“I’m heading back to Posadas now,” the undersheriff said. “If you follow me back, maybe we can find a quiet corner in my office. I don’t want to waste your time.”
Madelyn frowned and held up a hand. “No, no. This isn’t about me, undersheriff. What I want is to do this right. That’s all. Whatever it takes.” She held out the business card with the phone numbers Father Anselmo had given her, and out of reflex, Estelle took it. “Is there a chance I can have your cell number? I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”
“Not to worry,” Estelle said, digging out one of her own business cards. “If I’m in the middle of something, I just don’t answer the thing. And you can always reach me through Dispatch.”
“I met…Gayle, is it? What an elegant gal she is. And she’s the sheriff’s wife, I’m told.”
“Yes.” But Estelle’s attention was drawn to the numbers on the back of the reporter’s business card. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, and walked to the nearest window, a deep-silled, narrow expanse of stained glass rising nearly eight feet to an arched top. She laid the business card on the smooth white sill, and then opened the manila envelope, drawing out the photocopy of the slip of paper found in Felix Otero’s pocket.
“Ay, now that’s interesting,” she whispered to herself. Even simple digits were tiny windows themselves, opening secrets. The digits 8, 5, and 7 especially invited the individual strokes of the pen. Estelle slid the two numbers close together. In both cases, the 8 was formed with not a single graceful stroke, but by joining two somewhat angular circles, one perched atop the other. The 5 included two features, a separate stroke for the bottom portion that included a tail looping back to cross the downward stroke, and a second horizontal mark forming the top plane of the letter. The 7 was more generic, save for the horizontal stroke that crossed the stem in the European fashion.
She realized that Bolles was standing off to one side, watching her. She slid the copy back in the envelope, and reached out with the card.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Madelyn Bolles said, making no move to accept. “And keep it. I have the numbers.”
Estelle slid the card not into her pocket, but into the manila envelope, feeling an odd mixture of emotions. Father Bertrand Anselmo, whom she had known since she was in single digits, hadn’t actually lied to her, but nor had he taken her into his confidence. In another time and place, when there were no other ears to hear, perhaps he would. And perhaps not.
That the priest would give the Mexican-if it turned out that indeed that’s who Felix Otero was-the telephone number of the village’s most accomplished grapevine cultivator, Betty Contreras, was in itself enough to pique curiosity, although that’s exactly what he had just done with Madelyn Bolles. Perhaps, in his own amused way, he had intended for Estelle to notice.
“Let’s meet in my office,” Estelle said. “About an hour?”
“Perfect,” the reporter said.
“Emilio, thank you,” Estelle called. The old man had returned to his labors, meticulously waxing and polishing the communion rail. He raised a hand in salute.
“Come back and see us,” he said. “You’re always welcome. You know that.”
I’m not sure that will always be the case, Estelle thought as she pushed open the heavy door. As her feet touched the gravel of the parking lot, her cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me a second,” she said to the writer, and turned away, walking toward the county car.
“Estelle, the address checks out,” Gayle Torrez said. “I talked with a Calgary city detective who says that CPL operates out of a double suite at that address. He doesn’t know anything about them, other than that they’re where they say they are. He says that area isn’t one of the high-rent places…just a little mini-mall sort of thing.”
“That’s a help,” Estelle said.
“They were supercordial,” Gayle added. “If you need any more information, they’re pleased to cooperate. Anything we need. I have the officer’s name and number when you need it.”
“Thanks so much,” Estelle said. “You’re the best.”
She broke the connection and pointed toward the mountain pass behind them. “See you in an hour?”
“That’s a date,” Madelyn said. She let Estelle leave the parking lot first, and as the undersheriff crested the pass, she saw that the wrecker was finished with its chore of cranking Chris Marsh’s crumpled truck up the mountain. Only Jackie Taber’s vehicle was parked along the highway. Her shift was long since finished, and she hadn’t taken Estelle’s suggestion.
Estelle’s hand went to the radio mike, but then she thought better of going public. Instead, she pulled off the highway a short distance ahead of Jackie’s unit, and auto-dialed 303 on her phone. Jackie would be somewhere downslope, seeing what the wrecker might have shaken loose when it bundled the crushed pickup truck back up the hillside.
“Taber.”
“Jackie, you were supposed to go home,” Estelle said. “What are you finding down there?”
“Rocks, rocks, and more rocks. I don’t think we missed much.”
Estelle looked up as Madelyn Bolles’ red sedan swooshed by, the driver offering a cheery wave.
“Okay,” Estelle said. “I just finished up down in Regál with Betty and a few of her neighbors. My gut feeling is that this thing is going to get really messy before we’re through.”
“Where’s it going to take us?” Jackie asked.
“It looks like Marsh was delivering sweepstakes checks to a couple of the village residents.”
“No kidding. What are the odds of that, I wonder.”
“Of winning?”
“No…of there being more than one winner in such a tiny town. That smells. How much did they lose?”
“That’s what’s bizarre, Jackie. Nobody has lost anything. They’ve won. Signed, sealed, and delivered. It’s just that it was delivered by a bogus courier.”
“Now there’s a scenario,” Jackie said. “I wonder what the bank says. Are you headed back in?”
“Yes. Here’s the thing to think about, Jackie. A bogus courier doesn’t necessarily make the items that he was delivering bogus. I mean, Chris Marsh might have passed himself off to Canadian Publications as a legit service.”
“A Canadian sweepstakes?”
“So it seems.”
“That smells even worse.”
“Yes, but the phone and address on the confirmation letter that the folks received checks out, so far. It exists, anyway.”
“Huh. I don’t believe it.”
“What would have been the next step for these guys? If Chris Marsh hadn’t hit the deer, hadn’t been killed here on the pass, what would have been the next step? I just found out that he was carrying a check with him from Joe and Lucinda Baca for more than thirty thousand.”
“That stinks worser and worser, Estelle. I can think of several ways that little deal could go south. Somebody had to have been waiting for him when the deer got in the way.”
“Think on that,” Estelle said. “You’re about finished out here?”
“I think so. The sun on the rocks is reminding me that it’s nap time.”
“Go for it.” She looked in her rearview mirror as the sound of another vehicle reached her. The rattling, gasping chug was familiar, and in a moment, Father Bertrand Anselmo’s Chevy crested the pass and started down the north side, passing her with a faint whiff of very old, very burned, oil. The priest raised a hand in greeting.
The Chevy gained speed until it disappeared around one of the sweeping curves. Estelle pulled back on the highway. By the time she had caught up with Father Anselmo and the blue cloud that trailed his car, they were nearing the Broken Spur Saloon. His speed surprised her. Drawing to within a few hundred yards, she slowed long enough to pace him. The aging sedan thundered along at 71 miles an hour, in flagrant disregard of the speed limit and the condition of its tires.