Steven Havill - Double Prey

“I know I ain’t overweight,” he replied. “And she’s all tied down good. Just goin’ to the yard, anyways.”

“Yes, sir,” Estelle said. “Would you mind staying with the deputy for a few moments, sir?” Deputy Abeyta and Florek remained by the front of the truck while Estelle and Gastner walked back to the trailer. Now eighteen inches thick, the pancaked wad of metal and plastic on the bottom tier showed the clear patina of age and burned metal.

“Doors are gone,” Gastner observed, “but this sure as hell is the center post between front and back.” He tapped the crumpled tail pipe. “This is what I was talking about. That’s diesel hardware. And right here?” He moved along the wreck and touched a spot of metal. “That’s where the fender insignia would be. Probably said something like XLT Powerstroke Diesel or some such. Something like that anyway, depending on the year.”

“If we’re going to look for much more, we’re going to have to unload it and take it apart.” Estelle leaned inward, between the semi’s cab and trailer. “An engine, you suppose?”

“I would bet against it,” Gastner said. “ That’s worth a lot of money.”

She lowered her voice. “If this truck belonged to Johns…”

“Then we have a few choices,” Gastner added.

“ Ay , ” Estelle whispered. “We need to know.”

By the time they reached Florek’s wrecking yard, Sheriff Robert Torrez was there to meet them, along with Deputy Tom Pasquale.

“Got a really good buy on this stuff,” Gastner quipped. Torrez shot him an amused look, and offered a salute to Florek, who stood on the running board of the tractor, waiting instructions.

“Mears has found the dentist,” the sheriff said to Estelle. “Nothing yet, but maybe. It’s a step. So tell me what you got here.”

“I have reason to believe that this baby down here-” Gastner stepped forward and pointed at the wreck-“this vehicle right here is a late model Ford crew cab, Robert. It’s a diesel. It’s been burned enough that the paint is gone, but not so much that we couldn’t find a trace somewhere in a protected area.”

“Johns?”

“Could be. We need to know the year . That’s critical.”

Torrez turned and looked at Estelle. “You talked to Gus about this?”

“No. Not yet. I want an identification first.”

The sheriff pursed his lips and frowned. “You had to pick the one on the bottom, didn’t you,” he said to Gastner, and followed that with a tight smile. He stepped closer. “You trust Florek with all this?”

“Yes,” Gastner said without hesitation, then shrugged. “And no. As much as I trust anyone. Up to an hour ago, I trusted Gus, too.”

“Okay.” The sheriff ambled up along the truck and looked up at Cameron Florek. “How long will it take you to unload?”

“Well, see, I was going to run this load right on down to the plant in Cruces.”

“Nope. Not yet, anyway.”

“Look,” Florek said as he swung down. He stood eye to eye with Torrez. “You want to tell me what’s going on here? What’s the interest in the wreck?”

“Cam,” Gastner said, “you’re the expert to ask. If I wanted to know the year of this one,” and he reached out and touched the diesel tailpipe, “how would I do it?”

“Door plate would tell ya, but the door’s gone, so that’s out,” Florek said. He examined the wreck. “VIN is…well, hell, you know where the VIN is as well as me.”

“And if the vehicle identification number plate is missing?”

Florek shrugged. “It’s a later model. That’s for sure. Burned some.”

“What year?”

The salvage yard owner scratched his hairy forearm. He strolled along the trailer to the rear of the wreck, his mobile face active as he worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Hands jammed in his pockets, he turned his head this way and that.

“That’ll tell ya,” he said, and reached up to pull at the remains of a tail light lens. There was no way to judge how large the lens might have been, since it was broken, partially melted, and jammed into the crumpled steel that had formed the housing around the unit. “Lemme get a bar.” He turned and strode over to his small office by the gate, and returned in a moment with a short wrecking bar.

Torrez held up a hand to stop him as Estelle worked the camera. She took a series of half a dozen photos of the tail-light area from various angles, then nodded.

With a few deft probes, Florek loosened the remains of the lens. It hung from the carcass by several wires, themselves melted to the copper. “Now see, it’s got three sets of wires that would attach with quarter turn sockets. Still got one left.” He popped the light out of its socket, and the plastic lens fragment, about the size of a tea cup saucer, came loose in his hand. “Socket up here, broke off. Socket right here. And between ’em…” He held the fragment so Estelle could see it.

“ASY four-el-three four dash six nine…and then it’s broken off. Below that, hecho en Mexico . ”

“That’s the part number,” Florek said. “And if I remember right, the number after the first letters is the year. So four , is two thousand four.”

“Not ninety-four?”

“Nope. They used a different series back then. And before that, I don’t know if they used a separate number or not.”

“So two thousand four. You’re sure of that.”

“Yep.” He turned back to the wreck. “You know, unless someone replaced the lamp with another one of a different year. That’s unlikely. And if you look down in there, you’ll see some overspray that the fire didn’t touch. Just a second.” He walked up to the cab of the truck, rummaged in the door pocket, and returned with a flashlight. “Look here.” Estelle stepped close and looked inside the bent and folded carcass.

“Black.”

“That’s right.”

“What we have here is a black, 2004 Ford crew cab, with a diesel engine.”

“At one time,” Florek said. “At one time, that’s probably what she was.”

“Shit,” Bill Gastner said quietly.

Estelle turned to him and lowered her voice. “We can’t be sure it was his, Padrino . ”

“How big a coincidence are you looking for?” He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Evidence. Thank God for evidence, right?”

“Look, we need that unit,” Torrez said to Florek. “If you’d unload the others, I’ll get the county to pick this one up. Hour or so, maybe.”

Florek sighed hugely. “You’re the boss, sheriff.” He backed up a few steps so he could see around the rig’s cab. “I’ll pull up right there, in that open spot past the fence. I think we’ll only need to take off the front six, unless they’re all tangled.” He looked at first the sheriff, then Estelle, and finally at Bill Gastner. “You folks ready to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope,” Torrez replied, and Florek laughed.

“How’d Gus happen by this carcass?”

“Good question,” the sheriff said, and his glare was impressively black. “And by the way…if he happens to call you, or you him, you didn’t see any of this. You’re headin’ down to Cruces just like always.”

All that they knew for sure, Estelle thought ruefully, was that the crushed truck had come from Gus Prescott’s collection. That was all. The questionable recollection of another rancher had offered that Eddie Johns had driven a black, three-quarter ton Ford diesel crew cab. She could imagine the bemused expression of District Attorney Dan Schroeder.

The undersheriff was tempted simply to confront Gus Prescott with the question, but knew the risks of that. Tipping one’s hand prematurely was a dangerous poker move…and even more so here.