Come Dark (4 page)

Chapter Five

Slumping just a bit to make his height less intimidating, Sheriff Torrez walked with his hands thrust in his pockets.

“Hi, folks,” he said cordially. The pair froze, he by the driver's door, she near the trunk. They may well have wondered who the big, shabbily dressed fellow might be, but there was no question about the sharply uniformed deputy sheriff who followed and then circled behind their car.

“Good morning. What can I help you with, sir?” The man thrust out his hand as he took a step forward. “Howard Swartzman. And my wife, LeeAnn.” He spoke like a salesman, used to glad-handing. Torrez ignored the outstretched hand.

“I'd like to take a quick look at your license and registration, sir.”

Howard Swartzman looked puzzled. “Here? In the parking lot?” He offered a silly grin. “Was I speeding?”

“I was hopin' that maybe you saw the young lady that came out of that blue Volvo there, behind you.” The sheriff nodded in the general direction of the Volvo across the way.

Swartzman turned to look. “That little blue rig there? No. Can't say as I did. What's the deal?” He visibly relaxed.

“Just checking. If we need to contact you later, it'll help to have some personal information.”

“And you are?”

“Sheriff Torrez.” The big man didn't elaborate, and Swartzman looked nervously at Deputy Tom Pasquale, who said nothing.

“Well, sure. I have that. They're in the car.”

“Maybe you'd get 'em. And I was kinda curious about your license plate.”

“My…?”

“The plate on the back.” He didn't move from his comfortable leaning spot against the front fender, but Pasquale did, standing directly behind the Fusion, taking time to examine the battered license plate. Sure enough, a number of dents and bruises marred the plate, from years of hitching and unhitching various trailers.

“Where are you folks out of?” Torrez asked.

“A long trek from Illinois, that's for sure.” Swartzman pushed himself upright. “You got this conjugation goin' on here with that theme park, and we thought we'd take a look. See what the opportunities might be. Always a need for quality entertainment. But…” and he shrugged hugely. “If there's nothin' there, we're going to head on up to Vegas. You know,” and he touched his long, well-oiled and coiffed locks, “all kinds of crazy things happen
there
.”

Torrez raised an eyebrow. “Vegas, like in Nevada? What, you get lost or something?”

Swartzman grinned again. “Well, side trips here and there. Like I said, there's this new theme park we read about somewhere right in these parts.”

“The conjugation.” Torrez kept an absolute poker face.

“That's it.”

“You're about five hundred miles off-course for Vegas.”

“Our bucket list, you know. Neither the wife or I have ever been to Mexico, so we drove down to Juarez for a day or two. Weeellll…” and he drew out the word. “Don't need to do
that
again.”

Torrez screwed up his handsome face as if thinking were a chore. “Cathay to Joplin to Juarez…that's a long haul.”

For an instant, the remark didn't register, but when it did, Swartzman couldn't keep the apprehension concealed.
He
had never mentioned Cathay, that little farm town in Illinois, to this affable Mexican hick.

“So,” Torres said slowly, “how well do you know Clayton Bailey?” He watched Swartzman's face, and the man's nervous hands.

Swartzman's expression went blank. “I…”

“He a neighbor, or what?”

“I mean…Clayton's a neighbor, back home.” Swartzman's head wobbled as if he couldn't decide whether to nod or shake it. “He's all right, isn't he? I mean, how did you…?”

“Wouldn't know how
he
is,” Torrez said affably enough. “We were just wondering how the license plate from his truck came to be on your car.”

Swartzman looked confused. “You're with the police? I mean, shouldn't I see some identification?”

“Yep,” but Torrez made no move to show his badge or credentials. “Deputy, go ahead and call in the VIN. Let's find out who owns this buggy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mrs. Swartzman?” Torrez said. “You want to come over here?” The woman did, walking as if she were on skim ice with nothing but black water underneath. She stopped a couple steps from the sheriff. “There's just fine. And sir, I'll want to see your license and registration.”

“Now look here. This car's brand new,” Swartzman blurted. “We haven't even had a chance to get the paperwork.”

“Dealer gave you something, I guess.”

“Well, sure.”

“So, does the dealer back there in Illinois know you have this car?”

Swartzman's face fell. “Oh, come on now, Sheriff. He
better
know. I gave him enough money for it. Anyway, I work for him.”

“For who?”

“I work for Jensen Motors in Cathay, Sheriff.” He said it as if everyone would surely have heard of the dealership, and that upon hearing the name, the sheriff would nod pleasantly and say, “That's all we need…you have a good day, sir.”

“Show me what you have.”

Swartzman opened the front passenger door and eyed the glove box. He made no move toward it.

“Got something in there you don't want me to see?”

“This being New Mexico, I guess you're used to this sort of thing.”

Torrez waited without comment, and Swartzman finally shrugged. “Look, I always carry a handgun with me when I'm traveling. You just never know.”

“Illinois don't usually head the list of gun-friendly states. Take your time and let's see it.”

Swartzman was between the car and the door, and a quick, hard slam would waffle him. Torrez moved so that he could rest a hand on the top of the doorframe, fingers flat.

With a grunt, the man slid down into the passenger seat, both feet outside on the pavement, his shins another tempting target for a door slam.

“Just the license and registration, sir. If that's where you're keepin' the weapon, leave it.”

Swartzman's left elbow thumped on the center console as he leaned away from the passenger door. With his right he reached for the glove box. “Okay, well…I just didn't want any surprises.”

The huge glove box carried the plastic envelope with all the vehicle paperwork—the thick owner's manual, the maintenance booklet, tire warranty, motorist's aid, and a tube of touchup paint. Swartzman sorted through the papers three times, then looked up bleakly at Torrez. The gun, if there was one, remained invisible.

“You know, the sales document is about that long,” and he held his hands eighteen inches apart. “All the taxes and everything…the odometer declaration. The whole ball of wax. LeeAnn,” he called, “what did we do with all the paperwork?”

“You're the one, genius boy.”

“How helpful is that?” Swartzman muttered. “Look, Sheriff…maybe we can work something out, here.”

“'S'pect we can,” Torrez said helpfully. “How about a license, then. That ought to be easy enough.” He watched Swartzman's hand near the center console, where the sheriff now expected to see the weapon. Swartzman's elaborately casual body English had pointed that way.

“Why, sure.” He leaned to his right away from the console, and dug in his back pocket, finally finding the well-worn wallet. After a moment of shuffling with no results, he took a deep breath and sagged as he looked up at Torrez. “You know, this isn't my day.”

“Nope.” Torrez caught a glimpse of the little blue box and logo on the upper left of the laminated license. “Might be it's that one right under your thumb, sir.”

“Well, jeez.” Sure enough, he drew out the license, held onto it for a moment as if he just didn't believe it had reappeared, then extended it toward Torrez. “You're pretty sharp, Sheriff.”

Torrez didn't take the license immediately. So many things of potential interest were going on here that he took his time, never losing his grip on the doorframe. “Missus, I'd appreciate it if you'd have yourself a seat out of the sun, over there in the deputy's vehicle.” Making no complaint or comment, LeeAnn Swartzman did as she was told. Pasquale held the door for her, then gently closed her inside, alone with the air conditioning.

Torrez took the offered license and held it at a comfortable distance. “New look,” he said. “New hair, anyways.”

“Well, it's a wig,” Swartzman whispered. “We're show folks, you know. Job-hunting, maybe even Vegas comin' up.” He tried a weak laugh.

With the couple separated and contained, Tom Pasquale took his time calling in the license information, using his cell phone instead of the radio so the woman couldn't hear both sides of the conversation. After a few minutes, he left the SUV. The sheriff accepted the Post-it note from the deputy, keeping his right hand on Swartzman's door.

“Huh.” Torrez frowned at the note as if the English language were his third or fourth idiom. “So.”

“So what's the deal?” Swartzman asked. “We're all set? Just like I said?”

Torrez looked at him for a long moment. “We're kinda backward in these little towns, sir, so you'll have to bear with us.” He held up one finger. “I'm going to ask you to step out of the car, sir.”

“But I…”

“Let's do it.” Torrez eased past the open door, holding it wide. He beckoned Swartzman out, giving the man the hint of a chance. With his right hand on the door, Torrez appeared vulnerable. Swartzman's left elbow was still near the center console and he took the opportunity. With one smooth jerk he snatched open the console lid and dove with his left hand for the revolver that lay beneath it.

He managed to touch the black plastic grips with his fingertips before his door was yanked wide and he found himself being lifted bodily. With one hand on Swartzman's belt and the other at the nape of his neck, Torrez slammed the man's weight forward. Off-balance and unsuspecting, Swartzman found himself driven face-first into the dash, his nose smeared into the GPS screen.

He yelped as Torrez then yanked him out of the car, spun him around, and slammed him against the roof and the center post so hard that he gasped. A deft twist, and Swartzman's hands were behind his back, the click of the handcuffs loud. “Pay attention to the woman,” Torrez snapped at Pasquale.

Amid screeches of protest from LeeAnn, Pasquale pulled her into position with her face pressed against the security screen. He managed the cuffs, and gently pushed her back into the seat with a hand on her shoulder. “Just relax, ma'am.” He closed the door on her squeaky protests.

The sheriff slammed the door of the Fusion, and with one hand against Swartzman's back between the shoulder blades, frisked him. One hand dove into a trouser pocket and came out with the car keys, which he tossed on the roof. “And what the hell is this?” the sheriff muttered. He pulled up the man's shirt, and the loud rip of hook-and-loop fasteners followed.

“See if Taber is available for transport,” he snapped. Turning back to the husband, Torrez demanded, “So what is this?”

“What do you think it is?” Swartzman replied testily. He snuffled at the blood that had begun to leak from his nose, and glanced nervously at the huge cop in mechanic's clothes, apparently deciding that testy wouldn't work. “It's a false belly,” he said reasonably. And sure enough, the man's own midriff was trim. “No need to go and get all violent. I was just going to hand you the gun, anyways. It ain't even real.”

“Huh.” Torrez didn't release his grip. “I know exactly what the gun is, my friend.” He turned the girth enhancement belt this way and that. “Most folks want to get rid of belly fat.” He reached out and tugged at the man's obvious wig, and it slid off to reveal a close-cropped thatch of dark brown hair, just beginning to show some sprinkles of gray on the sides. “A little more like the license photo now, huh.”

“Look, Sheriff…”

Torrez interrupted him again. “So…we got this car here, who knows where it actually came from.” He glanced at the note Pasquale had handed him, and held up a second finger. “You say you got it from Jensen Motors in
Cathay,
Illinois, where you say you work. And three, you got a license plate stolen from Mr. Clayton Bailey, also of Cathay. How am I doin'?”

“I…Look now…”

Torrez waited while the man mulled his options. Mrs. Swartzman sat quietly in the back of Tom Pasquale's Expedition, tears cutting two trails down her well-powdered cheeks.

“And that Illinois driver's license has your photo right without the makeup, but I guess Swartzman goes with the belly and the hair?” He held the license up a bit and squinted. “Robert Osgood Bond. That's who the Illinois DMV says you are.”

Torrez glanced over at Pasquale, who stood near the driver's side rear door of the Expedition, making LeeAnn Swartzman-Bond all the more distraught by impassively watching her unconvincing weeping performance.

“So, Mr. Bob Bond, tell me about the license plate,” Torrez said.

“Look, it's all so simple. When we left home with the new car, it was a weekend. Nobody was open. I mean, what's a plate? A few bucks. Proof that we've paid the bureaucrats, right? Clay Bailey—him and his wife, Sally—they were gone to a wedding out in Bismarck. The truck was just sittin' in his barn there, so no big deal. I borrowed the plate for a little bit. They were going to stay on out there for a family reunion, and I figured we'd have the plate back before they knew it was gone.”

“Stupidest thing I've ever heard,” Torrez grunted. “Why didn't you take the plate off your own car…your old one?”

Swartzman shrugged deeply and thought for a minute. “'Cause when we traded in, the old plate stayed on the old car. Our Oldsmobile. It's at the dealer's.”