Steven Havill - Double Prey

“We don’t know what Gus paid for it. On top of that, the insurance company might have already forked over to Johns for the loss.”

“Did he strike you as the sort of guy who would just give stuff away, sir?”

“He strikes me as the sort who’d give Gus a good deal if he knew that he’d get something that he wants in return. Who knows…maybe he traded for a hundred hours of grader time. Something like that. You’ll just have to ask him.”

They both turned as Torrez approached. “Giarelli never had a wreck like Torrance was talkin’ about,” he said. “Doesn’t know who Eddie Johns is. Never had any dealings with anyone by that name. Hasn’t had a driver wreck a truck on the highway since 1969. Never had a wreck with anyone visiting the crusher plant.”

“Son of a bitch,” Gastner said wearily. “So who’s lying?”

“Don’t think that Giarelli is, but I got Gayle givin’ Deming PD a call for a records check. We’ll know soon enough. If there was a wreck, the insurance companies would require a report.”

“But no word from Mears yet?”

“Nope.”

“Where are we heading with all this?” Bill Gastner asked. “If we’re thinking that Gus Prescott killed Eddie Johns…”

“I’d want to hear a reason,” Torrez said. “Give me a motive.” The room fell silent. “’Cause nothin’ ties any of this together.”

“Meaning the tie with Freddy Romero?”

Torrez nodded. “It ain’t no secret that Gus didn’t like the kid. He ain’t exactly welcoming him into the family, is he. So he sees the kid ride by, and maybe follows him? Is that the idea? There’s a dozen reasons that Gus might want to go through the canyon. Doesn’t mean that he’s lyin’ in wait for Freddy, does it.”

“Unless he knew why Freddy was snooping around that particular piece of real estate,” Gastner added. “If Gus saw the article in the paper, he knew two things. One, that Freddy found the cat skeleton. Two, that the kid didn’t find it where he said he did. That’s kind of interesting, you have to admit.”

“I want to hear from Mears after he talks with the Ford dealer in Las Cruces,” Estelle said. “And then I want to hear Mr. Prescott’s version of the Giarelli story.”

Torrez nodded. “Don’t be goin’ down there by yourself.” He turned and looked first at the silent Tom Pasquale, then at Gastner. “That goes for anybody just now. Not ‘til we know what we’re dealing with.”

“How sure are you that someone took at shot at Freddy Romero’s four-wheeler, Robert?” Gastner asked, and when Torrez didn’t respond immediately with anything other than a raised eyebrow, the former sheriff added, “Because that makes a substantial difference. If someone did , then the threat may very well still be with us. If not, then the trail behind Eddie Johns’ killer might be five years stone cold.”

Torrez remained silent. “I mean, what have you got?” Gastner continued. “A little scuff mark on the ATV’s front shield, a rock-shredded tire, and a tiny, amorphous bit of brass that could just as easily be the remains of a brass deck screw or from a bit of brass plumbing pipe that jounced out of someone’s truck.”

“I am one hundred percent sure,” the sheriff said softly. “I know a bullet fragment when I see it. And so does Sarge. And the microscope don’t lie, Bill.”

Gastner nodded. “Then someone’s still out there with a rifle, folks.”

“That’s all I’m sayin’,” Torrez said.

“I need to talk with Casey Prescott again,” Estelle said. “And I don’t want an army with me when I do it. I know she’s not in school today.”

“You called the ranch?” Torrez asked.

“No. The school, earlier. I didn’t want to call the ranch before I had to.”

“I’m no army,” Bill Gastner said, “and nobody’s going to mistake me for one.”

“I could use your fatherly perspective, sir.”

“My ‘fatherly perspective.’ My own kids might argue about the value of that.”

A few moments later, as they both settled in Estelle’s county car, she looked across at Gastner. “I have a theory,” she said, but he quickly held up a hand to stop her.

“I don’t want to know anything that might color my ‘fatherly perspective,’ sweetheart. Besides,” he said, “I have a few theories of my own. Unfortunately, none of them are worth a good God damn.”

“Suppose that Gus Prescott disliked Freddy Romero just as much as he claims. Any Mexican who walks the earth. Suppose that he’s just as much of a bigot as he likes to sound. He doesn’t want a Mexican kid dating his daughter. His daughter might have let it slip that she was riding the four-wheeler with Freddy all over the place, and maybe let it slip that she was with the boy when he found the cat.”

“Just suppose.”

“So Gus sees Freddy ride by, and takes the opportunity to go talk with the kid. Maybe try to scare him away.”

“Maybe. With a rifle shot across the bow? Got a little too close for comfort.”

“That’s more than likely. I mean, how easy is it to hit a fast-moving target for the average shooter? I don’t know what kind of gun Gus might own, but it’s apt to be your average ranch rifle of some kind.”

“Plenty hard, no matter what.”

“Exactly. For one thing, he’s been drinking. He decides it would be a good thing to scare the boy, but when he tries it, he gets a little too close. One shot wings the front fender and tire, and startles the boy for just that fraction of a second that it takes to make a mistake. Pow, Freddy hits the rock, and over he goes.”

“Or Gus wanted to kill him, wanted to hit him, and is a piss-poor shot.”

“Either way the results are the same,” Estelle said. “I vote for accidental discharge.”

“And all that’s if Gus is telling the truth about Eddie Johns’ truck.”

“See, that’s the thing, sir. If he isn’t telling the truth, then he has more reason to stop Freddy than just fatherly concern for his lovely daughter,” Estelle said.

“’Fatherly concern’ isn’t a just kind of thing, sweetheart. People have killed for much, much less. Is Casey pregnant? You know what dads think about that, too. When my kids were growing up, there was a time or two when I thought I was going to have to shoot somebody.”

“I don’t think she is, sir.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“No…not until I ask her.”

“I don’t want you talking to her.” Jewell Prescott stood squarely in the doorway of the double-wide mobile home, and there was no mistaking her posture. With one hand on each door jamb, she was an effective road block. As if picking up unpleasant intimations, the three dogs, at first so bumptiously gleeful, had retreated to a shady spot at the end of the trailer near a propane tank.

“Mrs. Prescott, I wouldn’t intrude if I didn’t think it was important,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said.

“Oh, everything is important,” the heavy woman said. “And my two daughters are important to me. Listen, Casey’s in just terrible straights right now. She doesn’t want to go to school and put up with all those questions. And I see no reason to be dredging all this unhappiness up over and over again. You just go talk to someone else about all this.”

“Mrs. Prescott,” Estelle said, “When there’s an official investigation, we talk with whomever the situation requires. I’m sure you understand that. I’m certainly sorry for any intrusion, but that’s just the way it is.”

“There’s nothing Casey can tell you.”

“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prescott.”

“Bill, you’ve known us for years,” the woman said, and Bill Gastner nodded slightly, his expression sober. “What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to tell you?”