Everyone in the county who cared about such things knew that it was Bob’s truck, and that was just fine. What I didn’t want was a police car.
I cruised down Bustos Avenue, feeling the throb of the powerful 454 V-8 under the hood and smelling the waft of exhaust fumes from a leaky manifold mixed with the aroma of roasted corn chips long forgotten in a corner between windshield and dashboard.
More expensive than the pickup truck was the small cellular phone unit that rested in the middle of the seat. It, like the ones in my Blazer and Estelle’s little sedan, belonged to Posadas County. If the carbon monoxide didn’t get me, the truck would suit my purposes.
As I passed Nick Chavez’s dealership, I scanned the vehicles parked behind the main building. They ranged from derelict parts cars to vehicles owned by employees-and right smack in the middle, sandwiched between a bent Volvo station wagon and the Weatherford’s crumpled van, was an older model pickup. I couldn’t see much of it as I passed, but I did see the stock racks in the back. I hoped for mud as well, but the truck glinted in the early afternoon sunshine, clean as a whistle, the miracle of a modern drive-thru car-wash.
I turned left on MacArthur, gathering a back view of the dealership. At the fork of MacArthur and Camino del Sol, I swung around and headed back. The dealership wasn’t crawling with people, but there were enough-one salesman talking with an elderly couple outside, one of the servicemen half under a van with out-of-state plates, and Nick Chavez down on the new-car line, talking to a kid who would have traded his little sister for the sleek coupe parked in the end slot. No one paid any mind to the old rattletrap that idled into the lot, around the back of the service building, and out the other side.
As I passed the pickup with the stock rack, I jotted down the license plate number. The plate itself was ancient and hard to read, the corners folded and the letters marred from countless strikes by hay bales, firewood, old car parts, and whatever else twenty years use and abuse had inflicted.
Pulling out onto Bustos again, I pulled the microphone off the dashboard hook and turned up the volume of Bob’s cheap discount radio. I was about to call the plate into dispatch, and then thought better of it. There were too many overeager ears. I drove back to the Sheriff’s Department and ran the plate in person.
The NCIC information came back with no wants or warrants, and that didn’t surprise me. The vehicle, listed as a 1978 Ford three-quarter ton, was registered to Mateo Esquibel, d.o.b. April 6, 1903. Senor Esquibel, if he could still walk that far, picked up his mail from P O Box 6, Regal, New Mexico.
“You slimy son of a bitch,” I said aloud, and Gayle Sedillos turned in her chair.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, Gayle. I’m not here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed my office door and locked it, and sat down at my desk. After a minute’s thought, I picked up the phone. Victor Sanchez answered on the tenth ring with a curt “Yeah.”
“Victor, this is Gastner at the sheriff’s office. I’ve got one more question to ask you if you’ve got a minute.” Sanchez said nothing, but he didn’t hang up. “Does Mateo Esquibel still drive?”
After another long silence, Victor managed a single word. “What?”
“Mateo Esquibel? You know? Down in Regal. He’s some relation to you, isn’t he?”
“You mean the old man?”
“Yes.”
“You want to talk to him, you’re going to have to drive down there. He’s got a phone, but he don’t use it. He’s deaf now.”
“Oh. No wonder,” I said.
“What do you want with him?”
“Me? Nothing. One of my deputies wanted to buy his truck or something like that. I said I’d ask you about it.”
The line fell dead again. “Thanks a lot,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I telephoned the hospital next, knowing I shouldn’t, but wanting Estelle’s advice. She agreed with everything I wanted to do except my plan for leaving her sitting right where she was. But she had no choice.
In an hour, I felt confident that I had all bases covered. Bob Torrez had changed into civilian clothes, taken his leaky truck back to Chavez’s dealership, and purchased a set of exhaust manifold gaskets from the parts department. On the way out, a casual glance into the business office of the dealership had confirmed that Carlos Sanchez was there and busy with a stack of paperwork.
Bob parked behind his aunt’s house on MacArthur, pushed up the hood of the pickup, and settled down to enjoy the clear, thousand-yard view of the dealership’s two driveways.
Tony Abeyta took 306 and began regular patrol of the county. When he reached the end of a shift at four that afternoon, Tom Mears would relieve him. At midnight, Howard Bishop would take over. All three were instructed to avoid getting themselves tangled in something that couldn’t be dropped at an instant’s notice. All three were told to stay central in the county; to make no effort to avoid State Highway 56, but to give the highway no special attention.
And Gayle Sedillos, caught in the trap of being efficient, smart, and quick-witted, planned to camp out for the duration at dispatch. She kept tabs on the deputies as the day wore on, making sure that their location in the county at any given time was no mystery.
If Carlos Sanchez made any kind of move, he’d know as well as I did exactly where the working deputies were. And that’s what I wanted.
At 5:05, Carlos Sanchez left the dealership driving old man Esquibel’s truck. He drove directly to his apartment at 131 MacArthur Terrace, a short cul-de-sac off the main street. He drove right by Carmine Torrez’s house on MacArthur Street, and if he’d looked to his right, he would have seen Bob Torrez under the hood of the old Chevy, portable radio propped up on one fender, grease up to his elbows.
At five-thirty, I heard the moan of Jim Bergin’s Beech Baron as it circled the village and lined up for final approach. I was at the airport waiting, and I hustled Patrick Torrance into one of the small pilot’s conference rooms in the FBO Building. Without giving either his mind or his stomach time to stop spinning from the trip, I spread out a series of photographs on the table. Several of the photos were meaningless, dug out of files at random.
One photo was a clipping of Nick Chavez’s Christmas advertisement, with all the employees of the dealership gathered in front of the showroom, holding a large wreath.
“Take your time,” I said to the youth. “Examine the faces.”
Patrick sat down, taking each photograph in turn. He hesitated quite a while at one picture taken of Sheriff Martin Holman on the capitol steps with one of our state’s senators. Eventually he put that photo down and picked up the group shot of Nick Chavez’s gang. His forehead furrowed.
“I have a magnifying glass out in the car if you need it,” I said. At the same time I placed my small cassette recorder on the table in front of him and switched it on.
Patrick shook his head. “No.” He drew the photo up close to his nose, squinting. “That’s him, right there.” He picked up a pencil and pointed with the tip. Carlos Sanchez was in front, kneeling at one side of the wreath, looking pleasant and professional.
For the benefit of the tape recorder, I said, “Patrick, you’re pointing at Carlos Sanchez. Are you sure that’s the man that you saw in the pickup truck Monday with Tammy Woodruff?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“You’ll testify to that?”
Patrick’s eyes opened wider, but he didn’t protest. He nodded slightly and looked back at the photograph. “I’m sure that’s him.”
I reached over and turned off the recorder. “Then that’s all we need, son. I’d like to ask that you go home and stay there until I call you.”