And sure enough, a hale and hearty Virginia Creeper grew up the side of the house, softening the abrupt corner, a transition of sorts from one dimension to another. A Virginia Creeper might be mistaken for marijuana, but only by one of those numb folks who have blown or snorted enough stuff to addle their brains.
I pivoted and looked back across the yard. How the hell did Larry Zipoli find a spot to peer into this enchanted place? Did he have a small step ladder on far side? Is that how he got his jollies? Well, he’d really have to work at it. Or had Marilyn been spying on her buff neighbor as Raught took his laps?
Raught spread his arms wide to encompass the little paradise. “This is my hobby, Undersheriff. If Posadas ever runs out of water, I suppose it’ll go back to desert.” He looked wistful. “It’ll be Mexico outside, as well as in.”
“You miss Japan?”
“Well…sure, in some ways. But it’s a very small island, Undersheriff. Very small. With lots of people.” He took a deep breath. “You know what’s nice? When I step out here at two in the morning and slip into the water, the only sounds are the coyotes out on the mesa. All the televisions are off, the kids are asleep, most of the dogs have shut up. Have you ever stood on a Tokyo street at two in the morning? Ye Gods.” He grinned benignly at Estelle, like a father proud of his daughter. “Rural Mexico, or the big metro areas? I would guess rural. Am I right?”
“Tres Santos.”
His head cocked to one side as if he’d been poked, but then he nodded in familiarity. “Well, it’s hard to be more rural than that. You would know what I’m talking about, then. The deep, deep quiet.” He took another deep breath. “Gotta have it. My drug of choice.”
He patted the redwood railing of the gazebo, brow furrowing. “I don’t know what else I can tell you folks. The Zipolis kept to themselves, and as far as I’m concerned, lived a nice quiet life. Nice kids. No loud pets. Some weekend outings that appeared to involve just about every youngster in the neighborhood. The Butte is one of their favorite spots, as I understand it. They invited me to go along once or twice, but I declined. Noisy ski boats, party-hearty teenagers, hot sun, hot sand, and murky Rio Grande water aren’t my idea of paradise, as you might assume by visiting here. Crowds don’t light my fires, Undersheriff. But around here? I can’t imagine who got crosswise with Larry Zipoli.”
“Did he have an alcohol problem?” The blunt question prompted a raised eye brow.
“That would be entirely none of my business, Undersheriff. Obvious it’s your business, but not mine.” He held out both hands, palms up. “Nothing I can tell you there. If I did, I’d just be making something up.” He looked at first me and then Estelle expectantly. As far as he was concerned, our conversation was over.
I offered my hand, and his grip was firm and brief. He made a point of shaking Estelle’s hand, too.
“I hope you enjoy your new adventure,” he said to her. A logical guess must have been what it was, but I was impressed never the less.
“Thank you, sir,” Ms. Reyes replied quietly.
Raught followed us back through the Mexican living room, and then out to the front yard deep in the Sonoran desert. If a kid lost his tricycle in there, it’d be gone forever-maybe the kid, too. “Folks, if there’s anything else you need from me, don’t hesitate. I’m here most of the time.”
I thanked him, and moseyed out to the sidewalk and 310. Raught’s front door closed out the sun and heat. Estelle Reyes read my hesitation correctly, and was in no hurry to slip into the car. I walked east a few feet, and looked at the small flower garden that edged the property boundaries. I didn’t see any stake holes that would indicate the presence of a little decorative fence, but those were so easily obliterated…and would have been by someone with a fetish for making every aspect of his yard just so.
Chapter Fourteen
“So.” I settled into the almost comfortable seat of the Crown Victoria. Its idle became a bit ragged as I kicked in the air conditioner. “We have about a million conversations like our little chat with Jim Raught for every stand-off with an armed and dangerous bank robber.” I looked down the quiet street. Two blocks away, a trio of little kids-maybe still too young to be excited about school looming on the immediate horizon-played with a lawn sprinkler. I could hear the kids’ chirps and screams.
I looked across at Estelle. “And what do you think about all this?”
She didn’t answer immediately, a characteristic reservation I was coming to accept as ingrained. “I can’t imagine Mr. Raught killing Mr. Zipoli out on a hot, dusty road with a lucky shot,” she said eventually. “It’s too messy, too inconsistent with the way he controls his universe.”
“His universe,” I repeated. “I would be willing to bet that if we opened his garage, we’d find a neat little imported car, something on the luxurious side, like a BMW or Porsche. It would be spotless, waxed, perfect. The garage would be a showplace, with even the paint arranged on the shelf alphabetically by color.”
“Something very like that, sir.” She watched the neighborhood slide by. “I picture James Raught as coldly calculating, should the need arise. I don’t picture him doing something as risky, as untidy, as what happened to Mr. Zipoli. I don’t picture him flying off the handle in a screaming rage over a little garden fence.”
“Believe it or not, people have been killed over less.”
“Sin duda,” she said, and just as quickly translated. “Without a doubt. But I would imagine that if the need arose, Mr. Raught would use some kind of distilled venom drawn from the pectoral fins of an oriental rock fish.”
I laughed loudly. “Maybe that’s what happened to his wife.”
“I didn’t see any family photos on display in that house.”
“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I assumed, based on what Marilyn Zipoli said. And that’s not very smart. We’ll have the chance to correct that.” The dash clock read 10:03. As we eased out on Grande Avenue, I reached out and slid the mike off the hook. Force of habit brought it toward me before I remembered, and handed it to the young lady. “I need to know what Bob Torrez has on his plate right now.” She took the mike, thought for five seconds, and then keyed it.
“Three oh eight, three ten. Ten twenty?”
The airwaves simmered in the August sunshine as the seconds ticked by. I couldn’t remember listing off deputies and their car numbers to my ride-along, but it’s something she had had the opportunity to pick up during the course of the morning’s activities. I glanced at her, impressed. She was gazing out the window, perhaps counting the appropriate number of seconds before repeating the message.
“Three ten, PCS.” Dispatch was paying attention.
“PCS, go ahead.”
“Three ten, be advised that three oh eight is ten-six with MacInerny.”
I nodded to assure Estelle that I understood, but before she could acknowledge, Torrez’s voice, so quiet he might have been inside a church, came on the air.
“Three ten, three oh eight. I’ll be here for a bit.”
“Three ten’s ETA is twelve minutes,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message.
“Ten four.” Torrez’s response was entirely unexcited.
Anyone who had spent significant time listening to the Sheriff’s Department radio chatter had no doubt been able to crack our sophisticated code. Dale and Perry MacInerny, of MacInerny Sand and Gravel, owned a gravel pit that was unused at the moment, as the family outfit was occupied up at the Consolidated Mine, part of the reclamation effort. While they were thus occupied and their big pit east of town was quiet, we used a portion of it as a shooting range.