The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Twenty-two

Estelle’s plans to give Madelyn Bolles a proper orientation into passenger etiquette in a patrol car were reduced to a quick “buckle up tight.” The reporter was still fussing with belt and accoutrements as they charged out of the parking lot and onto Grande Avenue, the main north-south thoroughfare of Posadas. She finally settled for the laptop under her knees, and the soft briefcase clutched in her lap.

By the time they roared under the interstate overpass and took the long curve onto State 56, the speedometer had climbed past 80. Madelyn’s right hand crept forward on the door sill, looking for something to clutch, proving that riding fast was very different from driving fast.

Waiting until she had dusted past two southbound burros, Estelle reached out for the mike.

“Three-oh-three, three-ten.”

“Three-oh-three.” Jackie Taber didn’t sound as tired as she had to be.

“Ten-twenty?”

“Three-oh-three is just comin’ up on Victor’s place, northbound.”

Estelle took a deep breath of relief that Jackie Taber had been slow to call it a day. She was capable of sitting quietly for hours on a warm rock in the shade of a piñon with her pencil and sketch pad. At the same time, Jackie knew as well as anyone else that Tony Abeyta was on his way to Las Cruces and the other denizen of the day shift, Dennis Collins, was stuck firmly in limbo after the dropped-gun incident. What was important at that moment was that Jackie Taber, nearing Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon, was twenty-five miles closer to Regál than Estelle was.

“Three-oh-three, I’ll be ten-twenty-one.”

Taking her time, Estelle slowed the car a fraction and opened her cell phone. Madelyn watched closely, not losing her grip on briefcase and door.

“Jackie,” Estelle said as the phone connection went through, “Betty Contreras is waiting for us at her house. She says that an illegal who might have been the woodcutter up north just walked past her house.”

“Might have been,” Jackie said, alert to nuance as always, tired as she might be.

“She says that he’s headed toward Joe Baca’s.”

“Oh, crap,” Jackie said. In the background, Estelle could hear the squeal of tires and then hard acceleration. “And here we thought Betty didn’t know nuttin’ about nobody. All of a sudden she knows the woodcutter and his pal?”

“That’s what we’re headed to find out, Jackie. I’m southbound, but we’re just leaving town. I want the man detained, but as long as he doesn’t force his way inside or pose an immediate threat, hang back and wait for us.”

“You got it. Joe’s the one who’s got the money, am I right?”

“Yes, he does. Be careful.”

“Roger that.”

Estelle auto-dialed Dispatch. “Gayle, we’re responding to a complaint in Regál that I think is tied to Catron County’s case with the woodcutter. Has Tony left for Cruces yet?”

“He and John Allen are standing right here,” Gayle replied, and, after a moment of hurried conversation off-line, added, “and now they’re out the door.”

“Thanks. Jackie’s responding, and I’ll be about fifteen minutes behind her.”

“Got it.”

Without looking, the undersheriff placed the phone on the car’s computer keyboard that took up most of the center console. Ahead, a county dump truck, its flashers bright, rumbled along the shoulder behind a road grader.

“I have to ask,” Madelyn Bolles shouted over the roar of the car and the rushing slipstream. “Why the phone instead of the radio? I thought cops were always ten-fouring on the air.”

“Sometimes we are,” Estelle replied. “But sometimes, we don’t want the whole world listening in, and the phone is more private.” She let the county car drift into the oncoming lane so she could give the truck and grader plenty of space.

“Good heavens, who’s going to be listening?”

“You’d be amazed,” Estelle said. “It’s a hobby for some folks, why I couldn’t begin to tell you. Bill Gastner calls ’em ‘scanner ghouls.’ If we have a messy accident in the middle of the night, sometimes there isn’t room to park by the time we get there.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I was. The less we can be on the air, the better.”

“It’s hard to imagine them sitting home in their bathrobes, huddled around the family scanner, waiting to race you to the scene.” The road straightened as they approached Moore, and now past traffic, Estelle held the speed at an even 90. “It’s also easier to hear the telephone sometimes. Remind me to tell you a story or two sometime,” she said. “By the way, a couple of things, Madelyn,” she said, speaking unnaturally loud to be heard. “When we’re on the scene of a call, I’m going to require that you stay in the vehicle, unless I specifically say otherwise. Understood?”

“Oh, yes.”

“The shotgun by your left knee?” Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached out with her right hand and touched a button on the radio-lights-siren console without pushing it. “This is the electric lock release. Have you ever used a shotgun before?”

“Well, years ago my dad and uncle-” Madelyn stopped short. “No. I haven’t.”

“Unlock the rack by pushing that button. When you have the gun clear, push the safety button behind the trigger to the left, and watch where you point the muzzle. There are three rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Just keep pumping until it goes click.”

“You think I’m going to remember all that?”

“Yes, I do. You remember everything.”

“I don’t think so,” Madelyn said fervently.

“Well, you should know it’s there.”

“I’ll sit here quiet as a church mouse,” the reporter said.

“Sometimes that’s not enough,” Estelle said, remembering Linda Real’s disastrous ride-along with one of the deputies seven years before, on this very stretch of highway. It was only a matter of time before Madelyn interviewed the photographer, and Linda would not bring up the memory. But Madelyn would see the scars on the photographer’s face, and she’d find a way to ask. And then, she might not be so eager for ride-alongs.

In another minute, they crossed the old concrete bridge over the Rio Salinas, and as they swept around the end of the mesa, Estelle saw a wink of lights in her rearview mirror. Deputy Tony Abeyta would be driving one of the Expeditions, and he wouldn’t have been gaining on her with that. In a moment, she could see the low, squat shape of one of the new State Police cruisers with the distinctive white pimple of the computer antenna on the roof. Despite her pace, the state car quickly pulled to within a hundred yards of her and then slowed, pacing her as they shot across the Rio Guigarro and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon and then the intersection with County Road 14.

“PCS all units, three-oh-three.”

“PCS. Go ahead, three-oh-three.”

“All units ten-twenty-six south of the pass.”

“Three-ten copies.” In a second, Abeyta also acknowledged Jackie Taber’s request that siren and lights not be used.

“Three-ten, Allen on tack two.”

Working by feel, her eyes glued to the road as they left the flat prairie behind and took the first dangerous curve up the north flank of the San Cristóbals, Estelle toggled one of the selectors on her radio to match the State Police car-to-car frequency.

“Three-ten.”

“What we got?” the State Policeman asked.

“One individual, a possible illegal who may have been involved with a death that Catron County is currently investigating.”

“He’s tryin’ to skip across the border?”

Estelle braked hard for the first switchback to the right, and her passenger’s left hand flew up to slap the dashboard for support. “Maybe,” Estelle said. “Right now it appears that he may be paying a visit to one of the residents down there.”

“Taber’s on it?”

“Ten-four.”

“Then there ain’t no rush,” Allen said. “I’ll be behind you. Lemme know what you need. This guy known to be armed?”

“That’s negative, but we never know. Thanks, John.”

She racked the mike and leaned forward slightly to look uphill through the sparse trees. The road was empty, and on the next, even sharper switchback she used both lanes. For a moment, they were heading due east along the ridge, and had she chosen to do so, she could have looked down and seen the saloon, the county road, and the spread of prairie all the way north to Cat Mesa behind Posadas. The road crumpled back on itself again, and after a switchback followed by a leisurely series of esses, they started up the long grade to the pass.

As they rushed past the sign announcing the pass elevation, Estelle flipped off the emergency lights and slowed her pace. The south side of the pass was an easier descent, long straights between gentle switchbacks. At one point, Estelle could look down directly into the heart of the village. She saw the white county Bronco just on the highway side of Betty Contreras’ house, but she couldn’t tell if the deputy’s truck was parked or just driving slowly. Joe Baca’s home was out of sight, hidden behind the bulk of the water tank.

“Three-oh-three, three-ten is just coming off the pass, ETA three minutes.”

“Ten-four. Ten-twenty-one.”

Estelle had enough time to hang up the mike and take the phone before it buzzed. “He’s sitting under one of the apple trees in front of Sosimo Baca’s place,” Jackie said. “I’m watchin’ him through the trees from just this side of Betty’s.”

“He’s just sitting?” The adobe that had once been home to Joe Baca’s older brother had stood empty since the old man’s death, the orchard going untended and gnarly as the little house gradually dissolved.

“Yeah, he is. But he’s looking up toward the pass. You got a state cruiser behind you?”

“Affirmative.”

“He saw it. He’s getting up now and headed west. He’s joggin’. You want me to intercept?”

“No. Hold off. I want to know where he’s going.”

“Evidently he knows,” Jackie said. “He isn’t just out for a stroll.”

“Just watch him then.” Keeping the phone connection open, Estelle slowed the car as they swept down the last stretch behind the water tank and pumping station. The church and its gravel parking lot was a quarter of a mile ahead, with the border crossing just beyond. Right at the bottom of the hill, Sanchez Street met the highway, and as she turned onto the narrow dirt lane, she grimaced in anticipation of the rough jounce.

“He’s cutting cross-lots,” Jackie said. “That’s going to take him right behind Joe’s woodpile.” And by now, Estelle thought, the man would be able to hear the traffic. Even with engines little more than idling, the tires of three vehicles crunching on gravel carried like gunshots. Betty Contreras was standing in her front yard, hands caught up in her apron. She bustled to meet them, but Estelle slowed only to a walk as she lowered the passenger window.

“We’ll be back to talk in a bit,” she called. Betty stopped, uncertain, looking first at Madelyn and then back at the State Police cruiser. The expression on Betty’s face was one of confusion and apprehension.

“He’s still behind the woodpile,” Jackie said, voice calm and almost bemused. “Maybe that’s where he’s staying. If he breaks for the house, he’ll be in plain sight.” Behind Joe Baca’s woodpile, enough piñon, juniper, scrub oak, and mesquite for ten winters, a jumble of boulders formed a giant’s necklace along the base of the foothills. Estelle turned the county car off onto the lane to Joe’s, and saw that Jackie’s vehicle was parked right by the Bacas’ mailbox. The man had nowhere to go. He could sprint to the house, a distance of twenty-five yards. He could clamber up into the rocks behind the village. He could dart from cover and try to zigzag through the village, heading for the border and custody.

“There’s Joe,” Jackie Taber said, but Estelle had already seen him. She pulled past Jackie’s unit and drove up the Bacas’ driveway.

“Keep watch,” Estelle said, and snapped the phone closed. Turning to Madelyn, whose wonderful eyes were now about the size of dinner plates, she said, “Stay in the car.”

“Oh, yes.”

Estelle had experienced passengers in the past who had said that very thing, then gotten out and found a way to get in the way.

“Stay in the car,” she said again, and raised the window.

“I heard and I understand,” Madelyn said.

“Thank you.”

Joe showed no signs of stepping off the house porch. Estelle unbuckled and took her time getting out of the car. She saw that the driver’s doors of both Jackie’s vehicle and the State Police cruiser were ajar, but the officers were staying put.

As Estelle walked past the front fender of her car, she reached back and adjusted the bulk of the.45 automatic. “Joe,” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “¿Cómo está?” As she expected, the old man was uneasy-anyone would be with an army just arrived in his front yard. A quick glance told her that Trooper Allen had gotten out of his car and stood relaxed by the front fender. He held a scoped semiautomatic rifle at high port. Jackie Taber still sat in her unit, ready to dive out or charge the Bronco forward, whatever the need might be.

Estelle could easily imagine the fugitive crouching behind the woodpile, his heart hammering. Did the policía know about the death up in Catron County? Were they actually after him, or was this some other problem-so close to the border, it could be anything. Better to crouch and wait. Nothing to lose.

The undersheriff took her time as she walked up the mild slope of the yard. She found it interesting that Joe Baca didn’t glance toward the woodpile where the fugitive was hidden. Perhaps Joe didn’t know the man was there…unless he had been looking out through the kitchen window. If he’d come outside in response to the three police vehicles, then he might not know. She thrust her hands in her jacket pockets, considering what tack to take, keeping the bulk of the woodpile between herself and the hidden man’s view.

“Joe, did Betty call you a little bit ago?” she asked in English.

Baca skillfully skirted that one. “We talk all the time,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”

She ambled up closer, still keeping several paces’ distance, wondering how fluent the illegal’s English was. The undersheriff kept her voice down. “I need to know what you can tell me about the second man. The one who was with Felix Otero up north.”

Joe looked puzzled, but he didn’t glance at the woodpile. Estelle continued, “Why would he want to come back here? To your house?”

“My house?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

Estelle hesitated. “But you know who I’m talking about, no?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said lamely.

“Can you and I go inside for a minute?”

“Sure. The others want something, too? I got coffee.”

“No thanks.”

He turned toward the door, and Estelle followed for only two steps, then turned abruptly and, with her right hand out of her pocket and sweeping the jacket back, gripped the butt of her automatic. Another step toward the house brought her into view of the corner of the woodpile nearest the house. She could rock back a step, and be protected by the firewood.

The young man, unkempt and clearly fatigued, sat on his rump, his back against the stack, arms clasped around drawn-up knees. His wary expression slowly dissolved to one of resignation as he saw the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department badge on Estelle’s belt. He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked from her as the roar of another vehicle attracted his attention. Deputy Taber had driven her Bronco right up into Joe Baca’s front yard, leaped out, and from her position could see both the undersheriff and the fugitive.

“Buenas tardes,” Estelle said gently. She could see no weapon, and the man’s body language said cower, but that could change in a heartbeat. “Levante las manos por encima de la cabeza.”

“Estoy descansando, nada más,” the young man whispered. His arms lifted slowly as if on hydraulics, and his eyes were locked not on Estelle, but on Jackie Taber a dozen yards away. Her threatening stance was obvious, but with the woodpile at his back, the man could move only deeper into her line of fire.

“Slowly now,” Estelle continued in English. “I want you to lie forward on your stomach.” The man’s confusion wasn’t at the change of language. To be seated firmly on his rump against the woodpile, with his knees drawn up in front of him, locked him in place. Any movement was awkward. He shouldered forward, moving his legs to one side, and flopped down, eyes still locked on the uniformed deputy.

“One hand behind your back,” Estelle said. She slipped her cuffs off her belt and approached quickly, staying close to the pile of fragrant split wood. Jackie had moved off to her left. “Ahora, la otra,” the undersheriff said, and finished cuffing the man. “Get up now,” she said. “Take it easy.”

“I have…,” the man started to say as he struggled to his feet. Estelle turned him in place and pushed him face-first against the woodpile. A pat-down discovered only a meager amount of change, a small pocket utility knife, and a wallet. Keeping her left hand on his shoulder, she thumbed open the billfold. Thirty-two dollars was the extent of his fortune. She nudged the Mexican driver’s license far enough out to see his name.

“Señor Ynostroza,” she said. “Ricardo Ynostroza. ¿Cómo está?” She pushed the wallet back into his hip pocket, and the small knife into her own. Deputy Taber had holstered her gun, and now stood with one hand resting on Joe Baca’s shoulder. The old man stood just off the front step of the house. Estelle turned the man around and regarded him. She guessed him to be perhaps thirty years old, no more, with a week’s sparse stubble of beard and dark circles under his eyes. His blue denim shirt hung loose on his wiry frame. His scuffed work boots hinted at plenty of mileage. He didn’t reply to her question but stood silent and watchful. She saw a flicker of apprehension cross his broad face as John Allen’s State Police cruiser pulled up beside Jackie’s unit.

“Señor Ynostroza,” she said, “Señora Contreras was concerned about you.”

“I have…” seemed to be the extent of the young man’s vocabulary.

“Do you understand English?”

“Yes, I do,” he said eagerly this time, nodding vigorously.

“Good, then. Where were you going, señor?”

“I thought perhaps…”

“Where is your home, señor?”

“I am from Buenaventura,” he said. “It is a small town-”

“I know where it is,” Estelle said. “Is that where Felix Otero lived as well?”

“I don’t know.…”

“Yes, señor, you do.” She turned without taking her eyes off the young man and beckoned for Jackie. “Obviously, we must talk.” The young man’s eyes flicked toward the approaching deputy, and then to Joe Baca, who hadn’t moved but now stood in company with Allen.

“We’ll transport this young man in your vehicle,” Estelle said to Jackie. “I need to talk with Joe for a little bit.” She had been watching the old man, reading the confusion and concern in his posture. Ynostroza started to say something, but she ignored him, leaving the young man in the deputy’s custody.

Joe Baca studied the ground in front of his boots as Estelle approached.

“How do you know this man?” she asked without preamble.

“I don’t,” Baca said, but he wouldn’t look at her.

“He was coming to see you,” she pressed. “Betty Contreras said that she was worried about that. Why does he want to see you? Is he after money?”

Joe’s eyes flicked up at that. “Maybe. Maybe that’s it.”

“And maybe there’s more to it,” Estelle said. “It would be much simpler if you would tell me what’s going on, Joe.”

“He is just…” And his hands waved helplessly. “He is just like any of the others. You know.”

“Except you know him, Joe,” she said impatiently. “And so does Betty. And so does Father Anselmo. This man, Ricardo Ynostroza, was with Felix Otero, the young man who died up north. That’s what Betty says. Do you want to talk to me about that?”

Another vehicle appeared, and an expression of relief washed across Joe’s face. Estelle recognized Lucinda Baca’s car. “Maybe she knows,” he said.

“Officer Allen, would you take a statement from Mr. Baca?” Estelle asked. “I’ll talk with Lucinda.” She could see that obviously wasn’t what Joe Baca had in mind, but feeling adrift might loosen his tongue a bit.