Bag Limit

Chapter Thirty

I pushed open the heavy door and was about to step outside. The first slap of early morning air hit my face, but I stopped in midstride, hand on the brass door handle. For several long seconds I stood rooted in place, letting the November chill waft into the Public Safety Building.

“Huh,” I grunted to myself, and retreated back inside. In the few moments I’d been gone, it didn’t appear that Torrez had changed position.

“We’re missing something,” I said, and he glanced up.

“I have the feeling,” he said slowly, “that we’re missing a whole lot of things, sir.”

“No, really. Suppose this. Suppose that Matthew kicked out the window just because that’s the thing that you try to do if you’re a half-wild teenager out to test the world. He’ll show us, by God. Maybe next time we won’t be so quick to arrest him.”

“Oh, sure,” Torrez said, and actually managed a full-fledged smile.

“Think about this, though. Suppose that busting the window isn’t really important…no more than just a show of spite aimed as much against you and your department as anything else.”

“What’s important, then?”

“I pull off the road, the good Samaritan that I am, thinking that the kid is going to cut himself on busted glass or hang himself in the broken window. What happens next?”

Torrez had risen from his chair and walked around the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms folded across his chest. In the marines, I’d been five feet eleven inches when I was racked at attention, but in the fifty-two years since I’d enlisted, I’d settled some-and expanded horizontally. The undersheriff was a solid six feet four, and even with him leaning against the desk, I had to look up to talk to him. He waited for me to continue.

“Scott Gutierrez and Taylor Bergmann arrived. We chatted for a little bit, and Scott introduced me to Bergmann. And then Scott walked up to my car, leaned down, and shined his flashlight inside. Now, all this time, Matthew had been quiet as a church mouse in the backseat.”

“He recognized my nephew?”

“Hard to say. There’s no reason that Scott would know Matthew, is there? I mean, they may have crossed trails at one time or another, with Matt living in Regal, and Scott working the area. But there’s never been a gathering of the two families, has there?”

Torrez shook his head. “What did he actually say?”

“I don’t remember. Nothing threatening at that point as I recall. Scott asked Matthew why he’d broken the window. I do remember that.”

“What did Matthew say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say a word. It was at that point that Scott suggested that they take Matthew into Posadas in their vehicle. They were headed toward town anyway.” I turned at the sound of footsteps. Brent Sutherland approached, obviously not eager to intrude. When he saw that he had my attention, he quickened his step.

“Sir, Judge Hobart wants you to call him.”

“The judge? You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. He said just whenever you can get to it, as long as it’s in the next thirty seconds.”

I laughed, picturing the old, grizzle-headed, pock-faced alcoholic sitting up in bed, a glass in one hand, the phone in his lap, waiting for it to ring. The wall clock said it was five minutes before six on that Sunday morning. For the judge to begin his day any earlier than nine o’clock took an act of Congress, so his mood would be delightful.

I nodded at Brent, and he retreated. “I wonder what that’s all about,” I said, and then retraced my thoughts. “Anyway, that’s what we set out to do-transfer the kid to the Border Patrol vehicle. Scott was going to use some leg ties, and I remember that he half jokingly threatened Matt. Something about if he messed up the new Expedition, that he’d take him out into a field and do whatever.”

Torrez was staring out into space, and when I paused to take a breath, he turned back and gazed at me, head nodding in comprehension.

“The obvious question,” he said, taking care with each syllable, “is, what if my nephew bolted not because he was afraid of me or the thumping I might give him when he got to town, but he was, in fact, afraid of being put in the Border Patrol vehicle and taken somewhere.”

“Exactly,” I said. “What if Matt was running not from you, but was running from Scott Gutierrez?”

“Or…” Torrez said, and stopped.

“Or what?”

“Taylor Bergmann.”

“He didn’t even know Bergmann,” I said. “Not until that moment.”

“We’re not sure of that.”

“No,” I admitted. “We’re not.”

Torrez let his head hang, and he regarded the ugly green floor tiles for a moment. “Why would Matthew be afraid of Scott Gutierrez?” he asked, and then looked up at me. “I can think of one scenario.”

“That Matt got his fake license from Connie French, and Scott knew that he had it…and that if we found it, an investigation might backtrack to the source, and Connie would be in worse trouble than the kid. We’re back to brother protecting sister again.”

He nodded and went back to his examination of the floor tiles.

“Right now, let me see what’s on Hobart’s mind,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there any chance that you can contact your sister up in Albuquerque? Do we need to wait for Monday?”

“No…I can find her. She’s staying with an aunt up in Corrales.”

“Do that, then,” I said. “Get her to cut the shopping trip short. I’d like to talk with her today, before this has a chance to fester.”