He had a wonderful view from his property-the San Cristobals to the south and west, the great sweep of the prairie to the east, the imposing flat-crowned bulk of Cat Mesa at his back door. Estelle sat quietly for a moment with the windows open. A light breeze hissed through the fat junipers that crowded the lane.
It wasn’t likely that visitors to this spot first admired the view. Their attention would be attracted instead to a two-foot-square sign of painted plywood wired securely to the top and second strands of the fence immediately beside the gate. The lettering was simple block letters, painted in shiny black enamel on a weathered white background.
Trespassand die,fucker.
“PCS, three ten.” She palmed the mike and waited, examining the barbed-wire gate ahead of her. The left side, where the wire closure looped over the polished top of the post, was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.
“Go ahead, three ten.”
“PCS, I’m at Mr. Crowley’s gate.” As she spoke, she flipped open the small Posadas telephone directory. There was no listing for Milton Crowley. “Do you have a telephone number for this residence?”
A momentary pause followed as Gayle either pondered Estelle’s odd question or looked in the file. Estelle hoped that Milton Crowley was hunched over his scanner, forehead furrowed in suspicion. On her increasingly frequent visits to County Commission meetings, she had always known Crowley was in the back tending his video camera, but she had paid him little mind.
During those meetings, he sometimes posed questions to the commission, or made caustic comments heavily loaded with sarcasm and the not-too-subtle implication that anyone who was part of government was either out to trample his personal rights, or was on the take, or was simply stupid. Without fail, a version of the meeting was reported in the small newsletter that Crowley published and then distributed by mail to his list of like-thinking readers.
“Ah, three ten, that’s negative. We have no number on file for that residence.”
“Ten-four. The gate appears to be locked.”
“You be careful,” Gayle said with uncharacteristic informality.
“Three ten will be ten-six this location.”
“Three ten, three oh eight, negative that.” Sheriff Torrez’s voice was startlingly loud, sounding as if he was bending over his wife’s shoulder in dispatch.
“Go ahead, three oh eight,” Estelle said.
“Three ten, ten-twenty-one.” Characteristically, Torrez offered no explanation.
“Ten-four,” Estelle replied. Switching phone for mike, she dialed, knowing exactly what Bob Torrez wanted.
“Hey,” he said when he picked up the phone. “What’s with the visit to the Cat Mesa fruitcake?”
“Bobby, it occurred to me that he might have caught something on video from the meeting yesterday that could be of interest to us.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But if someone had an argument with Kevin, there’s a possibility that something might have been captured on tape during the commission meeting. I don’t know what, but maybe something.”
“Or not.”
“Fifty-fifty,” Estelle persisted. “Besides, I’d like to know who was present for the morning session of the meeting, but who didn’t return for the afternoon. Crowley should have all of that.”
“Maybe so. But you’re dreamin’ if you think he’s going to hand over his tapes.”
“That’s if he even has any in the first place. Maybe he chucks them after a little while. Or records over the same one all the time. But I’m not going to ask him to hand anything over, Bobby. I’d just want to look at them.”
Torrez sighed. “You’re lookin’ at his sign right now?”
“Yes. He doesn’t mince words, does he.”
“Nope. And that’s just how eager he’s gonna be to talk to you, let alone let you into his house, or give you custody of any tapes he might have.”
“How far up this road is his house? I can’t see it from here, and I don’t know if he’s home or not.”
“It’s about a quarter mile from the gate. Is his gate locked?”
“It appears to be.”
“Take a closer look. If the lock is just looped through the chain, he’s home. If it’s actually locked, then he’s off somewhere.”
“Just a second.” Estelle got out of the car and walked to the gate. The big padlock wasn’t snapped shut. “It’s open.”
“He’s probably home, then.”
“You sound like you’ve been out here a time or two.”
“Oh, yeah. A couple years ago, Crowley had some disagreements with the Forest Service over that fence you’re lookin’ at. They loved his signs, too. I guess he compromised and took a bunch of ’em down. Can you wait ten minutes?”
“Sure.”
“Then just sit tight. I’ll be right out.” He chuckled. “Crowley does have a scanner, so you might give your twenty as the gate. If he’s within earshot of his radio, he’ll be out before long, I’ll guarantee that. I’m on my way.”
Estelle keyed the radio. “PCS, three ten is on Forest Road Twenty-six, at the private-property gate. I’ll…” She paused as she saw the figure striding along the two-track toward her. “I’ll be talking with the property owner here. He’s on his way to this location.”
“Ten-four, three ten. Be advised that three oh eight is en route.”
Estelle opened the door, leaving the car idling. She slipped the phone into one jacket pocket and carried her handheld radio in her left hand.
Milton Crowley strode directly to the gate and stopped, one hand resting on the post at the cattle guard. He regarded Estelle quizzically as she stepped from the car. At first glance, Crowley looked like the sort of fellow who would be at home in a commercial for gardening products-homey flannel shirt, buff-colored quilted vest, neatly creased chinos, and waffle-soled boots worn as soft as moccasins. His shirtsleeves were rolled up two folds, revealing hairy, beefy forearms.
His face was broad, with a high, domed forehead crowned by a receding hairline, the same buzz cut that he’d probably first favored as a teenager half a century before.
But there was nothing home and garden about the heavy automatic holstered high on his right hip, butt angled well forward, hammer cocked and locked.
“Good morning, sir,” Estelle said.
“Yes, it is.” Crowley said carefully. He patted the top of the big juniper post.
“I’m Undersheriff Guzman,” Estelle said, even though Crowley would know exactly who she was-no doubt even had captured her on film on various occasions.
“Sure enough you are,” he said pleasantly. He hadn’t changed position an iota, even as Estelle approached the fence. She chose her footing carefully, not because of the rough two-track, but because she wanted the time to consider which approach might work best with Crowley.
At the county meetings, when she paid any attention to Crowley at all, she’d noticed that he wasn’t into small talk. He didn’t take the opportunity to join the various small groups of politicos hobnobbing between sessions. He didn’t appear to talk with Pam Gardiner or whoever was attending the meeting from the Register. He watched those groups, watched everyone, for only he knew what reason. He was an easy man to dismiss in a crowd, and most of the county bureaucrats and employees appeared to do just that.
Now, his body language was clear. He stood relaxed, confident, and armed behind his barbed-wire fence. He made no move to drop off the chain, lift off the closure loop, and drag the wire gate to one side so she could either walk or drive past. She realized that this was the first time she had actually talked to Milton Crowley. It would have been easy to stereotype the man as a furtive, anarchistic nutcase, living alone on his little homestead on the bleak flanks of Cat Mesa. But there was absolutely nothing furtive or shifty-eyed about him. Calm blue eyes regarded Estelle, never leaving her face. She decided to try the direct approach.