“Why didn’t Tony just fire him?” Salcido asked in wonder. “What’s so hard about that? Well, don’t answer that…I know how hard it is.”
I straightened up. “It’s just somewhere we need to go, Eduardo. You never know.”
“No, you never do.” He nodded. “You do what you think is best, jefito. I got somebody over on Hutton who heard the shots, by the way.”
“Shots? Plural?”
“That’s the story. We got one neighbor who heard one shot, another who heard more.” He shrugged and pulled the car into gear. “We ask ten people, we’ll have ten stories. You know how that goes. Let me know when you’re back at the office.” A slow grin lit his heavy, dark features. “How’s our young lady doing?”
“Just fine. I’m impressed so far.”
Eduardo laughed gently. “Tongues are going to wag, the two of you driving around town.” He looked up at me. “But that’s good, no? Good exercise for those tongues. Maybe they’ll tell us something we need to know.”
“Thanks for this,” I said, rapping the warrant on the window sill.
The car started to drift backward, and then he spiked the brakes. “Bobby is up to something. I don’t know what. Something with a rifle.”
I made an umbrella in the air with both hands. “We’ll cover it all. Something will turn.”
“Talk to me later.” Eduardo nodded at the warrant. “Judge Smith said to be careful with that.”
A few minutes later, the heavy drawer of the security file glided open, and Bea Summers ran her hand over the tops of the folders. “Now exactly what did you want?” she asked pleasantly enough, but the implication was there: and nothing more.
“Larry Zipoli,” I said, but her hand had already stopped in the thin Z section. She pulled out his folder and laid it on top of the others. Her hand stayed there, flat and protective on top of the folder.
“I just don’t like this, sheriff,” she said.
“I don’t either.”
“Larry was a good man, Bill. A good man. And Marilyn is just a doll. They don’t deserve this.”
“I appreciate your sympathy, Bea.” I slipped the thick folder out from under her hand.
“That shouldn’t leave this office.”
I reached across to her desk and picked up the warrant and handed it to her. “You’ll find a paragraph in there that talks about taking into custody all pertinent materials and documents, blah, blah, blah. I’ll make sure it all comes back to you in one piece. Would you like a receipt?”
She took a few seconds to decide whether or not to huff. “No…I don’t think that’s necessary. I hope you have what you want now.”
“Me too. If not, we’ll be back. Thanks, Bea.” I turned to thank Tony, but he’d disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him.
Despite sounding like a soft-spined schmoo, Tony Pino had not been unaware that there was a problem with Larry Zipoli. He’d reprimanded Larry Zipoli formally five years before for the first time, including a letter in his file that forbade possession of open alcoholic containers at any time on or in county property or county vehicles. It appeared that incident had followed a citizen’s complaint that Larry had been slow to move his machine out of the way so the motorist could pass.
I had no intention of sitting in the car, pouring through the file while the hot sun baked us through the county car’s untinted glass, but a quick look was enough to satisfy my immediate curiosity.
“We go through this one word at a time at our leisure,” I explained to Estelle, who had made no comment after we left the Highway Department offices. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, and I don’t know if there’s anything in this file that might help. It’s a slow, plodding process.” I grinned. “Not like the movies. We spread it all out on the table and comb through. I’ll welcome any flashes of inspiration or intuition.”
She didn’t respond to that, and I glanced over at her as we left the county bone yard. “We’re going to do that eventually, but my next stop is over at Jim Raught’s. I want to see if there’s any mention of a complaint involving him in Larry’s folder.” She made no comment, but at least I earned a nod out of her.
“So tell me what you think,” I prompted. “You’ve hiked around in the hot sun, helped collect garbage, sat in the corner of an office for an hour and listened to some good folks worrying about protecting themselves…that’s about as good as it gets in this line of work.”
“People’s motives are interesting,” the young lady said carefully, but her smile was warm.
“Yes, they are.” I wondered if we would have had to bother with a warrant if I had let this new kid talk to Bea or Tony first.
Chapter Thirteen
I glanced without much interest at Jim Raught’s front yard as I walked by, then paused for a second look, taking in details that hadn’t been apparent during my earlier visit. The collection of cacti was impressive enough that no one would take shortcuts across his yard. The plants were content and well fed, the beavertails flush and fat, the spines on the cholla long and lethal. Near the door, Raught had several species that I’d never seen growing wild in Posadas County-surely visitors from much farther south.
The house itself was brick with window frames painted turquoise to high-light the red in the bricks. The off-white metal roof was a neat cap, avoiding the maintenance that the roasting sun demanded from composite shingles. A hail storm must have sounded interesting.
I had given Estelle Reyes a sketchy background briefing that included Marilyn Zipoli’s complaints, and the young lady was doing a good job inventorying the property as we approached. The general character of the street first, then eyes roaming over Jim Raught’s neat but spiny yard, assessing and absorbing. When she’d read her forensic text book, she’d paid attention to the paragraph that suggested general to specific as a modus operandi. Think the big picture, then go microscopic.
“I haven’t actually met Mr. Raught formally,” I explained as we strolled up the front walk. “I would recognize him if I saw him-he usually attends County Commission meetings. Maybe he always does. I don’t know. On the rare occasions that I’ve attended, Mr. Raught has been there, too. I remember him addressing the commission once after Sheriff Salcido made a report. I don’t remember what the issue was, if any. So, that’s what I know, and it ain’t much.”
Estelle nodded and fell back a step when I approached the front door. J. T. Raught. Nice script letters in Mexican tile, mounted in a hardwood frame screwed to the cross beam of the front storm door with brass screws. Simple yet elegant, a cut above the usual wooden sign with stick-on letters from the hardware store. Jim Raught’s place didn’t look as if it had suffered much wear and tear associated with a houseful of active kids-no toys scattered out in the yard, no tears in the screen door or windows, no smudgy handprints on the painted wood trim.
She stood to one side, watching first the side window and then the door itself. I heard footsteps inside, and a voice said loudly, “Just a second!” The three words sounded friendly enough.
Eventually the door knob turned and the door opened, creating enough suction that the screen door pumped inward a bit. The house was as tightly sealed as it appeared.
Jim Raught peered out at me, his steel-gray hair wet and disheveled. He carried a towel in one hand, and when he had donned a t-shirt, he’d been wet enough that the shirt had blotched. His neatly creased khaki shorts were water-spotted as well.
“Well, hello there.” He cranked a corner of the towel into his left ear, opened his mouth wide, and when he was sure his Eustachian tubes were equalized, he shook his head hard, the sort of thing a movie starlet might do to settle her hair. It didn’t do much good.