Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“They do this at night?” Madelyn asked.

“Most of the time. Late evening, I’m guessing. A little light makes it easy for them, hard for the Border Patrol. You can hear a chopper coming from miles away. It doesn’t take much to hide in the rocks. But you know,” and he hunched forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, “that’s not the issue. Crossing the border isn’t difficult in a bazillion places.” He looked up and grinned. “It’s like a dog chasing a goddamn truck.…Chasing a truck isn’t hard. But what does he do when he finally catches it? You get across the fence, and then what?” He sipped his coffee. “If they had a place to rest for a bit, and then someplace all arranged to work, and a way to get to work, then it’s easy.”

“But it’s starting to look as if he has the whole village involved in this,” Estelle said. “They must know what’s going on, at the very least. It isn’t just providing sanctuary at the iglesia once in a while for an illegal or two. They’re sponsoring illegals, padrino . A handful comes in, as far as I can tell, and they mix in during a church ceremony of some kind. This next week-in fact tomorrow-it’s Fernando and Maria Rivera’s seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. And then I wouldn’t be surprised if a few folks agree to drive the illegals to either a place of employment, or at least on up the road where hitchhikers don’t raise eyebrows. That’s what’s happening. They have their own little railroad organized.”

“I’m not surprised. You have a whole village working together, you can get a lot done.” He grinned and hitched himself sideways in his chair. “That idea isn’t original with me, by the way.”

He leaned forward, reached out and tilted his cup, then pushed himself away from the table and padded over to the coffeepot. “You know how easy it is to cross to Regál,” he said as he returned to the table with a refill. “Anywhere else is a hell of a hike. But climbing up into the hills to skirt the fence, hell, that’s not hard. Or hitching a ride through the gate with a willing resident? That’s not hard, either, especially if the right person is working the crossing on our side. Their side isn’t the issue.”

“Is it fair to say,” Madelyn Bolles said, “that not everyone around here is concerned about illegals coming into the country?”

“Very fair,” Gastner replied, spreading his hands wide. “And on the other hand, to some folks it’s the biggest goddamn threat this side of ten-dollar gasoline. ‘You can’t let all them damn greasers into this country, or first thing you know, one of ’em will want to marry my sister.’” He shrugged. “Then there’s the other extreme, those folks who say anybody should be able to work and live anywhere, without any goddamn fences or border checkpoints, or brown shirts standing around with machine guns asking you, ‘Where are your papers?’”

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “The most reverend Father Bertrand Anselmo is closer to the latter group.”

“And you?” the writer asked with a smile. “May I ask that?”

“I’ve never been able to figure out what I think,” Gastner said cheerfully. “I go with the flow of the moment. I make sure I can make it through this day, and then tomorrow takes care of itself.” Gastner looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “What’d you tell Bert?”

“I told him to stop it,” Estelle replied. “But I’m not going to organize a raid of a wedding anniversary mass.”

Gastner chuckled. “That’d make the news, wouldn’t it. No doubt, your young woodcutter will be back next week, working for someone else.”

“He’s wanted in Buenaventura. The authorities say he borrowed a car.”

“Well, then, it’ll be two weeks,” Gastner laughed. “Until he figures out who to bribe. You can see how optimistic I am about this whole mess.”

He stretched hugely, blinking himself alert. “But believe it or not, this is the least of your problems, sweetheart. You’ve got an inconvenient corpse on your hands. Do you have any theories about this sweepstakes thing?”

“Tony Abeyta is over in Cruces,” Estelle said. “There has to be a link between Chris Marsh and somebody . Tony’s working with Grunt Nilson to see what they can dig up. Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum. I’m sure of that.”

“Not to mention the nagging little fact that someone killed him,” Gastner said. “Or at least hastened the goddamn dying process a little.”

“Exactly.” She saw Madelyn’s eyebrows pucker a little, but the writer didn’t intrude with questions, and Estelle was impressed all the more.

“Well, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call,” Gastner said, and pushed back his chair. He stood up with a sigh. “Wonderful grub, wonderful company, but I have to go back to my burrow.” He extended a hand to Madelyn Bolles. “Pleasure seeing you again. How long are you with us?”

“You never know,” she replied.

He laughed. “You have my card,” he said. “If you get stranded, give me a buzz. I’ll be delighted to tour you around some more.”

“I will most assuredly do that.”

Estelle escorted the former sheriff of Posadas County to the front door, where he paused, one hand on the knob. “I’d be interested to know about Serafina,” he said. “Joe and Lucinda I can figure, especially with the publicity about their big lottery win earlier this spring. But I worry a little about the old lady.”

“Why or how she was picked as the first winner, you mean?”

“Yep. You’ve had the same thought.”

“That’s my goal tomorrow,” Estelle said with a nod. “We’ll see what Tony turns down in Cruces, and go from there.” She stretched carefully, and unconsciously pressed her right hand to her ribs.

“You taking care of yourself?” Gastner said, his voice dropping to little more than a gruff whisper.

“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Long days are a little tougher, is all.”

“Then shorten ’em,” Gastner replied. He reached out and circled her shoulders, his hug gentle. “Thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

As she closed the door behind him, Estelle turned to see Madelyn Bolles shrugging into her light blue jacket.

“I’d best be on my way, too,” she said. “If you’re called out, will you have time to give me a buzz? Probably not, huh.”

“There’s never any way to tell. Are you sure that you want that, though?”

“At the moment, no. But I’d feel terrible if I missed something.” She extended her hand and held Estelle’s for a moment. “I really appreciate being included this evening.”

“We all enjoyed your visit,” Estelle said. “And Francisco enjoyed showing off for you.”

“What an amazing gift,” the writer said. “I hope I can hear him play again.”

Estelle laughed. “That won’t be hard to arrange. He seemed to enjoy having you as an audience.” She waited on the front step as Madelyn Bolles made her way out to her car, then switched off the porch light as the taillights of the rental Buick disappeared up the street. Estelle stood in the foyer for a moment, then closed and locked the front door.

On Sunday morning, Deputy Tony Abeyta sounded pessimistic. It was always gratifying when information jumped right into the investigator’s headlights, and frustrating when it remained illusive.

“We talked to every neighbor we could find last night,” he said, “but a weekend isn’t always the best time.” He chuckled and added, “It’s amazing how many folks can’t even describe what their neighbors look like.”

“Or want to,” Estelle said, then added, “You’re off today, you know.” Abeyta glanced across her office toward the wall with the whiteboard and its staff schedule.