“How is she getting along?”
“Just fine. She’s a thinker, Eduardo. I like that.”
Salcido nodded, but it wasn’t the talented young lady whom he had on his mind. “Jack Newton died early this morning.”
I felt the same pang that most folks my age-or the sheriff’s-feel when someone near our own demographic dies. Mortality is a melancholy thing. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not surprising, I guess. He was in a bad way.”
“That’s what Nicky said. It was coming, he said. The old man was just lucky that he didn’t drive that big Caddy into somebody first.” Salcido pushed himself away from the car. “Ay,” the sheriff added, and shook his head. He straightened his shoulders, and I heard weary bones pop. “Bobby is working with George Payton this morning.”
“What’s George got for us?”
“I don’t know. Bobby thinks he’s got a lock on the bullet make, and that sent him off, you know. He wanted to paw through George’s stuff.”
I frowned. “And George?” Payton owned the only gun shops in town, a nifty, memento-filled little place with more inventory than most shop five times its size. And the shop was his turf. George Payton didn’t let anyone forget that. I couldn’t imagine George opening his books to the cops, no matter how well he knew Bobby Torrez, or me, or Eduardo.
“I think we’re going to need a warrant,” Eduardo said. “Bobby said no, but you know, I’ll be surprised if George opens his books to us. I was thinking that maybe you need to talk with him.”
“What’s Bobby hunting?”
Salcido pushed his Stetson back on his skull, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. “He’s sure now that the ammunition used was.30–30. And he thinks that he knows the brand of bullet.”
“No one found a shell casing, Eduardo.”
“No, no. Not the casing, Jefito. But the bullet. He says he’s sure it’s a Mountain States brand.”
“Millions of those around, I suppose. He thinks that George Payton might have sold it originally?”
Salcido’s shrug was deep and expressive. “Maybe he did.”
“Or mail order. Mountain States has been in business for years.”
“But it’s something, you know. If the ammunition was hand-loaded, rather than just off the shelf…” He shook his head slowly, gazing off into the distance. “This is a bad thing. A bad thing.”
I nodded. “And any little bit is going to help.” I understood what had piqued Bobby Torrez’s curiosity. A box of loaded ammo, bought from the store shelf, would have generic bullets, either made by the ammo brand company itself, like Winchester or Remington, or purchased from a major bullet supplier, like Sierra, Speer, or Hornady. Mountain States was a smaller company, catering to handloaders rather than manufacturers.
“You were at the school this morning?”
“You bet. We talked with two of the kids-Matt Singer and Eric Zapia. The other four are ditching school today.”
“Ditching.” Salcido savored the syllables. “I used to enjoy that. Maybe too much. Didn’t get me anywhere, though.” He flashed a smile. “You’re going to talk with them this morning?”
“I’m curious, is all. Two of the kids are cyclists, and with weather like this, I’m not surprised that the bikes hold more attraction than school. We’ll start there. The Pasquale kid and Jason Packard.”
Salcido bent and looked into my car. “What do you think, señorita?”
“I’m curious to hear what they have to say, sir.”
“We’re curious, all right,” he smiled, and looked across at me. “All this is muy curioso. You’ll have time to stop by George’s place? Bobby’s there right now.”
“We’ll make the time,” I said. “Where are you headed?”
“Home, I think. You know, I didn’t sleep so good last night.” He rubbed his chest over his breastbone. “This whole thing with Zipoli…” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s a bad thing, this not knowing. Something like this happening right in our own back yard.”
“We’ll figure it out, Eduardo.” I saw my last chance to fill him on the Tres Santos, but he didn’t look as if he needed more weight on his shoulders.
He held up a hand, and turned back to his car. From the avalanche on the front seat, he rescued a manila folder. “We got this late yesterday.” He handed it to me, and I flipped the cover. The application was generic, filled out in large, block letters that would have been appropriate for a ten year-old.
“Jerome Jesse Murton. Not a chance, Eduardo,” I said, and snapped it shut. “J.J. Murton shouldn’t even be working for the village. Chief Martinez should have his head examined for allowing it.”
Salcido’s smile was gentle. “He might fit into dispatch all right. He’s dependable, you know.”
“J.J. Murton is an illiterate moron,” I snapped.
“In three years with the PD, he’s never missed a day of work. That’s what the chief tells me.”
“Whoopee. That means he’s a consistent illiterate moron. There are enough ways for a deputy to step into trouble without someone like Murton at his back in dispatch. Don’t do it, sheriff. You want my advice, don’t do it. Hell, if we get short, I’ll sit dispatch if it comes to that.”
I handed the folder back. “Anyway, Miss Reyes can step in to dispatch as soon as I finish up some orientation.”
“You sounded good on the radio,” the sheriff said to Estelle and straightened to pat me on the shoulder. “I guess we have her caught up in the middle of things, no?”
“And that’s the way it is,” I replied. “It’s good for her to see how all this works. There’ll be plenty of time to swim in all the paperwork later.”
“But then she goes to academy, and we won’t have her on staff for eight weeks. Maybe more. I was just thinking…”
“You’ll get into trouble doing that, Eduardo. You want my advice, don’t do it.”
The sheriff wobbled his head, neither a yes nor a no. “Let’s sit down this afternoon and see where all this is leading us,” he said. I didn’t want to spend five more minutes thinking about the Sleeping Beauty, but it was Salcido’s call. I appreciated that all employers faced the same conundrum-finding employees who showed up for work when they were supposed to, without going missing during the holidays or finding excuses on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons. But critical jobs deserved more than just a warm body.
Chapter Twenty-six
We could have jogged over to George Payton’s modest shop in less time than it took to mount up, turn the LTD around, and cross traffic on Bustos to the little avenue behind Pershing Park. “Cross traffic” meant pausing for a second while Mimi Sloan drove through the intersection in her Oldsmobile.
Deputy Torrez’s new Bronco was parked in front of Shooters’ Supply, taking advantage of a scraggly elm for a spot of shade. I swung in behind the Bronco.
“You’ve met George Payton before?” I asked Estelle.
“No, sir. I know who he is, that’s all. I’ve heard Reubén talk about him now and then.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Where else would Reubén find ammo for that antique of his.”
“There’s a partial box of cartridges on the mantel above the fireplace,” Estelle said. “The dust on them is about this thick,” and she held her fingers an inch apart. “They haven’t been touched in a long time.”
“And let’s hope they stay that way.” I perused the junk on the seat for a moment, wondering what I had forgotten. “You want to call us in? Leave us available, though.”
She did so without fanfare, putting us ten-eight at 101 Baca. General Pershing was honored by the whole park and facing street named for him, while Elfego Baca’s memory was noted with a short cul-de-sac, more of an alley than a street.
The front door of the shop opened with a single squeal, and George Payton looked up from the large book and brochure that engrossed him and Deputy Torrez. The deputy’s black briefcase rested on the counter.