“No fresh plaster,” I said.
“No, sir,” Pasquale said, taking me dead seriously. “And then I remembered that you said that you arrested him when he was lying on the couch. If he had a fake ID, he wouldn’t want to be caught with it. You said that it wasn’t in his wallet, which is the logical place to keep it.”
“That’s where his regular license was-the legitimate one,” I said.
“Yes, sir.” Without the least apology, he added, “When I was a kid and carried a fake ID, I always just slid it into my back pocket. Takes too long to fumble in a wallet.”
“Is that right?” I looked at him with amusement.
“That’s what got me to thinking about Matt. If he had a fake ID, he might just have slipped it into his other back pocket where he could get it easily. If he didn’t do something about it, we would have found it when he was processed for the detention center. And down at his house, he might not have had the chance to slip the fake license out of his pocket just then. You were watching him every minute.” Pasquale looked at me expectantly.
“But he did have the time once he was inside the car,” I said. “Lying on the backseat, with me busy driving. It’s dark, and he’s got lots of opportunity to work out his problem. He sticks it down behind the seat. And what are the odds that anyone would look there?” I regarded Tom Pasquale with interest. “Your prior education is coming in real handy, Thomas.”
Tom’s eyes flickered over to Bob Torrez, who remained studiously silent. “Just outstanding, Thomas,” I said. “Don’t you have to unbolt the seat to move it? It doesn’t just flip up like the seats in the SUVs, does it?”
“No bolts, sir. It just lifts up and out. Takes just a second. No problem.”
I frowned and turned slowly to the undersheriff. “Was Matt smart enough to figure all this out?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Slip the license down behind the seat. And we can take it one step further. Is he smart enough to kick out the window, knowing that the car will end up in the shop? When it does, he can come grab the license.”
Torrez looked skeptical. “I don’t think so, sir. It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
“Does he know anyone who works here?”
“I imagine he does.”
“Well, then…maybe that’s it. But why run, then? That doesn’t make sense.” I turned to Tom Pasquale. “And you didn’t feel down in there first? Before you moved the seat?”
“No, sir. It’s too snug. And if there was something there, I didn’t want to touch it. I knew that we’d want photos. And I knew that it’d be easy for something to slip down where I couldn’t feel it anyways.” He shrugged. “So that’s what I did.”
I turned and grinned at Torrez, then reached out and took Tom Pasquale by the shoulder to rock him back and forth. “Wonderful, Tom,” I said. “Just outstanding.” I bent over and peered at the license again. “Damn, you’re good.”
“If Linda’s through, let’s get it out of there,” Torrez said, and Tom Pasquale jumped to it as if he’d been stuck with a cattle prod.
Chapter Eighteen
The discovery of the license did a lot for my mood. I was impressed as hell that somebody had thought to look behind the seat of the car in the first place. I certainly hadn’t. And I was doubly impressed that Deputy Tom Pasquale hadn’t just rummaged behind the seat and grabbed the thing without thinking-as he would have done just a couple of years before. He’d been methodical and careful, and it had paid off.
The license provided a new piece for the puzzle. Everything on it was right, too right-except Matt Baca’s birthdate. That had been sealed in plastic as December 13, 1979. With that in hand, Matt had grown up fast.
Discovery of the fake license restored my faith in Tommy Portillo, too. Under normal circumstances, I had occasion to visit his convenience store a dozen times a month. It would be nice to be able to wish him a pleasant day and mean it.
A high-quality forgery of a state license was no small crime, and it wasn’t something Matt Baca could do in his bedroom with a rubber stamp and lettering kit. Someone who could make such a fine copy would see no reason to stop at just one.
With any luck at all, the smooth plastic would reveal some high-quality fingerprints-Baca’s, Portillo’s-and if we held our breath just right, maybe some surprises.
But even if luck smiled on us, a whole landslide of unanswered questions remained. On top of all that, Dale Torrance was still enjoying the profits from his recent foray into cattle rustling, and that needed resolution.
On the way out of the county barn, I explained what I knew of the case to Torrez, and he shook his head in wonder. “Give me a couple hours to finish up a few odds and ends, and we’ll take a run out there,” he said. “Something else you might want to check, by the way-you know who Dale is trying to impress, don’t you?”
“Impress? Stealing cattle is a hell of a dangerous way to impress somebody. Who?”
“He hangs out around Christine Prescott a lot.” He grinned. “At least his tongue hangs out a lot. What better reason to want a wad of cash, don’t you think?”
“And how do you have this gem of information?” Remembering Torrez’s habit of bar-baiting, I could picture him watching the Broken Spur from his parking spot east by the windmill, binoculars in hand. The undersheriff grinned, and I waved a hand in protest. “Better yet, don’t tell me. Holler at me when you’re ready to go on out. We’ll pick up Cliff on the way.”
I slid into the Bronco, fumbling for a moment before I found the keys. The old engine settled into a fitful rumble. It sounded as tired as I felt. I dug out the cell phone and auto-dialed dispatch.
“Gayle, I’m going to be home for a little bit. If Cliff Larson calls there, have him come over to the house. Otherwise, I don’t want to talk to anybody.”
My plans called for a fresh cup of coffee, a shower, and a Saturday afternoon nap. I’d been running for the better part of thirty hours without conking out, and was acutely aware that the gears in my inner clock were starting to slip and miss.
I wasn’t one of those fortunate souls who could catch a little shut-eye at the office or in the car. The previous sheriff had been fond of referring to me as “badgerlike.” Whether that referred to my disposition or to my preference for diving back into my own private hole when I needed rest and relaxation I wasn’t sure, but I preferred the latter.
The thick, carved door of my rambling, dark adobe home on Guadalupe Terrace locked out the world’s noises and the eighteen-inch mud walls muffled them into silence. It was a good place to think.
South of the interstate exchange, I turned the grumbling Bronco off Grande onto Escondido, then took the hard right onto Guadalupe. Parked directly in front of my garage door was a blue Corvette, one of those models with the enormous humpy fenders and pointed shark nose. I idled the Bronco in behind it, close enough that I could read the Texas license.
Puzzled, I climbed out and walked the length of the car, pausing to rest my hand on the hood. It was still warm. A sticker on the front bumper allowed parking at Chase Field Naval Air Station in Beeville, and I grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said aloud, and turned toward the house.
The front door was locked. I finally sorted out the right key and let myself in. The interior air lay undisturbed. I walked quickly back to the kitchen, confirming that no one was inside. It was when I paused for a moment that I heard the faint voices, out behind the house.
The adobe, a vast, sprawling structure built room by room until everyone had run out of ideas, sat on the front edge of five acres. Those five acres separated me from the interstate and from neighbors. The acreage’s location made it perfect for a truck stop or motel, and I knew with grim satisfaction exactly what the land was worth.
I stepped to the back door, shot the bolt, and pulled it open. The five acres were a mini-wilderness, choked with whatever would grow without attention. Immediately behind the adobe, a series of enormous cottonwoods presided, their canopies stretching autumn-bare branches over the house. The thick carpet of leaves crackled underfoot.