Chapter Forty

The undersheriff was in the process of pouring a carafe of water into the coffeemaker when we walked in. Maybe it was just my glasses that needed cleaning, but the water appeared amber, as if it had been used more than once.

With practiced ease, Torrez slid the empty pot under the drip and motioned for us to join him in his office. “I want to show you something,” he said. That was an improvement over sitting in a blue funk. Inactivity didn’t suit the man.

As he rounded the corner of his desk, he pushed the computer screen so that it turned to face us.

“I finally figured out what I wanted to look for,” he said. “This is for the past twelve months.”

Estelle scanned the screen-load of data far more quickly than I, but she didn’t have bifocals to deal with. “I don’t follow,” I said. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“How many arrests were there statewide for fraudulent or altered driver’s licenses, sir?” Torrez asked. He sat down behind the desk.

“Six, it looks like.”

“That’s six in an entire year, for the entire state.”

“Right. That’s what it says. Not something that happens all that often.”

“What the numbers tell us,” Estelle added, “is that there were only six instances when the perpetrator was apprehended. Not necessarily the number of times the violation occurred.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “We don’t know how many attempts there were. Or for that matter, how many successful operations.”

Torrez smiled grimly. “Even more interesting…how many incidents were there of an illegal license being issued by a MVD office?”

“Not one.”

He leaned forward and turned the screen partially back so that he could view it. “Not one.”

“Your sister showed us how it might be done,” I said. “All a clerk would have to do is void the thing from the permanent record. Then you’ve got the license in hand, but with no record of it on file.”

“And…” Torrez said, rising from his chair. He held a pencil in both hands, and I could see the wood bending as he pursued the thought. “Suppose an officer stops John Doe for a traffic violation, and asks to see a license. Let’s say that Mr. Doe has a fake license, just like the one that my cousin had.”

“Unless the cop knows him, or has some reason to suspect the license, he’s going to accept the license as long as the photo matches. As long as it’s an official license from a MVD office, there would be no reason to question it,” I said.

“Exactly,” Torrez said. “In point of fact, there is no way for the officer to question it, at the time of the stop. We can’t access Motor Vehicle Division records through normal channels. We can’t just punch in the number on the license to make sure it’s what it seems to be.”

“You could call a MVD office on the phone and ask,” I said. “But who’s going to bother to do that. Unless something tipped off the officer that it might be necessary.”

“Right. And those records there”-and he nodded at the state compilation of violation statistics-“indicate that’s not happening.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“What I got to thinking,” Torrez said, “was pretty simple. What if my cousin’s little prank wasn’t just an isolated thing? What if he got the license not because it was an original idea with him, but because he knew that he could? Maybe he knew somebody else who had one, or heard about it. Family or not, I’ll be the first to tell you-my cousin wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist.”

I sat down and looked at Estelle. “That’s what you were thinking, isn’t it? That Matt might not have been alone in this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A risky business,” I said.

“Well, not really,” Torrez replied, and pointed at the screen. “That shows how risky it is, right there. They’re not being apprehended, that’s for sure.”

“If it’s happening at all. The lack of numbers may mean just that, Roberto-that we’re dreaming up a problem that doesn’t exist. Give me a better reason.”

“Money,” Torrez said promptly. “What if you could sell a license for, say, five hundred or a thousand bucks a pop. That’s a nice little bit of tax-free budget helper.”

I frowned. “That’s not what I meant, but I just answered my own question. I know that anyone will sell anything, given the right price, legal or not. Who’d want one, though? And that’s pretty simple, too. What one document makes the whole of the United States fair game? A driver’s license. That’s what cops ask to see. We don’t ask to see a Social Security card. We don’t ask for a credit card. We ask for a driver’s license.”

Estelle nodded. “If I’m a trucker living in Mexico and I want to tap the big money north of the border, I need a license,” she said. “A commercial driver’s license would be my ticket. No green card complications, no tests to take, none of that nuisance. Nothing. And the money on this side of the border is a whole lot better.”

I pinched my thumb and index finger together, holding up the imaginary license. “With a valid driver’s license, this country is mine. I can travel where I want, work wherever. A fake Social Security number does the rest, if the employer is playing by the rules and paying over the counter. Otherwise, even that doesn’t matter. I’d be willing to bet that a third of the workers in Posadas County don’t have W-4 forms filed on ’em.” I gestured at Estelle.

“Hell, here’s a young lady who could just as easily be a current resident of Michoacan, Mexico, as Michigan or Minnesota. Estelle, you walked through a couple of international airports on your trip down here, and how many times were you asked for identification?”

“Never, sir.”

“Exactly my point,” I said. “Once you get yourself past customs, get in the county, cops don’t check papers. And if you were stopped, they’d want to see a driver’s license. Even those of us with half a brain know that cops have profiles. Avoid the profile and avoid the confrontation. Just because someone has black hair, black eyes, and talks with an accent doesn’t mean they need a green card.”

“There’s a catch, though,” Torrez mused.

“Sure there’s a catch,” I said. “If the driver’s stupid and gets himself a ticket, even a routine ticket for driving his rig thirty-seven in a thirty zone, then the fake number on his license goes into the computer. Somewhere down the line, some bells and whistles are going to go off.”

“But not at the time of the actual traffic stop,” Torrez added. “If the driver’s careful, he could use the fake license for a long time.”

“Hell, a lifetime. And if he does get in hot water, he goes back to Mexico for a while. If the ticket was in New Mexico, hell-drive into Texas or Arizona for a while. No big deal.” I grinned. “Our interstate cooperation is legendary, as we all know.”

“You want some fresh coffee?” Torrez asked, sounding more as if he were searching for a way to wind me down from my soapbox than anything else.

“Hell, yes. It’s been almost two hours since I ate last. I’ve got some empty corners down there. You want anything, sweetheart?”

“No thanks. I’m fine,” Estelle said. Minnesota hadn’t changed any of her habits. I waited until Robert returned with coffee for himself and me. “So…do you want to know what your sister said?”

“She wouldn’t do it,” he said with conviction.

“No, she wouldn’t. Estelle and I agree with you on that. And if she knew it was happening in her office, she’d blow the whistle.”

“That means if Matt got his license from this office, he got it from Connie French.”

“If,” I said.

“Nowhere else makes sense,” Torrez said with a shake of the head. “Not for Matt. He didn’t have two cents to his name most of the time. He’s not going to go to some city somewhere and shell out a bunch of money just so he can try to buy a beer now and then.”

“But he knew Connie,” I said.

“And that tells me why Scott Gutierrez would be so interested,” the undersheriff said. “If he was tipped off that his sister was up to something like this, he’d have some hard choices to make.”

“And covering up for his sister might be one of them.”

“Or not.” Estelle shrugged. “There’s this other obvious possibility. I don’t know Scott that well. I never had occasion to work with him. All of this might be a case of sister doing a favor for brother.” The small room fell silent, and Estelle didn’t bother to elaborate.

“You mean Scott Gutierrez is lining up the customers?” I said after a minute. “I’d hate to think that.”

“Why not?” Estelle said. “He’s in the perfect position. He knows the country, he knows the people on both sides of the border, he’s got contacts. He’d know when there’s pressure on, too. When to back away.”

I turned to Robert. “And on the other hand, everything that Scott Gutierrez has done the past few days is consistent with an officer digging around, looking and listening, trying to find some answers for himself. There’s every possibility that Connie is involved. If Scott found out about that, he may be trying to pin down who’s working with her.”

“It’s every bit as logical that he might be protecting himself,” Estelle said. The room fell silent again. Robert Torrez sat on the edge of the desk, regarding the computer screen.

“What direction do you want to go with this?” I asked.

He reached over and pressed enough keys that the computer sighed into darkness. “I guess I’d like to talk with Neil Sommers first thing in the morning.”

“Connie’s boyfriend of the moment,” I said for Estelle’s benefit. “What’s he going to tell you?”

“I have no idea,” Torrez said, and he actually grinned. “Well, I do have an idea or two nagging at me, and he’s given me some pretty good deals on stuff for my truck over the years. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

I glanced at Estelle, and saw that she was watching Robert’s face. Her expression almost made me a believer in telepathy. I wasn’t so blessed. “Ideas like what, for instance?”

“For one thing,” he said, “Scott’s stepfather is visiting for a few days.”

“So Scott said.”

“They’re all going hunting. In fact, they went this afternoon. This is the last week for the area that includes the San Cristobals.”

“And how does this involve Neil Sommers?”

“He didn’t go along, sir. They left this morning, and he didn’t go with them. I happened to see him coming out of the grocery store this afternoon. I didn’t stop to talk.”

“People walk out of grocery stores all the time, Roberto. Maybe they forgot the hot dogs or beer.”

“Maybe. He was home later in the day, too. He lives just a few doors down from me. I’m just curious, is all. I wouldn’t think a young couple would miss an opportunity for some time around a campfire. I’d just like to know, is all.”

“Have at it,” I said, shaking my head.

“You always talk about little pieces of the puzzle, sir,” Torrez added.

“I know I do. That doesn’t mean I know what I’m talking about.” I stood up and put on my hat. “Let me know what you find out. I need to take our hostage back to her family.” I smiled at Estelle. “Robert, if you need me, I’ll be at the house, repairing all the holes in my walls and sweeping up the shattered glass.”

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