“That’s if the last check doesn’t go south,” Torrez mused. “Folks have been murdered for a whole lot less.”
“Oh, indeed. But maybe all this is just practice,” Estelle said. “Perfecting the system. That’s what I’ve been thinking. The way I see it, there are two roads to investigate. Either Chris Marsh thought he’d found some way to steal checks from this Canadian company-he was just waiting for the big one that he figured was coming-or the sweepstakes company itself is a scam, Marsh included. And that’s the way I’m thinking right now. If the company was legit, and Marsh was just waiting in the wings, I don’t see how he’d know what was coming through the pipeline.”
“I can’t figure that,” the sheriff said. “How’d they get the names, anyways? When Joe and Lucinda won the state thing, it was in the paper. Probably radio and TV, too. But Serafina wasn’t on nobody’s radar, was she?”
“We don’t know the answer to that, Bobby. But there must be dozens of ways. Mailing lists are commodities.”
“Well,” he said, swinging a foot up to rest it on the desk, “somebody climbed down to the crash site, found this Marsh kid, and then made sure that he wasn’t in no condition to talk. Took the paperwork, what there was of it, took the electronic receipt book, took the magnetic signs off the doors. Probably woulda taken Marsh’s name tag if it hadn’t been ripped off and lost.” He shrugged. “Somebody’s got something to hide, that’s for sure. Nilson and Abeyta are looking to find what they can about Marsh over in Cruces. There’s got to be something there. Somebody’s got to know something.”
“And there’s the Canadian connection,” Estelle said. “We need to know more about Canadian Publications Limited.”
“Sooner rather than later,” Torrez grunted. “And first thing, if that big check don’t clear? We need to give Baker a call. If the check is bogus, that takes it out of our hands.”
John Baker, an old friend and contact in the Albuquerque office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, would be intrigued, Estelle thought. “I was thinking of having a chat with him anyway,” she said. “It would be interesting to hear if he’s run across this one-or a variant.”
“If the check bounces, whether it came from Canada or Las Cruces, it’s their baby anyways,” Torrez said. “Bank fraud is either them or the Postal Inspectors, or both. A heads-up won’t hurt.”
“Oh, one other little thing,” Estelle said. “The telephone number in the woodcutter’s pocket? It’s the Contrerases’ number.”
Torrez glowered at her for a moment. “And so…”
“And so, I’m just about sure that Bertrand Anselmo wrote it.”
“No shit? Why would he do that?”
“Good question. The dead man’s name is Felix Otero. Joe Baca recognized him.”
For a long minute, Sheriff Robert Torrez stared at Estelle, or rather through her, it seemed to her, pondering the possibilities. “Did you just out and ask Anselmo about all this?”
“No. He’s spooked. I want to know more before I do that.”
“What did Betty have to say?”
“She didn’t recognize Otero. Or said she didn’t. Joe admitted seeing him around sometime, he doesn’t remember when. Anselmo was evasive.”
“Ain’t that interesting,” Torrez said. “This wouldn’t be the first time that Betty had a convenient memory lapse.”
“Neighbors know what neighbors are doing. Regál is a tiny village,” Estelle said.
“Ain’t it, though.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Madelyn Bolles was engaged in animated conversation with Gayle Torrez at the dispatch center as Estelle left the sheriff’s office, and wrapped it up by signing the document that lay on the counter in front of her. As Estelle approached, Madelyn smiled broadly at the undersheriff.
“You’re all waived,” she said, and handed the county attorney’s release of liability form to Gayle.
“Then let’s go for a ride,” Estelle said. “You’ve already had a tour of sorts with Bill Gastner, I understand?”
“Wonderful,” the writer said. “We did a late breakfast-”
“That’s not surprising,” Gayle interrupted, and Madelyn laughed.
“My impression is that his passions include green chile,” she said. “And we’re going to talk again. Mr. Gastner has a most interesting perspective on life in general and this country in particular.”
“A unique perspective, that’s for sure,” Estelle said. “Join me in my office for a few minutes?” She held the low gate for the writer, and they walked down the narrow hall to Estelle’s office. Madelyn turned in place, surveying the room critically.
“Have a seat,” Estelle said, but the reporter’s attention had been drawn to the east wall, where a series of twelve framed photographs hung, each an eight-by-ten, some in color, some in spectacular black and white. The photos were displayed in a pleasing, staggered arrangement. “That’s last year’s calendar,” Estelle said.
“Literally, you mean?”
“Yes. It’s an idea that our department photographer, Linda Real, had a number of years ago. She started collecting candid shots, and then had the brainstorm to put them together in a calendar. Now she does it every year.”
“My word,” Bolles breathed. “This is the entire department?”
“That’s us. An even dozen.”
“Let’s see. I saw this deputy down south, at Regál Pass. Jackie Taber. And this is the sheriff’s wife. And this is you, of course. That means this must be your department photographer.”
“That’s Linda.”
“Quite a talent. We should hire her away from you.” She turned to look at Estelle when the undersheriff made no response. “I would think that happens a lot in a rural setting like this. You train the talent, and then they move on.”
“That happens once in a while,” Estelle agreed. “We certainly hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon with Linda.”
“This is the Great Stone Face,” Madelyn said, touching the bottom of Sheriff Bob Torrez’s portrait, a photo that captured him with one foot up on the front bumper of his pickup, a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a map spread out on the hood. He was glowering at something, no doubt the shutter of Linda’s camera. “He is so Mr. Outdoor Life,” Madelyn added. “I wonder if he knows just how handsome he really is.”
“You’d have to ask him.”
Madelyn chuckled at that and then took a step to her right, where she frowned at a wonderful portrait of Captain Eddie Mitchell, kneeling amongst a forest of adult legs, talking to a tiny child wrapped in a soiled white blanket, the head of a teddy bear sticking out from the folds. Estelle remembered that circumstance, a mobile home fire in the middle of the night, and remembered how Linda had dropped to one knee so that the camera wasn’t looking down on Mitchell or the child.
“This is a tough-looking hombre,” Madelyn observed. “In a soft moment.”
“That’s Captain Eddie Mitchell. He was the village chief of police before the village dissolved its department and started contracting services from the county.”
“Uh-huh. She could sell prints like this,” the writer said. “Has she ever tried that?”
“You’d have to ask her, Madelyn.”
“Interesting. Interesting organization. So let me ask you something. Who are your dispatchers?”
Estelle stepped closer and touched the three photos of Gayle, Brent Sutherland, and Ernie Wheeler.
“Just the three?”
“Yes. At the moment.”
“How do you cover twenty-four/seven with just three people?”
“We swing a road deputy in to cover when we have to.”
“And the road deputies are…”
“Sergeant Tom Mears, Tom Pasquale, Jackie Taber, Tony Abeyta, Dennis Collins, and Mike Sisneros.” She touched the corner of each photo in order. “We just lost Sergeant Howard Baker to retirement. We’re shorthanded, and just starting the hiring process.”