Double Prey (10 page)

The undersheriff hesitated. The Romero family had suffered an unimaginable upset in the past two days, and still more lay ahead for them. There was no point in digging at open, painful wounds, but she didn’t wish to dissemble with George Romero by offering mindless platitudes.

“We have two questions lingering, sir. One may be more important than the other. Number one,” and she tapped the steering wheel with her right index finger. “I’m curious why Freddy parked his truck over at Borracho, then rode his ATV all the way over here. There’s probably a simple explanation, but I’d like to know what it is. There’s nothing illegal about what he did, there’s nothing illegal about parking over there, and then riding over here, as long as he stays off the highway. The beer is a violation, but I don’t care about that right now.” She looked across at George Romero, and her dark, aquiline features softened. “Why he did what he did just seems an oddity to me, and I’d like to know.”

“So would we,” George Romero murmured.

“And second, I’d like to know where Freddy found the handgun. That’s all. I think he
did
find it, sir. I have no reason to believe that he stole it, or bought it illegally, or anything like that. We know folks who have found all kinds of crazy things out in the boonies, and the most simple, innocent explanation is that the junk bounces out of trucks or Jeeps or whatnot. I just want to know, that’s all.”

“Sure don’t look like something he’d buy from somebody,” Romero said, nodding. “And no gun shop is going to sell something like that to an underage kid. Least I
hope
they wouldn’t. Maybe a friend? I don’t know.”

“As new information comes to light, I’ll be in touch,” Estelle said. “I’ll keep you and Tata informed.”

Romero nodded again as if that satisfied him. Estelle did not add that finding a bullet lodged inside the jaguar skull also fascinated her, or that there was a coincidental possibility that the bullet had come from the very Smith and Wesson that Freddy Romero had found…somewhere.

Chapter Thirteen

By the time Estelle and George Romero returned to the Public Safety Building, the day blistered as any breath of wind died, clouds melted away, and the sun baked Posadas County. After a choked thanks and a self-conscious handshake from the stricken father, Estelle watched Romero trudge across the parking lot, shoulders slumped, head down.

School might not be in session, but Estelle knew exactly where she could find Nathan Underwood. She drove the few blocks down Grande and took the dirt road that led behind the administration building toward the gymnasium and the athletic field.

A swarm of padded players were already on the field, and Estelle saw Underwood standing with two students who were not in uniform. While he talked, a whistle on a heavy lanyard snapped in circles around the coach’s right hand, first one way and then the other. Estelle saw that one of the students was working a digital camera, apparently trying for just the right coach portrait. Another whistle shrilled, and Underwood grinned at something one of the boys said, turning toward the field.

“Sir?” Estelle called, and Underwood stopped, looking at her questioningly.

“Sheriff,” he said pleasantly, but glanced toward the field where his services were obviously expected. “What can I do for you?” He waved a hand in gentle dismissal at the two student reporters who appeared eager to remain with him. “Let me catch you guys later.” He held out a hand and shook Estelle’s. “What’s up?” He had the habit of leaning close to his target when he spoke, as if huddling with a player who might not be trusted to listen carefully.

“I have a couple of follow-up questions, Mr. Underwood. You spoke earlier with Officer Posey, I understand.”

“Sure did. We in trouble again?” His smile was easy and wide.

“Again?”

“Posey told us that we needed to get a permit from the feds. We’ll do that, but it’ll be next week. I appreciated that the officer didn’t confiscate the skull right away. Many of the students haven’t had a chance to see it yet.”

“That’s good, sir.” She reached out and touched his elbow, steering him toward the end of the bench, well out of earshot of the students. “No, actually, I was wondering what day Freddy Romero brought that in to you.”

He puffed out his cheeks and looked up at the blank sky. “Would have been Monday. First thing in the morning. He told me that he didn’t want to leave it in his locker.”

“Did he want to take it back home with him after you’d had a chance to see it?”

“Originally, yes he did. But I told him that there was a possibility that the Fish and Wildlife Service wouldn’t allow it. Like eagle feathers, you know. And in fact, that turns out to be the case. They told us that we had two choices after everyone was finished looking at it. We could either give it to the feds, or get a permit for it and keep it here in the school’s collection.” He grinned again. “Well, in the maybe someday-to-be collection.” He held up four fingers. “We have a coyote, a raven, one broken prairie dog skull, and now this cat. That’s not really a rival for the Smithsonian.” The whistle shrilled again and Underwood looked toward the field. “What else can I do for you?”

“Freddy was in your biology class?”

“Was. When he was a sophomore. Great kid. I tried to talk him into taking chemistry and physics, but…” He shrugged. “Not his bag. He’s enjoying the vocational programs right now. Does well. Great kid.”

“He found the skull on Sunday, perhaps? Did he say?”

Underwood bit his lip thoughtfully and regarded the sod as he dug in a cleat. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You know, I didn’t actually ask him
when
he found it. You’ve talked to him, I assume.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but swung the whistle again and then caught it deftly. “What’s the department’s interest in all this, anyway?”

“May I see the skull, sir? I know that now isn’t the best time, but I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, sure. I guess so. But you’re right. Now isn’t the best time.” He nodded at the field.

“You’re the defensive coordinator?”

“That’s me.”

“Can you find someone to sub for you for ten minutes?”

He sighed. “Sure. I guess.” Turning, he surveyed the field, then bellowed, “Coach!” Out on the field, head coach Art Lucero turned and Underwood pointed first at Estelle, then flashed ten fingers. Lucero nodded and waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s do it, Sheriff.”

She followed him up the sidewalk to the rear of the gym, and they walked straight through the yawning cavern and out the front door, along the breezeway to the main high school building.

“Officer Posey said that the cat was shot.” Underwood selected a key from the enormous jumble latched to his belt with a retractable chain, then held open a hall doorway for the undersheriff. “Did he pass that on to you?”

“He did. We have the slug.”

“Interesting stuff,” Underwood said, and jangled the keys to select the correct one for Room 128. He let it close behind them. “I’ve got it over in this cabinet,” he said, and selected another key. “We need to build some sort of secure glass display cabinet for it. Maybe Freddy can find the time to do that in shop.”

Estelle frowned. The gossip vine hadn’t reached out its tendrils to Coach Underwood yet. Obviously Freddy, the solitary explorer of the Posadas desert and prairie, wasn’t a team player.

The skull was large and blunt, the size of an average cantaloupe. Underwood picked it up carefully, slipping his hand under the loose lower mandibles. “We’re lucky we got the whole thing,” he said. “Freddy said the jaw bones were scattered away a bit. Kind of expect that sort of thing with rodents doing their work.” He reached across and touched the skull fracture as Estelle turned the skull. “That’s the bullet hole that Officer Posey was talking about. He found the slug wedged into the heavy bone right here,” and he touched the skull just behind and below the left eye socket. “A lucky shot. Jackass who did that was lucky he wasn’t mauled to death.”

“An old cat.” Estelle touched a worn and broken canine tooth.

“That’s my guess. I told Freddy that it’d be amazing to have the whole skeleton. Rearticulate it and get it mounted properly. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Yes, it would.”

“You’ve talked to him? To Freddy?”

Estelle handed the skull back to Underwood. “Freddy Romero was killed on Thursday, sir.”

The teacher started backward as if Estelle had slapped him, and for a second she thought the skull might crash to the floor. But Underwood took his time putting the skull back in the cabinet, closed and locked the door, and then stepped to one side, leaning his weight against a heavy lab table.

“How?”

“He was killed in an accident with his four-wheeler, sir.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” he whispered. “Where was this?”

“Out in the ranch country southwest of here. Near the Torrance ranch.”

“Good God. Thursday, you say?”

“We think so. An associate and I found him yesterday morning.”

“Jesus.”

“Mr. Underwood, when Freddy brought this skull in to show you, where did he say that he found it?”

Underwood frowned. “That wasn’t altogether clear, Sheriff. But he said that it was a cave up above Borracho Springs. He didn’t say exactly where.”

“He said ‘cave’ specifically?”

Underwood nodded. “Although I didn’t think the rock formations up in those hills lent themselves to serious cave formations. Maybe just an overhang, you know. I was going to talk to Freddy about that.” His distress was obvious. “I was going to.”

“I’d like our department photographer to take a series of the skull,” Estelle said. “Sooner rather than later. If she comes over this morning, will you break away from practice for a few minutes? It’s important.”

“Of course, Sheriff. Sure. Anything you need. Anything at all.” He looked askance at Estelle. “Is this somehow going further than just a relic picked up in the boonies by a curious kid?”

“We don’t know yet, sir. We just don’t know.”

“Freddy was…we all liked him.”

“I understand that. He was my neighbor, Mr. Underwood. I’ve known him and Butch since they were little tykes.”

He shook his head sadly. “He was back up at the cave? Is that what he was doing?”

“It appears not.”

“Huh. And Butch? Now I heard from some of the kids that Butch got hurt, too. They got things mixed up, then? They meant Freddy?”

“No. Butch was playing with a rattlesnake. He and my oldest son. He got a piece of fang stabbed in his eye.”

“Oh, shit. How…”

“An electric string trimmer.” She spun one finger in the air. “An envenomed fragment pegged him in the eye.”

Underwood cringed. “Jesus, how do kids do it,” he said. “And this all happened before the accident with his brother?”

“Yes.”

“My God. Freddy wasn’t with him, then?”

“It appears that Freddy was out on his four-wheeler at the time.”
Lying dead at the bottom of an arroyo
, Estelle amended to herself. She straightened up and extended her hand. “Thanks for taking the time. Linda Real will be by in a few minutes. I know it’s an awkward time for you, but it needs to be done.”

“You got it. I mean, anything at all that I can do to help. The parents know?”

“Oh, yes.”

Underwood hesitated. “Did someone talk with Casey Prescott?”

“I’m not sure if Mr. or Mrs. Romero called her or not. I’m headed out that way right now.”

“They were close, you know.”

“That’s what I understand.”

“Cute couple. You’ve talked with the boss? He’s working this morning.”

“My next stop,” the undersheriff said. “Coach, thanks. Linda will be by in a few minutes.” On the way out of the building, she called dispatch to request Linda Real’s expertise at the school, then stopped by Superintendent Glenn Archer’s office. She could see him through the open door of his inner office, leaning back in his massive swivel chair, Hush Puppies up on the corner of his desk.

“Well, now,” he called with pleasure, and waved her inside. “What brings you here, stranger?”

The superintendent’s benign, pleasant visage turned sober as she related a condensed version of the events on Friday, leaving out any mention of the discovery of the handgun. “That’s the story I heard,” he said. Archer turned to his computer monitor and rapped the keys for a moment, then gazed sadly at what appeared on the screen. With only 260 students K-12, Archer took pride in knowing every youngster in his school’s charge. Pulling Freddy Romero’s class schedule served as a reminder, apparently.

“Mrs. Bates informed me about Butch’s escapades with the snake,” he said. “And one of the students told me late yesterday afternoon that Freddy had been killed.” He turned and regarded Estelle. “How are Tata and George?”

“Well…” and she let it go at that.

“Of course. I’ll make sure I swing by there today.” He gazed at the computer for another moment. “I talked to Freddy earlier in the week about that jaguar skull he found. He was as excited as I’ve ever seen him. You know,” and he leaned back in his chair, “he was one of those youngsters who spent a lot of time and energy convincing us that he wasn’t interested in much that we had to offer.” He flashed a rueful smile. “But he liked Nate Underwood, and he’s done wonderful work in advanced shop. Have you seen that table he built?” Estelle shook her head. “Then you should go over and look at it. He’ll have it in the fall student arts and crafts show in November.” He realized what he’d said, and looked pained. “Well, it
would
have been in the show.”

“He said that he found the skull up above Borracho Springs.”

“That’s my understanding. That’s what he told me.”

“Did he say specifically where, sir?”

“Ah, no. I
do
know that’s a hell of a climb up there, and it sort of surprised me. That four-wheeler of his was like an extension of that young man, you know. I can’t imagine him parking that thing and then hiking for hours up in those rocks.”

“Puzzling.” Estelle stood and extended her hand to Archer. She held his firm, warm grip as he rose. “Butch is still in Albuquerque at University Hospital, sir. All this catches the folks in a real nightmare. They need to attend to Freddy, but they’ll want to return to the city as soon as they can for Butch’s sake.”

“He’s in a bad way, then.”

“Very serious, Dr. Archer. Very. He’s lost the sight in his right eye, and last I talked with the physicians, they weren’t sure of possible brain damage.”

“My God.”

“If there’s anything you can arrange for them, it would be appreciated. Even someone to drive them…they’re distraught and exhausted. I hate to think of them on the interstate.”

“Let me get right on that. Oh…and by the way, while I have you here. David Veltri emailed me a while ago, asking if it was all right to use my name as a reference for your department. He’s applying, I suppose you already know that.”

“Yes, sir. I was working on his application yesterday.”

“He’d be a good one. I’m behind him a hundred and ten percent.”

“He has strong references, that’s for sure.” She accepted another handshake from Archer as he escorted her to the door.

“I’ll see what I can do for the Romeros. Maybe Jim Bergin can fly them up. The service clubs are usually more than eager to help with something like that.”

Estelle nodded. “Anything at all. They need a hand right now.” Archer walked her to the foyer, and Estelle saw Linda Real’s red Honda pull to the curb in the bus zone.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Archer quipped.

“She’s going to do a profile of the skull,” Estelle replied. “I need to go out and tell Mr. Underwood that she’s here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to drag him away from practice,” the superintendent said, and hauled out his own impressive, clanking ring of keys. “He’s out on the field. Let me get you all started.”

Lugging a large camera bag, Linda greeted them with her usual sunny smile. “Superintendent Archer,” she said. “Estelle, Sergeant Mears wanted you to give him a call when you’re clear. What do you have for me here?”

“Mr. Archer is going to take you down to Nate Underwood’s room so you can do a profile of the jaguar skull,” Estelle said.