Steven Havill - Bag Limit

“It would have been better than what I had, that’s for sure,” Torrez replied, and then he turned back to me. “Some interesting tidbits from Neil Sommers.”

“That’s Connie’s current boyfriend,” I said for Estelle’s benefit. Francisco, seeing that the conversation wasn’t going to linger on hamburgers and such, darted back toward the living room.

“Sommers wasn’t invited on the trip,” Torrez said. “He agreed to go along, but Connie refused, saying that it wasn’t so much a hunting trip as a chance for her and her brother and Walsh to sit down and talk over some important family business.”

“So he stayed home,” I said.

“That’s right. He asked if he could join up with them today sometime, and Connie said no to that, too. He said that he got the impression that she was in some kind of trouble with her stepfather.”

“You got a signed deposition to that effect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he go down to Cruces after that?”

“He said he was going to drive down this afternoon. I don’t know if he went or not, but the officers down there have orders that there are to be no visitors, period. Not until she’s conscious and has had a chance a talk to one of us.”

“I assume that you stopped by and talked with Scott?” I asked.

“Yes. I just came from the hospital.”

“Do you believe him?”

A trace of a smile ghosted Torrez’s face. “Let me put it this way, sir. I’d like to. First, let’s see what we find out down in Del Rio. That may take a day or three. By then, maybe Connie will come around. We’ll see what she says.”

“Fair enough.”

“By the way, Judge Hobart turned Dale Torrance loose on five thousand dollars’ bond. Herb and the kid went over to Lawton to pick up the livestock. Miles Waddell is royally pissed.”

“At what?”

“He thinks that Dale should be in jail.”

“Maybe he’s right. But I’ve given up trying to second-guess the judge.”

“Gayle said Waddell called the Sheriff’s Office and chewed on her ear for ten minutes. He wanted to know what kind of game of favorites we were playing.”

I laughed. “Get used to that, Roberto. After tomorrow, that becomes a way of life for you. You’ll spend about a third of each day handling crank calls from idiots.”

“And relatives,” he said. “Same thing. You should have gone to the Baca funeral. That was quite something.”

“I bet. And no thank you.”

He regarded his hat some more. “I may send one of the deputies down to Del Rio tomorrow, if the lieutenant thinks it’s worthwhile.”

“Good idea. Make sure he votes first.”

Torrez laughed. “Two or three times, sir.”

“We don’t have to stand here in the foyer, by the way,” I said. “You could come in and relax for a while.”

“I can’t,” Torrez said. “I’ve got a stack of things that need doing.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” I said.

“Well, no there’s not, sir. Tomorrow’s already booked.”

“Is there anything in particular that I can do for you?” I tried to sound sincere, I really did.

He reached for the door. I didn’t like the way his forehead was wrinkling. That meant he was thinking, and might actually come up with something. He opened the door and paused. “Don’t forget to vote.”

“Two or three times,” I said, and clapped him on the back. “But for who?”

“I’ll let you know first thing in the morning,” he said.

At 7:04 AM the next day I pushed the big red button at the bottom of the voting machine’s display. The machine chimed to let me know that I’d made the right choices. I pushed back the curtain, turned, and caught a blast of white light square in the face.

Frank Dayan grinned sheepishly and wound his camera for another take.

“Jesus, Frank,” I said, and rubbed my eyes. “There has to be a better way to waste film.”

“Posterity,” he said. “This is a big moment.”

“Just enormous,” I grumbled, and stepped to one side so that I wouldn’t block traffic. In this case, “traffic” was a tiny, white-haired woman who smiled brightly at me. I tipped my hat and moved Frank out of her way. She’d arrived at the fire station on Bustos just as the election clerk had handed me the little admission stub with the number 6 written on it.

Dayan followed me outside.

“Have you established the connection between James Walsh and Scott Gutierrez yet?”

“No, Frank, we haven’t.” I breathed in the wonderful air. And then, as an afterthought, I said, “At least Sheriff Torrez hasn’t. Investigation is continuing, as we’re fond of saying.”

“Is Connie French still in a coma?”

“As far as I know.”

“I’m guessing that some of the answers lie with her, is that right?”

“That would be right.”

“So if she never comes out of it, what happens?”

“The department pursues other avenues of investigation that remain open.”

“I understand that Estelle Guzman is visiting.”

“That’s also correct.”

“Do she and her husband have any plans to return to Posadas?”

I laughed. “You’d have to ask them, Frank.”

“Fair enough. I had a feeling you were going to say that, but it was worth a try. One last thing. Can I break the news that you’ve agreed to work with the New Mexico Livestock Board as an interim inspector? Is that official yet?”

“I’ve been asked, and I haven’t given my answer.” Another vehicle pulled in and deposited two more voters. I nodded a greeting. “But yes, you can say that I’ve agreed to help out on a temporary basis.”

Frank Dayan looked pleased. Apparently his news scoops came in all sizes and shades of importance.

“I heard-maybe it was you that told me, I’ve forgotten-I heard that you promised today would be your last day as sheriff. That you weren’t going to wait until January. Is that true?”

“That’s true. I told the County Commission last spring that was the deal, when I took the job. Assuming both of those voters who just walked into the building push the right buttons, Robert Torrez will be serving as sheriff-elect beginning at midnight.”

Dayan cocked his head and studied me. “And so now what? How are you going to spend your day?”

“I can’t imagine that the average reader would care.” I chuckled. “It would make sense to spend the next seventeen hours being useful. Other than that, I have no plans.”

“Will you do me a favor?” Dayan asked.

“If I can, sure.”

“As soon as you find out something definite about this mess with Connie French, will you let me know?”

“If something crops up in the next seventeen hours, I certainly will. Otherwise, you’ll be talking to Sheriff Torrez.” I found myself grinning like a teenager. “I like the sound of that.” I turned to go, then remembered the newspaper publisher’s trek up the mountainside. “How did your photo of the air rescue come out?”

“Awesome,” he beamed. “It’s going to be a hell of a front page this week. Full color.”

“Outstanding. I look forward to seeing it. Don’t forget to vote, Frank.”

I was three minutes from home, and didn’t waste any time. The Don Juan was closed, but my grandson wasn’t one to shirk his duties. He and Estelle had conjured up their own version of breakfast burritos, and when I walked through the front door I was greeted by the wonderful aroma. Eating wasn’t the first thing on my mind, though.

Earlier, the telephone had rung just as I was getting ready to walk out the front door on my way to vote. My grandson the answering machine had gotten there first, and surprised me when he announced that the call was for Dr. Francis Guzman. “Your aunt in Veracruz, Doctor G,” he said as he handed the physician the receiver.