“Three ten, ten four,” dispatcher T.C. Barnes responded immediately.
“Most of the time, we want dispatch to know where we are,” I said. “There are times when we don’t, too. Half the goddamn county is listening to what we say, so we want to think before yapping. It’s a balance between staying safe and staying discreet. I keep badgering the sheriff to put mobile phones in each car, so we can stay off the radio waves entirely. No dinero. And radios are a tradition, stupid as that sounds.”
I hadn’t made a move to get out of the car yet, and took a moment to make a notation in my log…a document I cheerfully ignored most of the time. Now that my every move was under scrutiny by my ride-along, perhaps it behooved me to do things properly to start her off right.
“We want to talk first with Tony Pino. He’s bossman. He was out at the crime scene yesterday, and he’s shaken by all this.” I paused. “By way of historical interest, Tony’s grandfather was the first mayor of Posadas. Between Eduardo Salcido and myself, we could devise a hell of a trivia game about this little corner of the world-and what I find interesting is that sometimes, that makes folks nervous, thinking we know something about ’em that we shouldn’t. That can be to our advantage.”
I glanced at the steel office door, ajar just enough that anyone inside would have heard the crunch of our tires. “There will be lots of questions. Yesterday when we were buttoning up Highland, we had something of a crowd watching, although watching what I don’t know. Tony’s foreman was there too-Buddy Clayton. They’re going to have questions, and the trick is to make them feel included without giving anything away.” Looking sideways at my passenger I saw the look of noncommittal interest on her pretty face. My lectures hadn’t driven her over the brink yet.
“At this point, they don’t need to know what we know-which I’m sorry to say is diddly squat. But they don’t need to know that.” I slid the aluminum clipboard that included my log sheets under the pile of junk that threatened the center arm rest. “The base line is this: somewhere out there is someone with a high powered rifle who picked an easy target. We need to remember-always remember-that that son-of-a-bitch is still out there, still watching. We don’t get complacent, we stay sharp, we look and listen and watch. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Flat, noncommittal. Her fingers didn’t even stray toward the door handle. Maybe she expected more lectures.
“And that’s whether you’re riding with me or anyone else. And while you’re at it, ponder this cheerful thought. It might be quiet as a tomb in Posadas County for days on end. But we’re just off the interstate, and that connects us to the world. Some creep might have killed a dozen people in Terre Haute, Indiana, and be fleeing west…right through here. Or some hijacker slips custody in San Diego and heads east. Or some dealer is heading north with five hundred pounds of cocaine from downtown Mexico. Here we sit, hopefully not half asleep. It might be quiet here, but elsewhere, maybe not. And we’re all connected.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see what they have to say.” I popped the door, at the same time noticing the lithe, effortless, almost anti-gravitational way that Estelle Reyes moved. Oh, to be twenty-two again. What interested me even more was watching her close the car door. Not a slam, just a gentle nudge against the latch. And all the while her eyes were roaming the boneyard, inventorying who knew what.
I rapped a knuckle on the office door and pushed it open. Two steps and I was greeted by a belly-high counter. A heavy-set woman sat at the first desk, the surface more cluttered than my own, a vast sea of requisitions, time sheets, phone messages, blueprints, job or parts-all the things that keep a busy department busy.
“Well, good morning.” Bea Summers spoke without any of her usual bounce or sunshine. “Tony was trying to call you earlier. I think he talked to Sheriff Salcido.”
“I’ve been out and about,” I said, without adding that I hadn’t checked my answering machine in the past couple of hours. I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, heart-felt sigh. “I’m sorry about all this,” I said. “Rough time.”
“Is there any news?”
“I wish there were. There are a number of things we need to find out from you, if we might.” If we might. I couldn’t imagine that Bea Summers would hesitate to cooperate in any way we asked, but sometimes folks hesitate when it’s the privacy of their turf that’s being violated. We’d find out what we needed to know whether Bea, or even Tony Pino, was agreeable or not, court orders being what they are.
“And by the way, Bea, this is Estelle Reyes. She’s a new hire who’s spending some ride-along time with me this morning.”
Bea didn’t rise from her swivel chair, but favored Estelle with a polite smile. “I know her great uncle, Reuben Fuentes.”
“Ah,” I said. Interesting that Bea hadn’t directed the comment to Estelle, instead speaking as if the girl were a piece of furniture. Maybe the grudge against Reuben extended to the next generation as well. Bea no doubt knew that over the years, Reuben had swiped more base course gravel from county and state piles than anyone else, and had been caught a time or two. I guess that when the crusher fines were stockpiled right beside the highway, the temptation was too strong to ignore. That might be what Bea was remembering.
“So…first I need to talk with Tony. He’s buried under paperwork?”
“Actually, he went over to Marilyn’s for a little bit this morning. Bill, this is all so terrible, so senseless. Tell me it didn’t really happen.”
“I wish I could. Maybe you’d give Tony a shout and see when he’ll be able to break loose. And if it’s not a good time, I would think that you’re going to be able to help us as well or better than anyone else.” She was the office czarina, after all, with her finger on the Highway Department’s pulse.
She nodded and picked up the radio microphone, turning up the volume a little as she did so. “Base to one. Copy?” Silence ensued and she repeated the message without success. “He’s not in the truck. Should I call the house?”
“Well, we hate to interrupt ’em. But look, two things right away, and as I said, you know as much or more than anyone else. Larry’s personnel file. We’re going to need a look at that.” I knew that was thin ice, and Bea’s reaction was immediate.
“His personnel folder?”
“Or whatever version of that you have in this office. There’ll be something in the county manager’s office too, but I need to see anything you have.”
“Personnel?”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t think that we’ll need to take it out of the office.” Bea could figure out for herself that Larry Zipoli’s life was about to come under the microscope.
She pushed herself to her feet, closing the center drawer of her desk tightly as if concerned that I might peak at her secrets. “This is just so awful. What else will you be needing?”
“It’s my understanding that Larry took one of the department trucks home at night.”
“Yes.” She frowned. “He’s one of the senior men, Sheriff. He needs to be able to respond during emergencies.” Her tone said clearly, with just a touch of petulance, as if somehow I might be judging her department’s procedure, “You already knew all that.” She stepped over to the window and pointed. “The white Dodge Ram, over by the fence. That’s Larry’s.”
“Out at Highland yesterday-he didn’t have the truck out there with him.”
“Well, no. I mean, it’s what, a few blocks? In the morning, he was out on 43, and drove back to find a part before going out Highland. The lower muffler clamp had burned through. He fixed that just before lunch, and that darn old thing still broke down on him and blew a hydraulic hose. One of the boys ran it out to him after lunch.”