Another hour of looking so hard that it made the eyes water produced nothing of immediate interest. Tom Pasquale found a well-tarnished 1961 quarter. Leona Spears picked up an unfired twelve gauge shotgun shell that had nestled in bunch grass for so long that the red hull had faded to dull pink. Adding to the haul were bits of glass, scraps of discarded cardboard, and an oil filter now full of blow sand. Further up the hill, Jackie Taber discovered a nest of nine.22 caliber rimfire shell casings and the bottom cushion of an easy chair. But no one discovered anything that might suggest an event as recent as Freddy Romero’s crash.
Through the entire process, Frank Dayan waited patiently, occasionally snapping a digital photo of them at work or drawn into discussion.
“You’re a patient man, sir,” Estelle said as she strolled back to the vehicles.
“I figure that if I block the road long enough, someone is going to give me the interview of a lifetime,” he laughed. “You ready to do that?”
“I wish I had more to tell you.” She pulled out her notebook. “The body of a man was discovered in a small cave up on the flank of the mesa,” she said, and watched Dayan’s eyebrows shoot up.
“In a cave?”
“That’s correct. It would appear that the body has been there for a number of years. It’s now skeletal remains, widely scattered by the critters.” She watched Dayan fiddle with his pocket micro-recorder, and when he was satisfied that it was working, he rested it on the hood of Jackie Taber’s Bronco. “The obvious question is who, of course, and we’re not ready to talk about that. When we have a positive I.D., I’ll let you know.”
“Illegal?”
“His death? Almost certainly,” Estelle smiled, knowing full well what the newspaper man had meant. “We don’t have an I.D., Frank. Until we do, we won’t know if this is an illegal immigrant who got caught up somehow, or something else.”
“So you have an unidentified body. Who made the discovery? I mean, who the heck is out here to do that. Lost tourists?”
“We found him, sir.”
“We? The S.O., you mean?”
“Yes.”
Dayan frowned, and Estelle could almost see antenna twitching. “Jackie tells me that this is where the Romero boy went into the arroyo.”
“That’s correct, sir. He went off right back there.” She pointed toward the rise.
“How far from here to the cave where the body was found?”
“One point three miles.”
“The two incidents are related somehow?”
“I’d be interested to hear how that might be possible, sir.”
“Well, it’s just odd, that’s all. There isn’t much out here other than barbed wire, cows, and an occasional rancher and his pickup truck. What was the Romero boy doing over here, anyway?”
“Riding his four-wheeler, sir. Probably a little faster than he should have been.”
“That was quite a find he made over by Borracho Canyon. Lots of folks are excited about that. Nobody that I’ve talked to can remember when the last time a jaguar was seen in this country.”
Estelle nodded silently, looking down at the little recorder, gauging her response, considering carefully what she wanted to tell Frank Dayan-what she wanted to feed to the Register. Although the newspaper’s next edition wouldn’t appear until the following Wednesday with counter sales, and then in the mail on Thursday, Frank would no doubt mention any juicy tidbit to someone. And then word would spread like wildfire.
“We were presented with new evidence about the cat that led us over here, Frank. It appears that Freddy Romero didn’t find the jaguar over at Borracho at all. The cat’s skeleton was in the cave just down this road. That’s where he found it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Apparently, Freddy was interested in recovering the rest of the carcass. He didn’t want anyone else disturbing the site. So he made up the story about Borracho.”
“But it was over here all along? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in the process of following down that lead, you discovered the other skeleton.”
“That’s essentially correct.”
Dayan looked confused. “How did you know where the cat skeleton actually was? Did you talk to Freddy before his crash?”
“No, we didn’t. But certain information came to our attention.”
“Ah. Certain information. That’s intriguing, Estelle. So that leads us to all kinds of questions, doesn’t it. Perrone was out here, wasn’t he?” He nodded toward Jackie. “I heard some radio traffic. Is he going to be able to determine cause of death, you think?”
“It appears that the victim was shot, sir.”
“You have that already?”
“Well, there’s what appears to be a bullet hole through the skull, Frank. At the moment that’s pretty much the sum and substance of what we have.”
“That’s what Nate Underwood told me. A hole through the cat’s skull. Isn’t that something.” He smiled with anticipation at the story, and then his face sagged. “How much of this are you going to be able to sit on until next Friday?”
“I’ll do my best,” Estelle replied.
“The cave’s on Herb’s property?”
“No. Actually it’s on the Waddell ranch.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“Yes.”
Dayan grinned at the finality of her response. “Charges pending?” He held up a hand quickly. “No, let me. Investigation is continuing. ”
“ Exactly.” She reached out and took Frank by the arm, shaking it gently. “We can really use your cooperation in this, Frank. ‘Investigation continues into the ATV crash that claimed the life of Freddy Romero.’”
“That’s what you want me to write? Pam’s not going to like that.”
Then she ought to be here, Estelle thought. Editor Pam Gardiner had her own slate of problems and issues, but hotly pursuing news outside of the office wasn’t one of them. “Investigation also continues into the discovery of a human skeleton in a cave southwest of Posadas.”
“On the Waddell ranch. You’re not willing to speculate on whether the two incidents are related, then.”
“No. We’re not. And I hope you won’t either.”
“News, not speculation and rumor. If something breaks, will you let me know?”
“Absolutely.”
“First?”
Estelle smiled, reached out and shook Frank’s arm gently. “We’ll try, Frank.”
He held up his camera. “I’d like to take a photo of the cave, maybe with you and one of the deputies? Will you do that for me?”
Estelle shook her head. “Not yet, sir. Right now, we need to be a little discreet about this whole thing.”
“Ah, one of those deals. But you’ll let me know? I mean, sooner rather than later?” He glanced at his watch. “I really need to get back to town.”
She nodded. “Thanks for coming out on a Sunday, Frank.” She watched him maneuver his car on the narrow two-track, and as he drove off, she mused at how irritated the newspaper publisher would be when he found out that he’d missed the big headline-that Freddy Romero’s plunge into the arroyo had likely been prompted by an errant rifle bullet.
Chapter Thirty
The rancher looked as if he’d taken the time to drive home to Newton, shave, spit-polish his Tony Lamas, and don fresh western-cut trousers and a white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. His silver belt buckle was tarnished and worn just enough to announce that he was no newbie. The purple neckerchief still protected the tender skin at the base of his throat.
He took off his tan Stetson, revealing a thick head of wavy hair held glossily in place. The hat band left a faint dent in the skin of his forehead, and it appeared that over the years Miles Waddell had worked hard to avoid the two-tone tan line that resulted from a life under the sun and under the Stetson.