“Where is Thornton located?”
“In Duncan, Arizona. He does custom saddles for clients all over the country. You want his address and phone number?”
“I do.”
Kerney scribbled down the information, thanked Chacon, disconnected, and watched Patrick circle the living room, airplane in hand, making a buzzing engine sound with his lips.
Duncan was only a few miles away from Virden, where Shaw had his farm. Martinez had helped Shaw unload cargo from a plane at the Sentinel Butte landing strip. Were they trucking it to Virden? Did Martinez spot the saddle at Thornton’s workshop during one of their runs and go back to steal it? Or had Martinez bought the saddle from a fence or at a pawnshop in Nevada?
At the very least Kerney was fairly sure Martinez knew the saddle was stolen property. But he would need to tie Martinez to the theft in order to gain enough leverage to tease out an answer to the bigger question: What in the hell had been off-loaded from that plane?
Patrick crashed into the couch cushion next to Kerney and put the airplane on the armrest. “I want to read Pablito the Pony.”
Kerney rubbed his son’s head. “Go get it.”
Patrick scooted to his bedroom, came back with his book, and settled on the couch. When Kerney reached for the book, Patrick shook his head. “I want to read it to you,” he said.
“Okay.”
Patrick opened the book to the first page. “This is the story of Pablito the Pony,” he said, “who lived on a ranch.”
“Very good,” Kerney said.
Patrick smiled and turned the page. “Pablito was a pretty pony.”
“Don’t you mean pinto?” Kerney asked.
Patrick corrected himself and continued to pretend to read as he looked at the pictures and told Kerney the story. When he finished, he closed the book, gave Kerney a pleased look, and said, “The end.”
“What a good story,” Kerney said, “and you read it very well.”
“I know.”
Kerney sent Patrick off to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas. Through the open door he heard Johnny Jordan talking to someone.
“Come on,” Johnny said, his words slightly slurred, “have a drink with me.”
“No, thank you,” Susan Berman replied.
Kerney stepped outside. Johnny stood halfway down the walkway with a whiskey bottle in his hand, blocking Susan Berman’s passage.
“I like a woman with spunk,” Johnny said. “One little drink.”
“Let me pass, Mr. Jordan,” Susan said sharply.
“It doesn’t sound like the lady is interested,” Kerney said as he walked toward Johnny.
Johnny turned and squinted. “There’s my old amigo.” He waved the bottle. “How about you and me and Susan here having a little drink together?”
“You’re drunk, Johnny. Leave Ms. Berman alone and go to bed.”
Johnny laughed. “Are you giving me a lawful order?”
“You could say that.”
Johnny shot Kerney a dirty look, took a swig from the bottle, and stepped out of Berman’s way. As she passed by, she smiled and mouthed a silent thank-you in Kerney’s direction.
“I thought you were a pal,” Johnny said.
“Drunks don’t have friends.”
Johnny gave him a surly look. “Seems you and me just don’t get along anymore.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Johnny.”
Kerney turned and went back to the apartment. Patrick, dressed in his pajamas and about to burst into tears, sat frozen on the couch.
“Where were you, Daddy?” he asked.
“Just outside for a minute, champ.”
“I thought you went away just like Mommy.”
“Never.” He pulled Patrick off the couch, nuzzled him, and carried him to the bedroom. “Mommy and I will always be with you until you’re grown up.”
The call sheet for the next day didn’t have Kerney’s name on it. The scene at the copper smelter had been pushed back to rest the stock. In the morning he spent an hour after breakfast with Patrick before heading off to Lordsburg to seek out Leo Valencia. He sat in Leo’s office at the Sheriff’s Department and told him about Buster Martinez and the stolen saddle.
Leo rubbed his walrus mustache with his fingers and said, “Interesting.” He picked up the telephone and asked for a records check on Martinez. “Either Martinez is a real dumb thief, or he bought the saddle not knowing it was stolen.”
“I’m hoping he’s dumb,” Kerney said. He handed Leo the background information on Walter Shaw. “Several weeks ago I saw Walter Shaw and Martinez drive toward a landing strip on the Sentinel Butte Ranch. Soon after, a plane traveling from that direction passed overhead. I inspected the landing strip and it showed evidence that cargo had been unloaded.”
Leo’s eyes widened. He read the report on Walter Shaw and grunted in disappointment. “There’s nothing here that tells me Shaw is a bad guy. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. What do you want to do?”
“Talk to the saddlemaker and show him Martinez’s photograph. Ask around in Virden to learn if Martinez has ever been seen up there. Try to discover if there is a pattern to Shaw’s visits to his farm. If the two of them are moving product, I’m guessing he’s using his property to warehouse it.”
Leo pulled himself out of his chair. “I’ll go with you to make it official. We’ll take my unit.”
They picked up Martinez’s records on the way out the door. He had a DWI conviction and one arrest for battery against a household member, which had been dropped when the victim refused to press charges.
Leo bypassed the cutoff to Virden and drove straight to Duncan through desert breaks that hid the Gila River from view. There wasn’t much to the town. The mountains beyond were uninviting shadows in the distance. Railroad tracks bordered the main highway, which ran through the river valley toward some low-lying westerly hills. Along the main strip were a smattering of local businesses and a much larger number of vacant buildings with fading signs and chipped stucco exteriors. An old Korean War-era air force jet mounted on a tall arched pedestal overlooked the town from the knob of a small hill. Below, house trailers, manufactured homes, and pitched-roof cottages sat on dusty, dirt-packed lots sheltered by occasional trees. Only a glimpse of the shallow valley could be seen as it spread toward humpback mountains.
From the main strip a hand-painted billboard planted on the side of the road directed them to Matt Thornton’s saddlemaking establishment. A quarter mile off the pavement on a gravel road, they arrived at a tree-shaded house and adjacent shop. Surrounded by a lawn, it was a cool, inviting oasis, but no one was there to greet them.
At a local eatery Kerney asked the proprietor, an older woman with dyed blond hair, if she knew where Thornton might be. She told him Thornton was the president of the Greenlee County Rodeo Association, and if he wasn’t in his shop, he’d most likely be at the county fairgrounds and racetrack just outside of town.
The access road to the fairground was lined with trees and the entrance gate stood open. Matt Thornton was in the office behind the rodeo arena and covered bleachers. A shade under six feet tall, he had curly graying hair and a droopy mustache that almost matched Leo’s in size.
“What can I do for you, gents?” Thornton asked, eyeing the shield and sidearm clipped to Leo’s belt.
Leo made the introductions and after handshakes all around, he showed Thornton the driver’s license photo of Buster Martinez.
“Have you ever seen him in your shop?” he asked.
Thornton studied the picture. “Yep. He’s been in once or twice, but not for a while. Who is he?”
“Possibly the man who broke into your shop and took the saddle you reported stolen late last year,” Leo replied.
“I’ll be damned. Have you got my saddle back?”
“Not yet,” Kerney said. “When did you last see him?”
“Now that I think of it, before the break-in at the shop. In fact, I was finishing the saddle at the time.”