“But she only saw that car once,” Estelle added.
“That’s what she said. Blue convertible with a white rocker panel stripe.”
“It’d be interesting to know where the supermodel lives,” Estelle mused. “A low-rent trailer in the middle of a mobile home park doesn’t sound like her kind of place-not if she can afford a ‘fancy-schmancy’ new set of wheels.”
“I think that just happens to be where the boyfriend is camped out. Why he’s chosen such a dump is the puzzle.”
“It might be worth paying a visit to the area Ford dealers tomorrow. Maybe even today if any of them have Sunday hours,” Estelle said. “We might get lucky. Some salesman might remember the circumstances of the test drive, if that’s what it was.”
“I’ll see who’s open today,” Abeyta said.
“What do we know about the girl, other than the ‘willowy midriff?’” Estelle asked. “Did anyone get beyond that?”
“Mrs. Tyler said she was Mexican. Long black hair that she tied back in a ponytail sometimes, and really olive skin.” Estelle cocked her head at that, and the deputy shrugged. “It’s something. Black hair and olive skin narrows it down to about what, forty-seven percent of the population now?” He regarded the backs of his own olive hands. “More than that in Cruces. Unless you consider the Italians, the Indians, the Spanish, the French, the Moroccans, the Iraqis…” He let the list trail off.
“We need to find her,” Estelle said. “Chris Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum, Tony. Someone was in the area when he picked up that last check from the Bacas on Wednesday night, and someone followed him, or was planning to meet him afterward. They were close enough that when he crashed the truck, they were Johnny-on-the-spot while he was still alive…and that’s looking like minutes.”
She glanced up as Brent Sutherland appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Bolles is here,” he said.
“We’re just about wrapped up,” Estelle said. “You can tell her to come on back.”
“Will do.”
In a moment the magazine reporter appeared, this time dressed entirely in black save for her off-white, frilly blouse and a modest squash blossom turquoise necklace. Deputy Abeyta snapped out of his slouch and pulled himself to his feet.
“Madelyn, this is Deputy Tony Abeyta,” Estelle said. “I don’t think you two have had a chance to meet yet. Ms. Bolles is a writer for A Woman’s World magazine, Tony. She has free run of the department while she’s here.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand. Estelle saw that the young man’s guard was up, his tone efficient, polite, but clipped and noncommittal.
“Deputy August,” Madelyn said, without looking at the framed photos on Estelle’s office wall-the “calendar” of employees. Linda Real’s portrait of Tony Abeyta showed the deputy standing beside a small dun pony. His right arm with lead rope in hand was draped over the horse’s neck as if the two of them were old friends. In his left hand, Abeyta held a small notebook, and it appeared that he was ruffling through the pages with his thumb. “I’d like to hear the story behind that photo some time.”
“I was just checking the mileage on my patrol unit,” Abeyta said with a straight face. “Nothing more mysterious than that.” He flashed a smile as he turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know,” he said to Estelle. “If we dig anything up, I’ll give you a call. Ma’am, nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Madelyn said warmly. She gazed out into the hall after the deputy had left. “He reminds me of someone,” she said after a moment. “I can’t remember who.” She turned and regarded Deputy August’s photo, but that didn’t prompt an answer, and she turned back to the undersheriff. “You had a quiet night for a change, I see,” she said. “Brent the dispatcher says that it was a long, boring shift.”
“That’s the way we like it,” Estelle said. She reached across her desk and x’d out of the Internet search she’d been exploring when Tony Abeyta had arrived. “You look elegant this morning.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Madelyn said. “Shed the squash blossom and change the shoes, and I’m ready to dig ditches.”
“How about Regál?”
“I thought that might be the case. We’re going to church?”
“Ah, no.” She saw the flicker of puzzlement on the writer’s face. “I don’t want those folks thinking that they’re under surveillance,” Estelle said. “Because they’re not. At least not by us.”
“I got the impression yesterday that the relationship with the feds is not always the warmest of friendships for some of those folks.”
Estelle laughed. “That’s an understatement. The problem right now is that everything is in flux. The Border Patrol has an impossible job to do, and that frustration boils over sometimes.” She watched the computer blink out. “If you’re going to write about that angle, you should spend a bunch of time riding with them. They’re in the epicenter, not us.”
“That might be on the agenda,” Madelyn replied. “But one thing at a time. Where are we headed?”
“I have a naggy little question that needs answering,” Estelle said. “And I want to follow up on what might just be an inconsequential coincidence.”
“Wow,” Madelyn said. “‘Inconsequential coincidence.’ I like that.” She stepped over to the whiteboard schedule. “Estelle, when was the last time you said, ‘Oh, to hell with it. It can wait until Monday morning?’”
“All the time, when the it doesn’t involve murder,” Estelle replied.
Chapter Thirty
The highway southwest to Regál was empty that Sunday morning. Estelle slowed as they approached Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon. The parking lot in front was deserted, but Estelle could see Victor’s blue pickup truck parked in the back, sandwiched between the saloon and the mobile home where he, his wife, and their son lived.
Madelyn Bolles had been a silent passenger for most of the ride, and as Estelle slowed the car and pulled just off the highway on the verge of the saloon’s parking lot, she looked quizzically at the undersheriff. Estelle stopped the car. “If you look ahead toward the pass, you can see the switchback just below where the truck crashed,” she said. She leaned forward, both arms folded across the steering wheel. “One of the remaining questions.” She didn’t complete the thought but sat and gazed out at the rugged San Cristóbals.
After a moment she extended a finger and pointed toward Regál Pass. “Chris Marsh drove over the pass sometime Wednesday night. We don’t know exactly what time, but it was after dark. The highway was wet, and he swerved to avoid a deer. He lost control, and his truck flipped over the side, crashing down through the rocks.” She spread her hands, framing the mountain in front of them. “That’s what we know. There’s no spot that I can find, short of immediately at the accident site, where we could watch the highway and see headlights come over the pass.” She paused, regarding the mountain. “Not from this side. We could sit right on the pass, where the Forest Service sign is, and see the area.”
“If someone climbed down to the wreck immediately after it happened, you’re wondering where they were parked,” Madelyn said.
“Exactly. They were waiting for Chris Marsh. The pass is as far as he got. Someone was in a position to know what happened-or at least to guess what happened. We’re sure that someone climbed down to the wreck that night-almost immediately after the crash-and made sure that Marsh was dead. They took whatever documents he might have had with him, right down to the delivery service magnetic signs that were on the truck’s doors.”