“Ten-four.”
I pulled the door open and beckoned to Tom Pasquale. “Thomas, you and Gayle take Miss Sisson home. Gayle, you stay at the Sissons’ until you hear from me. I don’t care what Mrs. Sisson does or doesn’t say. And, Thomas, as soon as you’ve dropped them off and you’ve made sure that Deputy Taber is with them, post yourself over at the Carters’ place on Ridgeway. I don’t want Kenny going anywhere until this mess is sorted out. If he argues, take him into custody.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned to Bishop. “Howard, you need to stay here in case someone shows up. Who the hell knows. Whoever it is, take ’em into custody, too, and charge ’em with conspiracy for starters. Hell, we might as well just round up the whole goddamn town.” I took Torrez by the elbow. “Let’s see what Carter’s up to.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
We didn’t waste any time. At thirty-two minutes after six, I pulled into the empty parking lot of Sam Carter’s supermarket. Monday through Thursday, the place opened at 6:00 a.m. and closed twelve hours later. On Friday and Saturday, the store stayed open until 8:00. It was probably one of the few supermarkets left in the world that was closed all day on Sunday.
By driving around behind the building, I could look up the alley that ran behind the supermarket and Tommy’s Diner, then crossed Rincon to pass behind the large metal building that housed the Posadas Register. I caught a glimpse first of the big white-on-blue lettering on the side of the newspaper building and thought with grim amusement that if Frank Dayan was working late the day before publication, it would pay him to step out his own back door to catch the scoop of the year.
Tom Mears’ Bronco sat squarely in the middle of the alley beside the dumpsters. From that point, he could watch the back door of the supermarket and the black Explorer parked on Rincon just west of the alley. He couldn’t see the front doors of the grocery store but had wisely chosen the two targets most removed from casual view by passersby.
He got out of the Bronco and met Torrez and me as we approached the back door of the store.
“I walked around,” he said in a husky whisper. “The front doors are the kind that you have to open with a key, even if you’re inside. There’s no push bar.”
“All right. And this one is open?” I stepped to the back door and could see for myself. The door may have been locked, but it was ajar about a quarter of an inch.
I stood at the door, my ear to the metal. “Nothing? Did you hear anyone?”
“No, sir. Not since I drove up. I tried the front door and then came around here. I could see that the door might be open, so I didn’t touch it. And then I caught a glimpse of the Explorer.”
I stepped away from the building and looked down the alley. “Someone just driving by on Grande wouldn’t be apt to notice his vehicle, parked off to the side like that. And if they did, there’s no reason to think anything about it.” I turned to Bob. “What do you think?”
He pulled a hefty pocketknife out of his pocket and reached up high on the door, within an inch of the top corner. He inserted the blade and gently twisted. The door moved a fraction, held tightly in the jamb. It hadn’t been slammed quite hard enough to catch the bolt in the striker plate. Torrez slid the knife down a bit and twisted again. The door moved a bit more. He knelt and repeated the maneuver down at the bottom, and at the fourth twist, the steel door popped open.
“Uh-oh,” he whispered and grinned. Using the point of the knife, he tipped the door open far enough that we could enter without touching it.
No sooner had he done that than he held up a hand sharply, gesturing upward. Looking past him, I could see the lights on in Sam Carter’s upstairs office. The three of us stood in the door, listening. The outer door of Carter’s office, positioned right at the top of the short stairway, was open. If he was in there, even talking quietly on the phone, we’d hear him.
“I’ll check,” Mears said, and he moved across the concrete floor to the stairway, then ascended two or three at a time. He stopped in the office doorway, turned, and shrugged.
“Nobody,” he said.
I moved to the bottom of the stairs.
“He might be planning to come back,” Torrez said quietly.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he just didn’t pay attention when he closed the door.”
“Sir,” Mears said, reappearing in the open office doorway, and this time there was some urgency in his voice. “You might want to look at this.”
I made my way up the stairway, with Torrez patiently following Mears waiting until I’d reached the landing, then stepped into the office, moving quickly to the one-way glass that overlooked the store. He pointed. Over to the left, near one of the glass cases that held the refrigerated beverages, was a considerable pool of liquid on the floor-perhaps water, maybe soda pop or beer.
“The glass in the cooler door is broken, too,” the deputy said, but I had to take his word for it. It looked fine to me.
I took a moment and scanned the rest of the store. Everything appeared in place.
“Take a look,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
The papers on top of Carter’s desk interested me, and I took out my pen and used it as a probe to move things slightly, looking at this and that, being careful not to start a landslide. There were order forms, inventory, correspondence with vendors, time sheets…all the sorts of things one would expect to find on a store manager’s desk. Sam would have been delighted to see me rummaging, I’m sure.
After no more than thirty seconds, my radio startled me as Mears’s disembodied voice broadcast in a harsh whisper, “Sheriff.”
I moved my pen and let an invoice from Royalty Line Food Specialties drop back in place, then stepped to the window and looked down. Mears and Torrez stood at the near end of aisle 12, and I could tell by their posture that they weren’t looking at a puddle of spilled mountain spring water.
Despite a hammering pulse, I took my time negotiating the steep stairway. I turned into the store and came up behind Mears, who looked as if he’d been flash-frozen in place. Torrez turned to me, one eyebrow raised. Sprawled on the floor with his blood mixing with whatever liquid was running out of the drink cooler was Posadas County Commission Chairman Sam Carter.
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” was about all I managed to say. Mears lifted a foot to move closer and Torrez snapped, “Watch your step.” By moving along the opposite side of the aisle, staying close to the shelves of pretzels and chips, Torrez avoided the puddle. He knelt near Sam’s head and reached out to check the carotid pulse.
“He’s dead,” Torrez said. He regarded the blood under Carter’s head. “Hasn’t been long, though.” Remaining on his haunches, Torrez pivoted slowly, scrutinizing the area around the body. “It looks like he took one in the back of the head, kind of a grazing shot. That would do it.”
“And look at this,” Tom Mears said, pointing at the cooler door. “Ricochet, maybe. Or maybe the one that killed him. It isn’t a clean hole in the glass. Whatever it was exploded a couple quart bottles of beer.”
“Christ,” I said, “I can still smell the gunpowder.” I looked at Torrez. “You smell it?”
He nodded. “Look over in the corner there.” I did so and saw the blue plastic bank money pouch, zipper gaping wide open. “Somebody came in right at closing, maybe.” He made a hammer-and-trigger motion with his right hand. “Pop. Take the money and run.” He stood up with a loud crack of the knees. “Or at least that’s what we’re supposed to think.” He backed away from the body.
“Explain the door to me, for instance,” I said.
Torrez nodded. “The cooler door is closed. The broken bottles are behind it. So how does the beer spill so far across the aisle if the door is closed, with only a little bullet hole through it?”
“Unless Carter grabbed it when he fell,” Mears said. “Maybe pulled it open some, then the door closes after he tumbles away.”