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“That’s what I did,” she said.

“And you’re not sure what time that was?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m not.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you,” I said gently. “Clorinda, you saw your brother every day, I’m sure. Off and on, anyway. Was he having trouble with anybody? Arguing with anybody that you know of?”

“My brother didn’t have trouble with a living soul,” Clorinda Baca said quickly. She pushed herself off the sofa and stood with her arms folded across her chest. “Not a soul. He was a drunk, but he was a good man, Sheriff.” She pointed at the small notebook in my left hand. “You write down that I said that. He was a good man.”

I slipped the notebook into my shirt pocket. Having made herself abundantly clear, Clorinda Baca left the house. I glanced over at Robert Torrez. “What time did she call you?”

“I was on the phone with her at eight fifty-seven. I pulled in here at twenty after nine.”

“Between about seven-thirty and the time the neighbor kid walked in here, we don’t know what the hell happened, do we?”

“No, sir. We don’t.”

“Your aunt doesn’t think her brother crossed swords with anyone in the world. If you’re right, your uncle sure as hell had trouble with somebody,” I said.

“Yep,” he said philosophically. “And if I’m right, that means Clorinda is wrong…that just doesn’t happen much in this family.”

Chapter Twelve

Fifteen minutes. Maybe half an hour. Maybe an hour. The unaccounted for minutes in the Baca household formed their own little black hole. In the predawn hours, the undersheriff had come and gone, as had Father Anselmo. Josie Baca had arrived in Regal and picked up her two children. There hadn’t been much of an argument—at least no objection that Sosimo had voiced, no chair-throwing shouting match.

Shortly after his wife’s departure with the two little girls, Sosimo Baca had found himself left alone with his sister and her small brigade of moral support—all of whom knew exactly what direction his life should take at that very moment—three women who knew what was good for him.

It didn’t surprise me that Sosimo had decided then and there that of all the things in this world that he needed most, his old battered truck headed the list—no doubt along with a nip or three. And so he had left the little adobe in Regal…sometime that morning, most likely before eight o’clock.

Without the children or the father to fuss over, Clorinda Baca and her two sisters-in-law had left the house about the same time…whenever that was. And an indeterminate time later, little Mandy Lucero, innocent of all the upheaval in the Baca household, had arrived for a day of play with the Baca girls. What she found instead was an empty house—and Sosimo’s corpse in the backyard.

Another hour spent with Mary Baca and Sabrina Torrez failed to produce anything useful. We talked to them separately, we talked to them together. The black hole of time during which Sosimo Baca had returned home to die in his own backyard remained inviolate.

“The aunties,” I muttered as I watched the women leave. “We need to find someone who looked at a goddamn clock this morning, Robert. Nobody knows when they did a damn thing.”

The undersheriff stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the small living room. For a moment, the house was silent. The deputies had finished out in the kitchen, but I wasn’t optimistic that the prints they’d lifted would shed much light.

“Illegals, you think?” I asked, knowing full well that would be the most lame scenario. Mexican nationals streamed across the border at night in an unchecked flow. It wasn’t hard to find a place to hop the fence out of sight of the Border Patrol agents. I knew folks who routinely—and illegally—crossed into the United States on a daily basis to work, their own version of a commute. We knew that illegals frequently took their rest inside La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, the small Catholic mission on the knoll at the east end of Regal. The place was never locked, and the handful of wooden pews served as a peaceful resting spot.

“No, sir, not illegals,” Torrez replied. “It makes no sense that someone is going to hop the wire, and then walk all the way over here, through all the barking dogs, to pick on about the least promising place in Regal. And last night—early this morning—there wasn’t even a car parked in the yard. Nothing to steal, if that’s what someone had in mind.”

“And any help they needed or wanted, Sosimo would have cheerfully provided, I’m sure,” I added.

“That’s right,” Torrez said. He had stepped over to the east wall and examined a small photo that hung in a cheap gold frame beside a gaudily painted crucifix. “Most of them don’t come to the United States to get themselves arrested.” He reached out and straightened the photograph.

“Happier times,” I said, looking past him at the portrait of a younger Sosimo, his wife, and three children. Matthew looked to be eight or nine, a sober, black-haired child frowning at the camera. Lucinda was backed in tight against her father’s knees, and Josie cradled the infant Linda in her arms. They were posed in front of a small flower garden, with the freshly painted fence behind them.

“Why did Josie leave him?”

Torrez thrust his hands in his pockets. “Nothing we haven’t heard a thousand times before, sir. She grew up here in Regal, and I guess she probably thought Sosimo was her ticket out of here. He was working for the railroad over in Lordsburg when they got married. And then he inherited this place from his father, and that was that. He quit the railroad, settled here, and Josie couldn’t pry him loose.”

“She’s been trying, though,” I said.

“Sure. You’ll get a different story depending on which relative you talk to. But the bottom line is that she met somebody else who promised her more than my uncle could—or would—and she jumped at the chance.”

“That was two years ago?”

“About that. Remember when we arrested Matt and two of his buddies for breaking into the farm supply? That happened just after Momma left.”

“For all of that, Josie only got as far as Lordsburg? She decided to try her luck there again, eh.”

Torrez nodded. “The big city.”

“Well, compared to Regal, I suppose it is. Is she still living with the guy?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He grinned. “But by the time Deputy Taber gets through with her, we’ll know all the gritty details.”

I glanced at my watch. “And that should be now. Let me find out what she’s got. And Perrone should have a preliminary for us. In the meantime, I want this place turned upside down. Every hair, every print, every everything. And by the way, do you know who lives in that corner house? The one where the porch is parked right in the damn road?”

Torrez stepped to the single, dreary front window. “Right there? The white adobe with the blue trim? That’s Emilio Contreras.”

“I don’t know him.”

“No, but you know his wife, Betty.”

“In the assessor’s office. That Betty? I’ll be damned. Are they related to you?”

Torrez smiled. “No, sir.”

“One of the few. Where’s he work, do you know?”

“I don’t think he does, sir. He’s on disability of some kind. When he can get out of the house, he usually puts in time over at the church.”

“I’ll find him,” I said. “And by the time the deputies talk to every other living soul in town, we might get lucky.” I gestured toward the kitchen. “You don’t smash the hell out of a window and tear a screen door off its hinges without making a ruckus of some kind. Somebody had to have heard…it’s that simple. You breathe deeply in a place like this, and everybody knows about it.”

I went toward the front door, and my cell phone chirped as if the motion had triggered its tiny electronic brain.

“You boys campaignin’ pretty hard down there?” the caller said when I snapped the thing open. The reception wasn’t the best, but I recognized Cliff Larson’s cigarette-strained voice.

“If Bobby loses any more relatives, there won’t be anyone left to vote,” I replied. “Cliff, what are you doing? Sorry I didn’t return your call last night, but things got a bit hectic around here.”

“Gayle tells me that old Sosimo Baca passed away,” the state livestock inspector said.

“Yep.”

“And it was his son who got killed last night?”

“Hell of a deal.”

“Well, Christ,” Cliff said, and I could visualize him pausing to suck on the cigarette, just the way he did while leaning against a corral, one boot on the lower rail, scrutinizing the brand of each steer as it was herded by. He coughed and I waited for him to get to the point. “Listen,” he said finally, “I need to get together with you. I know you’re busy, but hell, there comes a time when you got to leave all that shit to the young bucks anyway, you know what I mean. What have you got left, about three days? Tuesday’s it for you, right?”

“That’s it,” I said.

“Well, then, there you go. I need a favor from you, and if you could break away from there for a few minutes, I’d appreciate it.”

I knew that “a few minutes” could be the rest of the day when Cliff Larson was involved. His idea of rapid response was second gear in his battered Ford pickup. In his mind, he was running on the same “few minutes” he’d been using when he’d called the office the night before. “What do you have brewing, Cliff? Can’t one of the deputies help you out?”

He paused. “Don’t think so, Bill. Let me tell you why. I got a little bit of a problem that I think maybe you can help me with.”

“What would that be?”

“I ain’t positive yet,” Cliff said. “But you know just about every living soul in this county, and I thought that maybe I could pick your brain a bit.”

I laughed. “I’m finding out there’s all sorts of folks in this county that I don’t know, Cliff. Who do you want to know about?”

“You know Miles Waddell, of course.”

“Sure. He’s what’s left of Waddell Brothers. They have a spread up north, outside of Newton, don’t they? Don’t they supply livestock for rodeos?”

“That’s it. Well, here’s the deal. Sometime Thursday, Miles thinks late evening, well after dark, someone backed a livestock trailer up to one of his pens and helped themselves to eighteen head of ropin’ calves.”

“That would be easy to do,” I said. “There aren’t very many watchful eyes up in that part of the world, and an awful lot of empty acres. And lots of trucks and trailers.” I looked across at Bob Torrez and then looked heavenward. “Besides, the village of Newton isn’t in Posadas County. Better to give Sheriff Hernandez a call.”

Larson made a rasping, coughing sound that might have been a laugh. “The village ain’t, but the corrals where Waddell keeps his stock are. The actual theft occurred in Posadas County, Sheriff.”

“Okay.”

“Well,” he said, stretching out the word, “it’s no big deal, but like I said, I’d appreciate the help. I’d appreciate your expertise.”

“What little of it there is left,” I said.

Cliff coughed again and cleared his throat. “Well now, I’ll take any help I can get. I trust your instincts, anyway.”

“It’s going to cost you lunch,” I said. “You know the Contreras place in Regal? Big adobe that sits right on top of the lane? White-painted front porch?”

“Sure enough,” Larson said.

“I’ll be over there. Either there or at the mission down the road. I don’t have a set of wheels at the moment, so if you want to cruise on down here and pick me up, that would be the easiest way.”

“Now be a good time?”

“As bad as any, Cliff.” Because I knew that Cliff Larson’s “now” could encompass any time between the next moment and the next weekend, I added, “If I’m not there, check with one of the deputies at Baca’s. They’ll be in touch.”

“Done deal.”

I closed the phone and glanced again at Bob Torrez. I shook my head in resignation. “I’ll be at Contreras’ if anyone needs me,” I said. “If Cliff Larson shows up, point the way. This is just what we need right at the moment. Somebody stealing a bunch of goddamn calves.”

“I heard you say up in Newton?”

“Yes. But unfortunately, the calves were corralled in our county, Robert.”

“Take three oh six. Tom can ride with me,” Torrez offered, but I waved a hand.

“I will if I need it, but right now, a walk sounds good. It’ll give me time to think,” I said. A hundred steps would take me to Emilio Contreras’ front door, and if necessary, another five hundred yards would take me to La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora. At the rate I walked, that would fit in with Cliff Larson’s schedule just fine.

Chapter Thirteen

Deputy Tom Pasquale looked up from his clipboard as I walked by. He was working on a schematic drawing of the yard, adding measurements as Tony Abeyta and Howard Bishop called them out. Pasquale was far from being the department’s best artist—Jacqueline Taber held that honor—but with his careful sketches and Linda Real’s still camera shots and videotape, we had the place covered. Not one of the deputies asked why we were being so thorough with what appeared to be a heart attack case—a simple unattended death. Evidently they had learned either to trust Bob Torrez’s intuition, or to keep their mouths shut.

“Do you need the unit, sir?” Pasquale asked, nodding toward his Bronco. Perhaps he mistook my head-down, hands-in-pockets shuffle for discomfort. The west wind was fitful and cold when I turned to face it, but the sun felt good.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m going to take a stroll downtown. Work out the kinks.”

He grinned. “We’re about finished here, I think.”

“Take your time.” I slipped under the yellow ribbon and made sure the gate was pulled closed behind me. The minute my boots hit the dust of the lane, the two dogs across the way settled in for another long fit of barking.

I stopped in the middle of the road and regarded them, and as soon as they saw that they had my undivided attention, the two of them set out to deliver the entire lecture. The larger female, gray starting to tinge her golden muzzle, cocked her head and looked sideways when she barked, a steady two-followed-by-three pattern. Between each salvo she looked at me. The other dog, smaller and younger, was probably her son. He stood on his hind legs, front paws on the chain link.

Their enclosure was connected in the back to a shed, a building that looked as if it would tumble with the wind the instant the dog run was removed. Behind the shed was a mobile home. Most of its windows were boarded with weathered plywood. I walked across the road to within a dozen feet of the dogs and they stopped barking, the younger male’s tail lashing from side to side as if I held his food dish.

“You saw all this, didn’t you,” I said. Both tails wagged frantically. The dogs had suffered their fill of being ignored all morning. “So who the hell takes care of you two?” The nearest occupied dwelling on the same side of the lane was across the lot to the west. The tramped trail from house to dogrun was clear in the red dust, winding its way through the ragweed, bunchgrass, beer cans, and discarded plumbing fixtures.

I turned and looked back toward Baca’s place. Tom Pasquale had moved close to the gate, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked with paper and pencil.

“Tom,” I called and he looked up. “Who lives there?” I pointed toward the square adobe with the metal-clad mansard roof.

“That’s the Sisneros place,” he said. “Archie Sisneros?”

“The principal at the elementary school in Posadas,” I said, bringing to mind a jowly, jolly little pudge of a man.

“Yes, sir. He and his wife Ernestine.”

“Cousin of whom?” I muttered.

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Thanks. Be sure you talk to them.”

“I believe that Tony was over there earlier, sir. They weren’t home.”

I looked at the dogs. “These guys belong to them?”

“Yes, sir.”

The animals watched as I walked past their enclosure. With the wind at my back, I trudged along the lane, the dust powdery under my boots. Sixty-seven paces later, the lane started a graceful curve first to the south, and then around the corner of Emilio Contreras’ front porch. A large white cat appeared from underneath the step and rubbed against the wooden latticework that enclosed the porch foundation. He clearly expected me to bend over and deliver a little ecstasy. I ignored him and climbed the three steps to the porch.

Betty Contreras answered the door and greeted me with a warm smile. She was as much of a county fixture as I was, keeping the assessor’s office organized and running during the week regardless of whom the voters decided should be the name on the door. As such, Betty had the inside track on where one could find the lowest valuation in the county. Regal headed the list.

“How about some coffee?” she said, and held the door open for me.

“No, thanks.” I went inside. Their home was a riot of colors in traditional Mexican style. A dozen images of Christ and the Virgin Mary protected the home—some nothing more than a picture clipped from a magazine and hung with a cheap dime-store frame, others delicate
retablos
or pounded and pierced tin reliefs.

“You look like you’ve been up all night,” Betty said. “How about some breakfast?” She looked at her watch, a motion not lost on me. Clorinda and her gang might not know morning from noon from night, but Betty would. “Or lunch, by now.”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m sure one of the deputies has already been over to talk to you folks.”

“Tony came by,” she said. “Tony Abeyta and Scott were making the rounds.”

“Scott?”

“Gutierrez.”

“Ah,” I said. “Both you and Emilio were home earlier this morning, then?”

“Oh, we both were,” Betty said, and turned to one of the rockers. I remained standing, knowing that if I sat down now, I’d be there for the duration.

“This is such an awful thing,” she said. “One of my neighbors called practically at daybreak with the news about Matthew. Such an awful thing.” She looked down at the green carpet. “Of course, we’ve expected something like that for a long time, but still. He could be such a good kid when he put his mind to it. There was so much potential there.”

“I’m sure there was,” I said.

“It just broke his father’s heart, is what I think. Elva Lucero called me to break the news about Sosimo. I couldn’t believe it.” She sighed philosophically. “Although the way that old fool carried on sometimes, I don’t know why any of us would be surprised by anything that happens.” Her eyes turned soft. “The girls went with their mother. Is that right?”

“They’re fine, Betty. What we’re particularly interested in right now is the time around seven-thirty. Maybe seven-thirty to eight this morning. You and Emilio were both home?”

She nodded. “I was here. Emilio had already left for the church.”

From where I stood, I could look out the window and see Betty’s little blue sedan parked in the narrow driveway. “He drives?”

“Oh, no. Every morning, he walks. Every blessed day, no matter what weather the Lord sends his way, he walks. And now, with his bad hip, he uses a walker.” She shook her head in admiration. “‘I’ll just leave a little earlier,’ he says.”

“What time did he leave the house?”

“It would have been at seven.” She said it as if for Emilio, no other time would do.

“And you were up then, too?”

“Oh, sure. If we waited for the sun to make it over the mountains, half the day would be gone. And besides, there was enough noise next door to wake anybody.”

I moved to the west window and bent slightly so I could peer out through the lace curtain. Sosimo Baca’s house was partially obscured by a large elm tree, but even at night, Emilio or Betty could have seen the front gate clearly—if there had been either a porch light or headlights.

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” Betty said. “It takes a nuclear explosion to wake me up before the alarm goes off. But Emilio, he’s up and down all night. Like I told Tony Abeyta, if you want to know what happened last night, you just talk to Emilio.”

“Actually, it’s not last night that concerns us. It’s between seven-thirty and eight this morning.”

Betty shook her head. “I confess. I wasn’t glued to the window, Bill. I was in the kitchen. Meat loaf. It’s my answer to all the world’s problems.” She giggled. “But really. We all have to eat, you know.”

“So you didn’t notice folks coming and going next door?”

“No, I’m sorry. Once, I heard what I thought was someone walking by. Sosimo, I think. He kind of mumbles to himself when he walks. I remember being a little surprised that it was him, but I was in the middle of something, and before I could get to the front door, he’d walked on by. I wasn’t about to shout after him and disturb the whole neighborhood.”

“At that time, did you happen to glance out the window? Look next door?”

She nodded. “Clorinda’s big old Mercury was there.”

“You didn’t hear her leave?”

“No, but she would have driven out the other way. Her house is just down around the corner, there. Just a stone’s throw from the Sisneroses’ place.”

“About a two-minute walk,” I said.

Betty Contreras laughed. “Clorinda Baca does not walk, Bill.”

“And from then until the parade started, nothing special that you remember?”

“No. One of the federal units went by about the time I finally got around to feeding the cat, but they cruise through here all the time, night and day.”

“Border Patrol, you mean? What time was that?”

She nodded. “I think so. Probably about eight. I just glanced up and saw the white and green. I didn’t see who it was. Scott Gutierrez said that it was probably him.”

I took a deep breath, my stomach acutely aware of the time of day and the aromas from Betty Contreras’ kitchen. “If you should happen to think of anything else, you’ll give me a buzz?”

“Certainly.” She frowned as she rose from the chair, and looked sideways at me. “You think that there’s something going on? More than a heart attack or something? When Elva called me, that’s what she said it looked like.”

“We’re not sure, Betty. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, anytime there’s an unattended death, we tread kind of carefully until we know the answers. Emilio is down at the church, though?”

“Oh, he’ll be there most of the day. He’ll want to make sure that everything is just so. Weddings and funerals—they’re important shindigs in a place like this. The whole town gets out.”

“They sure do.”

She reached out and touched my arm. “And are you ready for the big day?”

I laughed. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. For a while there, I thought things were going to stay nice and quiet. And then all hell breaks loose down here.” The moment I said it, I was acutely aware of the various painted eyes around the room, watching me with disapproval.