“Con permiso,” Estelle said, rising from the table to pull the little cell phone out of its holster. “Guzman,” she greeted, and then listened intently for a moment. “No, he’s right here,” she said, glancing my way. “Ah,” she added, and listened some more. “Why don’t I have you talk with him, then. Hang on.” She held the phone out to me, and I pushed myself away from the table, using the top of little Francisco’s head for support. “It’s Bobby,” the undersheriff said.
That in itself was a surprise. The taciturn sheriff of Posadas County didn’t chit-chat on the phone with anyone-not with his wife, not with his colleagues, not even with his long-time hunting buddies. I could feel my pulse kick up a notch, and it wasn’t from the coffee.
“I can run but I can’t hide,” I said into the phone.
“Nope,” Torrez’s quiet voice said, and that ended his version of casual conversation. “The truck’s gone south.”
“The truck,” I said, left behind.
“Herb’s Torrance’s rig,” he added. “Truck and trailer both.”
I digested that for a second or two, but my silence didn’t prompt anything further from the sheriff. “Who reported that?”
“Doyle Armijo saw it go through the crossing. Two occupants, one male, one female.”
“Armijo knows the Torrances?” That seemed odd, since although I didn’t know much about the young Border Patrol agent, I did know that he’d been in the area for just a few weeks. I didn’t bother to ask why the rookie hadn’t stopped the truck because I knew why. Who cares who leaves the country, after all. But the Mexican side hadn’t stopped them upon entering, apparently. My guess was that Mexican agents reasoned that adding a shiny new truck and stock trailer to the Mexican economy couldn’t be a bad thing.
“Don’t think he does know Herb,” Torrez said. “He just remembers the truck and trailer, and the female who was driving.”
“Well, shit,” I said. The female. I couldn’t think of a single innocent reason why Pat Gabaldon would let a girlfriend of the moment drive Herb Torrance’s rig to Mexico. “Did Armijo recognize the girl?”
“Says not.”
“But her passenger was Pat?”
“He doesn’t know the Gabaldon kid. It could’ve been. Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know that we got that much now to go on. You want to be the one to tell Herb?”
“Sure. I can do that. Did you talk to the other side yet?” While officers on the U.S. side might not ask exit questions, Mexican officers were usually curious about who was coming into their country, and with what-a cynic would say that they needed to make sure that the proper hands were greased.
“I’m about to,” the sheriff said without elaboration. “You going to be there for a while?”
“I had planned to be. You’re in Regál?”
“Headin’ north. See you in a bit, then,” he said, and that was that.
I switched off the phone and turned to look at Estelle. “Pat Gabaldon is your problem now.” Still mystified, I told her what Sheriff Torrez had reported. “I don’t know him all that well,” I added, “but Pat always seemed like a level-headed kid to me. I’d have bet that he was content working for the Torrances. I’d have to think this is a real kick in the teeth for old Herb.”
“But Armijo couldn’t say for sure that the passenger in the truck was Pat, right?” Estelle asked. “Those two had probably never met.”
I shook my head. “Armijo was just pulling in to park for his shift, and it wasn’t any of his affair to stop the truck. Nothing suspicious caught his eye, except maybe the pretty girl who was driving.”
“And he’s sure about that…a girl at the wheel, not Pat?”
“Nope, not Pat. And-” I took a minute and refilled my coffee cup-the way things were shaping up, there was no telling when I’d find the next one.
“There are other possibilities,” Estelle said.
“And none of them particularly attractive.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was time for about five forkfuls of lasagna before the sheriff’s Expedition pulled up behind my Blazer at the Guzmans’, and he waited with the engine running. I could see no point in dragging Estelle away from her dinner with the family, but she insisted, and followed me outside.
“Anything from the medical examiner yet?” Bobby asked.
“Hurry up and wait,” Estelle replied. The sheriff reached across, holding out a slip of paper toward me.
“Marcario Diaz was on the stick,” he said, referring to one of the Mexican officers who worked the south side of the Regál border crossing. I knew Officer Diaz in passing, enough to pick him out of a crowd but not enough to know his work habits. I fumbled out my glasses and scanned the sheriff’s angular writing.
“Fifteen seventeen,” I said, and frowned-not at the military notation, but at how the timing fitted in with the rest of my day’s events. The note recorded that at 4:17 p.m., Officer Diaz had recorded New Mexico license double niner two one wild life, appearing on a white 2007 Ford F-350 crew-cab pulling a CloudLiner double-axle livestock trailer into Mexico. I looked across at Bobby. “Sure as shit that’s Herb’s rig.”
“Diaz said that the trailer appeared to be empty.” The sheriff almost smiled.
“Appeared to be?”
“He says he had no reason to investigate. He claims the trailer rattled like it was empty.”
“Wonderful,” I groused, growing angry all over again at Patrick Gabaldon, try as I might not to leap to more conclusions. “Just goddamn wonderful. And what’s he say about who was driving? He saw a girl, too?”
“Yep. A young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, muy bonita,” Torrez said. “Diaz says that her passenger was a young man in shorts and t-shirt, brown hair pulled behind his head in a pony-tail.”
“Well, hell. At least Diaz stepped close enough to see all that. A man in shorts and t-shirt sure as hell isn’t Patrick,” I said. “For him, if it’s not denim, it’s not clothes. Well, that’s helpful.” I handed the paper to Estelle. “Where were they headed? And I mean other than ‘south,’” I added. “Did Diaz think to ask?”
“He says that the girl claimed they were on their way to the Hernán Domingo ranch outside of Janos. Diaz says that he didn’t detain the truck because both the occupants were relaxed, and nothing fitted any wants or warrants his agency has posted. No reason to detain the two young gringos.”
“Not to mention the obvious,” I said wryly. “Domingo is a big fish. Unless young Officer Diaz wants to end up on a fire watch tower somewhere out in the Chihuahuan desert, he’s not going to go out of his way to inconvenience don Hernán.”
“Something like that, maybe. Anyway, they ain’t comin’ back with that truck,” Torrez said. “You can count on it.”
I sighed and took a deep breath. Vehicles being transported south for sale in Mexico was not a new undertaking. The burros diligently proved that on a daily basis. The tandem vehicles heading south on the Interstate through the heart of New Mexico were a common sight, all of those vehicles long of tooth, many missing parts or with quarter panels bashed in. For the most part, the international trade was legit and served a useful purpose, too. Cars bound for the scrap heap in the United States saw a new life wheezing down the awful dirt roads of northern Mexico, where missing a headlight or two, or a bumper, or a fender was no big deal.
On the other hand, Herb’s late model truck and stock trailer were many cuts more valuable than those heaps. On a dealer’s lot north of the border, the whole rig, truck and trailer both, might bring $40,000. But down in Old Mexico, $15,000 would be a good haul, no questions asked in the right places. Sure, it was below book, but it was quick money, with a minimum of palms reaching out for a cut.
I could tell that my blood pressure was escalating exponentially, and it had nothing to do with rich food interrupted.