I rocked back on my haunches and watched as Victor released his hold on his son. Victor never took his eyes off his son’s face, but he spoke in English. “How could he kill like that? And he stole from his own father. How could he do that? He just ran inside and took the money. How could he do that?”
I didn’t reply as I stood up. Victor looked up at me. “Was he trying to leave the country?”
“We think so.”
“He didn’t even have a word to say to me.”
I walked out of the adobe, leaving the two of them alone.
Bishop came trotting back, his service automatic in his hand.
“The ambulance is on the way,” he said.
“And put that thing away,” I answered. I leaned against the Blazer’s rusted fender and looked out across the little village.
“You want him cuffed?” Bishop asked.
I shook my head and pushed my own set back through my belt. “He’s not going anywhere. Just go in and gather up all the goddamned artillery.”
“No, I meant Victor. You want him in custody?”
I looked at Howard. “Where’s he going to go in this world, Howard? He just shot his own son. Leave him alone until the ambulance gets here.”
Chapter 38
The Posadas County Sheriff’s Office filed no charges against Victor Sanchez. Over the next several days, we were able to piece together a version of what his son had done that satisfied us. We might have been wrong in a detail or two, but only time and a few lucky breaks would ever provide the answers.
We found the police scanner stowed under the seat of Mateo Esquibel’s old truck; it was the type of radio unit with a power jack that plugged into the cigarette lighter. If Carlos Sanchez had overheard Deputy Encinos respond to the radio call about a possible disturbance on East Bustos Avenue that Sunday night, he may well have gotten nervous.
We didn’t know yet where in the state the stolen truck had come from, but odds were good that it had ended up being parked for a short while among the many vehicles behind Nick’s dealership. If Tammy Woodruff had had the key to the stolen pickup, and all she had had to do was start the truck and drive off to Mexico, it should have been a slick deal. But Tammy was Tammy.
Waiting in Regal, Carlos had made the decision to drive back toward Posadas, using the old man’s truck. The trailer hitched on behind was a typical Carlos Sanchez touch. The rig would look as innocent as the old man. He would have seen the stolen truck parked along the highway, and he would have seen the patrol car behind it, emergency lights flashing. And that had to have been when Carlos took the step to bail Tammy out of trouble, knowing full well that she probably wouldn’t have been able to keep her mouth shut. She’d sealed her own fate, of course, when Carlos realized what a liability she really was.
The state crime lab provided a match between the firing pin impression of Carlos Sanchez’s pump shotgun and the impression struck in the primer of the single fired shell casing that he’d pumped into the grass along State 56 that Sunday night.
And Sergeant Torrez demonstrated to us how Carlos could have driven Tammy Woodruff’s truck over the edge of San Patricio Mesa. It didn’t take a gymnast to stand on the chrome running board with the driver’s door open, since the vehicle could go over the edge at an idle and gravity would still get the job done. From there, it was a simple hitchhike back to town.
Nick Chavez closed the auto dealership for two days while we went through the building one shelf, one drawer, one file, even one toolbox at a time…including Nick’s own office. Two days of patient searching gave us one answer that didn’t surprise me. Carlos Sanchez had kept no records. Not at the dealership, not in his apartment, not in the bank safe-deposit box that we opened on court order.
There was no magic little book that listed who his drivers were, who his contacts were in other dealerships around the state or in adjoining states, or who his Mexican contacts had been. When his father put a bullet through his son’s heart, he effectively erased all of that information.
There was no doubt that Carlos Sanchez had known where his father kept cash receipts at the saloon, and that his father had the bad habit of letting receipts accumulate. In one swift grab, Carlos Sanchez had been able to take nearly three-thousand dollars from his father-additional insurance for his trip south that night.
I wondered what had stung Victor Sanchez more-knowing that his son had committed the murder of Paul Encinos and Tammy Woodruff, or knowing that Carlos had stolen from him.
I stood in Linda Real’s hospital room Friday morning, feeling emotionally drained after the Thursday morning service for Paul Encinos and the two days of fruitless searching at the dealership and Carlos Sanchez’s apartment. Linda had accepted the news of Carlos Sanchez’s death with a tiny, resigned nod.
“I was going to stop by Estelle’s place for a few minutes to pick up some paperwork. Any messages?”
Linda’s good eye winked at me, and she said, “Nhhhh.”
The legal pad was on the bedside table, and I slid it under her hand, and handed her a pen.
Ask her if she’ll stop by once in a while, she wrote. I twisted my head and looked at the message. Linda’s handwriting was getting stronger and faster.
“I’ll do that,” I said.
You have all the answers now?
“I wish we did, Linda. Some things we may never know.”
She quickly penned, ??
I smiled. “Am I off the record?”
What record?
I patted her hand. “Lots and lots of things we don’t know, Linda.”
The biggest and juiciest?
I laughed. “Now you sound like a reporter, young lady.”
It’ll give me something to think about.
“All right. We don’t know how Tammy Woodruff got linked up with Carlos in the first place. I suppose there’s no magic in that-they could have met in a bar, almost anywhere. But we don’t know why Tammy agreed to drive one of the trucks for Sanchez. We don’t know why she allowed herself to get involved.”
Linda’s pen hovered over the page, and I could see the portion of her forehead that wasn’t covered in bandages furrow.
Excitement, she finally wrote.
“Maybe. And why would he talk to her about what he’d done?”
HEY-boys show off for girls!!!
“You think it’s that simple?” She winked at me. “Maybe so. Is there anything I can get for you while I’m here?”
No. By the way, I told Mom that if she made trouble for you people, I’d never speak to her again.
“That’s nice to hear.”
Her pen made little circling motions before she wrote, Sonny Trujillo? What will happen?
“I don’t know, Linda.” I took a deep breath. “It’ll depend on how good the lawyers are. They’ll get rich, that’s for sure.”
A nurse wheeling a heavily laden cart pushed through the door, and Linda hastily wrote, You’ll ask Estelle to visit when she can?
“Yes, I will. And I’ll drop by now and again.” I patted her hand again, put the pad back on the table, and shoved the pen in my pocket. I put the palm of my hand on her forehead. “Thanks for everything,” I said, and she winked.
***
Pellets of snow drove down from the north, bouncing off the hood and windshield of 310 as I pulled into the Guzman’s driveway on South Twelfth Street. I gathered up half a dozen folders of paperwork that needed the signature of our chief of detectives-our only detective-and shoved them under my coat so the three-carbons wouldn’t water spot.
Dr. Guzman opened the door for me. “I was just on my way to the hospital,” he said. “Did you stop and see Linda?”
“Yes, I did. She’s doing fine, all things considered. Is Swan Diver here?”