“And instead, he kicks out the window.”
“Right. Now what’s that going to gain him?”
Torrez pushed his coffee to one side. “Nothing, but he doesn’t know that.”
“What, he thinks that I’m going to stop the car, and he’s going to have a chance to run off into the night again? In the middle of nowhere, with handcuffs on?”
Torrez shrugged. “We don’t know what he was thinking. But that’s exactly what he did. Or tried to do.”
“Well, it’s true. We don’t know what he was thinking. But regardless of what his addled little brain was concocting, wouldn’t you think he’d put it all on hold when two Border Patrol cops show up? I mean, I’m old and fat, and I know it. And Matthew knew it too. But Gutierrez and Bergmann aren’t. So why did he pick that time to bolt?”
With his elbows on the table, Bob Torrez folded his hands together as a support for his chin. He thought for a long time, his gaze taking in the dimly-lit details of the room. About the time my impatience was about to prompt me to ask if he’d forgotten the question, he said, “I don’t think it was a rational thing.”
“I’ll agree to that. But it was a desperate thing, Roberto. And there has to be a reason. Why would seeing a couple of Border Patrol agents trigger that reaction?”
“We don’t know that’s what triggered it, sir.”
“No, we don’t. I never mentioned them. If he was listening, all he heard was my call to Sutherland, to tell him I was inbound.”
Arleen Aragon appeared with two generously heaped plates billowing steam and fragrance.
“That’s some breakfast burrito,” Bob said, and leaned back while Arleen coasted the platter in for a landing.
“That’s our dinner burrito,” Arleen corrected. “The sheriff doesn’t do those dinky little things on the breakfast menu.” The second plate landed in front of me with a heavy thud. “It’s hot, so be careful.”
“Brain food,” I said. “Maybe something will occur to me.”
“When he sobers up, Sosimo might have some answers,” Torrez said.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Chapter Nine
District Attorney Daniel M. Schroeder looked like a lawyer-perfectly fitted and pressed dark suit, spit-polished black wing tips, gold wire-rimmed glasses, a bulging, old-fashioned top-opening leather briefcase, and a gold Cross pen that flicked indecipherable notes on a fresh yellow legal pad.
He was sitting by himself in the Public Safety Building’s conference room when I returned. With him looking so damned formal, I was glad I’d taken a few minutes to go home, shower, shave, and spruce up. Not that Dan would have cared how I looked. Over the course of twenty years, I’d come to the conclusion that District Attorney Schroeder was an interesting fellow, one of those rare folks who didn’t immediately transfer what he thought about the world to other people as a requirement for what they should think.
Still, I had to admit to a certain small uneasiness. No matter how the story was told, no matter how the excuses fell, it was my fault that Matthew Baca was dead. The kid had been in my custody. With that in mind, I had a personal interest in what conclusions the district attorney reached.
Schroeder looked up from his pad when I entered the room, and his round face cracked in a neutral smile. “Morning,” he said as he pushed the chair back and stood up. Not “good morning,” or “rotten morning,” or “how are you.” Just the single word into which I was free to read whatever I liked. We shook hands, and his grip was neutral, too-not forced hearty, not perfunctory or limp.
“Do you want the undersheriff here for this?” I asked.
“Ah,” he said, and looked down at the legal pad. “Not right away. Let’s just you and I talk for a bit.” I started to pull out a chair, but he was already gathering up his things. “Let’s use your office,” he said. “We might have fewer interruptions there.”
Interruptions weren’t the issue, but I appreciated the gesture and didn’t object. If I had to be grilled, it was more comfortable to be well done on home turf. I appreciated an unspoken second gesture, too. Donald Jaramillo, the assistant district attorney who generally worked Posadas County, was not present. I didn’t care for the little weasel, and Schroeder knew it.
As I closed my office door behind us, I said, “Go ahead and use the desk.”
“This is fine,” he said, and settled in one of the two leather-padded captain’s chairs.
“Coffee or something?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” He waited until I’d finally settled in behind my desk. With his elbows on the arms of the chair, he held his pen in front of his face, one end in each hand, and slowly spun it as if he were searching for imperfections in the gold finish. After a minute, his gaze switched to me.
“I understand that you witnessed some or all of the undersheriff’s initial pursuit of Matthew Baca?”
“Yes. I was parked up on the mountain, just this side of Regal Pass. A little after eleven o’clock. I could see the lights of the Broken Spur Saloon from where I was parked.”
“And you saw the Baca vehicle arrive at the saloon, and then leave shortly thereafter?”
“I didn’t see it arrive. Or at least I didn’t notice it arrive. That might be more accurate.”
“How long had you been parked when you saw the vehicle leave? When you saw it drive out of the saloon’s parking lot?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.”
“Do you think that Baca had been at the saloon all that time?”
“I doubt it. The bartender at the saloon said the kid was just in and out. Tried to buy beer, was refused, and left.”
“So you just missed his arrival, then. Somehow.”
“Somehow.”
“Undersheriff Torrez said that he was parked at the old wind-mill about a quarter mile down the road. To the east. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes. I saw his vehicle when he pulled out on the highway with his emergency lights on. I don’t know how long he’d been parked there.”
“So he wasn’t just driving down the highway.”
“No.”
“Does he do that often? Park and watch?”
“Sure. We all do.” I almost added, “As you well know.”
“When the undersheriff began his pursuit of the Baca vehicle, what did you do?”
“I radioed Bob to ask if he wanted me to head the kid off at the pass.”
Schroeder grinned at that. “And did you?”
“No. The undersheriff had dropped back then, and said that there was no point in continuing pursuit. He said that he knew where the kid lived. There was no point in pushing the chase and risking an accident.”
“We’ve been there before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we have.”
Schroeder nodded and clicked his pen. “And he turned off his red lights?
“Yes, he did.”
“Would the kids have seen the lights go out, or was Bob too far behind them?”
“I have no idea. They were intoxicated, excited, scared-all those things. And there are lots of trees, curves, the whole bit. My guess would be that they still thought they were being pursued. Otherwise, I don’t know why they would have turned off the highway onto the dirt lane.”
“Your lights weren’t on?”
“No. My engine wasn’t even running.”
“That must have been a hell of a surprise, when they turned into that side road. Did they have a scanner in the car, do you know?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“So they couldn’t have known that you were there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would a sober driver have had enough time to stop before hitting your vehicle if he had pulled off the highway in the same fashion?”
“No, not at that speed. We’re only talking a few yards from the highway shoulder to where I was parked.”
“And when the vehicle came to a stop after plowing into yours, Matthew Baca immediately got out of the car?”
I nodded. “Yes. Driver’s side.”
“He didn’t talk to the others?”