“That’s a start. The undersheriff wanted me to pass along some information to you, sir.” She held up three fingers. “First of all, Sheriff Torrez, Tony Abeyta, and I are going to take this place apart in the morning to see what else we can find.”
“I don’t expect you’ll find much,” I said.
“Probably not. But who knows how lucky we might get. If you want to join us here, that would be welcome.”
“I’d just be in the way. You need sharp eyes, my friend.”
“Your choice, sir. Number two, the dumpster party is on, and the undersheriff said you’d want to know about that. She said that if you wanted, she’d meet you behind the Don Juan at six.”
“Behind the Don Juan? At six, I plan to be in the Don Juan, stuffing my face. This is nuts.”
Jackie held up both shoulders in a long, slow-motion shrug. “Don’t shoot the messenger, sir. Nuts or not, that’s what’s going down.”
I nodded at her hand. “What’s third?”
She waggled the finger. “Just a point of information. Estelle said that you’d want to know that Norma Scott?” She waited a couple seconds for the name to register. “The late Norma Scott? She’s Phil Borman’s sister.”
“Shit.”
“The undersheriff said you’d want to know. She said that she would have called you direct, but she knew you were probably out with Herb, and she didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Estelle’s at home now?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
I sighed. “Anything I need to do for you? Coffee? Hamburger?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Then I’ll mosey,” I said. “If we’re having a party for breakfast, I need to clean up and change into something more fashionable.”
Jackie laughed and stepped away from my truck. “Somehow I had the misfortune to be the one tagged to help out at Borracho. You enjoy, sir.”
“We’ll get even,” I said.
“I’m sure you will, sir.”
I resumed my amble northeast, now with nothing to look for except some coherence for my thoughts. With the jog from Estelle, I remembered Norma Scott. The wife of Wes Scott, one of the maintenance men for the school district, Norma had not died quietly at home, but in the middle of the produce aisle at the supermarket.
I knew why Estelle wanted to search the dumpsters, but it was a real long shot, longer even than searching the Borracho Springs parking lot in hopes that the thugs might have dropped something besides Patrick Gabaldon. When someone has something they want to get rid of, odds are good that into the dumpster it goes…either that or tossed out along the roadside. A third option might see the goods stowed in a closet for safekeeping, but I understood the undersheriff’s logic. The obvious thing to do first was look in the most likely places. And we could do that without sweating warrants or tipping our hand. Still, the targets were tiny: a tiny chemical bottle, maybe a plastic spoon or a tongue depressor, maybe a little plastic baggie.
In this instance, Lloyd Parsons, the village’s sanitation department supervisor, would be amused at our request-as long as he didn’t have to do the rummaging.
The undersheriff sure as hell didn’t need me for this stunt, but she would know perfectly well that I would want to see the investigation through. By the time I’d driven home, showered, and put on some old clothes, it would be time to brew a pot of coffee and face the day.
I did just that, and at a quarter of six, my phone rang. The undersheriff sounded bright, perky, and well rested.
“Sir, how about if I swing by and pick you up?”
“Who told you that I had any desire at all to go dumpster-diving?” I growled. “Damned dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.” Before she had time to judge whether or not I was kidding, I added, “That would be good, sweetheart. The front door is open. And when we’re done, you owe me the breakfast of all breakfasts.”
“Absolutely, and congratulations again, sir. No word on Patrick’s condition yet, but we’re adding another chapter in your legends book.”
“Stop it,” I snapped. “Any prints off the phone?”
“A couple of good ones.”
“Let’s hope they’re not Patrick’s.”
“Exactly, sir. ETA about two minutes.”
Friday was one of three trash pick-up days when the big refuse trucks of Southwest Compax Services rumbled through the alleys of Posadas, flipping dumpsters. If something had been discarded anywhere in town or in the outlying areas, another ten hours would see all the trash at the landfill northeast of town. Picking through the tangled heap at the landfill wouldn’t be a delightful way to spend the day. One dumpster at a time was easier, more efficient, and probably more productive.
By the time I’d refilled my cup and turned off the coffee maker, I heard a single siren yelp out in my driveway as the undersheriff announced her arrival. Such urgency was uncharacteristic on Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s part, and I didn’t keep her waiting.
As I settled into the passenger seat of her Crown Victoria, I saw that she was dressed in battered blue jeans and a well worn sweatshirt. “When Jackie told me about this, I hoped that all along you were kidding,” I said. “After all, I could be out in the canyon, tripping over roots and bashing myself on rocks. Who do you have working?”
“There are six of us,” she said.
“Do you know how many dumpsters there are in this burg?” Of course she did.
She accelerated the county car out onto Guadalupe. “Lloyd gave us a map. We have thirty-three in the village itself, and another twenty-eight outlying. I don’t think we’ll have to search them all.”
“Christ,” I muttered. The whole thing made me feel tired, and it wasn’t from lack of sleep. “And what if someone got smart and used gloves when they handled the bottle?”
“Then we have the weapon but not the prints. That would be a major success in itself. If they weren’t clever enough to wear gloves, then we have both.”
In another two minutes, we swung into the fenced area behind the Don Juan, where three green dumpsters waited. So too did Tom Pasquale and Linda Real, both looking as if they’d abandoned a painting project so they could attend this party-spattered jeans and old shirts, looking like a couple of physically fit vagrants.
Deputy Pasquale had the first dumpster’s dual lids flopped back, and he was peering inside. When he saw us drive up, he shook his head in amused wonder. “Fun times,” he said, as we got out of the car. “This is when we find all the dead dogs, cats, babies, and stuff.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I order a burrito.” I surveyed the first dumpster’s aromatic contents warily. We’d drawn the long straw for the easy task with this selection, since most of the refuse that was expelled from the back of the restaurant was neatly bagged or boxed.
“We can tip it, I think,” Pasquale said, and sure enough, he, Linda, and Estelle were up to the task, like a trio of eager dumpster bears on the way to dinner. They were more gentle than bears would be, and the container went over with a loud, reverberating bung. That’s when Fernando Aragon appeared at the back door of the restaurant, wiping his hands on his apron. He watched silently for a moment as Tom, Linda, and Estelle dragged the large, intact bags to one side, exposing the jumbled inner contents.
“If you guys can’t afford to pay for breakfast, just say so,” he said soberly.
“We appreciate that,” I said. I hadn’t partaken yet, figuring that someone had to look like the supervisor of this outfit. “What are you doing up so early?”
“I work here,” Fernando said, eyebrow raising. “If we open at six, somebody has to do the prepping. What are you looking for?”
“If I knew…” I said.
Fernando couldn’t resist the attraction, and stepped over to where I stood. He looked me up and down critically. “You look like you need a good night’s sleep.”
“Indeed I do,” I said affably. “But this is so much fun.”
“You’re not looking in the bags?” He pointed at the big black sacks.