“Impress the chicks,” I mused as he filled my cup. “Gourmet cooking sure beats stealing cattle.”
“Are you about wound down on that one?” Buddy asked.
“Just about.”
“And the Regal fracas?”
“Far from wound down. We haven’t heard a thing beyond the preliminary autopsy, and haven’t found anything in Baca’s house to give us a lead. What we’re left with is an inconsistency in some statements by the witnesses. That and a puzzle about where the driver’s license came from.” I blew across the coffee. “First things first. I’ve got a woman down in Regal who’s saying a couple of different things, and I thought I’d start with her. Backtrack a little and see what I can find. You want to come along?”
Buddy held up his hands. “We’re going to let you do that on your own, Dad. Tadd and I have a few errands that we need to run after a little bit.” He grinned. “Give folks a chance to get out of bed first.” He twisted and looked at the wall clock. “What time does the Guzman mob roll in?”
“Their plane arrives in El Paso at eleven-fifty. I suppose that puts them here around two or so, all things being equal.”
“That’s perfect,” Buddy said. “We’re going to do some grocery shopping as soon as the supermarket opens.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, I know it’s not. But it’s fun. We were going to see if we could get the grill working. Hell, the two Guzman brats would rather tear around your backyard and eat hot dogs than have to behave themselves out in public.”
“Just finding the grill will be a trick,” I said. “It hasn’t seen the light of day in fifteen years.” I groped in my pocket and pulled out my key ring. “Take my Blazer. It sits in the garage so much it’s starting to mold. You’ll have to move it anyway to get at the grill. Don’t get caught in an avalanche.”
Tadd had started methodically arranging the dishes by the sink, and Buddy caught the bemused expression on my face. “Mrs. Hooper taught them how to clean up first,” he said. “That’s what impresses the hell out of me. She deserves a Nobel prize.”
“I’d like to meet this woman,” I said.
“Well,” Buddy said, and pushed himself away from the table, “if you should ever decide to leave Posadas County, that could be arranged.”
“I do leave the county,” I said defensively, and took a final swig of coffee before handing the empty cup to Tadd. “Hell, just last week I was in Deming. And this morning, or yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, I drove through downtown Newton.”
“Positively cosmopolitan,” Buddy said. “Plan on lunch?”
“I’ll try my best,” I said, and turned to Tadd. “You cooking?”
“Yeah,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction, and then, with the odd raised, crooked elbow and three-fingered point of the Hollywood gang-banger amplified by a ridiculous caricature of a Mexican accent, he added, “The man be cookin’.”
“Then I wouldn’t miss it.”
I took a few moments to freshen up. When I left the house, my mood was upbeat. As I turned the car onto south Grande, I found myself still chuckling at my grandson’s comment. “The man be cookin’,” I said aloud, and then realized with a start that it had been a long time since I’d been preoccupied with something other than work.
Chapter Thirty-three
Betty Contreras was stepping out the back door of her home just as I pulled into her driveway shortly before eight that Sunday morning. She carried a wrapped parcel, the right size and shape for a pie.
“Well, good morning to you,” she said brightly and paused on the step.
“Betty, good morning. I need a minute or two of your time. You headed to church?” She nodded. “Is Emilio down there already?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “For sure. He’s been there since about six.”
“Gets the fire going, eh?”
“This time of year it sure feels good,” she agreed. “That big old high ceiling, you know. It’s like a barn.” She turned first to the left and then to the right, as if she were looking for a place to set the pie. “Why don’t we go inside, then,” she said.
The kitchen was warm and perfumed by baked apples. The clock over the refrigerator said Betty had four minutes if Father Anselmo was prompt with the 8:00 AM mass.
“How about some coffee?” she said, but I shook my head.
“No. You’re busy, and this is a bad time. You’re about to head out the door. I’ll make it quick.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, and slid the heavy pie onto the counter beside the stove. She turned and waved a hand at one of the chairs at the table. “Sit. Sit.”
I did, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “Betty,” I said, watching her smooth, pretty face for some flash of emotion that might clue me into what she was thinking, “I’m confused. Let me spell it out.” I tapped the table with an index finger. “You told me yesterday that you saw a Border Patrol vehicle drive by on the road out front. You said just about eight o’clock in the morning. Saturday morning.”
She frowned and nodded. “I was out back,” she said. “I think I was feeding the cats.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.” I regarded her for a moment, and her face kept the slight frown of puzzlement. But her eyes returned my gaze without flinching. “You told me that you mentioned the vehicle to Scott Gutierrez, and that he said that it was probably him.”
This time, I saw a fine line of crimson creeping up her neck. I continued, “Tony Abeyta said that no such conversation took place while he was here, and that there wasn’t a time when he left Scott Gutierrez alone with you,” I paused, then added, “when such a conversation might have taken place.”
She leaned back against the counter, one hand on each side as if she were preparing to launch herself across the room. “Oh, brother,” she said, muttering the comment in the same tone that she might use with a county resident complaining about receiving the wrong tax notice.
I waited. Finally she released her hold on the counter and turned to the coffeemaker. “Let’s have a fresh cup,” she said, her back turned to me.
“That would be fine,” I said. “No cream, no sugar.” As she rummaged for the filter and the coffee and the spoon, I glanced at the clock. “You don’t mind missing mass?”
She laughed, a small, self-deprecating little puff of amusement. “There’s always ten,” she said. “That old barn will be warm by then.” Her voice took on a bit of an edge. “And I guess it doesn’t matter if I mind or not, Bill.”
When she’d finished prepping the coffee, she returned to the table and sat down at the end, in the chair nearest me. “This is embarrassing,” she said. She was an articulate woman, used to dealing with the public who entered the assessor’s office in all sorts of moods. I knew that she’d find the right gear if I left her alone.
“When I was out feeding the cats,” she said, “a vehicle did drive by. And that’s the truth. It was white, and I saw just a flash of green. I suppose that’s what put the Border Patrol in mind. I don’t know what the vehicle was, whether it was a Bronco or Suburban or Expedition, or what. It was one of those big boxy things, though. It could even have been a van. Big and boxy. Of that I’m sure.” She turned and glanced at the coffee-maker as it released a loud gurgle and a puff of steam.
“So you’re not sure that it was a government vehicle?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You didn’t see the driver, or the white government plate?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Number of occupants?”
“Bill, I think…I think…that there were two. But if I had to swear in a court of law, I’d have to say that I wasn’t sure. It seems to me that there were two. That’s as close as I can come.”
“But you didn’t recognize them?”
“No.”
“Did something lead you to believe that it might be a Border Patrol vehicle?”
She hesitated. “A natural assumption, I guess. They drive through here all the time. This street is the major one through this part of the village. If you wanted to drive through most of Regal, you’d end up on Sanchez Road, one way or another.” She nodded toward the front of the house, where Sanchez Road nicked perilously close to their front porch. “And the patch of green against white is what put the Border Patrol in mind, I’m sure. It wasn’t a neighbor’s car.”