“Why not?” I might, if I knew him.”
“Sure, you would. But Scott Gutierrez wouldn’t, unless he had a good reason. If he takes Sosimo back home, what’s he want?”
“The license? If he knows about it, even if he doesn’t know where it is. He knew that it wasn’t in the kid’s wallet because he watched Jackie Taber search through it at the accident scene.”
“Maybe so. He thinks that Sosimo might have it, or he wants to search the house. Maybe Sosimo isn’t so fast to agree to that. A few threats, a scuffle, things don’t go quite the way Scott would have liked, and he’s out of there. My uncle is dead in the backyard with his arteries blown up.”
“But all of that means that Gutierrez knew about the license before that morning, then. Even before we did.”
“That’s right. And if that’s true, it puts a whole new spin on things.”
For a moment I studiously regarded the cuticles of my right hand. “Betty Contreras works just down the hall from the MVD office, doesn’t she?”
“Sure.”
“And she’d have occasion to talk with both your sister and Connie French on a daily basis.”
Torrez shrugged. “Sure. At least on the three days that the MVD is open. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Have you talked with Betty since yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“Let me take another swing at her, then.” I put both hands on the chair and leaned forward, gathering the ambition to get up. “Give me some time to talk with Betty and with your sister. You hang low for a little bit.” He looked uneasy. “I’m serious,” I continued. “You’re so tired you can’t see straight. Go home and get some sleep.”
Torrez reached across and picked up the plastic evidence bag. “I want to know how it’s possible to make this.”
“So do I. Let me find out.” I grunted to my feet. “Estelle and Francis should roll in sometime this afternoon,” I said. “Like I said, it wouldn’t hurt to run all this by her, to see what she thinks.”
Torrez laughed. “Just swear her in,” he said. “And by the way, speaking of swearing in, the preliminary hearing for the Torrance kid is nine o’clock Monday morning, if I can ask you to go. Dr. Perrone wanted to keep him in the hospital today, for observation. Apparently old Victor really belted him. There’s a little bleeding that Perrone’s worried about.”
“I’ll be happy to go, he lied,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Miles Waddell might drop the charges, but it wouldn’t hurt to pull him into a dark corner and ask him. It’ll be really interesting to see what Judge Hobart says, He’s known Herb Torrance longer than I have.”
“I heard by the grapevine that Cliff Larson wants you to work the inspector’s job for a while,” Torrez said.
“That’s what he wants,” I said, and moved toward the door. “I’d have to give that a really long think. There are other concerns hanging right now that are higher on my list.” I saw the undersheriff lean back and swing his boot back up on the desk. That didn’t look like movement out of the office to me.
“Go home, Robert. Let it ride.” I smiled. “And don’t worry. I know what I said, but I’m not going to just drop all this in your lap on Tuesday night and walk away. Not until we find out where that license came from. And not until we find out who killed your uncle.”
Chapter Thirty
I pushed open the heavy door and was about to step outside. The first slap of early morning air hit my face, but I stopped in midstride, hand on the brass door handle. For several long seconds I stood rooted in place, letting the November chill waft into the Public Safety Building.
“Huh,” I grunted to myself, and retreated back inside. In the few moments I’d been gone, it didn’t appear that Torrez had changed position.
“We’re missing something,” I said, and he glanced up.
“I have the feeling,” he said slowly, “that we’re missing a whole lot of things, sir.”
“No, really. Suppose this. Suppose that Matthew kicked out the window just because that’s the thing that you try to do if you’re a half-wild teenager out to test the world. He’ll show us, by God. Maybe next time we won’t be so quick to arrest him.”
“Oh, sure,” Torrez said, and actually managed a full-fledged smile.
“Think about this, though. Suppose that busting the window isn’t really important…no more than just a show of spite aimed as much against you and your department as anything else.”
“What’s important, then?”
“I pull off the road, the good Samaritan that I am, thinking that the kid is going to cut himself on busted glass or hang himself in the broken window. What happens next?”
Torrez had risen from his chair and walked around the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms folded across his chest. In the marines, I’d been five feet eleven inches when I was racked at attention, but in the fifty-two years since I’d enlisted, I’d settled some-and expanded horizontally. The undersheriff was a solid six feet four, and even with him leaning against the desk, I had to look up to talk to him. He waited for me to continue.
“Scott Gutierrez and Taylor Bergmann arrived. We chatted for a little bit, and Scott introduced me to Bergmann. And then Scott walked up to my car, leaned down, and shined his flashlight inside. Now, all this time, Matthew had been quiet as a church mouse in the backseat.”
“He recognized my nephew?”
“Hard to say. There’s no reason that Scott would know Matthew, is there? I mean, they may have crossed trails at one time or another, with Matt living in Regal, and Scott working the area. But there’s never been a gathering of the two families, has there?”
Torrez shook his head. “What did he actually say?”
“I don’t remember. Nothing threatening at that point as I recall. Scott asked Matthew why he’d broken the window. I do remember that.”
“What did Matthew say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t say a word. It was at that point that Scott suggested that they take Matthew into Posadas in their vehicle. They were headed toward town anyway.” I turned at the sound of footsteps. Brent Sutherland approached, obviously not eager to intrude. When he saw that he had my attention, he quickened his step.
“Sir, Judge Hobart wants you to call him.”
“The judge? You’re kidding.”
“No, sir. He said just whenever you can get to it, as long as it’s in the next thirty seconds.”
I laughed, picturing the old, grizzle-headed, pock-faced alcoholic sitting up in bed, a glass in one hand, the phone in his lap, waiting for it to ring. The wall clock said it was five minutes before six on that Sunday morning. For the judge to begin his day any earlier than nine o’clock took an act of Congress, so his mood would be delightful.
I nodded at Brent, and he retreated. “I wonder what that’s all about,” I said, and then retraced my thoughts. “Anyway, that’s what we set out to do-transfer the kid to the Border Patrol vehicle. Scott was going to use some leg ties, and I remember that he half jokingly threatened Matt. Something about if he messed up the new Expedition, that he’d take him out into a field and do whatever.”
Torrez was staring out into space, and when I paused to take a breath, he turned back and gazed at me, head nodding in comprehension.
“The obvious question,” he said, taking care with each syllable, “is, what if my nephew bolted not because he was afraid of me or the thumping I might give him when he got to town, but he was, in fact, afraid of being put in the Border Patrol vehicle and taken somewhere.”
“Exactly,” I said. “What if Matt was running not from you, but was running from Scott Gutierrez?”
“Or…” Torrez said, and stopped.
“Or what?”
“Taylor Bergmann.”