Chapter Thirteen
Deputy Tom Pasquale looked up from his clipboard as I walked by. He was working on a schematic drawing of the yard, adding measurements as Tony Abeyta and Howard Bishop called them out. Pasquale was far from being the department’s best artist-Jacqueline Taber held that honor-but with his careful sketches and Linda Real’s still camera shots and videotape, we had the place covered. Not one of the deputies asked why we were being so thorough with what appeared to be a heart attack case-a simple unattended death. Evidently they had learned either to trust Bob Torrez’s intuition, or to keep their mouths shut.
“Do you need the unit, sir?” Pasquale asked, nodding toward his Bronco. Perhaps he mistook my head-down, hands-in-pockets shuffle for discomfort. The west wind was fitful and cold when I turned to face it, but the sun felt good.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m going to take a stroll downtown. Work out the kinks.”
He grinned. “We’re about finished here, I think.”
“Take your time.” I slipped under the yellow ribbon and made sure the gate was pulled closed behind me. The minute my boots hit the dust of the lane, the two dogs across the way settled in for another long fit of barking.
I stopped in the middle of the road and regarded them, and as soon as they saw that they had my undivided attention, the two of them set out to deliver the entire lecture. The larger female, gray starting to tinge her golden muzzle, cocked her head and looked sideways when she barked, a steady two-followed-by-three pattern. Between each salvo she looked at me. The other dog, smaller and younger, was probably her son. He stood on his hind legs, front paws on the chain link.
Their enclosure was connected in the back to a shed, a building that looked as if it would tumble with the wind the instant the dog run was removed. Behind the shed was a mobile home. Most of its windows were boarded with weathered plywood. I walked across the road to within a dozen feet of the dogs and they stopped barking, the younger male’s tail lashing from side to side as if I held his food dish.
“You saw all this, didn’t you,” I said. Both tails wagged frantically. The dogs had suffered their fill of being ignored all morning. “So who the hell takes care of you two?” The nearest occupied dwelling on the same side of the lane was across the lot to the west. The tramped trail from house to dogrun was clear in the red dust, winding its way through the ragweed, bunchgrass, beer cans, and discarded plumbing fixtures.
I turned and looked back toward Baca’s place. Tom Pasquale had moved close to the gate, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked with paper and pencil.
“Tom,” I called and he looked up. “Who lives there?” I pointed toward the square adobe with the metal-clad mansard roof.
“That’s the Sisneros place,” he said. “Archie Sisneros?”
“The principal at the elementary school in Posadas,” I said, bringing to mind a jowly, jolly little pudge of a man.
“Yes, sir. He and his wife Ernestine.”
“Cousin of whom?” I muttered.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Thanks. Be sure you talk to them.”
“I believe that Tony was over there earlier, sir. They weren’t home.”
I looked at the dogs. “These guys belong to them?”
“Yes, sir.”
The animals watched as I walked past their enclosure. With the wind at my back, I trudged along the lane, the dust powdery under my boots. Sixty-seven paces later, the lane started a graceful curve first to the south, and then around the corner of Emilio Contreras’ front porch. A large white cat appeared from underneath the step and rubbed against the wooden latticework that enclosed the porch foundation. He clearly expected me to bend over and deliver a little ecstasy. I ignored him and climbed the three steps to the porch.
Betty Contreras answered the door and greeted me with a warm smile. She was as much of a county fixture as I was, keeping the assessor’s office organized and running during the week regardless of whom the voters decided should be the name on the door. As such, Betty had the inside track on where one could find the lowest valuation in the county. Regal headed the list.
“How about some coffee?” she said, and held the door open for me.
“No, thanks.” I went inside. Their home was a riot of colors in traditional Mexican style. A dozen images of Christ and the Virgin Mary protected the home-some nothing more than a picture clipped from a magazine and hung with a cheap dime-store frame, others delicate retablos or pounded and pierced tin reliefs.
“You look like you’ve been up all night,” Betty said. “How about some breakfast?” She looked at her watch, a motion not lost on me. Clorinda and her gang might not know morning from noon from night, but Betty would. “Or lunch, by now.”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m sure one of the deputies has already been over to talk to you folks.”
“Tony came by,” she said. “Tony Abeyta and Scott were making the rounds.”
“Scott?”
“Gutierrez.”
“Ah,” I said. “Both you and Emilio were home earlier this morning, then?”
“Oh, we both were,” Betty said, and turned to one of the rockers. I remained standing, knowing that if I sat down now, I’d be there for the duration.
“This is such an awful thing,” she said. “One of my neighbors called practically at daybreak with the news about Matthew. Such an awful thing.” She looked down at the green carpet. “Of course, we’ve expected something like that for a long time, but still. He could be such a good kid when he put his mind to it. There was so much potential there.”
“I’m sure there was,” I said.
“It just broke his father’s heart, is what I think. Elva Lucero called me to break the news about Sosimo. I couldn’t believe it.” She sighed philosophically. “Although the way that old fool carried on sometimes, I don’t know why any of us would be surprised by anything that happens.” Her eyes turned soft. “The girls went with their mother. Is that right?”
“They’re fine, Betty. What we’re particularly interested in right now is the time around seven-thirty. Maybe seven-thirty to eight this morning. You and Emilio were both home?”
She nodded. “I was here. Emilio had already left for the church.”
From where I stood, I could look out the window and see Betty’s little blue sedan parked in the narrow driveway. “He drives?”
“Oh, no. Every morning, he walks. Every blessed day, no matter what weather the Lord sends his way, he walks. And now, with his bad hip, he uses a walker.” She shook her head in admiration. “‘I’ll just leave a little earlier,’ he says.”
“What time did he leave the house?”
“It would have been at seven.” She said it as if for Emilio, no other time would do.
“And you were up then, too?”
“Oh, sure. If we waited for the sun to make it over the mountains, half the day would be gone. And besides, there was enough noise next door to wake anybody.”
I moved to the west window and bent slightly so I could peer out through the lace curtain. Sosimo Baca’s house was partially obscured by a large elm tree, but even at night, Emilio or Betty could have seen the front gate clearly-if there had been either a porch light or headlights.
“I’m a heavy sleeper,” Betty said. “It takes a nuclear explosion to wake me up before the alarm goes off. But Emilio, he’s up and down all night. Like I told Tony Abeyta, if you want to know what happened last night, you just talk to Emilio.”
“Actually, it’s not last night that concerns us. It’s between seven-thirty and eight this morning.”
Betty shook her head. “I confess. I wasn’t glued to the window, Bill. I was in the kitchen. Meat loaf. It’s my answer to all the world’s problems.” She giggled. “But really. We all have to eat, you know.”