“That’s correct. The Mexican said that the boss was looking for José. He-the boss-was very mad at José because he fucked up. And he fucked up by running out of bullets.” A pause. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Damn straight it does. José Pinon translates to Joe Pine. Decker said, “It could. Go on.”
“So José ran out of bullets,” Harriman said. “So the El Salvadorian asked the Mexican why someone else didn’t finish him off. And the Mexican said because José is a retard. Then he said Martin was very angry. Both agreed that Martin was a very bad man, but not as bad as the boss-whoever that is. They also both agreed that José was a dead man. At that point, I felt very uncomfortable eavesdropping. The way that the two of them were speaking…it sounded authentic. When I got home that night, I looked up the murders on my computer…It’s voice activated, in case you’re wondering.”
“I figured.”
“The son…Gil Kaffey…he was shot but he survived. I may be assuming too much but I surmised that they had been talking about Gil Kaffey and that José hadn’t made sure that Gil was dead.” Harriman rolled his head in the other direction. “I’m just relating the information to you. Maybe it’ll do you some good.”
“I appreciate your coming in. You mentioned José’s name as José Pinon. How about Martin?”
“Just Martin.”
“Did he mention Rondo Martin?”
“Just Martin as far as I can recall.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “If you heard these men speak again, do you think you could pick them out from other El Salvadorians or Mexicans?”
“Like a vocal lineup?”
“Something like that.”
“Have you ever done something like that before?”
“No. It might be a first with the courts. Do you think you could ID the voices?”
“Absolutely.” Harriman seemed insulted. “Why? Do you have a suspect?”
“Right now what we have are lots of people of interest.”
“No arrests then.”
“If we had an arrest, your voice-activated computer would know about it. Is there anything else that you’d like to add?”
Harriman thought for a moment. “The El Salvadorian sounded like a smoker. That might narrow it down to a gazillion people.”
“I appreciate your information.”
“Does it help?”
Damn straight. “It might.” Decker reread part of Harriman’s statement. “What’s my best option for getting hold of you in case I need to speak to you again?”
Harriman took out his wallet, pulled a card from one of its compartments. He handed it to Decker.
“My business and cell number. And how do I reach you in case I think of anything else?”
Decker dictated the number while Harriman entered it into his PDA by voice. Then Decker said, “Thanks again for doing your civic duty. People like you make our lives much easier. I’ll walk you out.”
“No need.” Harriman activated his locator. “I came in alone, I’ll go out alone.”
ON HIS WAY over to Coyote Ranch, Decker pondered what to do with the information. Without physical descriptions, the men were nonexistent, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have options. His first call was to Willy Brubeck. “Hey, Detective.”
“What’s going on, Loo?”
“I’m on my way to a dig at Coyote Ranch.” Decker explained what was going on there. “What was on your agenda today?”
“Five guard interviews today, hope to do at least that many tomorrow. One of them had to cancel, but the rest were cooperative. No radar tweaking. Four were pretty freaked by the murders, one was pissed that he was out of a job. All of them gave me a cheek swab.”
“Good work. Have either Drew or you found Joe Pine?”
“Joe’s on my list, but I haven’t gotten around to him yet.”
“Bump him up to the top. Also what about the embezzling account executive, Milfred Connors? Have you made contact with him?”
“We keep missing each other.”
“Set something up with him ASAP, and I want to be there.”
“What’s up with him?”
Decker explained Mace Kaffey’s alleged embezzlement and the charges brought by his brother. “I’m just wondering if Connors took the fall for him.”
“Interesting theory. I’ll give him another call.”
“Good. Last, any word about Rondo Martin from your sources in Ponceville?”
“I haven’t heard back.”
“Push on Martin.” Decker told him about his conversation with Brett Harriman. “I’ll probably wind up sending you to Ponceville, but you need to make all your preparatory calls first.”
“We’re working on information from a blind guy?” Brubeck said.
“He can’t see but he sure as hell can hear. The list of guards who worked for the Kaffeys isn’t public knowledge, and this guy named two guards on the roster. That makes my antennas twitch. And even if the knowledge was public, he used the name José Pinon, not Joe Pine. Marge and Oliver are busy with the dig at the ranch. Take Rondo Martin off their hands, and give Joe Pine to Andrew Messing. The first thing we need is a set of prints.”
“I’ll push the Ponceville sheriff. His name is Tim England, but they call him T.”
“I don’t care what they call him, just call him up and get a set of prints. Have Drew check with Neptune Brady and see if they have a set on Joe Pine. Then run both of them through NCIC once you’ve got the prints.”
“I hear you.”
“You two are still going to need to talk to all of the guards, but let’s go with what we have first. Especially with Rondo Martin, because he was on duty and now he’s missing.”
“Good luck at the ranch. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Thanks.” Decker hung up the phone and thought about being lucky. This meant that they would dig up something that had an impact on the case-like a dead person. So lucky was probably not the correct word. Maybe what he was hoping for was that maybe the dig wasn’t a total waste of valuable time.
TWELVE
AS THE DAYLIGHT drew to a close, the sun’s rays lengthened and turned the ranchland into a sheet of polished copper. Even peering through shades, Decker had to squint. Men were digging up parched ground, gingerly relocating mounds of pebbled soil. After the first inch, Marge explained, the earth gave way easily, and everyone suspected that there was something down below. She and Oliver had been sifting through the piles of dirt, making sure that nothing significant went unnoticed.
So far, the yield was confined to beer bottle caps, soda cans, food wrappers, and cigarette butts.
“They’ve been collected for evidence,” Marge said. “Should we need to, we can have the cigarettes sent for DNA testing to give us an idea about who’s been out here.”
Oliver added, “We found the butts below the dirt, so they didn’t ride the wind to the spot. Someone dug this hole for a purpose.”
“It stinks,” Marge said. “Mostly from horseshit.”
Decker agreed, although the smell was a tad nostalgic, reminding him of his days as a single man owning a ranch. He wouldn’t want to go back, but the recollection was sweet. His nostrils also picked up skunk spray. He looked upward and saw a fleet of crows overhead. They cawed noisily, bothered by the posse below invading their wide-open space. There were also several raptors circling overhead, the up-tilt of their wings suggesting that they were carrion feeders as opposed to hawks that ate fresh kill.
Crows ate carrion as well.
Made him wonder. What did they know that he didn’t?
The sun had dipped below the hills, crowning them in fiery gold. Dusk was starting to cover the remnants of natural illumination. Marge had set up a half-dozen spots powered by beefed-up truck engines. She’d need them soon, as daylight was becoming a fond memory.
With nothing better to do than to watch the buzzards, Decker decided to be useful. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, crouched down, and began winnowing through a dirt pile. Though he needed to focus, his mind began to wander as the monotony of the task set in.