“You could see the vehicle?”
“No. They were talking about it, and that’s what Mr. Waddell said they had. Him and Mr. Prescott were joking about it, wondering how they could afford such a fancy rig.” Macie wrinkled her nose with some displeasure. “I’d hate to be stranded in a foreign country like that, but the ranchers thought it was funny.”
Of course, Estelle thought. All Mexicans are poor, and all their problems are funny. She found herself liking Miles Waddell even less. “The folks were southbound?”
Macie shook her head. “They wanted to get to Albuquerque. They talked to Victor some. He gave them a gallon of antifreeze and some water to get them to the garage in Posadas.”
“Ah. Well, that was nice of him.”
“Victor can be a good guy when he wants to be.” Macie glanced toward the kitchen. “Nine kids. That’s what they had with them. The Mexican family, I mean. Nine. Can you imagine? Madre, padre, dos tías, y un poodle.” She splayed out fingers. “Thirteen people and a dog in the same truck.”
“Do you remember if Mr. Waddell left right after he saw the four-wheeler ride by?”
“Well…I don’t know. Let’s see…some guys from the gas company stopped by, and Mr. Waddell was talking with them. And then Herb Torrance stopped by-he was on his way somewhere and wanted to pick up a Thermos of coffee. I remember that. He didn’t stay long, though. Him and Gus left together, but then two more gas company guys came in, and I lost track.” She shrugged. “Lots of people, you know? What was it exactly that you’re trying to find out?”
Estelle laughed gently. “Just loose ends, Macie. And I appreciate your good memory.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Her cell phone saved any further explanation, and she pushed off the stool to answer it.
“Guzman.”
“Hey, Estelle,” Tom Mears said. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“No…let me get outside.” She turned to the girl. “Macie, thanks. I appreciate your help.”
After the dark of the saloon, the sunshine was bright enough to make her flinch, and she turned her back against it. “What do you have, Tom?”
“For one thing, some people with long memories,” the sergeant said. “I’m standing in front of the last known address for Eddie Johns. It’s a little two-bedroom furnished rental over on East Pellor Street. The folks who live here now say they’ve been in the house for four years. The landlord says that Johns lived in the place for almost two years before that, and was a good tenant. Even painted the place and put in new kitchen tile.”
“And then?”
“And then he skipped. Just walked away from it.”
“Moved out?”
“Nope. Just walked. Went out the door one day, and didn’t come back. The landlord doesn’t know what happened.”
“What about all his personal effects?”
“According to the landlord, there wasn’t much. A nice stereo, flat-screen TV, some simple furniture. The usual kitchen stuff, some clothes. He waited to hear for two months, then cleaned everything out and put it all in one of those little storage units? Another month went by, and he rented the place out again. At the end of the year, he gave all the stuff to a hospital auxiliary thrift shop. He kept the stereo and flat screen as payment.”
“Thoughtful. Did he try to track Johns down?”
“Nope. ‘I ain’t no private detective,’ he told me. Said it wasn’t any of his business what happened. He said Johns paid his rent in cash all the time, which the landlord appreciated.”
“Plus I’m sure he’s enjoying the TV and the stereo,” Estelle observed. “Any luck with his vehicle? Waddell says that the last one he remembers was a Ford truck.”
“Last known registration expired October, 2007. The Pellor address was the only one the MVD showed. The registration should appear on a 2004 Ford three-quarter ton crew cab, color black. License Adam Charlie Baker niner seven one. You want the VIN?”
“Sure.” She jotted the lengthy string of digits and letters in her notebook as the sergeant recited them.
“It’s south of the border somewhere by now, enjoying a new life on those beautiful dirt roads, no doubt.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Look, I’m going to nose around a few other places and talk to some folks. I found out who his insurance agent is, and I’m going to visit with her here in about an hour. Maybe she can give me a line on where Johns was doing his banking. On a truck like that, I’d expect that maybe he was making payments. The bank might be interested in what happened.”
“But if it was free and clear, that would explain why no one from the bank ever nosed around, looking for their truck,” Estelle added.
“Yep. This guy’s a ghost. That’s the impression I’m getting.”
“He is now, anyway. In a way, it’s sort of sad, Tom. No one seems to have cared about him enough to miss him when he took a dive. You’ll be back this afternoon sometime?”
“I’ll work at it. I’d really like to find his dentist, Estelle. We have Waddell’s word that these remains might belong to Eddie Johns, and now we have a couple of fingerprints from the ammo. None of that is one hundred percent, though.”
“That would be a priority, Tom. The Cruces PD is cooperating?”
“You bet.”
“By the way, it turns out that Miles Waddell was at the Broken Spur when Freddy Romero rode by on his ATV. Mary and her daughter saw the boy, and she says that Waddell did too. He happened to look out the bathroom window when he heard the four-wheeler.”
The phone remained silent as Tom Mears digested that. “He was able to positively ID the rider as Freddy?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet about that. But Mary did. She had a clear, close-up view. Freddy waved at her.”
“Odd that Waddell didn’t bother to mention that little fact when we talked to him out at the cave.”
“Slipped his mind,” Estelle said dryly.
“Yeah. Sure enough. You gotta wonder how many other things have slipped his mind. But that’s something, then. I filled in the sheriff, by the way. He’s pulling in some resources from the state police and the federales. He wants to know what Eddie Johns was up to down south, especially after what Waddell said about Mexican money being interested in the astronomy project.”
“Seems a likely connection, doesn’t it. And on the other hand, probably not.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I don’t. I agree with Bill Gastner. No Mexican hit man is going to pop Johns up here in a small cave, and then try to conceal the job. A dark alley in El Paso or Juarez works much better. Far more efficient.”
“You’re going to corner Waddell again this morning?”
“We’ll see. I have some other contacts that I want to check out first.”
“And that be…” Estelle could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Macie Trujillo says that Gus Prescott was in the saloon on the afternoon when Freddy Romero rode by. Both he and Waddell…and Herb Torrance. And some folks from the gas company. And a big extended Mexican family worried about car problems. And, and, and. That’s a large pool of potential witnesses. And it turns out there I was, a quarter of a mile down the highway.”
Mears sighed wearily. “And so it goes. Do you have the old man working with you this morning?”
“I haven’t seen Bill since last night, but I was thinking about waking him up to go with me out to the Prescotts. I want to hear Gus’ take on all this, and Padrino knows him better than I do.”
She knew that there was no worry about waking up Bill Gastner. He might take a quick nap after a heavy breakfast, perhaps, but nothing more than that. The undersheriff started the car, checked in briefly with dispatch, and then pushed the auto dial for Padrino’s cell phone. Ten rings later, she switched it off and pulled out onto the highway behind a northbound white van with Mexican plates. She had seen the same vehicle on other occasions, and this time counted ten heads inside. The men were headed for the auto auctions in Denver as drivers, and in a day or so, their tandem rigs would be daisy-chained on the interstate, one older model car or truck pulling a second, headed to markets in Mexico.