“Inventive,” I said. “I don’t know. I need to talk with Hugh. He saw the road grader working?”
Salcido shook his head. “Tody didn’t know. Hugh wasn’t home when I stopped by.” He made a spinning motion with one hand. “He has this rototiller that he’s trying to make work. He’s in and out all the time.”
“I’d like to talk with him,” I said, and turned to Estelle. “You ready to roll?”
“Yes, sir.”
Salcido laughed gently. “Quite a job interview you’re having today.” He regarded Estelle critically. “Did he find a vest that fits you?” This was one of those occasions where it’s do as I say, not as I do, since in all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen Eduardo Salcido wear a protective vest. Maybe it was vanity-a vest would plump out his already blocky shape and make him resemble a gourd-or just the discomfort of the thing, stiff and hot under the shirt. Those were my excuses, anyway.
In this case, any idiot could see that someone with Estelle Reyes’ body shape wasn’t going to enjoy the unyielding discomfort of the Kevlar body armor.
“I think we’re going to have to order for you,” I said.
“Sooner rather than later,” Salcido added gently. “She needs to observe in dispatch in the meantime.” He pushed himself up from the chair.
“That’s one of the goals for this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll come up with a schedule for her.”
“This afternoon,” Salcido chuckled. I could see it for myself, that inexorable advancement of the clock when Larry Zipoli’s corpse now lay on a slab at Salazar’s Funeral Home while his killer kept a sharp eye over his shoulder. The passage of time was the killer’s ally.
“You be careful out there,” Salcido said as he read my mind. “You’re going out to see the Deckers?”
I nodded. “And then I have a few more questions I want to ask Marilyn Zipoli.” Settling on the corner of my desk, I patted the personnel folder. “Pino had every reason over the years to can Zipoli’s ass. There are a dozen letters of reprimand in his records. And no action taken other than that, Eduardo. Just letters.”
That earned the familiar “oh well” expression from the sheriff.
“It’s almost as if Pino was afraid of him. Or at least afraid to face up to him and straighten things out.”
“Lots of folks find that hard to do,” Salcido mused. “It’s just easier to let it go. As long as nothing happens, you know. I don’t think it’s an issue of fear, Jefito.” And I was willing to bet that the sheriff knew exactly what the issue was. I was also willing to bet that Larry Zipoli’s drinking on the job was not the motive for his murder.
“I would hope not. Tony Pino certainly would have the county attorney on his side if he wanted to make an issue of personnel matters. And by the way, I talked with Jim Raught earlier. He’s an interesting fellow.”
“He is that,” Salcido agreed. “Keeps to himself. That’s what I know about him.”
“We’re stumbling around in the dark,” I said. “I find it hard to believe that Larry Zipoli’s drinking on the job had anything to do with his death, and I don’t believe that a little argument with a neighbor did.”
“There’s something that we’re missing, then,” Salcido said, echoing my own thoughts exactly.
Chapter Eighteen
Hugh Decker was glad to see us. Just in case we might decide to pass him by, he dropped the rag he’d been using to polish the engine housing of his rototiller-something I would certainly want to do should I own one-and made for the curb to head us off. The Deckers owned the cleanest, most meticulously maintained tiller in Posadas County. Exactly why blow sand needed tilling was a mystery to me.
I parked in the shade of an enormous cottonwood whose roots had to be sucking water from five neighboring yards.
“Keep a straight face,” I ordered.
Hugh waddled across to us, his thin shorts more like cut-off pajama bottoms and threatened by gravity at each step. His sleeveless T-shirt was inadequate for its task, and hairy pink flesh bulged in some unattractive places. Enormous flat feet splayed his sandals.
“Tody said you were by,” he rumbled in greeting, and he mopped his forehead with a mammoth wrist.
“The sheriff was,” I corrected. And who knew. With Hugh’s damaged eye-sight, he might well have mistaken Eduardo for me, or vice versa.
“Well, lemme show you something,” he said, and then stopped short as he caught sight of Estelle Reyes. “And who are you, young lady?”
“This is Estelle Reyes,” I said. “New with the department.”
Hugh thrust out a huge paw, and Estelle’s hand disappeared for several pumps. “Good to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Where do you hail from?”
“Posadas, sir.”
Hugh looked puzzled. “Do I know your folks?”
“I would doubt it, sir.” A safe enough assumption, since Estelle herself didn’t know her folks.
“What’s to show us?” I prompted, and Hugh nodded vigorously and beckoned for us to follow him around to the back of the house. The place was tidy. The garage door was open to reveal a late-model Ford LTD with Sheriff’s Posse license plates and two whip antennas sprouting from the trunk. In the back yard, half a dozen dwarf fruit trees were making a valiant effort.
“Oh, hello!” Tody warbled, sticking her head out the back door. “Hugh, remember that you have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Goddamn doctors, excuse my French. They’re never satisfied.” He grinned at me and punched his glasses back up the slope of his fleshy nose. “I expect you’ve had your share.” Not waiting for an answer, he walked to the back block wall and pointed. Over the four-foot barrier, the open prairie stretched uninterrupted to the north. A view of the streets was impossible, the vegetation in the back lots just high enough to block the road surfaces and bar ditches from view, but I could just make out the stop sign at the intersection of Hutton and Highland-and only then because I knew it was there.
“Car parked right at the intersection,” Hugh said, affecting an officious, clipped delivery. He swept his arm to the east. “Now, the road grader would have been right about over there. The guy I saw was walking back to the car.”
“Holding something?”
“I couldn’t swear to it, sheriff.”
I leaned an elbow on the top row of blocks. “How far do you suppose that is, from here to the stop sign at the intersection.”
“Two hundred yards, maybe three.”
“Two or three football fields,” I translated. “Close enough that if the wind was right, you could hear voices.”
“Didn’t, though.”
“Could you hear the road grader?”
“Not when it was just idling. When he was actually grading, I could catch snatches of it.”
“You heard a gun shot?”
Hugh held up a single finger. “One. Just one. At three minutes after two.” He held up his left wrist to display the impressive, multi-functioned watch. Again, he adopted the officious tone. “I hear a shot, I look at the clock.”
“We’re glad that you do,” I said. “When you heard that one shot, where were you?”
He turned and pointed across the yard at the chaise lounge. “Right there, letting lunch settle.”
“So you heard it-at three minutes after two-and got up to see what’s what.”
“That’s exactly what I did. Every once in a while, you know, somebody gets itchy on the trigger just a little bit too close to dwellings. And I tell you…” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Old war time thing-you hear a whole mess of shooting, not to worry. You hear one shot, it’s time to worry. Somebody bought the farm.”