Torrez may have agreed with that idea originally, but when he and Gayle arrived at the house, he seemed determined to accompany us to the MVD office later that afternoon.
Eventually, he grudgingly agreed that if he went along, no matter how silent he remained, no matter how he tried to blend with the wallpaper, it would be a case of big brother hovering protectively over his little sister.
“And that’s just a bad idea, Robert,” I said.
“You need to let the sheriff and Estelle go,” Gayle Torrez said at one point after we all had bandied the idea back and forth. Torrez said nothing, but turned and looked at Estelle. Estelle’s head moved, the faintest hint of a nod. Evidently that was enough.
Torrez put his fork down. He hadn’t touched most of the food. “Okay,” he said. “You two go.”
After another half hour, a nap would have been in order, but instead I fueled up on three or four cups of strong coffee and the assurance from Buddy and Francis that the house would be in safe hands during our absence. I saw that I didn’t need to worry about the kids. Tadd had both Francisco and Carlos in tow, the two dervishes ready to do anything he asked.
Robert and Gayle Torrez left, and I knew by the look on his face that he’d head for his office and sit there in the silence of a Sunday afternoon, fuming and fussing until he heard from me.
I settled into the unmarked car and watched Estelle slide into the passenger seat. She finally found the other end of the seat belt amid the welter of junk. “Feels about right, doesn’t it?” I said as I backed out of the driveway, maneuvering through the clutter of vehicles.
Estelle didn’t immediately agree, which was something of a disappointment, but she didn’t disagree, either. Instead she said, “Your grandson is a remarkable young man.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ve never seen Francisco eat bell peppers before. Tadd ate ’em, so he did too.”
“It was interesting to watch,” I said. “Carlos wasn’t so easy to convince, though.” I laughed at the memory of the smallest Guzman pushing the unidentifiable green lizards around on his plate, dark brows furrowed in critical concentration. He hadn’t been taken in by any smooth talk. Those bell peppers weren’t green chile, and the kid knew it. “Can you believe that the last time I saw my grandson, he wasn’t all that much older than Francisco? Christ, time just slips away, doesn’t it?”
“Way, way too fast.”
Robert had called his sister and told her that we’d meet at the MVD office at 4:30, and we were a few minutes early. I idled the car along and Estelle appeared to be examining every building en route.
“I don’t guess the place has changed much,” I said, and gestured at the supermarket, a new sign molded in gaudy plastic above the door. “The Carter family sold the store earlier this fall. Some outfit from El Paso.”
“Old Sam,” Estelle murmured, “he was a real creep.”
That comment took me by surprise, since the Estelle I knew kept opinions so closely guarded that they could qualify as state secrets. Not that I didn’t agree with her assessment. Sam Carter had indeed been a crooked, philandering creep. He’d also been chairman of the County Commission, and on more than one occasion had made our lives downright interesting.
Less than two blocks farther on, the Posadas County complex on Bustos Avenue included a small annex that housed the state’s Motor Vehicle Division field office, and I pulled into the parking lot and nosed the car into a slot beside Melinda Torrez’s blue Datsun pickup.
“I appreciate your doing this,” I said to Estelle. “And so does Bob.”
“He’s a basket case,” Estelle said. “But then, he has good reason to be. I can’t even imagine what’s going through his mind right now. First his cousin, then his uncle.”
“And he liked Sosimo, too, for all his faults,” I added. “The old guy was a family favorite.”
“That’s right. And now this.” We got out of the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. The office door was locked, and I peered inside. A blind on the window and a partition just beyond shielded the office from view. I rapped on the glass with a knuckle, and almost instantly, Melinda Torrez appeared from the left and came in front of the counter. Her key ring still hung in the lock, and she opened the dead bolt.
Three years younger than her brother at thirty-four, Melinda was the oldest daughter of the late Rafael Torrez and his wife, Elsa. There had been nine children livening up that household, with Robert the oldest of four boys.
One brother had been killed fifteen years before. A drunken driver had clipped the boy, pulverizing his motorcycle and throwing him nearly fifty feet into a guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The drunk had been trying to negotiate his way out of the parking lot of a bar. He’d seen the truck that young Torrez was following, but he claimed he never saw the motorcycle.
Robert Torrez had been a Posadas County sheriff’s deputy for four months at the time. Mercifully, he hadn’t been on duty.
Except for that tragedy, the Torrez children prospered as a diverse, huge, and as far as I could tell, happy family whose holiday gatherings were legendary for grid-locking MacArthur Street.
Melinda hadn’t yet found a man she wanted to marry, and she and her mother, Elsa, presided over the family, deferring to the oldest son and future sheriff of Posadas County just enough that he felt in control.
“How are you doing, Melinda?” I said. “I’m sorry to wreck your Sunday in the big city.”
“You haven’t wrecked a thing,” Melinda said. She was a handsome woman, tall and big-boned like her brother, with sharp features and a high, broad forehead. She held open the door and stood to one side, her smile for Estelle wide and genuine. “And look who’s here,” she said. The two women embraced. “Two minutes in town, and you let the boys drag you out already?” She released just enough of the hug to free one hand. Drilling her strong index finger into my biceps, she said, “See how you are?”
“Yep,” I said. “A hopeless case. I admit it.”
“And where’s the hunk?” Melinda stepped back a pace, holding Estelle with a hand on each shoulder like an elementary school teacher grabbing the attention of a seven-year-old.
“He’s back at the house, trying to make sure that los ninos don’t wreck their host’s home.”
“All right. I can understand that.” She shot a look of sympathy my way. “You’re a brave man, Bill.” She gestured back behind the counter and when we’d cleared the door, turned the dead bolt. “Come on back.” She rounded the corner and then stopped. “God, how have you guys been? It’s been forever! ”
“We’re fine,” Estelle said.
“How long are you here for?”
“Just until Thursday,” I said. “Not long enough, I keep telling them.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” She lifted both hands palms up to encompass the entire office. “So here we are. Bobby was…what…a little vague about what was going on? I put two and two together and decided it had to have something to do with Mateo and Uncle Sosimo. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I said. I turned the license so that Melinda could read it clearly and laid it on the counter.
“What’s this?” she said automatically. She leaned on the counter with an elbow on each side of the license, hands clasped together. For a long minute, she examined it without touching it. Then she turned the license over, scrutinizing the magnetic strip and the empty line for endorsements.
“Oh, boy,” she said.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She sucked air between clenched teeth, making funny little noises with her tongue. As if another examination might change things, she picked up the plastic card again. This time she looked so closely her eyes crossed. “Oh, boy,” she said again. “Matthew had this with him?”
“It would appear so.”
“Oh, boy,” she muttered. Her eyes narrowed just a tad when she looked at me. “And you want to know where he got it.”
“Yes.” My interest was tweaked. Melinda asked her question in that rhetorical tone of voice that hinted she might have heard the same question before.