“You remember the make?”
“No. Just a wrecked truck. That’s all I remember. He sold a whole bunch of that old stuff so he can buy parts for the grader. But you already know that. You saw it go out this morning.”
The buzz of Estelle’s phone was startling, and the mare jerked her head back, ears pitched forward. Estelle stepped back slowly, and flicked on the phone.
“Guzman.”
“Hey,” Torrez said. “Borderland’s records show a 2004 black Ford 250 crew cab sold to Eddie Johns on November 12, 2003. He got the VIN, but that ain’t going to do us much good. The dealership don’t keep a record of the engine and tranny serial numbers, but we don’t have those anyway. Yet.”
“That’s good work, Bobby. They carried the paper on it?”
“Wasn’t any. Cash deal.”
“Ay. ”
“Thirty-eight thousand dollar cash deal.”
“Real estate was going well for Mr. Johns, apparently.”
“Something was,” the sheriff said. “Where you at right now?”
“Talking with Casey and Christine Prescott.”
“Gus there?”
“No. The girls said that he went to town to buy some parts for his road grader.”
“Okay. Look, this El Paso mess is gonna take Mears a while. He’s got folks workin’ for him at the bank, at the utilities…everything so far says that Johns just vanished without notice. He didn’t close out any accounts, didn’t clean up any of his mess. Didn’t even clean out the fridge, the landlord says. He was there one day, gone the next. No notes, no nothing.”
“That probably rules out any lingering notion of suicide,” Estelle said, and Torrez grunted with amusement.
“He ain’t no suicide. Suicides don’t crawl back into caves and shoot themselves in the back of the head.”
“I know he hasn’t had time to dig into too many dark corners, but has Tom found any hint of a Mexican connection?”
“We’re gonna find out. But my guess is that the Mexicans are just as much out of the loop as we are. They may have been plannin’ something, or maybe were interested in what Johns had to offer, but there ain’t no actual connection that I can imagine.”
“We’ll see what Captain Naranjo finds out,” Estelle said. Tomás Naranjo, an ally in the Mexican Judiciales, sometimes cooperated with them so willingly that it seemed he considered Posadas County to be a small but obstreperous extension of his own state.
“You’re going to talk with Prescott again today?”
“I think so. It bothers me that he lied to Herb Torrance about how he acquired the truck from Johns.”
“Maybe he ain’t lyin’.”
“That would mean that either Herb concocted the tale, or the people you talked to at Giarelli’s have faulty memories.”
“Either is possible. Ain’t likely, but possible.”
Estelle had turned slightly, and now a motion from Gastner drew her attention. He pointed toward the south, where a roil of dust rose behind an approaching vehicle.
“We’ll talk with Gus here in a bit. He’s on his way in right now.”
“You be careful.”
“Oh, sí. ” She switched off and turned back toward the corral. Casey Prescott was still receiving a full dose of commiseration from the mare, but Christine had stepped away from the horses, standing close to Gastner’s elbow.
“What’s actually going on?” Christine asked quietly. She looked from Gastner to Estelle, and at the same time, Casey pushed away from the corral. The same question was in her eyes. Estelle had known both girls for years, and had had the opportunity to talk with Christine a number of times in an official capacity. She had long ago come to the conclusion that the young woman was not only strikingly pretty, but equally quick-witted, caring, and honest. The impulse to simply lay the case open before her was strong. But the cloud that hung at the moment over their father’s head was more than just dust kicked up by a pickup truck.
“Whenever there’s an unattended death,” Estelle said, “we’re required to follow up on every detail. Painful as it might be.”
“Unattended,” Christine said, taking her time with the word. “Are you referring to Freddy, or to Eddie Johns?”
Estelle hesitated. “Both. In both cases, we believe that there’s a possibility that the two incidents were not unattended deaths.”
Casey moved a step closer to her sister until their arms touched, but the younger girl didn’t speak. Not an unattended death. The terminology-even the concept itself-was so familiar for a cop, yet so completely alien for a teenager who’d just lost her boyfriend. Someone else was there. And that changed everything.
Christine gazed at Estelle, her expression assessing. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, but any other comment was drowned out by the sounds of Gus Prescott’s pickup. The extended-cab truck pulled in a few paces from Estelle’s cruiser, twenty or thirty yards away. The clattering of its gruff diesel engine died abruptly and Prescott got out, followed by a small white poodle who shot off toward the house. From a distance, Estelle could see a long gun in the rear window rack, well out of reach of the driver without climbing out of the truck and accessing the back seat.
“Good mornin’,” Prescott said, affably enough. He seemed in no hurry to approach, and Estelle turned to the girls.
“Excuse us, please.”
“I don’t think so,” Christine said firmly, and her response surprised Estelle. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Behind them, the little dog yipped as he was mobbed by the three larger animals, and Estelle heard the screen door of the house open and then close as he made it unmauled into his sanctuary. Jewell Prescott appeared to be perfectly content with not knowing what was going on outside.
“Find your grader parts, sir?” the undersheriff asked as she walked over toward the truck.
Gus Prescott watched her with feigned indifference as he got out and then crossed around the front of the pickup. “Had to order,” he replied.
“Herb seems eager to get that road of his fixed,” Gastner offered.
“I guess he might be,” Prescott said. He wiped his face, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. From a dozen feet away, Estelle could smell the beer. “You girls get on into the house, now.”
The order might not have sounded ridiculous had Casey been accompanied by one of her school chums instead of her sister. But Christine was in no mood to chirp, “Yes, daddy” and do as she was told.
“Sir,” Estelle said, “we were interested in what you can tell us about the Ford pickup truck that belonged to Eddie Johns.”
“What do you mean?” Prescott rested an arm on the hood of the pickup, as if feeling the need to protect it.
“Just that, sir. I was wondering how his black Ford three-quarter ton ended up on Cameron Florek’s junk hauler. I was wondering how you happened to come by it.” She glanced at the fender of Prescott’s own truck, still decorated with the XLT Triton V-8 emblem…not the diesel that was obviously under the hood.
For a long moment, Gus Prescott didn’t answer. His gaze flicked first to Gastner, who stood relaxed but watchful, then to Christine and Casey, and finally back to Estelle. He looked her up and down, and Estelle could see that his eyes watered and wandered…he was so juiced that he would have a hard time passing a field sobriety test.
“I got to get me a beer,” he said flatly, and looked over at Gastner. “You want one, Mr. Livestock Inspector?”
“Appreciate the thought, but no thanks. Too early in the day for me, Gus.”
“Well…it ain’t ever too early.” He walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and Estelle could hear the snap of plastic as he pulled a can away from a six-pack. The firearm in the back window was a shotgun, very much like the one in her patrol car rack.
He didn’t close the door, but circled around it, popping the can as he did so. “You’re sure?” He raised the can to Gastner.