I ended up taking the keys to 306, the Bronco that Deputy Tom Pasquale drove most of the time.
The breeze outside had freshened, driving the November chill down into the town from the San Cristobal Mountains. It was the tonic I needed before meeting with the district attorney. If I went home and fell asleep, I’d wake groggy and unkempt for a meeting where Schroeder would expect me to be sharp and cogent.
The better strategy was a good, solid breakfast with enough strong coffee to see me through the morning. Then, after the DA was satisfied, I could go home and crash.
I bounced the stiffly sprung truck out of the parking lot and turned west on Bustos. The Don Juan de Onate Restaurant opened at six, but I knew that the owners were there early and the side door would be unlocked.
I slowed at the intersection with Grande when I saw the aging pickup truck stop for the northbound light. Cranking the wheel hard, I turned south and then braked to a halt right in the middle of the intersection. Bob Torrez rolled his truck forward until we were window to window.
“I was going to get some breakfast,” I said. “Join me. My treat.”
“I thought of something that I wanted to ask you,” the undersheriff said without preamble. Not many words were wasted in the Torrez household, I had decided long ago. I wondered what constituted small talk when Bob and his wife Gayle were feeling blabby.
“Over a burrito,” I said. “Ask me anything over a smothered burrito.” A car emerged from one of the side streets to the west, and turned away from us. “And don’t tell me you’ve already had breakfast. Gayle’s not about to get up at this hour, and the only time you ever cook is over a campfire.”
“Now that’s true,” Torrez said, and the grin was a welcome break in what was otherwise a pretty gloomy face. “I’ll follow you.”
I nodded and continued my circle through the intersection. With a belch of smoke, Torrez’s pickup fell in behind. As an unmarked vehicle, his truck would certainly fool somebody once. Mostly flat black mixed with a little gray primer here and there, the old Chevy was a monstrosity. There was enough junk in the back, behind the ornamental iron scrollwork that protected the back window, that the rig must have weighed three or four tons.
The front door of the Don Juan was open, but I paused with my hand on the handle, regarding a large, neatly printed sign. When Torrez joined me, I said, “What’s with this?”
Rather than hasty black marker, someone had taken the time to letter the sign in beautifully decorated calligraphy.
The Don Juan de Onate will be closed all day Nov. 7.
We will reopen Nov. 8 at our usual time.
He shrugged. “No liquor sales that day anyway until the polls close at seven. Fernando must have decided to take a vacation.”
“Fine timing.” I pulled open the door. “Where are we supposed to celebrate your win?”
Torrez caught the door and followed me inside. “At home, maybe?”
I led the way around various dividers, tables, and the empty salad bar unit and settled in the third booth from the back, where the window faced the parking lot and a fine view to the west. When I slid all the way into the booth, I could see the alcove of the front door.
Arleen Aragon, the owners’ daughter-in-law, appeared around the divider. “Hey, you guys,” she said. In one sweeping move of her right hand she collected two mugs, and with her left hefted the full coffee carafe.
“Some night, huh,” she said as she clunked the two cups down on the table in front of us. Apparently everyone in the world had a scanner tuned to the Posadas County hit parade. Or maybe she’d just overprepped the hash browns, blackening the edges. I didn’t pursue what she meant.
“I guess,” I said. Arleen filled the cups within a hairbreadth of the rims and started to turn away.
“Neither of you take cream, right?”
I shook my head.
“Breakfast?”
I nodded. She replaced the coffeepot and returned to stand with her hands on her ample hips. “You, I can already guess,” she said, looking at me. “Burrito Grande green, extra smothered, sour cream on the side.”
“Perfect.”
“How about you, Bobby?”
The undersheriff took a deep breath. “I don’t know how hungry I am,” he said, and started to reach for a menu.
“You gotta eat,” Arleen said. “That’s the number one rule around here. A burrito would do you good. It looks like that wife of yours is starvin’ you.” At six-four and 230 pounds, Robert Torrez wasn’t my idea of undernourished.
Torrez retreated from the menu. “All right,” he said. “The same.”
“Except no sour cream, right?”
Torrez grinned. “Right.”
“I didn’t think that you liked that gringo stuff,” she said, and punched me on the left arm. “It’ll be a few minutes,” she added. “You kinda caught us before the normal breakfast rush.”
When she had gone, I took a long sip of the coffee and then said, “You heard about the nine o’clock meeting with Schroeder?”
Torrez nodded. “I told Brent to give him a call. I didn’t want the DA hearing it from some other source.”
“Have you been out to see the old man?” Sosimo Baca was ten years younger than I was, but his love of alcohol in any form as long as it was in quantity had his family counting Sosimo’s birthdays in dog years.
“I went out about four or a little bit before. I woke up Father Anselmo and had him go along.” Torrez grimaced. “Father said he’d been expecting something like this for a long time. He calls Matt el cachorro impetuoso. ”
“Meaning?”
“A wild pup. Roughly.”
“And when you two went to Baca’s, are you sure that Sosimo understood what you were talking about?”
“It appeared so. I made sure that the two girls were awake, too, just to be sure. Sosimo still smelled like a brewery, but the kids understood. I tried to keep it simple.” Torrez paused and took a deep breath. “I said that apparently Matt had kicked out a window in the patrol car, and that during the process of transferring him to another unit, he bolted into the path of traffic.” He shrugged. “Father Anselmo was still talking to them when I left. Matt’s two sisters seemed to take it all right. Maybe with enough coffee in him, Sosimo will be able to understand what happened. By noon or so. I was planning to go back down in a little bit.” He glanced at his watch. “Talk to my uncle again. I’d like to look through Matt’s private stash and see what I can find.”
“Want me to come along?”
“That’s not necessary.”
I leaned forward and lowered my voice so that the coffee urn wouldn’t hear me.
“I’ve been playing this thing over and over in my mind. I can’t get a handle on it.”
Torrez shook his head. “From what Gutierrez and Bergmann told me, there wasn’t much you could do. Not much anyone could have done.”
I waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t mean that. Sure, if I’d been a bit quicker, I could have grabbed him. Hell, so what. If that had happened, maybe he’d have dragged both of us in front of that truck…and then I’d really be pissed. No”-and I shook my head-“that part I can live with, all right. What I don’t understand is his determination, Robert.”
“How do you mean?”
“On the highway, as soon as you turn on the red lights, he runs. Up on the hill, he crashes into me, and then takes off into the trees. All right, I can understand that. He’s scared, as any stupid kid would be. He knows that if you catch him, you’re probably going to beat the crap out of him. At least he thinks that you are. And maybe the fact that he stumbled on home, right where you knew he’d be, just goes to show how really drunk he was.”
“He couldn’t have wanted to get away very badly,” Torrez said. “Unless he was just too sloshed to know better.”
“Right. So we chalk up the first episodes to being young, stupid, and drunk. I come in and slap the cuffs on him. He’s had a couple or three hours to sleep, and some of the booze has worn off. He should be able to put two and two together, with a little fresh air to help wake him up.”