Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Ten

“I didn’t want to leave him out in the truck,” I said. Sheriff Robert Torrez had stopped by the dispatcher’s island where I stood at the moment, rope leash in hand. He regarded Socks with cool detachment. The heeler managed to look miserable, his belly sinking even closer to the polished tile floor, tail low but not quite tucked between his legs, eyes darting this way and that. “Pat Gabaldon’s dog,” I added.

“So the kid hasn’t shown up yet.”

“No. Herb is coming back from Cruces later this afternoon, though. I’ll dog-sit until then.”

“So what’s goin’ on?” The sheriff glanced down the hall as Estelle Reyes-Guzman came out of her office.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “Dennis found Herb’s cattle wandering down 43, with Socks here keeping them tight and moving. We turned them around and drove them back to pasture.”

“How far?”

“They’d covered about a mile, maybe a little more.”

“An hour or so to do that?”

“I suppose.”

“Huh.” Torrez frowned at the dog. “Why would Pat do that?”

“That’s the question,” I said.

“Nobody saw him?”

“Not that I’ve found. I stopped by the Broken Spur on a long shot.” I shook my head. “Nobody saw him. Well, I take that back. Roy Ocate claims that just as he was pulling into the saloon parking lot, he saw Herb’s rig northbound on 56. He didn’t take any particular notice of it, beyond just seeing it. He claims Pat was driving.”

Socks looked expectantly at Estelle, who knelt and stroked his pointy little head. She ran a hand under his collar to smooth his neck ruffles, and then rubbed the underside of his jaw. He responded by shuffling closer, hoping the attention would continue.

“That’s like leaving a member of the family behind,” she said.

“Well, we know that happens on occasion, too,” I said. “Mom and Dad forget that little Johnny is in the truck-stop restroom, and drive off and leave him. At least they claim they forget. They don’t often admit that their kid is a little rodent who deserves to be left behind, inflicted on somebody else.”

Estelle straightened up. “He looks good on you, sir. You should get yourself a dog.”

“Please. Besides, he makes my eyes itch.” I extended the lead rope toward her. “You want him?”

“Thanks for the offer, sir. Francisco and Carlos would be ecstatic.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“We can hope that Herb or Pat picks him up before dinner.” She smiled at me. “You wanted to see some photos?”

“Yep. I had a thought that damn near put me into the bar-ditch.”

“Oh? What do you want to see?”

“You said most of Linda’s photos from George’s kitchen are on the computer? Let’s start there.”

“Everybody’s keepin’ their eyes open,” Torrez said as he turned away toward his office. “For Patrick, I mean. State’s watchin’ the interstate.” He turned to look toward the two of us. “I’m going out here in a little bit. I was going to check down toward María.” He shrugged. “You never know.”

Socks watched him until he disappeared into the office as if there might be an opportunity of some sort there. But now that the heeler was on strange turf-turf that obviously wasn’t his-he behaved as if he’d had a lobotomy, staying close to my feet and not the least bit interested in extending the length of his leash. As we entered Estelle’s comfortable office, the undersheriff gestured toward her chair. “Take the computer, padrino.” I settled in the chair, and the heeler dived under the desk. Estelle reached past my shoulder, keying the computer to do its thing. In a moment, the thumbnail index including photos of George Payton’s kitchen appeared.

“I want the close-ups of the table,” I said, and she scrolled across the index. The first shot showed the table as a whole, and I reached out to tap the screen. “Just that.” I didn’t need to ask if Linda Real had taken any particular photos-the young lady didn’t miss a thing. Sure enough, a crystal clear portrait of the casserole dish popped up. The lid was in place, and the photo didn’t show me what I wanted to know. “How about the plate itself?”

That portrait appeared, and then expanded to fill the screen from border to border. The instant I saw it, I knew I was right, and I thumped the desk top with my fist. That didn’t make me feel any better. Reaching out for a pencil, I leaned one elbow on the edge of the desk and touched the screen with the eraser. And again, and again.

“Yes, sir,” Estelle said without surprise, and I turned to crank my neck around so I could look up at her. She rested one hand on my shoulder as she reached past me to select another photo. This one was the serving dish as a whole, with the glass cover removed.

I nodded and touched the image half a dozen times with the pencil eraser. “Damn it, are we chasing our imaginations here?” I asked. “This sure as hell is chopped green chile-and I’ll bet right out of a can. I saw the same thing on Gus Prescott’s plate down at the Broken Spur, and that got me to thinking. At the Don Juan, Fernando slices his into thin strips. I’m sure of it. Lord knows I’ve eaten enough of the stuff.” I tapped the screen again. “We need answers for this.”

“I wanted to wait for you before talking to Mr. Aragon,” Estelle said.

That surprised me, since the undersheriff certainly didn’t need to wait for anyone, least of all me. It didn’t surprise me that she’d obviously shared my suspicions…she was always miles ahead of me. “What did you request from the lab?”

“A full profile, sir. I pulled in a favor or two, and they’re asking for some help from the university labs as well. We’re looking at a weekend coming up, and that’ll put a damper on anything they might find.”

“So late today, maybe. More likely tomorrow,” I said. “They move fast, but usually not that fast.”

“Well, like I said, I asked a favor or two.”

I sat back in the chair, staring at the photo of the partial burrito. “We may be nuts,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“I thought about it this morning-the old bolt from the blue thing. Then I got distracted. Here a few minutes ago, I was down at the Broken Spur, standing at the bar beside Gus Prescott. He was eating one of Victor’s creations, and that’s what set me off. The whole thing was spread with diced green chile.”

“That raises some interesting questions, padrino.”

“Indeed. You can print this for me?”

“Of course.”

“Did you talk with Bobby about this?”

“I did, as a matter of fact. He’s pulling in some favors of his own. He sent Tony Abeyta to Albuquerque to deliver the evidence.”

“Does he think we’re nuts?” Most folks pondered about things, often out loud, often bouncing ideas off other folks. Bobby Torrez took taciturn to new heights, and I reflected with amusement that when we combined the sheriff and the inscrutable undersheriff, we’d be a good repository for the most sensitive super-spy information.

“That’s impossible to say, sir.” That reply didn’t surprise me. Estelle handed me the photo as it came out of the color printer, and I glanced at the clock.

“You have time to go right now?”

“Sure,” she said. “What about White Fang, here?” Socks looked up at her as if he’d recognized his real name.

“He’ll just have to rough it and stay in the truck,” I said. “You want to ride with me?”

“Ah,” and Estelle looked around the room as if she’d forgotten something. “Let me follow you down. That way if there’s a call, I’ll have my office with me.”

I laughed. “Gee, you mean the full power and authority of the Livestock Board isn’t enough?”

“I’m sure it would be,” she said diplomatically. Twelve blocks later, we parked nose to tail on Twelfth Street, in the shade of the Don Juan de Oñate. Turning on his best hang-dog expression of resignation, Socks didn’t bother this time with the dervish dance of impatience. He accepted two sloppy tongue-fulls of water, then settled on his seat with a great sigh. “You hungry?” I asked, then amended that. “Stupid question. You’re a dog. I’ll see what I can find.”

Swinging into the dinner hour, it wsn’t the best time to descend on the Don Juan for anything other than food. The place was surprisingly quiet, though, and JanaLynn Torrez greeted us with a sunny smile.

“We need to talk with Fernando, sweetheart,” I said.

“You go right on back,” she said. “Maybe you’ll cheer him up some.” She lowered her voice. “He’s in a rotten mood after hearing about Mr. Payton, sir.”

“It’s probably going to get rottener,” I said. Ever diplomatic, JanaLynn didn’t ask me what I meant, and Estelle and I headed for the swinging doors of the kitchen.