Estelle sighed. “Ay,” she whispered. I wasn’t surprised that boot-on-the-lower-fence rail small talk, the straw-in-the-teeth sort of thing, was such a frustration to her, but it was the rule in this case.
“Not everyone is as goddamn efficient as I am,” I chuckled. “The minute you and your hubby decided to take the property off my hands, it still took a month to move that measly four acres of mine from my deed to yours. And most of that month was because I didn’t get my carcass into gear. So what’s your theory?”
“I need to know what was in the works,” she said. “The single question keeps nagging at me in all of this…why now?” She glanced across at me. “Something always is the trigger. Something precipitates, something motivates.” Her light accent touched each of the syllables, pre-cip-i-tates, mo-ti-vates, turning them into music for my dull ears. “If it’s not a crime of passion,” she added, “then it’s one of planning and opportunity.”
“George wasn’t exactly a moving target,” I said.
“That’s the whole point,” Estelle said.
So, armed with the undersheriff’s concerns, I headed south once again, fortified with another cup of coffee to fight off the nap urge. The sun didn’t help as it roasted through the windshield. A phone call caught Herb just as he was walking from house to truck, and we agreed to meet at the intersection with the state highway.
My SUV’s tires slapped the tar strip announcing the bridge across the Guijarro arroyo, and as if bumped into life, my phone warbled its high, thin alert. I wasn’t driving in a rush, but I took my time finding the phone, making sure that I didn’t have the damn thing upside down, or fumble it off into space.
“Ah, my good friend.” The gentle voice was serene. Of course, Captain Tomás Naranjo could sound like that as his finger tightened on the trigger of his pump shotgun, too. “Are you aware of what is going on?”
“I’m on my way down to meet with Herb Torrance, Tomás. Other than that, I’m not sure what kind of progress we’re making.”
“I have spoken with the sheriff, and he suggested that I talk to you as well.”
“I appreciate that.”
The Mexican state policeman chuckled. “I would have called you first, but protocol, you know.”
“I’m in your debt.”
“You will be interested to know,” Naranjo continued, “that we have recovered the truck and trailer. So it’s fortunate I located you. You will have good news for Mr. Torrance.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Who had it?”
“There is a certain small shop in Villa de Oposura that we have been watching, señor.” He paused, giving way to his habit of searching out the most politic way of phrasing things. “They have the habit of removing certain desirable parts that are then easily marketed.”
“A chop shop,” I said.
“Ah, yes. That is the colorful term. The vehicle is undamaged, I am happy to report. They had not started the chopping, so to speak. The owner of the shop was eager to give us a description of the two young people who sold them the vehicle.”
I bet they were eager, I thought. “A boy and his girlfriend?”
“Ah, no. Two young men. It is amazing how a wig can change things, ¿no? There was the impression that they were both in college, perhaps.”
“How did they know that? About the wig, I mean?”
“Well, apparently the two desperados were inordinately proud of their accomplishment at the border crossing,” Naranjo said. “And pride loosened the tongue. But the interesting thing,” and I could hear paperwork rustling in the background, “is that this is not their first accomplishment in this line of employment.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, I guess.”
“I have here a description of another vehicle that they delivered to the same shop, less than forty-eight hours before. A certain Dodge Ram three-quarter ton extended cab truck, a most impressive beast. I relayed the license number to the sheriff, but I understand that it was taken from a shopping mall parking lot in Las Cruces. Or so our two industrious friends claimed.”
An enormous RV had been growing in my rearview mirror, and now roared past me, its occupants impatient to be somewhere else.
“I know nothing about the incident except that the vehicle originally had been left unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, while its owners went shopping,” Naranjo said.
“That makes it easy. No witnesses?”
“I don’t know, Bill. That is something…how do you say…beyond my jurisdiction. But Sheriff Torrez was most interested, and said that he would talk to authorities in Las Cruces.”
“Wonderful work, Tomás. We appreciate it. What time did our two geniuses leave Oposura-with payment in cash, I presume?”
“Now, that is curious,” Naranjo said. “They delivered the truck to the shop early this morning, not yesterday. They received payment upon delivery of the truck and then left promptly. The shop owner assures me that he warned the two young men that traveling in this part of the country with so much cash in hand might not be wise.”
“We can always hope,” I said.
“Another point of interest,” Naranjo said. “The village of Tres Santos was mentioned in passing, giving the impression that the two young men were planning to return to the United States by that route. Retracing their steps, so to speak. Unless they were simply mentioning it as a diversion.” The word rolled off his tongue with elegance.
“Not east to the crossing at Juarez, then,” I mused.
“I would guess not. A certain arrogance in that decision, what with the current interest of law enforcement agencies. But perhaps they considered it safer in other ways. By now…” he hesitated. “I would guess that they have already crossed back into the United States. They certainly have had enough time.”
The Broken Spur saloon came into view, and I slowed, scanning the vehicles in the parking lot. One car, two pickups, all local. Midafternoon was a slow time in the bar business.
“Tomás, I appreciate the heads-up. I’ll get with the sheriff and see what he’s found out. I don’t know if this is a couple of college kids pulling a quick one, or what. They had it easy the first time. The second time got messy.”
“Perhaps so. The ugly assault on the young man-Gabaldon, is it? — that is more than a college prank.”
“Indeed it is. We’ll do what we can to cut these two careers short.”
Naranjo chuckled. “I have the impression, after talking with the shop owner, that our two young men aren’t looking over their shoulders. They are too smart for the rest of us.”
“Let’s hope they keep thinking that way,” I said. “We’ll work on that. Thanks, Tomás. I’ll be in touch.”
“We must do lunch, you know. It has been too long, my friend.”
“Absolutely.” I switched off and slowed for the turn onto County Road 14. True to his work, Herb was headed southbound from the ranch, and he’d timed it just right.
Bumping over the cattleguard, I pulled off into the gravel and waited. Herb’s pickup ground to a stop. At first, the rancher cranked down the window and lit a cigarette, but when I climbed down out of my SUV, he turned and said something to Socks, then stiffly worked his way out of the truck. His bandy legs didn’t work so well any more.
“Hello again.” He eyed the manila folder that I placed on the SUV’s broad hood.
“I was just headin’ to Cruces for a bit,” he said. “Dale’s doin’ okay. Comin’ home tomorrow, most likely. That’s what they say, anyway.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said.
“Patrick’s folks made it to Albuquerque. I talked to them some,” Herb added. “They said that he come out of the surgery all right.”
“Is he conscious yet?”
“Nope.” Herb shook his head and glared at the gravel. “So,” he said slowly, as if having a hard time controlling his temper, “you got some news from down south, or what?”