“Let Estelle help you with all this,” I said.
“Maybe she’ll stop on her way back,” the old man said. “She went down to talk with her mother.”
“Maybe she’ll do that.” What the hell. Dump all this on the young lady, who certainly had a full plate at the moment without worrying about her great-uncle. I left the old man safe in his own home with his aloe hand cream and bourbon, and by the time 310’s tires chirped back onto the state highway, it was nearly 1:30 in the morning. When I saw Estelle at the office in the morning, we’d take care of the truck.
Chapter Twenty-four
Estelle Reyes appeared at the dispatch desk at 7:30 that Thursday morning looking well rested, well groomed, and just generally goddamned breathtaking, wide-eyed with interest for what the day might bring. For a moment, she seemed about 12 years old, eyes taking in everything and everyone.
She wore a conservative tan pants suit and a simple white blouse with one button open below the businesslike collar, with no jewelry of any kind except a wristwatch. Her shoes were sturdy black oxfords polished to a military sheen, the cuffs of her trousers breaking over the tops in a fashion that brought joy to an old sergeant’s heart.
I stood in the doorway of my office, watching for just a moment as she chatted with Ernie Wheeler, who no doubt wished at just that moment that he was working days rather than the soon-to-end graveyard shift.
Estelle gripped a slender black briefcase, and I wondered what souvenirs she’d collected.
“Good morning,” I greeted her, and Ernie looked disappointed. T.C. Barnes, already on deck, had been told that most likely he would be enjoying the young lady’s company all day, and would present a comprehensive orientation. He was about to be disappointed, too.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Change of plans, by the way,” I said. “Come on in.” She followed me into my office, but didn’t take a chair. I waved her toward them, her choice, and she took the old wooden monstrosity to one side of the desk. “Before we get into anything else, I had a chat with your great-uncle early this morning. He managed to lime burn his hands at work down at the church, and he’d driven into town to find some ointment. He couldn’t drive worth shit, and I took him home. His truck is parked along 56, just beyond the bridge.”
“I saw it this morning on my way in,” she said. “Ernie told me what happened.”
“He’ll be all right, I’m sure. And your mother? She’s well?”
“She is.” Estelle held the briefcase in her lap, one hand over each latch, her body English saying that she wanted to open the thing. Maybe her mother had sent up a serving of galletas for us. I didn’t want to be sidetracked from the git-go, and handed the young lady a copy of the Simmons catalog that had been holding down the landslide of papers on the corner of my desk. “You’ll need a rig,” I said. A number of yellow tags marked various catalog pages. “We’re going to need to order soon if you want to be outfitted for the academy.” She hefted the catalog and tilted her head as she thumbed to the first tag.
“The deputies wear the line that starts on page nineteen. The one named ‘Desert Tan’, appropriately enough. You get the first three sets free, then two a year after that. Shirts, pants, shoes. The utility rigs are all on page twenty-eight, the line they call ‘Borderland.’ Stetsons are on page something. You’ll find ’em. It’s the off-white low crown.”
I grinned. “In case you’re marveling at my incredible memory, rest assured that I took a couple of minutes to look ’em up and mark ’em. Anyway, that’s what you’ll need for the academy starting in September, as well as a bunch of other things. Exercise sweats, that sort of thing. Barnes will walk you through the paperwork. Do it sometime today.” She nodded and closed the catalog.
“One of these days when things slow down, Deputy Torrez and I will go out to the range with you and find out how much work needs to be done to make you safe with a three fifty-seven. I have some reservations about that, since your hands aren’t exactly hams.” I regarded her critically. It’s a hell of a note that someone’s good looks can actually be a liability, but she’d just have to work to overcome the challenge. The uniform might help. I’d always thought that uniforms, especially with gun belts loaded with twelve pounds of crap, did a good job of ruining a trim line. With my girth, I favored civilian duds.
“You’re going to have to be goddamn proficient with whatever weapon we find for you, because that’s what you’ll take to the academy. And that’s what you’ll have to qualify with for the department.” I sat down heavily behind my desk. “Although I’m here to attest that a goddamn blind man can qualify.”
The young woman absorbed all that without comment.
“And about the change of plans…there’s all the time in the world for office orientation, but what the hell. We dropped you into the middle of something yesterday, and it’s too good an opportunity to miss.” I nodded at her outfit. “That’s perfect, by the way. Looks sharp and professional. The sheriff wants you wearing a vest, so we’ll see what we have as a stopgap until you can order your own.” I looked at her critically again. Kevlar vests weren’t made for comfort, especially for folks who were blessed with curves-and at the risk of sounding like a chauvenist pig, she had curves. She’d end up like a Joan of Arc, trying to look like a boy in her French armor.
“All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“As a matter of fact…“ She snapped the latches on the briefcase. “May I show you two photos?”
“Of course.”
The first, an eight-by-ten glossy surprised the hell out of me. I leaned back in the chair, examining the photo. “You took this when?”
“Yesterday at Raught’s. You followed him into the kitchen, and I took the opportunity then. Yesterday afternoon, I made it in time to the one-hour photo in Deming and then to the Regál border crossing before it closed.”
“Huh.” The photo was clean, with no flash shadows, the tres retablos on Raught’s fireplace mantel framed dead center, edge to edge. While I pondered the logistics of what the young lady had done, she drew another photo out of the case.
The similarity was startling, although the second photo captured three retablos far more primitive than Raught’s, and it did so in a little, square instant photo of dubious quality. Raught’s El Jardin de los Tres Santos, with gold leaf and startling detail, morphed into primitive folk art in the second photo, with faded colors, primitive technique, and chipped edges.
Estelle leaned forward and touched the second photo. “This is from the iglesia in Tres Santos, sir. Where my great-uncle is working. I didn’t have time to take a quality photo and have it printed before the photo store closed, so I used the Polaroid.”
“A common subject for a retablo?” I held the two photos side by side. “I don’t claim to be an art critic.”
“The iglesia in Tres Santos is named for the original mission in Veracruz, sir.”
“So…”
She touched first one photo and then the other. “I took the second photograph at the iglesia in Tres Santos yesterday evening. The tres retablos are over the altar. My mother says that they’ve been there since the 1920s.”
I glanced up at the clock. “Where are we going with all this?”
“El Jardin in Veracruz was painted in 1869 by Manuel Orosco.” She touched a slender finger to the bottom edge of the eight by ten. “My mother says that he was one of the most famous religious and folk artists in Mexico.”
“And this is a copy of the original that’s hanging in Veracruz?”
“I think…I think that this is the original, sir.”
“The original? How would that be?” The eagerness suffused her features, and I almost hated to throw a wet blanket on her enthusiasm.