Double Prey (27 page)
After Herb Torrance had left, it was Bill Gastner who first voiced the confliction of relief and disappointment. “Well, I thought I had something. So where are we now?”
“One version,” the sheriff said cryptically. He had his cell phone in hand, and walked off toward a dark corner of the Quonset. He spoke so quietly that Estelle couldn’t hear him, and she turned to Gastner.
“We need to contact Giarelli’s,
Padrino
, ” she said. “It’s not that I think Herb would lie to us, but it’s a loose end.”
“I can’t imagine Gus making up something like that,” Gastner said. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“How long have you known him, sir?”
“Gus? Good God, sweetheart, just about forever. Well, twenty years, anyway. Before he bought that place, he worked for Burton Livestock, over in Deming. That outfit that supplies rodeo livestock? He managed to drive one of their livestock rigs into a bar ditch. Killed some stock, wrecked an expensive truck.”
“Alcohol a factor?”
“Sure. He’s never been able to beat it. Learned to harness it a little, maybe.” He sighed. “Old Gus has his share of demons, that’s for sure. I guess he’s no different from the rest of us in that respect. Nice kids, though. I just love ’em.”
“I’m surprised, though,” Estelle mused.
“At?”
“Well, it surprises me, after what we’ve heard, to find out that Gus would associate with Eddie Johns enough that he’d buy his wrecked truck.”
“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Where there’s a possibility of making a buck, where wheeling and dealing is concerned, personalities go by the wayside. Johns could be a charmer when he wanted to be. Gus saw a possibility for a good deal, and snapped it up. You know what one of those big diesel engines costs new in a box?”
“A lot.”
“A lot is exactly right. And the engine with a matching transmission? A whopper. Gus has himself an older Ford, and here’s an opportunity to kick it up a notch.”
“Why would Eddie Johns sell something he
knew
to be valuable for salvage for nickel-dime?”
“We don’t know what Gus paid for it. On top of that, the insurance company might have already forked over to Johns for the loss.”
“Did he strike you as the sort of guy who would just give stuff away, sir?”
“He strikes me as the sort who’d give Gus a good deal if he knew that he’d get something that he wants in return. Who knows…maybe he traded for a hundred hours of grader time. Something like that. You’ll just have to ask him.”
They both turned as Torrez approached. “Giarelli never had a wreck like Torrance was talkin’ about,” he said. “Doesn’t know who Eddie Johns is. Never had any dealings with anyone by that name. Hasn’t had a driver wreck a truck on the highway since 1969. Never had a wreck with anyone visiting the crusher plant.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gastner said wearily. “So who’s lying?”
“Don’t think that Giarelli is, but I got Gayle givin’ Deming PD a call for a records check. We’ll know soon enough. If there was a wreck, the insurance companies would require a report.”
“But no word from Mears yet?”
“Nope.”
“Where are we heading with all this?” Bill Gastner asked. “If we’re thinking that Gus Prescott killed Eddie Johns…”
“I’d want to hear a reason,” Torrez said. “Give me a motive.” The room fell silent. “’Cause nothin’ ties any of this together.”
“Meaning the tie with Freddy Romero?”
Torrez nodded. “It ain’t no secret that Gus didn’t like the kid. He ain’t exactly welcoming him into the family, is he. So he sees the kid ride by, and maybe follows him? Is that the idea? There’s a dozen reasons that Gus might want to go through the canyon. Doesn’t mean that he’s lyin’ in wait for Freddy, does it.”
“Unless he knew why Freddy was snooping around that particular piece of real estate,” Gastner added. “If Gus saw the article in the paper, he knew two things. One, that Freddy found the cat skeleton. Two, that the kid
didn’t
find it where he said he did. That’s kind of interesting, you have to admit.”
“I want to hear from Mears after he talks with the Ford dealer in Las Cruces,” Estelle said. “And then I want to hear Mr. Prescott’s version of the Giarelli story.”
Torrez nodded. “Don’t be goin’ down there by yourself.” He turned and looked first at the silent Tom Pasquale, then at Gastner. “That goes for anybody just now. Not ‘til we know what we’re dealing with.”
“How sure are you that someone took at shot at Freddy Romero’s four-wheeler, Robert?” Gastner asked, and when Torrez didn’t respond immediately with anything other than a raised eyebrow, the former sheriff added, “Because that makes a substantial difference. If someone
did
, then the threat may very well still be with us. If not, then the trail behind Eddie Johns’ killer might be five years stone cold.”
Torrez remained silent. “I mean, what have you got?” Gastner continued. “A little scuff mark on the ATV’s front shield, a rock-shredded tire, and a tiny, amorphous bit of brass that could just as easily be the remains of a brass deck screw or from a bit of brass plumbing pipe that jounced out of someone’s truck.”
“I am one hundred percent sure,” the sheriff said softly. “I know a bullet fragment when I see it. And so does Sarge. And the microscope don’t lie, Bill.”
Gastner nodded. “Then someone’s still out there with a rifle, folks.”
“That’s all I’m sayin’,” Torrez said.
“I need to talk with Casey Prescott again,” Estelle said. “And I don’t want an army with me when I do it. I know she’s not in school today.”
“You called the ranch?” Torrez asked.
“No. The school, earlier. I didn’t want to call the ranch before I had to.”
“I’m no army,” Bill Gastner said, “and nobody’s going to mistake me for one.”
“I could use your fatherly perspective, sir.”
“My ‘fatherly perspective.’ My own kids might argue about the value of that.”
A few moments later, as they both settled in Estelle’s county car, she looked across at Gastner. “I have a theory,” she said, but he quickly held up a hand to stop her.
“I don’t want to know anything that might color my ‘fatherly perspective,’ sweetheart. Besides,” he said, “I have a few theories of my own. Unfortunately, none of them are worth a good God damn.”
“Suppose that Gus Prescott disliked Freddy Romero just as much as he claims. Any Mexican who walks the earth. Suppose that he’s just as much of a bigot as he likes to sound. He doesn’t want a Mexican kid dating his daughter. His daughter might have let it slip that she was riding the four-wheeler with Freddy all over the place, and maybe let it slip that she was with the boy when he found the cat.”
“Just suppose.”
“So Gus sees Freddy ride by, and takes the opportunity to go talk with the kid. Maybe try to scare him away.”
“Maybe. With a rifle shot across the bow? Got a little too close for comfort.”
“That’s more than likely. I mean, how easy is it to hit a fast-moving target for the average shooter? I don’t know what kind of gun Gus might own, but it’s apt to be your average ranch rifle of some kind.”
“Plenty hard, no matter what.”
“Exactly. For one thing, he’s been drinking. He decides it would be a good thing to scare the boy, but when he tries it, he gets a little too close. One shot wings the front fender and tire, and startles the boy for just that fraction of a second that it takes to make a mistake. Pow, Freddy hits the rock, and over he goes.”
“Or Gus
wanted
to kill him,
wanted
to hit him, and is a piss-poor shot.”
“Either way the results are the same,” Estelle said. “I vote for accidental discharge.”
“And all that’s if Gus is telling the truth about Eddie Johns’ truck.”
“See, that’s the thing, sir. If he
isn’t
telling the truth, then he has more reason to stop Freddy than just fatherly concern for his lovely daughter,” Estelle said.
“’Fatherly concern’ isn’t a
just
kind of thing, sweetheart. People have killed for much, much less. Is Casey pregnant? You know what dads think about that, too. When my kids were growing up, there was a time or two when I thought I was going to have to shoot somebody.”
“I don’t think she is, sir.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“No…not until I ask her.”
“I don’t want you talking to her.” Jewell Prescott stood squarely in the doorway of the double-wide mobile home, and there was no mistaking her posture. With one hand on each door jamb, she was an effective road block. As if picking up unpleasant intimations, the three dogs, at first so bumptiously gleeful, had retreated to a shady spot at the end of the trailer near a propane tank.
“Mrs. Prescott, I wouldn’t intrude if I didn’t think it was important,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said.
“Oh,
everything
is important,” the heavy woman said. “And my two daughters are important to me. Listen, Casey’s in just terrible straights right now. She doesn’t want to go to school and put up with all
those
questions. And I see no reason to be dredging all this unhappiness up over and over again. You just go talk to someone else about all this.”
“Mrs. Prescott,” Estelle said, “When there’s an official investigation, we talk with whomever the situation requires. I’m sure you understand that. I’m certainly sorry for any intrusion, but that’s just the way it is.”
“There’s nothing Casey can tell you.”
“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prescott.”
“Bill, you’ve known us for years,” the woman said, and Bill Gastner nodded slightly, his expression sober. “What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to
tell
you?”
“It’s the simplest thing if you just allow us to do our job and get on with it,” he said.
“I don’t
have
to let you all talk with Casey, do I?” The question was directed to Bill Gastner, but Estelle saved him the trouble of being diplomatic.
“No, ma’am, you don’t,” Estelle said. “And if that’s the route you and your husband wish to take, then two hours from now, we’ll be back with a court order, Mrs. Prescott. You’re perfectly welcome to be present when we talk with Casey. In fact, I encourage it. She’ll probably feel more comfortable with you there.”
Jewell Prescott almost smiled. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that, young lady. There’s a number of things we don’t see eye to eye on.”
Estelle saw movement behind the woman, and both Casey and her older sister Christina appeared.
“Come on, mom,” Casey said. “None of this is going to go away.” Her mother didn’t move her arms, and Casey leaned against her well-padded shoulder, rubbing her cheek on her mother’s arm. “Come on.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she managed a smile for Estelle. “Christine and I will talk with the sheriff.”
“Oh, I just don’t think…” Jewell bit off her words and shook her head vehemently, tears coming to her eyes.
“It’ll be okay.” Casey circled her mother’s shoulders in a hug, and then as her mother turned, slipped past her.
“Is your father home?” Estelle asked.
“He went into town to get a part for the grader,” Christine said. She hugged her mother as well, but Jewell didn’t follow them out the door. She watched with sad eyes, as if she had every expectation of never seeing them again. She lifted a hand once as if she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
“Thanks, Jewell,” Bill Gastner said.
“I’ve always trusted you,” she said, and it was an admonition rather than a compliment, as if to say, “
I’ve tried…I can’t do it…now it’s your turn
. ”
“I appreciate that, Jewell. You hang in there.”
“Oh, boy,” she murmured, and backed away from the door, closing out the intrusion of the outside world.
“Let’s go look at the horses,” Casey suggested, and she walked with her hands shoved in her hip pockets, heading toward the small corral and shed. Two horses stood like statutes, watching their approach, and the mare nickered as they drew near. Christine stooped down and scooped up a wayward treat of hay, a movement not lost on the mare, who crowded the fence.
“I always feel better with these guys,” Casey said, stroking the young bay gelding’s silky neck. “Sis and I were just getting ready to go for a ride. If you’d come ten minutes later, we’d be a dust trail on the horizon.”
“I’m glad we didn’t miss you.” Estelle gently pushed the mare’s head away. Still munching hay, the animal seemed fascinated by the undersheriff’s cap. “Did your father talk to you about Thursday?”
“What do you mean, did he talk? About Freddy, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“When I got home from school, he had the newspaper and had read the article about finding the cat’s skeleton. The first thing he wanted to know was whether I’d gone with Freddy to Borracho. I don’t know why he thought I
would
have, but parents seem to have this
radar
, you know? They always seem to know. He was real angry that I might have skipped school. I mean
real
angry.”
“Did you tell him that you were with Freddy when he found the cat?”
Estelle could see a slow flush creep up Casey’s neck and fan across her peaches and cream cheeks. “No.” She glanced at her sister. “He’d been drinking, and he was upset. I don’t know why the article ticked him off so, except he doesn’t like Freddy, and here’s this neat article and all. But I just said no. I didn’t want to have another argument. I didn’t say we’d been out there together on Sunday, or anything else.”
“Sometimes it’s better just to lie low,” Christine added.
“Did he mention that he’d spoken to Freddy on Thursday or Friday?”
“No. He just saw the article. If he talked with Freddy about anything, he didn’t say so.” She stroked the gelding’s neck with one hand while letting him nuzzle the other palm.
Estelle watched the two girls, both of them deep in the saddest of thoughts, but unconsciously communing with the horses, who sponged up the affection without judgment.
When he’d been sitting in the Broken Spur, listening to Freddy Romero blast by on his four-wheeler, Gus Prescott had been aware, if he’d read the article carefully, that the boy had fabricated the tale of where the jaguar’s carcass had been found.
“Casey, did your father ever talk much about Eddie Johns?”
“Not to me.”
“Christine?”
The older sister frowned. “I don’t know what kind of case you’re trying to build, sheriff. You asked me that earlier, and you also talked to my dad earlier. He told you what he knew.”
Estelle gazed across the yard toward the spot where the line of old vehicles had rusted into the prairie.
None of this is going to go away
, Casey had said to her mother. None of
this.
“We’re just following pathways, Christine. At this point some pretty indistinct trails. I was curious about the circumstances that led to your dad buying that wrecked truck from Johns.”
“I didn’t know that he had done that.”
“The one that burned?”
“Now
that
I remember. Dad said that he was cutting off some part and started a little fire.” She smiled. “A
little
fire. Oh, sure. But it wasn’t much loss. It was wrecked anyway.”
“You saw it? Before the fire, I mean.”
“I don’t know if I did or not. It wasn’t something that I paid attention to.”
“I saw it,” Casey offered. “I mean, before he burned it.”
“All bashed up?”
“Well, kinda. It was shiny black, I remember that, ‘cause after he lit it on fire, it was
ugly
black. He was really ticked.”
“You remember the make?”
“No. Just a wrecked truck. That’s all I remember. He sold a whole bunch of that old stuff so he can buy parts for the grader. But you already know that. You saw it go out this morning.”
The buzz of Estelle’s phone was startling, and the mare jerked her head back, ears pitched forward. Estelle stepped back slowly, and flicked on the phone.
“Guzman.”
“Hey,” Torrez said. “Borderland’s records show a 2004 black Ford 250 crew cab sold to Eddie Johns on November 12, 2003. He got the VIN, but that ain’t going to do us much good. The dealership don’t keep a record of the engine and tranny serial numbers, but we don’t have those anyway. Yet.”
“That’s good work, Bobby. They carried the paper on it?”
“Wasn’t any. Cash deal.”
“
Ay
. ”
“Thirty-eight thousand dollar cash deal.”
“Real estate was going well for Mr. Johns, apparently.”
“Something was,” the sheriff said. “Where you at right now?”
“Talking with Casey and Christine Prescott.”
“Gus there?”
“No. The girls said that he went to town to buy some parts for his road grader.”
“Okay. Look, this El Paso mess is gonna take Mears a while. He’s got folks workin’ for him at the bank, at the utilities…everything so far says that Johns just vanished without notice. He didn’t close out any accounts, didn’t clean up any of his mess. Didn’t even clean out the fridge, the landlord says. He was there one day, gone the next. No notes, no nothing.”
“That probably rules out any lingering notion of suicide,” Estelle said, and Torrez grunted with amusement.
“He ain’t no suicide. Suicides don’t crawl back into caves and shoot themselves in the back of the head.”
“I know he hasn’t had time to dig into too many dark corners, but has Tom found any hint of a Mexican connection?”
“We’re gonna find out. But my guess is that the Mexicans are just as much out of the loop as we are. They may have been plannin’ something, or maybe were interested in what Johns had to offer, but there ain’t no actual connection that I can imagine.”
“We’ll see what Captain Naranjo finds out,” Estelle said. Tomás Naranjo, an ally in the Mexican
Judiciales
, sometimes cooperated with them so willingly that it seemed he considered Posadas County to be a small but obstreperous extension of his own state.
“You’re going to talk with Prescott again today?”
“I think so. It bothers me that he lied to Herb Torrance about how he acquired the truck from Johns.”
“Maybe he ain’t lyin’.”
“That would mean that either Herb concocted the tale, or the people you talked to at Giarelli’s have faulty memories.”
“Either is possible. Ain’t likely, but possible.”
Estelle had turned slightly, and now a motion from Gastner drew her attention. He pointed toward the south, where a roil of dust rose behind an approaching vehicle.
“We’ll talk with Gus here in a bit. He’s on his way in right now.”
“You be careful.”
“Oh,
sí
. ” She switched off and turned back toward the corral. Casey Prescott was still receiving a full dose of commiseration from the mare, but Christine had stepped away from the horses, standing close to Gastner’s elbow.
“What’s actually going on?” Christine asked quietly. She looked from Gastner to Estelle, and at the same time, Casey pushed away from the corral. The same question was in her eyes. Estelle had known both girls for years, and had had the opportunity to talk with Christine a number of times in an official capacity. She had long ago come to the conclusion that the young woman was not only strikingly pretty, but equally quick-witted, caring, and honest. The impulse to simply lay the case open before her was strong. But the cloud that hung at the moment over their father’s head was more than just dust kicked up by a pickup truck.
“Whenever there’s an unattended death,” Estelle said, “we’re required to follow up on every detail. Painful as it might be.”
“Unattended,” Christine said, taking her time with the word. “Are you referring to Freddy, or to Eddie Johns?”
Estelle hesitated. “Both. In both cases, we believe that there’s a possibility that the two incidents were not unattended deaths.”
Casey moved a step closer to her sister until their arms touched, but the younger girl didn’t speak. Not an
unattended death
. The terminology—even the concept itself—was so familiar for a cop, yet so completely alien for a teenager who’d just lost her boyfriend.
Someone else was there
. And that changed everything.
Christine gazed at Estelle, her expression assessing. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, but any other comment was drowned out by the sounds of Gus Prescott’s pickup. The extended-cab truck pulled in a few paces from Estelle’s cruiser, twenty or thirty yards away. The clattering of its gruff diesel engine died abruptly and Prescott got out, followed by a small white poodle who shot off toward the house. From a distance, Estelle could see a long gun in the rear window rack, well out of reach of the driver without climbing out of the truck and accessing the back seat.
“Good mornin’,” Prescott said, affably enough. He seemed in no hurry to approach, and Estelle turned to the girls.
“Excuse us, please.”
“I don’t think so,” Christine said firmly, and her response surprised Estelle. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Behind them, the little dog yipped as he was mobbed by the three larger animals, and Estelle heard the screen door of the house open and then close as he made it unmauled into his sanctuary. Jewell Prescott appeared to be perfectly content with
not
knowing what was going on outside.
“Find your grader parts, sir?” the undersheriff asked as she walked over toward the truck.
Gus Prescott watched her with feigned indifference as he got out and then crossed around the front of the pickup. “Had to order,” he replied.
“Herb seems eager to get that road of his fixed,” Gastner offered.
“I guess he might be,” Prescott said. He wiped his face, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. From a dozen feet away, Estelle could smell the beer. “You girls get on into the house, now.”
The order might not have sounded ridiculous had Casey been accompanied by one of her school chums instead of her sister. But Christine was in no mood to chirp, “Yes, daddy” and do as she was told.
“Sir,” Estelle said, “we were interested in what you can tell us about the Ford pickup truck that belonged to Eddie Johns.”
“What do you mean?” Prescott rested an arm on the hood of the pickup, as if feeling the need to protect it.
“Just that, sir. I was wondering how his black Ford three-quarter ton ended up on Cameron Florek’s junk hauler. I was wondering how you happened to come by it.” She glanced at the fender of Prescott’s own truck, still decorated with the
XLT Triton V-8
emblem…not the diesel that was obviously under the hood.
