“You think very highly of him, don’t you. The ‘godfather.’ That’s how padrino translates, am I right?”
“Roughly. And yes, I do think highly of him. We love him dearly.”
“You’ve known him since the ice ages?”
“About that long. I first met Bill Gastner when I was twelve. He and my great-uncle Reuben visited Tres Santos. That’s about forty miles straight ahead south from here.”
“You guys don’t have jurisdiction over the border, though.…”
“No, not in any formal sense. In this case, someone stole several pallets of bricks from a construction site near Posadas. The bricks ended up in Tres Santos. Bill and Reuben went down to negotiate their return without involving the judiciales.”
“Your uncle stole them? Is that what you’re saying?”
“‘Informal time payment’ might be more accurate,” Estelle said. “Anyway, that’s when I met Bill Gastner for the first time. Twenty-seven years ago. Sometimes it seems a lifetime away, sometimes like yesterday.”
“Memory lanes are like that,” Madelyn said. Below them, the village of Regál was still in deep shadow, the buttress of mountains hiding them from the sun until late morning. Despite the promise of a mild February day, with the sky clear of clouds, a few wisps of piñon smoke perfumed the village. “You’d think a place like this would be so far out of the way that nothing would touch them,” the writer said.
“These folks argue about immigration and abortion rights and taxes and Iraq like everyone else,” Estelle said. “And water rights, and the cost of gasoline, and who’s sleeping with whom.”
“When’s the first mass?” They could see that the iglesia’s parking lot was still empty.
“Eleven o’clock,” Estelle replied. “First and only. Father Anselmo has mass in María at eight, then comes over here.” As they drew closer, Estelle could see a trace of smoke from the church’s single stovepipe. Emilio Contreras would be at the iglesia, chasing the chill, dabbing the last bit of dust from the furnishings. In the old days, he might have had to rouse a few illegals from their snoozing on the pews.
“Do you ever go?” The question surprised Estelle, and she looked across at Madelyn. “Or does your job make that sort of thing difficult?” When the undersheriff didn’t respond immediately, Madelyn added, “Or is that question too personal?”
“No,” Estelle said. “And no, I don’t go.” The response sounded more abrupt than she intended, but the writer accepted the explanation with a nod.
“It would be hard, I guess,” she said. “You spend a career working with the most base of human ulterior motives, and it would be a challenge to sit in a group of people, hearing all the hypocrisy.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Estelle said. “I just don’t think about it. It’s not something that I consider.”
“Even last year, when you were hurt?”
“Especially not then.”
At the bottom of the hill, Estelle slowed and turned into the dirt lane that first passed by the Contreras home, then meandered through the village.
“What will happen to the young man you apprehended yesterday?” Madelyn asked as they passed by the driveway to Joe and Lucinda Baca’s adobe.
“Immigration will return him to Mexican authorities,” Estelle said. “From that point it’s completely unpredictable.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. He’ll try again, no doubt.”
“No doubt. And that’s part of the dilemma with Joe and Lucinda. They make a tempting target. All that money makes an easy target.”
“It’s not like they keep it in bundles under the bed,” Madelyn said. “At least I hope they don’t.”
“No matter where it’s kept,” Estelle said. As she drove around another apple orchard, its irrigation pipe discharging a meager stream into the freshly hoed ditch, she slowed the car to a walk, then eased into Serafina Roybal’s narrow driveway. The retired schoolteacher’s Jeep Wagoneer had been backed out of the small shed and parked near the rose trellis on the southwest side of the adobe. The entire truck was evenly covered with fine dust and sparrow droppings. The left rear tire was just a couple of pounds above dead flat.
A small station wagon was parked close to the kitchen door, and Estelle pulled in directly behind it.
She keyed the mike. “PCS, three-ten.”
“Three-ten, PCS.”
“Ten-twenty-eight New Mexico niner-eight-niner Charlie Bravo Nora.”
“Ten-four.”
She waited, mike in hand.
“This doesn’t work?” Madelyn said, tapping the flat computer monitor.
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t know what happened. It’s scheduled for replacement next week. I’m getting a new car with a whole raft of new gadgets coming on board.”
“Three-ten, niner-eight-niner Charlie Bravo Nora should appear on a 2003 Subaru Outback, color green over silver, registered to Irene Merriam Salas, 301 College Lane Circle, Las Cruces. Negative wants or warrants.”
“Ten-four. Thanks, Brent.” She slid the mike back into the rack. “It appears that the granddaughter is visiting,” she said, switching off the car. “Serafina said yesterday that she was going to. I think it’s best if you stay here.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Dressed in a blue robe that touched the floor, her steel gray hair in a single long braid that reached below her waist, Serafina Roybal opened the front door before Estelle reached the single step leading to the porch.
“You’re just in time for coffee,” Serafina said. Her voice was husky. “My soul, twice in two days. This is a treat, young lady.”
“Good morning, Serafina,” Estelle said.
“Who’s that with you?”
“Every once in a while, we have civilian ride-alongs,” Estelle replied, and she saw a trace of that wonderful skeptical look that students would have been favored with when they were less than honest with this formidable teacher. Estelle was surprised to hear herself add, “She’s a writer for one of the national women’s magazines.”
“Ah, now,” Serafina said. “That’s nice. You both come in.…The coffee should be ready by now.”
“Serafina, I can’t stay,” Estelle said. “I just stopped for a minute to ask a couple of questions left over from yesterday.” But she was talking to the elderly woman’s back, and she followed Serafina inside. The house was dark and musty, and the aroma of coffee was strong along with the rest of the potpourri that a home produces. Across the room, the television was on but muted. Ignoring it, the elderly woman made her way toward the kitchen.
“I’m so pleased that you came this morning. Such a surprise, you know.” She walked back to the doorway to the living room and held out both hands as if she wanted a hug. “My granddaughter came last night. It’s been far too long, I must say.”
Estelle stopped near the television, looking at the collection of photos that rested on top of the console-most of them showing Octavio Roybal, including several of him as a young stalwart, smart in his army uniform. Arranged to one side was a group of photos of Serafina’s daughter, Esmeralda, and her daughter Irene. In the first, the toddler sat on her mother’s knee on the front step of the iglesia. The photo showed a pudgy toddler who beamed into the camera. A second snapshot caught Irene at about age eight as she sprayed a compliant dog with a garden hose. Finally, a formal high school graduation photo in a gold frame presented Irene in an elegant pose in cap and gown.
“Your granddaughter has grown up,” Estelle said, picking up the latest photo.
“Such a dear,” Serafina said. “I can’t believe that she’s a junior in college already. She manages to break away now and then, and I’m so glad that she visits. Young folks don’t always have time, you know.”