The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Twenty-four

As she walked back to her car, Estelle Reyes-Guzman saw that Madelyn Bolles had taken the command to stay in the vehicle in the spirit of the order, if not the letter. The passenger door was open, and the writer was turned sideways in the front seat, feet outside on the ground, fingers dancing over her laptop’s keyboard.

“Were you beginning to think you’d been abandoned?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, no,” Madelyn replied brightly. “I’m just taking the opportunity to catch up on some notes.” She nodded back down the road, the dust of Jackie Taber’s Bronco still hanging in the air. “As soon as the deputy and the fugitive left, I figured it was safe to stop paying attention for a few minutes.”

Estelle laughed. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it. Of course, if he’d been in collusion with someone with a high-powered rifle inside the house…”

Madelyn folded the computer closed and slid it onto the floor in front of her seat. “Then I don’t think that you would have approached the way you did, right out in the open.” She pulled herself out of the car and stretched, turning in place as she surveyed the small village. “I would think that this would not be a hotbed of illegal alien crossings,” she observed.

“It isn’t.”

“I mean there’s an official border crossing right here, with that magnificently homely fence. And even if they climb up into the mountains, where are they going to go?”

“Exactly.”

“So what was the young man after?”

“We don’t know yet.” The undersheriff settled into the driver’s seat. She started to put the envelope into her briefcase, and then thought better of it. Slipping out the picture of the dead woodcutter, she handed it to the writer. “This young man died in a woodcutting accident up near the little village of Reserve, a couple hundred miles north of here.”

“Yuck.” She examined the photo closely. “Femoral artery?”

“It would appear so. That and then some. The young man we just took into custody was with him at the time of his death. It appears that when the accident happened, the young man we just arrested hightailed it out of the woods, never stopping to look back…and never trying to save his friend.”

“That would take a miracle of modern medicine, undersheriff.”

“True. But he didn’t try.”

“Under New Mexico law, is he required to?”

“No. But we could hope that the law of decency might kick in.”

“What makes you sure that it was an accident, and not a homicide?”

“The Catron deputies haven’t said that the nature of the circumstances points to that, or the nature of the wound, either. It doesn’t look like someone snuck up behind him and slipped a chain saw between his legs.”

“That’s gross enough for any grocery store tabloid.”

Estelle handed Madelyn the copy of the telephone number. “For whatever reason, this was found in the dead man’s pocket. It’s a local Regál number-and happens to be that of the woman who tipped us off that Ricardo Ynostroza was in the village, headed toward Joe Baca’s house.” She pointed at the low adobe. “This one.”

“He certainly took his time, then,” Madelyn said. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly fleeing from anything. Could he just walk back through the border checkpoint?”

“Sure.” Estelle nodded. “Or he could hike through the hills a bit and skirt the fence. Either way. But he sat and thought things through. Maybe he couldn’t decide whether to go to Betty’s house.…He walked right by it on the way in, the one back there with the turquoise trim? Now why did he do that? Maybe he doesn’t trust her. Maybe he doesn’t actually know her. We don’t know. And then he headed to Joe’s.”

“Weird.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the woman who called you have to say-the woman whose phone number was on the note?”

“That’s Betty Contreras. And that’s where we’re headed right now.”

“Allen to three-ten.” The radio was jarringly loud, and Estelle reached out and turned it down.

“Go ahead.” Ahead of them, Joe Baca still sat in the front passenger seat of the state car.

“I’m about to go ten-eight. I have Mr. Baca’s phone number if there’s anything else we need.”

“Ten-four. Thanks, John.”

The door of the state car opened and Joe struggled out. Estelle knew the old man was embarrassed at being detained, even if informally. But the undersheriff had wanted to talk with Lucinda before the couple had a chance to compare stories. Allen had provided a convenient avenue for that, and he had played the part perfectly. John Allen swung the black-and-white around and drove out the dirt lane.

Estelle got out of the car and called to the old man as he trudged toward the house. “Joe, thanks for your help.”

He stopped and raised an uncertain hand. “Let us know,” he said.

“Por supuesto,” Estelle replied.

“They seem like nice people,” Madelyn said as Estelle started the car and turned it around.

“They are.” Estelle saw that her passenger had opened her digital camera. She didn’t offer to show Estelle the photos on the viewing screen.

“Is it fair to say that you’ve known these folks for years and years and years?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe since you were a kid?”

“Yes.”

“That must make it interesting.”

“It does.”

“Some edgy moments there,” Madelyn said after a moment. “I have a good picture of you taken side on, hand on your gun. You would have used it, do you think?”

Estelle glanced at her. “That depends.”

“Of course. Forgive a silly question. If he had sprung out from behind that woodpile brandishing a weapon, putting you in jeopardy, you would have used your gun. Is that fair to say?”

“Yes. I can imagine that Deputy Taber would have responded first, since she had a full field of view and was weapon in hand.”

“What’s that like, Estelle?”

“What’s what like?”

“I’m not sure what I mean. I never have to make that kind of decision, so I guess I don’t understand people who do. Physical confrontation has to be an interesting way of earning a living.”

“It’s one very small part of the job,” Estelle said. “Is this one of those ‘why are you a cop’ questions?”

“I suppose it is.” Madelyn laughed at the good-natured question.

“Then maybe I should just say something outrageous. Actually, the whole object is to try and control the situation so that no physical confrontation is necessary. It comes to that and it means that all negotiations are lost.”

“Did you think about that when you were shot last year?”

The blunt question caught Estelle off-guard, and she slowed the patrol car to a walk. Her gaze wandered from shadow to shadow, hunting through old buildings, sheds, corrals, and barns for things out of place.

“There wasn’t much time to think,” she said finally. “We were all way beyond the chance for any kind of negotiation. I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened that day, step-by-step, moment-by-moment. I think I could tell you what I was trying to do, but that’s a different story. I have to rely on others to tell me exactly what did happen.”

“Were you thinking about that incident today? Just now, back there?”

The “does it still haunt you” question, Estelle thought. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What were you thinking?”

“That no one gets hurt. That everyone goes home when it’s over.”

“Except the felon, of course.”

“He’s not a felon yet,” Estelle said. “And there’s every chance that he won’t be.” She eased the car into the Contreras driveway behind Betty’s Toyota. “And if he’s not, then he should go home, too. He has family, just like you and me.”

“I should stay in the car?”

“Yes. You really should, Madelyn. I want to give Mrs. Contreras the chance to let her guard down.”

Betty Contreras was waiting in the doorway to the kitchen as the undersheriff approached. “You have company,” Betty said.

“Yes, I do. Every once in a while, we get civilian ride-alongs.”

“Talk about too much free time,” Betty scoffed. “Come on in. It’s been a busy couple of days, no?”

“Indeed.”

“I saw Jackie drive by with our friend in custody. I hope there was no problem.”

“Everything went fine.”

“Who is he?”

“I had the impression that you already knew him,” Estelle said.

“I’ve seen him before, I think. He’s been in town.”

“When?”

“Oh,” Betty backtracked, “I couldn’t be sure.”

“His name is Ricardo Ynostroza, from Buenaventura. I wanted to ask you what prompted your call to the Sheriff’s Department, Betty.” Estelle didn’t mention that she knew Betty had called the regular office line, not using 911, making sure that Dispatch reached Estelle and not someone else.

“Well, for one thing, strangers stick out like sore thumbs in a little village like this. You certainly know all about that.”

“Indeed they do. He was on foot when you first saw him?”

“I heard a car stop out on the highway and looked out the kitchen window here.” She stepped to the window, with a view past the vehicles, fence, and small field to the state highway a hundred yards east. “They dropped him off right here at my street, and I thought that was odd.”

“Why odd? Who was he riding with, do you know?”

“One of the burros,” Betty said, referring to the tandem car tows that headed, one well-used, battered vehicle towing another, in a regular flow south of the border. “He could have just hitched a ride all the way south, wherever he was headed. Why get out here? That’s what made me nervous.”

“And then what did he do?”

“At first, I thought he was headed for the church. He walked halfway across the parking lot, and then changed his mind and started to head this way. He crossed the road and came on down our lane, but he didn’t stop. He seemed to know where he was going.”

“What prompted the call, then?”

“Well,” and Betty hesitated. “I thought…I thought he might be after money.”

“From Joe and Lucinda?”

“Yes.”

“How would he know about them?” Estelle asked.

Betty looked uncomfortable. “Word gets around,” she said lamely. “Anyway, that’s when I called Gayle. At first it looked like he was going to stop in here, but he didn’t, and I thought Lucinda might be home all by herself, so it seemed prudent to let someone know.”

“Did you speak to him?” If Ricardo Ynostroza had walked right past the Contreras house, he would have been five feet from the front porch.

“No,” Betty replied quickly. “I mean, in this day and age, you just never know. This one seemed unsure of himself, and I have to tell you…he looked awful. I knew something was wrong, and that’s what made me nervous. He wasn’t in any hurry, either. He stopped at Sosimo’s old place and went inside. It isn’t locked, you know. I thought, Well, he’s going to take a nap or something. There’s nothing left in that old place to take, after all.”

“The Border Patrol is right over there,” Estelle said, nodding in the direction of the border crossing less than a quarter mile away. She already knew the answer before Betty Contreras snapped it out.

“That’s not necessary,” the older woman said. “We have to put up with those people too much of the time as it is. I’d rather deal with people I know.”

“The end result will be the same,” Estelle said. “Ynostroza will go back to his home in Mexico.”

“And so it goes,” Betty said philosophically. “That’s better than getting into trouble. That’s what I wanted to avoid.”

“Did you think that he posed a threat to Joe or Lucinda?”

“Well, he was headed up that way. Theirs is the only house at the end of the lane. I kept looking out through the window, watching him. He was obviously trying to figure out what to do. I didn’t think it would hurt to have you talk to him.”

“Did you call Joe?”

“I did. I mean, I tried to. No one answered the phone. Maybe he was outside.”

“Perhaps. Would Felix Otero have stopped here if he was passing through?” Estelle asked. “Did he remember you well enough?”

Betty blinked at her. “And he is…”

“The young man who was killed in the woodcutting accident up north. Also from Buenaventura, I would guess. He and Ricardo worked together. After the accident, Ricardo left him to die.”

One of Betty’s hands drifted up to her mouth, fingers flat against her lips. “I didn’t know that.”

“Why would Ricardo head back here, then?” Estelle asked. “If he wanted to go home, he had only to ride with the burros through the gate. No one’s going to question him going southbound.”

“I have no idea, Estelle.”

“Why did the dead man have your phone number, Betty?”

“I told you before…I don’t know. I absolutely do not know.” She didn’t manage to sound convincing but instead looked pained by it all.

“If Felix had gotten into some kind of trouble and was able to call you-he had your number, after all, and only your number-what would you have been able to do?” Estelle held up a hand. “Actually, I should say, what were you prepared to do for him?”

When Betty didn’t answer, Estelle added, “If Ricardo Ynostroza had known that his partner, Felix, had your phone number, if he’d known you lived here, would he have stopped here instead of walking on to Joe’s?”

Betty leaned against the counter, looking genuinely distressed. “Estelle, how can I tell you these things?”

The undersheriff regarded her for a time, then said, “Because you know the answers?” She waited, and the silence grew heavy between them. “There are too many unanswered questions, Betty. I don’t want to involve Immigration, and I don’t think that you do, either.”

“Well, I won’t be bullied,” Betty said.

“No one is bullying you,” Estelle said.

“You obviously don’t know the feds, then,” she said. “What we live with every single day around here.”

“I’ve heard the complaints, believe me. I’m not a fed, and I can tell you that as of now, I don’t plan to call them in on any of this. So let me ask you this flat out…do you trust me, then?”

“Yes, I do,” Betty responded without hesitation. “I’ve known you since you were a little tyke,” and she held a hand at waist level. “I watched you go through school. Now, I never had you in class, but Serafina did, and she used to sing your praises-oh, how much she thought of you. We all still do. You and that husband of yours…” Her face softened as she gazed at Estelle. “So yes…I trust you. Sometimes,” and she grinned broadly and waggled a teacherly finger, “you aren’t the most forthcoming person I know, but I suppose the job does that to you. A few minutes ago, I asked you who that was that you had riding with you, but you didn’t answer me. I thought that was odd.”

Estelle cocked her head in puzzlement. “You didn’t ask. You made a statement that I had company riding with me. I agreed that I did.”

The woman smiled and shook her head in wonder. “You are a wonder. Bill Gastner had a favorite expression for you, but I can’t recall it at the moment.”

“No doubt he called me a lot of things,” Estelle laughed.

“Always complimentary, always,” Betty said. “So, who’s your passenger?”

“She’s a writer for a national magazine.”

“Ah. Would I know the one?”

“A Woman’s World.”

Betty’s eyes grew large. “You’re joking. She’s doing an article on you?”

“On the department.”

“Well, what do you know. That deserves a tip of the hat. Why didn’t you bring her in with you?”

“Because I needed to talk to you privately, Betty. And that’s where we left off. I asked if you trusted me because I think you’re reluctant to tell me what you know.”

“And what’s that? What am I supposed to know?”

“My question is simple enough, Betty. I need to know not if-because I’m sure you do-but how you happen to know Ricardo Ynostroza. And how you happen to know Felix Otero.”

“Have you talked with Father Bert?”

“Yes.”

Betty waited a moment for the undersheriff to elaborate and, when no elaboration was forthcoming, said, “Let me ask him to call you.” She nodded as if that would solve the matter. “He should talk to you.”

“Why him and not yourself?”

“Just…just because. I think he should. Can we leave it at that for now?”

Estelle looked at the older woman in silence for a long moment. “All right. For now. You have my number, Betty. Any time, day or night. So does Father Anselmo.”

“How about taking some banana bread with you?” Betty said brightly, the conversation finished, at least in her mind. “It’s marvelous. Your writer person might like some. What’s her name?”

“Madelyn Bolles. And I’m sure she’d love some.”

That was all the opening Betty Contreras needed to turn her attention from things unpleasant, and in moments Estelle was settling back in the car with a loaf of fragrant banana bread wrapped in foil. “Madelyn, this is Betty Contreras,” the undersheriff said as Betty leaned on the county car’s passenger windowsill.

“So nice to meet you,” Madelyn said, and offered her hand. “I’m Madelyn Bolles.”

Betty eyed the laptop, impressed. “I read your magazine, every single issue. I think it’s just wonderful,” Betty gushed, then wagged a finger. “You do a good job with that article, now. We all know this young lady, and we’ll all be reading between the lines.”

Madelyn smiled broadly. “That’s the kind of readers we like, Mrs. Contreras. I’ll do my best. And your bread smells scrumptious.”

“Come back for more.”

“I may just do that.”

As Estelle backed the car out of the driveway, Madelyn Bolles once more folded up her portable office. She patted the top of the bread loaf.

“Bribery, eh?”

“Absolutely,” Estelle replied. “And I hope you didn’t mind being introduced. I allowed myself to be trapped.”

“That’s hard to believe. Was it a productive chat?”

Estelle sighed. “Maybe. Maybe it was.”