“So she found out where he was and now she’s going there?”
“Yes.”
“With another man? That seems a bit tactless.”
“Necessary, though. She doesn’t have money for a trip like that. She had to talk somebody into taking her.”
“And you’re pretty sure of that somebody’s identity?”
“Yes. It was Valenzuela.”
He leaned forward in his chair and the leather made a soft patient sighing sound. “Would you like to see my file on the girl?”
“Of course.”
He pressed the intercom. “Mrs. Rafael, please bring in the Carla Lopez file.”
It was brief: Carla Dolores Lopez, 431 Catalpa St., Ap’t. 9. Age 18. Waitress, currently unemployed. Uses her maiden name though not yet divorced. Married Ernest Valenzuela Nov. 2/67 in Boca de Rio. Gave birth, March 30/68, to male child registered as Gary Edward Valenzuela. Separated from husband July 13/68 and moved to present address in San Diego. Juvenile record for shoplifting, habitual truancy.
“The baby,” Ford said, “may or may not be Valenzuela’s. Under the law any child born to a married woman is presumed to have been fathered by her husband unless proven otherwise. Nobody’s tried to prove otherwise. Maybe there isn’t an otherwise.” He turned the file face down on his desk. “If the girl left town this morning with Valenzuela, it might simply indicate a reconciliation.”
“But they’re heading for Seattle, where Felipe is. She couldn’t very well ask her estranged husband to help her track down her former lover.”
“My dear Devon, many bargains are struck in this life that you wouldn’t understand or condone. The girl wanted to go to Seattle and one way or another was willing to pay for the trip.”
“So you think everything is just dandy.”
“I think practically nothing is just dandy. But—”
“I’m worried about Carla. She’s very young and emotional.”
“She’s also a married woman with a child, not a runaway kid who can be picked up and held in juvenile hall for her own protection. Besides, I have no reason to believe Valenzuela poses any threat to her, or to anyone else. As far as I know, his record with the sheriff’s department over the years was good.”
“Mrs. Osborne told me he was incompetent.”
“Mrs. Osborne thinks most people are incompetent,” Ford said dryly. “Including me.”
“She also told me that he didn’t resign, he was fired.”
“When he left the department various stories were heard around the courthouse. The official one was that he resigned to take a job with an insurance company — true as far as it went. Privately it was rumored that he’d begun to slip because of heavy drinking. His marriage didn’t improve the situation. The Lopez family is large and trouble-prone and Valenzuela’s connection with it was bound to cause friction in the department.” He frowned up at the ceiling like an astrologer looking for stars to read. “How he got involved with the girl in the first place I wouldn’t know. Affairs of the heart are not in my sphere of competence. Or interest.”
“Really? You asked me enough personal questions about my life with Robert.”
“Only because it was my business to present to Judge Gallagher the picture of Robert as a happily married young man.”
“You sound as if you doubt that he was.”
“My doubts, if any, are irrelevant. I think I’ve proved to the court’s satisfaction that Robert is dead. Of course I won’t be absolutely sure until Judge Gallagher announces his decision on the hearing.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know yet. When he called me earlier this morning I expected him to set a time for the announcement. Instead, he asked me some questions.”
“What about?”
“First, the truck.”
“The old G.M. belonging to the migrant workers?”
“No. It was the pickup Jaime referred to at the end of his testimony yesterday afternoon. I didn’t pay much attention, since Jaime seemed to be merely making a passing remark. But Judge Gallagher’s a stickler for details. He read that section of the transcript to me over the phone. I’ll repeat it for you:
Q. Jaime, do you recall anything in particular about the crew?
A. Just the old truck they came in. It was painted dark red, I noticed that specially because it was the same color red as the pickup Felipe used to teach me to drive. It’s not there any more, so I guess Mr. Osborne sold it on account of its gears being stripped too often.”
Devon nodded. “I remember, but why is it important?”
“Judge Gallagher wants to know what happened to the truck and where it is now.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Who can?”
“Estivar is responsible for all the vehicles used on the ranch. I’ll ask him about it when I get home. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation and that the truck had nothing to do with Robert’s death.”
“You’ll take Estivar’s word for it?”
“Of course.”
He watched her carefully for any signs of doubt. There were none, and after a moment or two he continued. “Judge Gallagher is also curious about the weapon, the butterfly knife. So am I. A great deal of effort went into the disposing of the body. The knife could have been disposed of at the same time and in the same place. Instead, it was tossed into a pumpkin field. The pumpkins had been gathered for market at the beginning of October and the field was due to be cleared and plowed. Any agricultural worker would have known this.”
“So the knife was meant to be found,” Devon said. “Or else whoever threw it into the field was not an agricultural worker. I’m inclined to believe the first theory.”
“Why?”
“Everyone in our area is connected with agriculture. Even the strangers passing through are ranch hands or migrant laborers.”
“Gallagher made a further point: no poor Mexican field worker would have discarded a knife like that. He would have washed it off and kept it, no matter what it had been used for.”
A sonic boom shook the building like an explosion. Ford got up and hurried over to the windows as though he hoped to catch a glimpse of the offending plane. Seeing none, he returned to his desk and made a note on his memo pad: report s. boom, 11:32. His report would be one of many, followed by an equal number of protestations of innocence from every air base within a thousand miles.
Ford said, “The real question is why the knife, if it was meant to be found, did not implicate anyone. Ownership was never proved, which would indicate either that something went wrong or that somebody did a cover-up.”
“Who?”
“Valenzuela was in charge of the case. Suppose he knew who owned or had access to the knife but kept quiet about it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Let’s ask him when he gets back from vacation.”
“That might not be for weeks,” Devon said. “Will we have to wait that long for Judge Gallagher to make his decision?”
“No. It’s already been made, unofficially — he’s convinced of Robert’s death, and the points he raised over the telephone aren’t going to affect that. But, as I told you previously, he’s a stickler for details. He’s also presided at a lot of murder trials, and if yesterday’s hearing had been a trial, any questions about the knife and the pickup truck would have had to be considered very carefully.”
“Were those the only points he brought up?”
“The only physical ones,” Ford said. “The other was psychological, having to do with Estivar’s testimony. You may recall that I asked Estivar how long he’d known Robert. He stated that he’d known him since birth, that as a boy Robert used to follow him around; that Robert spent a great deal of time at the Estivar house and this close relationship continued until Robert was sent away to a prep school in Arizona after the death of his father. When he returned to the ranch two years later a considerable change had occurred in him. He no longer went to the Estivar house for meals, he avoided the Estivar boys and his relationship with Estivar himself was strictly business. Estivar blamed the change on the school in Arizona, claiming it taught Robert prejudice. Judge Gallagher refuses to buy this. He contends that a boy of fifteen who’d been brought up among Mexicans, who spoke their language and shared their food, couldn’t be taught prejudice against them, certainly not at that particular school.”