The Chevy went by slowly enough that I could see two additional passengers. Any other day, that wouldn’t have been unusual, either. Father Anselmo ferried parishioners on a regular basis. Herb Torrance said something else, but I was no longer paying attention. The left turn signal of the Chevy flashed and the car pulled into the Broken Spur Saloon. From that distance, Anselmo’s car was not much more than a dark dash, but I could tell the difference between pausing to drop someone off and nosing in to park.
Chapter Thirty
There was one thing wrong with what I was doing-I was no longer sheriff of Posada County…or undersheriff, or sergeant, or even a rookie deputy. As a livestock inspector, I was sworn to enforce any law, policy, or state edict that applied to the raising, marking, selling, or transferring of livestock.
But I wasn’t ready to quibble over minor points. As I drove toward the Broken Spur Saloon, I searched the electronic phone directory, then punched the right button, pleased that the last time I’d looked the number up in a hard copy directory, I’d added it to the electronic gadget, too. In a moment, Christine Prescott’s cheerful voice answered.
“Christine, this is Bill Gastner. I need to talk with Victor ASAP.”
“He’s in the kitchen, sir.”
“Tell him to pick up.” She didn’t argue, and when Victor came on the line-he took his sweet time doing so-I had slowed with the parking lot less than five hundred yards ahead. It appeared that Anselmo and his two passengers had gone inside.
“What?” Mr. Cheerful would be balancing the phone receiver between shoulder and ear as he worked the grill.
“Victor, Father Anselmo just entered your place with a couple of guys. Take a look through your kitchen door and tell me if they’re the same two that you saw yesterday. The two that Patrick Gabaldon picked up.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“You saw them, Victor. Now go look.”
“What’s it to you, anyway?”
“God damn it, Victor, don’t be an ass. Go look.”
The phone whacked against something, and in the background I could hear the hissing, clanking ambiance of the Broken Spur’s kitchen. Victor’s tone wasn’t quite so grouchy or antagonistic when he came back on the line. “Two young men. Yeah, they could be the ones.”
“Victor, listen to me. Are they the two that Patrick picked up?”
“I think so. Right now, all they’re doing is sittin’ at the bar, looking at the menu. What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Absolutely nothing. Just give ’em whatever they want. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” And I’d feel like an absolute jackass if we were wrong in this.
Victor started to say something else charming, but I disconnected, punching the autodial for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. As the phone rang, I drove into the west end of the parking lot, then around the building to park behind Victor’s Cadillac.
“Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, Sutherland.”
“Brent, I need whoever you’ve got down here at the Broken Spur. Silent approach. We may have the two men who attacked Patrick Gabaldon.”
“Yes, sir. Deputy Pasquale is at Moore. He’s closest.”
“That’ll work. No siren. Make sure he understands that. If this is a wild goose chase, I’ll be the first to let you know.”
“Are you inside the building right now, sir?”
“No. I’m in my truck.”
“You should probably stay there, sir.”
“I probably should.” Brent Sutherland was such an earnest kid.
Victor appeared at the back door, his eyes narrowing as I approached.
“It’s them. I’m sure of it.”
I nodded my appreciation at his unembellished statement of fact. “Just be patient,” I said. “I need a couple of minutes, so go back and engage them in conversation.” Victor was ready to nix that idea-there were limits to his cooperation, after all. But I walked around the west side of the building without giving him the chance. There were no windows on that side except the two opaque single panes in the restrooms, high up on the wall. Anselmo’s Chevy was the first vehicle in line, so if the men were sitting at the bar, I was entirely out of their view.
From two strides away, I could smell the old crate. The door locks were down except for the driver’s, and that was pure Anselmo. He wouldn’t even consider locking his car, since he owned nothing worth stealing. The inside of the car was an amazing clutter, with the seats threadbare, oozing stuffing in half a dozen places. What interested me most were the two backpacks on the rear seat.
Glancing toward the Spur, I opened the driver’s door, rewarded with a loud squawk of sagging hinges, and reached around to pop the lock. As I did so, I could imagine Judge Lester Hobart’s dour expression as he mentioned the issue of illegal search and seizure. But I wasn’t sheriff and I wasn’t seizing anything, so I felt no qualms.
Both backpacks were the generic sort of rigs that students use. I unzipped the top of the first and found clothing, one of those cardboard cylinders of potato chips, a small toiletry kit, and various other odds and ends. The large front pocket contained a fat bag of Mexican hard candy and two inhalers of prescription asthma medication. A plastic liter water bottle was shoved into a side pocket.
The second pack was equally uninteresting, until I opened the front pocket. A blonde wig was stowed neatly in a plastic bag. Along with it was a potpourri of gum, tissue, lip balm, and curiously, a wrinkled, drab book. I pulled it out and saw that it was a generically bound stage script for The Andersonville Trials, and, my curiosity tweaked, I flipped it open. The role of Wirz was highlighted in yellow. “And what do we make of this?” I whispered to myself. “In spare moments between heists he’s studying his lines?”
The two weren’t so foolish as to stow large sums of cash in the backpacks, nor any weapons. I tucked things back into place and straightened up, closing the car door gently.
Nothing incriminating, except the wig-which certainly didn’t mean that this was the very blonde over whom the Mexican agente had drooled at the border crossing. No money, no weapon.
What I had was Victor’s word, and he didn’t indict others lightly. These were the two men he’d seen Pat Gabaldon pick up on the state highway. They might be that, all right. But they might have had nothing to do with the cowboy’s misadventure. Sure enough. And one of them might have left nice, clear fingerprints on Pat’s cell phone before heaving it off into the trees. For the moment, that possibility was enough for me.
I walked quickly back to the kitchen door. Before going inside, I took a moment to check that the pudgy Smith and Wesson was still where it always was, just to the right of the small of my back, concealed by my short jacket and not buried under an overhanging belly.
Victor was busy at the stove, and the aroma of burgers, onions, and other wonderful things was strong. He ignored me. I ripped a single page out of my small pocket notebook, and printed a note in block letters, taking my time. Victor Junior came out of the pantry with a tray of hamburger buns, and I folded the note and handed it to him. “Will you give this to Father Anselmo for me? You don’t need to tell him who it’s from.”
Victor Junior took the note and glanced over at his father.
“Just do it,” Victor said without turning around.
“Just give this to Father?” the young man asked. This time, Victor turned and glared at him venomously.
“And ask Christine to come into the kitchen,” I added. My messenger shrugged and headed out through the swinging door.
I waited without giving in to the temptation of looking through the little triangle of glass in the swinging door.
“You got people coming?” Victor asked. He flipped the three burgers and then lifted the basket of fries out of the grease.