“Black.”
“You want to bet me that if we look hard enough, we’ll find a splash of black paint that survived the fire? And a VIN number would be helpful as hell, but I’ll bet that’s gone.”
Estelle looked off across the prairie, watching the big tractor negotiate the twists and turns until it disappeared around the mesa. “Not good,” she said finally.
“I tell ya, sweetheart, this is one of those times when I’d much rather be wrong than right.” He pushed himself back. “But I’ve been stewing about this.” He held out a stubby index finger. “Somebody plugged Johns in the back of the head. Okay, that means he was either riding with Johns in the pickup, or driving himself. What’s that leave, when all is said and done?”
“If he’s riding with Johns, he takes the victim’s truck when it’s over. If he was driving himself, then he would take off, leaving Johns’ truck behind.”
“And what happened to it, then?”
“He came back and got it later, maybe.”
“No hurry about that, lonesome as that country is. That’s one possibility, and I’m sure there’s a whole platterful of others.” He looked at Estelle again. “So what do you think?”
Estelle took her time folding the computer and storing it in its boot. “I think,” she said, “that we take a very, very close look, Padrino. ”
It took an hour for Cameron Florek to secure his towering load, and then to hook up the tractor, and finally, to maneuver along the narrow two-track to the Rio Salinas, where Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Deputy Tony Abeyta watched the mammoth beast discharge billows of black exhaust from dual stacks as it lurched up the steep grade out of the dry crossing. During that hour, a warrant from Judge Lester Hobart had been secured and delivered by the deputy.
As he handed the warrant to Estelle, Abeyta nodded at Bill Gastner. “Judge Hobart said just because it’s you, sir.”
“Glad I still have some clout,” Gastner replied. “And it’s me who’s going to be God damn embarrassed here in a bit, probably…embarrassed and relieved as hell.”
“We’ll want to stop him right here,” Estelle said, nodding at the remains of the Moore Mercantile building. “Nice and level, and well clear of the highway.”
The deputy moved his Expedition so that it blocked the dirt road, putting it headlight to headlight with the approaching semi. He lit the roof-rack when Florek’s rig was a hundred yards away, and they immediately heard the diesel choke as the driver slowed. Estelle could see Florek leaning forward, hard against the steering wheel.
He let the rig idle to a stop, and Estelle stepped closer, looking up into the tall cab.
“I sure as hell wasn’t speeding,” Florek said, “and I ain’t got no livestock. What are you guys up to this morning, anyways?”
“Sir, would you climb down?”
“Sure enough.” Florek emerged from the cab and lowered himself to the ground, a great bear of a man in full beard and denim bib coveralls. “Bill, you old bandit, how’s life treatin’ you?”
“I’ve been better,” Gastner said.
“So what’s this about?”
Estelle held out the warrant. Florek glanced at it, then ignored the document, looking to the undersheriff for answers. “We’d like to examine your load, sir.”
“I know I ain’t overweight,” he replied. “And she’s all tied down good. Just goin’ to the yard, anyways.”
“Yes, sir,” Estelle said. “Would you mind staying with the deputy for a few moments, sir?” Deputy Abeyta and Florek remained by the front of the truck while Estelle and Gastner walked back to the trailer. Now eighteen inches thick, the pancaked wad of metal and plastic on the bottom tier showed the clear patina of age and burned metal.
“Doors are gone,” Gastner observed, “but this sure as hell is the center post between front and back.” He tapped the crumpled tail pipe. “This is what I was talking about. That’s diesel hardware. And right here?” He moved along the wreck and touched a spot of metal. “That’s where the fender insignia would be. Probably said something like XLT Powerstroke Diesel or some such. Something like that anyway, depending on the year.”
“If we’re going to look for much more, we’re going to have to unload it and take it apart.” Estelle leaned inward, between the semi’s cab and trailer. “An engine, you suppose?”
“I would bet against it,” Gastner said. “That’s worth a lot of money.”
She lowered her voice. “If this truck belonged to Johns…”
“Then we have a few choices,” Gastner added.
“Ay, ” Estelle whispered. “We need to know.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
By the time they reached Florek’s wrecking yard, Sheriff Robert Torrez was there to meet them, along with Deputy Tom Pasquale.
“Got a really good buy on this stuff,” Gastner quipped. Torrez shot him an amused look, and offered a salute to Florek, who stood on the running board of the tractor, waiting instructions.
“Mears has found the dentist,” the sheriff said to Estelle. “Nothing yet, but maybe. It’s a step. So tell me what you got here.”
“I have reason to believe that this baby down here-” Gastner stepped forward and pointed at the wreck-“this vehicle right here is a late model Ford crew cab, Robert. It’s a diesel. It’s been burned enough that the paint is gone, but not so much that we couldn’t find a trace somewhere in a protected area.”
“Johns?”
“Could be. We need to know the year. That’s critical.”
Torrez turned and looked at Estelle. “You talked to Gus about this?”
“No. Not yet. I want an identification first.”
The sheriff pursed his lips and frowned. “You had to pick the one on the bottom, didn’t you,” he said to Gastner, and followed that with a tight smile. He stepped closer. “You trust Florek with all this?”
“Yes,” Gastner said without hesitation, then shrugged. “And no. As much as I trust anyone. Up to an hour ago, I trusted Gus, too.”
“Okay.” The sheriff ambled up along the truck and looked up at Cameron Florek. “How long will it take you to unload?”
“Well, see, I was going to run this load right on down to the plant in Cruces.”
“Nope. Not yet, anyway.”
“Look,” Florek said as he swung down. He stood eye to eye with Torrez. “You want to tell me what’s going on here? What’s the interest in the wreck?”
“Cam,” Gastner said, “you’re the expert to ask. If I wanted to know the year of this one,” and he reached out and touched the diesel tailpipe, “how would I do it?”
“Door plate would tell ya, but the door’s gone, so that’s out,” Florek said. He examined the wreck. “VIN is…well, hell, you know where the VIN is as well as me.”
“And if the vehicle identification number plate is missing?”
Florek shrugged. “It’s a later model. That’s for sure. Burned some.”
“What year?”
The salvage yard owner scratched his hairy forearm. He strolled along the trailer to the rear of the wreck, his mobile face active as he worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Hands jammed in his pockets, he turned his head this way and that.
“That’ll tell ya,” he said, and reached up to pull at the remains of a tail light lens. There was no way to judge how large the lens might have been, since it was broken, partially melted, and jammed into the crumpled steel that had formed the housing around the unit. “Lemme get a bar.” He turned and strode over to his small office by the gate, and returned in a moment with a short wrecking bar.
Torrez held up a hand to stop him as Estelle worked the camera. She took a series of half a dozen photos of the tail-light area from various angles, then nodded.
With a few deft probes, Florek loosened the remains of the lens. It hung from the carcass by several wires, themselves melted to the copper. “Now see, it’s got three sets of wires that would attach with quarter turn sockets. Still got one left.” He popped the light out of its socket, and the plastic lens fragment, about the size of a tea cup saucer, came loose in his hand. “Socket up here, broke off. Socket right here. And between ’em…” He held the fragment so Estelle could see it.