“He didn’t even know Bergmann,” I said. “Not until that moment.”
“We’re not sure of that.”
“No,” I admitted. “We’re not.”
Torrez let his head hang, and he regarded the ugly green floor tiles for a moment. “Why would Matthew be afraid of Scott Gutierrez?” he asked, and then looked up at me. “I can think of one scenario.”
“That Matt got his fake license from Connie French, and Scott knew that he had it…and that if we found it, an investigation might backtrack to the source, and Connie would be in worse trouble than the kid. We’re back to brother protecting sister again.”
He nodded and went back to his examination of the floor tiles.
“Right now, let me see what’s on Hobart’s mind,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there any chance that you can contact your sister up in Albuquerque? Do we need to wait for Monday?”
“No…I can find her. She’s staying with an aunt up in Corrales.”
“Do that, then,” I said. “Get her to cut the shopping trip short. I’d like to talk with her today, before this has a chance to fester.”
Chapter Thirty-one
I began to think that Judge Lester Hobart had fallen back on the bed, sound asleep. The phone rang eight times, and I was about to hang up when I heard the click, followed by a fumble and clatter and a muffled, “Goddammit.”
“Yes,” the judge snapped. “What is it?”
“Good morning, Judge,” I said. “This is Gastner.”
“I know who the hell it is, and what’s so good about the morning?”
I laughed and swiveled in my chair so I could see out the window. The sky was deep indigo to the west, mellowing toward the sunrise. “It looks like a nice Sunday, for one thing,” I said.
“I suppose. So what do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. You called the office and wanted to talk to me, Judge.”
“Dammit, where the hell is my mind,” he muttered.
“Haven’t seen it,” I said. “Same place mine is, no doubt.”
“Let me look at my notes a second. Hang on.” More rummaging and scuffling followed, and I had the mental picture of the judge sitting on his rumpled bed, papers scattered all over the bedroom, his ancient and disheveled toy poodle cowering on the far corner of the bedspread. “My office is a goddamn mess,” he said. “But you ought to see the goddamn clutter here at the house.”
“No worse than mine, I’m sure.”
“I hear your son’s visiting,” the judge said.
“Yes, he is.”
“The one in the navy?”
“Yes. He and my grandson drove up for a few days.”
“Grandson, eh.”
“Yep. One of several. He’s a nice kid.”
“I’m sure,” the judge said. “He into drugs yet? Tattoos and earrings? That kind of shit?”
I laughed. “No. Not that I can see, anyway.”
“Not even a tongue stud?”
“Nope. He’s a pretty straight-arrow sort of kid. The last time I saw him, he was sitting in my living room, watching High Noon.”
“Damn,” the judge said. “Well, clone him, while you have the chance. Let me see, now. Here’s the deal, speaking of kids. This Dale Torrance. Shit, I’m surprised Herb hasn’t had a stroke. Or killed the kid. Or maybe both. I have on file that the boy is nineteen. Is that right?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
“And he’s never been in trouble. At least he’s never been in my courtroom.”
“Up to now, a clean slate. And this one is pretty simple. Dale fell for a girl, and did all the stupid things.”
“This is the Prescott girl, right? Christine Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hell, this deposition from Larson says that she’s almost twenty-eight.”
“Right. I’m not sure that Dale’s infatuation is a two-way street, Judge.”
“Yeah, well…hell.” He stopped as if he were reading something, and I waited. “Okay, here’s what I want to happen. Larson already talked to Schroeder, and I guess the DA’s got enough on his plate right now that a few head of livestock going for a joyride isn’t something that he wants to pursue hot and heavy…assuming that the cattle are returned in fair health and condition to their rightful owner. At the preliminary hearing on Monday, he’s going to bring up charges against the kid for grand larceny and exportation of cattle without inspection papers, as well as leaving the scene of an accident. Schroeder tells me that the kid deliberately backed his pickup truck into one owned by Miles Waddell.”
“That’s correct. He did. And for not wanting to pursue the case hot and heavy, two felonies sounds like quite a start.”
“Well, hell,” Hobart said, “that’s the tip of the iceberg, if Schroeder wanted to play every card in the deck.”
“It’ll make Waddell happy,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I heard a little bit of an edge creep into the judge’s voice. He wasn’t up for reelection, but the district attorney was.
“It means exactly what I said,” I replied. “I’m sure Waddell wants to pursue this for all it’s worth.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what Miles Waddell wants to do or doesn’t want to do,” Hobart snapped. “Miles Waddell isn’t the State of New Mexico, much as he’d like to be. Anyway, Herb called me last night, and we talked for a bit, and then I tried to get a hold of you, but I guess you had your hands full.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Well, here’s the deal, regardless. Doc Perrone was going to turn Dale loose this morning, if all goes well. And the minute he does, Larson is going to bring him on over for arraignment. I’m going to turn him loose to the custody of his pappy-if his pappy has five thousand bucks for bond.”
“He won’t go anywhere,” I said, feeling a little less sure of that promise than I would have liked.
“Well, he damn well is going somewhere,” Hobart said. “The minute we’re done here, Dale and his father are going to truck right back over to Lawton to pick up those steers. I’m going to tell Herb that I want the boy to use his own pickup, and to pay for the fuel out of his own pocket. I want to see the receipts with the boy’s signature on ’em.”
“Fair enough.”
“And then when they get back, Miles Waddell is going to hold the cattle in quarantine for thirty days, to make sure that none of them are hurt or sick, or any goddamn thing like that. Dale Torrance is going to pay for all that, too. All the feed, the inspections, whatever it takes. When Cliff gives the okay, Waddell can have ’em back, to rope or make hamburgers or whatever the hell it is that he does with the damn things. The dealer in Oklahoma gets his money back, Waddell gets his truck fixed, and the world is ready to start over again.” He coughed into the telephone.
“By the time we have the preliminary hearing on Monday morning, the cattle will be back in the county,” I said.
“They damn well better be. And then we’ll decide where to go from there. That sound good to you?”
“It’s what should happen,” I said, and Lester Hobart read the rest of my thoughts.
“And then on Monday all things being equal, Schroeder will agree to a year’s probation and a thousand bucks fine after all the expenses and damages are paid. That ought to get the kid’s attention. And after that, we’ll see about whether we wipe the slate clean or not as far as the boy’s record is concerned.”
“That will work.”
“All right, then. I wanted to run all that by you, just in case one of the deputies saw the Torrances on the road with a livestock trailer in tow. Didn’t want you cops to get excited.”
“They’ll be aware of the situation,” I said.
“I wish to hell the rest of the mess you’re in would clean up so nicely.” Hobart chuckled. “I can understand why Dan Schroeder is staying over in Deming. He sure as hell doesn’t want any of that shit to rub off on him.”
I started to say something inconsequential, but the judge interrupted. “And say, I have a question for you.”
“What?”
“Who’s Bobby Torrez going to pick for undersheriff? Has he said yet?”
“Bobby has to win the election first,” I replied.