I mean, it’s no big thing, right? The kid rode by, and off he went.” She drew deeply on the cigarette and then ground it out as she exhaled. “Shame what happened. These boys…they think they’re indestructible, don’t they.”
“Mary, can you tell me who else was in the saloon at the time? Who else
might
have seen the youngster ride by? From the front door, from even—I don’t know—the bathroom window? Someone who had just arrived and was still outside?”
Mary patted her apron as if to double check the cigarette pack, but she resisted the temptation. “We weren’t terribly busy. That’s all I remember. Just some of the guys…I think. Now, Macie was inside, so she might remember. But you know, you can’t see the parking lot from the bar. These guys like the deep dark cave thing, you know.”
Estelle laughed, and Mary looked at her quizzically. “But so what, I mean. I saw him, Victor saw him. I mean, everybody knows he went by here.”
“Just a question of loose ends,” Estelle said. “Do you think Macie has a minute?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Mary said. “She was going to go with Junior, but I said no. I mean, I don’t have any intention of running the place all by myself while those two are off mooning together.” Apparently romance could conquer even the cloying aroma of onions, green chile, and perspiration, Estelle thought. Mary pushed the door to the barroom open. “Macie! The sheriff wants to talk with you.”
Macie Trujillo, dressed in a fluffy white blouse with Mexican lace and a flowing scarlet skirt that would have been perfect for a twirling dancer, was frowning at glassware behind the bar. Short and stocky like her mother, Macie wore enough jewelry that it clinked and winked from her wrists, fingers, and ears as she worked. An enormous necklace of turquoise and silver—worth a fortune if the stones and metal were real, and expensive even if they weren’t—rested on the broad, voluptuous curves of her chest above the deep dish of her blouse.
“Thanks, Mary.” Estelle let the door swing shut behind her.
Macie favored the undersheriff with a radiant smile, generous mouth armored with straight, large teeth whose brilliant white was set off by wide swaths of crimson lipstick. “Hi!” she greeted, and there was nothing reserved or cautious in her manner.
“Good morning, Macie.” Estelle slid onto one of the tall stools, elbows on the polished wood of the bar, and she held up a hand as Macie started the bartender’s coordinated shuffle sideways, looking at Estelle with raised eyebrow while her left hand reached for the coffee pot. “No thanks. I just wanted to ask you a couple things about last week.”
“Oh,” Macie said, and both hands dropped to the bar’s surface. Ten fingers, eight rings. Only the middle finger of each hand was unadorned. “I
heard
. ” Her face wrinkled up in sympathy. “That boy who got killed, right?”
“Yes.” Estelle waited to see what Macie might add without prompts.
“Mom probably told you that he rode right by here that day? When was it, Wednesday or Thursday?
I
could hear him from in here.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No, but at least one of the guys did.”
“One of the guys?”
“You know, the patrons.”
“Would you tell me exactly what happened that day?”
“Well, nothing happened in here, you know.” Macie reached in her apron pocket and found a piece of peppermint candy. She unwrapped it thoughtfully, and then popped it in her mouth. “We heard his four-wheeler come
roaring
through the parking lot…crazy kids, you know. I remember that Miles Waddell came out of the restroom, this big grin on his face, shaking his head.”
“Mr. Waddell was here, then.”
“Oh, yeah. He said he glanced out the window and thought that the kid was going to crash right into the side of the building.”
“Kids ride around here a lot, I imagine?”
“Well, not a
lot
.” She sucked on the peppermint and crunched a small piece. “There aren’t so many kids around these days, you know? Herb Torrance’s boys are all grown. But I felt real bad. Freddy had stopped in a time or two.” She smiled, but the smile faded to regret. “He was kinda cute, you know? He was goin’ with Casey Prescott. You know her, I bet?”
“Sure.”
“I guess that might be why he was way down here, huh.”
