“Madelyn,” Estelle said, with no intention of entering into a discussion of publisher Frank Dayan’s relationship with editor/reporter/photographer/single mom Pam Gardiner, “you need to know from the very beginning that I have reservations about subjecting my family to media exposure. I’ve had that conversation with Frank a number of times. That’s why he hasn’t had articles about Francisco in the paper.”
“We can’t very well profile you without talking with your family,” the writer said. “And this isn’t like being on the front page of the Sunday paper, either. In the first place, we’re talking about six months, minimum, before the article even sees the light of day. But your two sons are remarkable boys. I was captivated by that photo of Francisco in concert over in Las Cruces.”
“My two sons are remarkable little boys, and that’s not just their mother talking. They are remarkable. Maybe they will talk to you. Maybe not. We’ll have to see. I won’t tell them that they have to.”
“I look forward to the challenge of winning their confidence,” Madelyn said. “And yours, if you’ll let me. How’s this for a deal?…I will never talk to your children when you or your husband aren’t present. How’s that?”
“It’s a place to start.”
“There’s an interesting question we could address right now, and it might be revealing for both of us.” She steepled her fingers, the tips of her index fingers resting on her lips. “I know what I want out of this article, Estelle. What do you want? Why have you agreed to see me? A moment ago, you wondered that very thing. Why didn’t you just press the delete key when you saw my initial e-mail?”
“Partly curiosity, I suppose.”
“It must be more than that.”
“I’m sure it is. I don’t know how to put it into words.”
“Think on that, then. That gives me an opportunity to do something meaningful for you, Estelle. That’s important to me. I don’t consider this a one-way street that we’re on here.” The writer nodded with finality. “Which brings us to mechanics, Estelle. May I be your shadow, then? This is a lot to ask, I know. If you’re awake and decent, I’d like to be with you.”
Estelle laughed. “That’s going to get tiresome for you, that’s for sure.”
“But here again, let’s set a ground rule we can work with. When you need privacy, I want you to feel free just to say, ‘Go away.’ And I will. No questions asked. But if you don’t tell me to go away, there I’ll be.”
“We’ll see how that works,” Estelle said. “That’s all I can say.”
“Fair enough. Might I make a suggestion, by the way? It’s inevitable that you’ll feel it necessary to introduce me to someone. Might I suggest that a simple ‘this is Madelyn Bolles’ is sufficient? No other explanation? It’s been my experience that most of the time, people will fill in the blanks to their own satisfaction.”
“Pecados de omisión,” Estelle said. “Sins of omission are one of law enforcement’s favorite tools.” The undersheriff glanced at the wall clock. “You’re staying over at Mrs. Melvin’s B and B, is that right?”
“That’s my base ops, yes. Room three, the one with the outside stairway around back.”
“Do you need to check in there today, or are we ready for a ride?”
“We’re ready,” Madelyn Bolles said. “I just need to fetch my laptop and briefcase from my car.”
Estelle rolled her chair back and stood up. “Oh…I noticed that you’ve already become acquainted with one of the state officers. I saw that he had you stopped down by Moore.”
Madelyn grimaced. “Ah, that. I wasn’t paying attention. He said I was driving eighty-four in a sixty-five zone. I’m sure he was right, radar being what it is. A nice enough young man. I don’t recall his name.”
“John Allen,” Estelle said. “He’s new.”
“Well, he’s also forgiving, and that’s what is important in this instance,” the writer said. “I’ll meet you-” Estelle’s desk phone interrupted her by buzzing line one.
“By the pumps outside,” Estelle finished for Madelyn. “Excuse me a minute.” She picked up the phone. “Guzman.”
“Estelle, this is Betty. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Of course not. What can I do for you?” She pulled a pad of paper close.
“I think there’s someone here you should talk to,” Betty Contreras said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Estelle’s plans to give Madelyn Bolles a proper orientation into passenger etiquette in a patrol car were reduced to a quick “buckle up tight.” The reporter was still fussing with belt and accoutrements as they charged out of the parking lot and onto Grande Avenue, the main north-south thoroughfare of Posadas. She finally settled for the laptop under her knees, and the soft briefcase clutched in her lap.
By the time they roared under the interstate overpass and took the long curve onto State 56, the speedometer had climbed past 80. Madelyn’s right hand crept forward on the door sill, looking for something to clutch, proving that riding fast was very different from driving fast.
Waiting until she had dusted past two southbound burros, Estelle reached out for the mike.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten.”
“Three-oh-three.” Jackie Taber didn’t sound as tired as she had to be.
“Ten-twenty?”
“Three-oh-three is just comin’ up on Victor’s place, northbound.”
Estelle took a deep breath of relief that Jackie Taber had been slow to call it a day. She was capable of sitting quietly for hours on a warm rock in the shade of a piñon with her pencil and sketch pad. At the same time, Jackie knew as well as anyone else that Tony Abeyta was on his way to Las Cruces and the other denizen of the day shift, Dennis Collins, was stuck firmly in limbo after the dropped-gun incident. What was important at that moment was that Jackie Taber, nearing Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon, was twenty-five miles closer to Regál than Estelle was.
“Three-oh-three, I’ll be ten-twenty-one.”
Taking her time, Estelle slowed the car a fraction and opened her cell phone. Madelyn watched closely, not losing her grip on briefcase and door.
“Jackie,” Estelle said as the phone connection went through, “Betty Contreras is waiting for us at her house. She says that an illegal who might have been the woodcutter up north just walked past her house.”
“Might have been,” Jackie said, alert to nuance as always, tired as she might be.
“She says that he’s headed toward Joe Baca’s.”
“Oh, crap,” Jackie said. In the background, Estelle could hear the squeal of tires and then hard acceleration. “And here we thought Betty didn’t know nuttin’ about nobody. All of a sudden she knows the woodcutter and his pal?”
“That’s what we’re headed to find out, Jackie. I’m southbound, but we’re just leaving town. I want the man detained, but as long as he doesn’t force his way inside or pose an immediate threat, hang back and wait for us.”
“You got it. Joe’s the one who’s got the money, am I right?”
“Yes, he does. Be careful.”
“Roger that.”
Estelle auto-dialed Dispatch. “Gayle, we’re responding to a complaint in Regál that I think is tied to Catron County’s case with the woodcutter. Has Tony left for Cruces yet?”
“He and John Allen are standing right here,” Gayle replied, and, after a moment of hurried conversation off-line, added, “and now they’re out the door.”
“Thanks. Jackie’s responding, and I’ll be about fifteen minutes behind her.”
“Got it.”
Without looking, the undersheriff placed the phone on the car’s computer keyboard that took up most of the center console. Ahead, a county dump truck, its flashers bright, rumbled along the shoulder behind a road grader.