“You went all the way to the top?”
“Me and Jason did. Mo turned back at the intersection with the paved road. That’s a nice coast back down into town.”
“And the two of you-you and Jason-went on to the top of the mesa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was that the last time you saw Mr. Zipoli?”
He nodded silently and then shook his head. “Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“You’re doing it,” I replied. I fished a business card out of my shirt pocket and handed it to him. “If you think of something else, don’t hesitate to call me. If you remember something that Zipoli said to you, or you hear some rumor at school. Any little nugget.” I pushed away from the car. “We’re in the information business, Thomas.”
He tucked the card into a nifty little plastic container that took the place of a wallet.
“And stop ditching school,” I added. “That’s a given. If I need to talk with you again, I want to know where to find you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jason’s not with you today either? You’re flying solo.”
“He had to go to Cruces with his grandma for an eye appointment.”
“And Mo? You don’t know where he’s at?”
Thomas shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since…Tuesday morning? When the three of us went riding. If I saw him today, I was going to talk with him about a great bike deal for him. Jason’s got this older Peugeot he wants to sell. It’d be a whole lot better than that heap he’s got.”
“Maybe it’ll work out.” I turned to Estelle. “Anything you need to know?”
She’d been working with her notebook, and now regarded Thomas Pasquale curiously. I didn’t expect a flood of questions, but maybe one or two. She snapped the book closed. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Then we’re off,” I said. “Pedal safe, son.”
“I’ll try to remember the minimum speed,” he laughed.
“And stop signs,” I added. “Stop actually means just that. Even for bikes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He lifted the bike back onto the pavement, and by the time Estelle and I were back in the car, Thomas Pasquale was already a hundred yards down the highway.
“So, there we go,” I said. “Tell me what you think.”
“Well, that’s twice,” Estelle said, and didn’t amplify the thought as I keyed the mike.
“PCS, three ten is ten eight.”
Dispatch acknowledged and went back to sleep.
“Twice what?” I asked.
“When Mo Arnett was having fun with the fire crackers, he made himself scarce when Larry Zipoli came home for lunch. No chit-chat, no greeting. According to Mr. Raught, Mo ran and hid. This time, the three boys come upon Mr. Zipoli out in the country, under relaxed conditions. Two of the boys stay and chat, even share a beer. Mo makes himself scarce again, heading on up the road while he monkeys with his bike.”
I regarded the young lady carefully, damn impressed. “There could be dozens of explanations for that,” I said. “Or not.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If we assume that Mo Arnett was uneasy in Larry Zipoli’s company, then it would be interesting to find out why. Who knows what goes through a kid’s mind.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Arnetts owned three vehicles, one of which was parked in the driveway on North Fourth. A yellow late-model Jeep CJ-7 was parked in front of the two car garage, and records showed it was registered to Mark and Mindy Arnett. Little Maureen might be waiting until she was old enough to drive that little yellow gem to school.
Mo would have his choice. He could walk to school, all of ten minutes. He could ride the Schwinn. He could-maybe-drive the Jeep. Fat chance. He’d catch less flack from his peers on the Schwinn, although half of his pals wouldn’t admit that they’d kill for the Jeep, yellow or not.
Dad Arnett would be driving the dark blue three-quarter ton Ford crew cab, somewhere at the moment between Posadas and Mark’s potential roofing job in Deming.
That left mom’s car, a gold late model Pontiac Grand Am, license Charlie Lincoln Thomas four niner niner. The Arnett home was six blocks from the Catholic Church on Bustos and Third. Would Mindy drive to work? Of course she would. The Pontiac was either hidden in the garage or over at the rectory.
I parked a couple of houses down from the Arnetts and walked to the front door. No one answered my knock or the bell, and I could hear the dingdong echoing through what sounded like an empty house. I took my time, rapping and ringing again, then sauntered back toward the county car. As I passed by the side of the house, I saw the heavy Schwinn bike resting against the side of the house in front of the garage.
Back at the car, I sighed. “Let’s pay a visit to Mindy Arnett.”
In a few minutes, Estelle and I entered the side door of the rectory, under the modest little sign that announced Father Carey’s office, and walked a couple steps down a polished, dark wood hallway to the office doorway.
I earned only the briefest glance from Mindy Arnett, but she leaned to one side for a clear look at Estelle Reyes as we entered.
“Mindy, this…”
That’s as far as I got with my introduction. Mindy nearly bounded to her feet, and skirted the big desk with astounding agility for a woman of such matronly build, arms wide. “For HEAVEN’s sakes!” she cried. “Look who’s here!” She enveloped Estelle in a hug, then pushed her away, a hand on each shoulder. “Just look at you. Teresa’s little girl is all grown up!”
That outburst earned Mindy Arnett a warm smile from the girl, all the encouragement Mindy needed. “The last time I saw this young lady was at baccalaureate, I do believe.” I never had been able to keep such meticulous track of acquaintances, but Mindy had no such trouble. “Of course, I see Teresa almost regularly, don’t you know.” She leaned well into Estelle’s airspace, but the young lady held her ground. “We all hope that one of these days she’ll move to Posadas, you know. I mean, Tres Santos is so picturesque, but still…” She took a quick breath. “I do hope you’ll be joining us now that you’re with the county. You know, I think that’s so exciting. I mean, have we ever had a woman deputy? I don’t think we have. And it’s long overdue, don’t you think so?” That was my cue to fit a word in edgewise, but I was slow on the uptake.
I hadn’t told Mindy that Estelle had joined us, but the grapevine was efficient. And what I feared would happen was in full swing. Unless I could clap a hand over her mouth, Mindy Arnett would continue to gush. Certainly, Father Vince Carey had long since figured out how to manage the woman, but my strategy simply had been to ignore her.
Mindy dropped her hands and reached across the desk to poke keys on the computer’s keyboard, then took me by surprise. “Now, did you want to visit with Father? I think he’s in his office this very minute.” Her face softened with concern. “And such a tragedy with Larry Zipoli.” Her hand drifted up to cover her mouth. “I just can’t imagine…”
“Actually, I need to chat with you, Mindy,” I said, and toed her office door closed. “Do you have a moment?”
“My word, of course I do.” She looked at me warily as she slid back into her chair. She waved toward two straight chairs that nestled tight against floral wall paper. “Such a tragic week we’ve had. First Mr. Newton passing away, then that awful thing with the Zipolis. Just awful. And I suppose you knew Miriam Archuleta?”
I didn’t, but Mindy rattled on. “She had just gone to live with her son in El Paso, and died with the pneumonia, of all things.” She shook her head. “Such a wonderful woman she was.” Mindy folded her hands, either about to run down, or settling in. In her mind, apparently, Larry Zipoli’s murder was in the same category as a death from old age or pneumonia.
“Mrs. Arnett, we’re in the process of talking to anyone who might have spent some time with Larry Zipoli just before his death.”