Hermit_s Peak kk-4 Page 20

  He stopped at a road sign that told of the village's former status as the county seat, and its most notorious visitor, Billy the Kid, before cruising south to the end of the pavement. The road turned to gravel where two converging mesas pinched the valley close to the river, the streambed hidden behind thick bosque. He spotted several old semitrailers near barns and outbuildings, but it was dear they'd been stationary for years.

  He worked a series of dirt roads, visually checking each ranch and farm that came into view, until he was a good ten miles south of the village.

  Melendez had warned him not to get his hopes up, and Thorpe now understood why. As he crisscrossed and skirted buttes, mesas, arroyos, and canyon lands on rutted tracks that seemed to go nowhere, he realized that he could spend days in the boonies, find nothing, and still have hundreds of places left to search.

  Back in Puerto de Luna, he stopped at the community center and talked to a cook and her elderly male assistant, who were in the kitchen preparing a midday meal for senior dozens.

  "Do either of you know Lenny Alarid?" Thorpe asked as he watched the stout, middle-aged woman ladle food into a white Styrofoam container and hand it to the old man.

  "I don't think so," the woman said.

  The old man put the container into a portable warming cart and waited to receive the next meal.

  "Do you know him?" Thorpe asked him.

  The old man shook his head.

  "He's a truck driver," Thorpe added.

  "Lots of people around here drive trucks," the cook replied, holding out another meal.

  The old man closed the lid and slid it into the can.

  The thick veins in his liver-spotted hands were blood red under a thin layer of translucent skin.

  "A semi truck Thorpe said. He described Aland's tractor trailer rig.

  "Never saw it," the woman said "I have," the old man said.

  "Where?" the cook asked before Thorpe could get the question out.

  "At Perfecta Velarde's barn. The truck was there yesterday when I delivered her meal to her."

  "Did she have any visitors?" Thorpe asked.

  "Yes. Her daughter and son-in-law. The daughter's name is Gloria. I didn't meet the man."

  "Do you know Gloria's married name?"

  The old man shook his head.

  "But she lives in Anton Chico."

  "Where is Perfecta's place?"

  "On the highway to Santa Rosa. The truck is parked next to the barn."

  "I didn't see it on the way in."

  "You can't. A hill blocks it from view. You have to be driving back to Santa Rosa to see her place from the highway."

  "How far?" Thorpe asked.

  "Two miles. It's just before the road curves around the mesa. You'll see it."

  "Thanks."

  Russell keyed the radio as he left the community center and made contact with Art Garda.

  "You were supposed to be back a half hour ago," Garda said after acknowledging Thorpe's call.

  "I may have located Aland's truck."

  "When will you know for sure?" Garda asked sarcastically.

  Thorpe took the first turn after the bridge at sixty miles an hour.

  "About one minute."

  "Standing by," Garda said.

  Thorpe floored his unit along a straightaway, braked through a gradual curve, saw Perfecta's barn and Aland's rig, and slowed down.

  "Truck in sight."

  "Can you positively ID the rig?"

  "Give me a minute." Russell rolled to a stop, reached for his binoculars, and focused on the lettering on the driver's door.

  "It's Aland's. He's got the trailer unhitched from his cab. Looks like he's planning to leave it here."

  "Give me an exact location."

  Thorpe snapped off directions into the microphone.

  "What should I do if he tries to leave?"

  "Stop him when he gets on the highway. If nobody moves, stay put.

  Sergeant Melendez is responding. ETA ten minutes. Sergeant Gonzales is rolling now. Good work, Thorpe."

  Ten-four."

  Smiling to himself, Russell parked his unit, left the engine running, and scanned the farmhouse. All looked quiet. As he lowered the binoculars, his radio crackled and Melendez's voice came over the speaker.

  "ETA five minutes. Is everything cool?"

  "Roger that. Nothing's moving. Do we have a search warrant?"

  "Not yet. Art Garcia is enroute to magistrate court."

  "Ten-four."

  Melendez clicked off and Russell settled back to wait.

  Lenny Aland watched the cops from the living room window. For twenty minutes, two police cars had been parked at the end of his mother-in-law's driveway. At first Lenny told himself the cops were just taking a break and shooting the shit. Now his gut ached with the feeling that he was about to be busted.

  Lenny didn't think of himself as a criminal. He wasn't a wife-beater, a drunk, or a bad-ass, and he'd never been in jail. He was forty-eight years old and had spent most of his adult life on the road, hauling whatever he could on a for-hire basis. Only a fraction of his runs consisted of hauling stolen merchandise, but the work netted him the biggest portion of his income. Without it he'd be scraping along, driving a piece of shit rig, trying to live on 15,000 dollars a year.

  He took his eyes off the cops for a moment and glanced at his truck. A top-of-the-line model with a sleeping compartment and all the accessories, it had set him back over 150,000 dollars. It was midnight blue with stainless steel grillwork, a chrome bumper, custom running lights at the top of the cab, primo mud flaps, and fancy cherry red pinstriping. It was his pride and joy. But with the cargo in the box, it was about to become a big time liability.

  He snorted and rubbed his belly where the gas pressure had built up. He was about to get hammered by the cops because of Rudy Espinoza's stupidity. If he hadn't murdered Carl Boaz, the cops wouldn't be here.

  He switched his attention back to the cop cars just as another unit drove up, and Lenny knew for sure his goose was cooked.

  Gloria, his wife, stood by his side nervously biting a fingernail. She knew exactly how he made his money.

  He'd married Gloria eight years ago when she still had a slender figure and a young-looking face. Then she hit forty and her body got wide, her face got fat and her arms got flabby. Lenny didn't care; he was no prize himself.

  "Are they coming here?" Gloria asked.

  "What do you think?"

  "Don't snap at me."

  Lenny grunted.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Nothing."

  "Can't we leave?"

  "They'll just stop us on the road."

  "Think of something."

  "Like what?"

  "Maybe they're not here for us."

  "Yeah, right," Lenny said.

  "See the cop standing behind his car. He's got binoculars trained on the house."

  The senior citizen meal delivery van came down the highway with a turn signal blinking. The cop with the binoculars halted the vehicle, talked to the driver for a minute, and sent him on his way.

  "We're screwed," Lenny said.

  "Take your mother to the kitchen."

  "I don't want to go to jail, Lenny."

  "You don't know anything about my business, understand? Tell them you came along for the ride to keep me company, and don't know nothing."

  "What about you?"

  "I'll get a lawyer."

  A fourth patrol car drove up.

  "Shit!" Lenny said.

  "Is it time for my meal?" Perfecta asked.

  Lenny grimaced in the direction of his mother-in-law, who stood in the middle of the living room, her hands clasped on the rails of a walker.

  A stroke had left her partially paralyzed, and her mind was mostly mush.

  She barely knew who she was. Except when Gloria came to visit, the old lady had a live-in assistant, who cost Lenny a pile of money to employ.

  "Take her into the kitche
n," Lenny repeated, just as the phone rang.

  Gloria picked it up, listened for a moment, and held it out with a shaky hand.

  "I hope they bring me lamb chops and peas today," Perfecta said.

  "And peaches."

  Gloria gave Lenny a scared look, went to her mother, and walked her through the kitchen door.

  "Yeah," Lenny said into the phone.

  "This is Sergeant Gonzales with the New Medco State Police, Lenny. Who is inside the house besides your wife and mother-in-law?"

  "Nobody. What do you want?"

  "We're here to serve a warrant. I want you to step outside the house and stand in plain view with your hands where I can see them. Are there any guns in the house?"

  "No."

  "Are you armed?"

  "No."

  "Hang up the phone and step outside. Stay calm and nobody gets hurt."

  On the porch step with his hands palms out and open, Lenny watched the four police cars come up the driveway. The front unit rolled to a stop and a uniformed sergeant with a stubby chin and square face got out of his cruiser and stood behind the car door.

  Behind him, three officers emerged from their units with guns drawn.

  "What's this all about?" Lenny asked.

  Gabe studied Lenny before responding. Aland wore a work shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots that added an inch to his five seven frame. A full mustache covered his upper lip, and deep worry lines creased his low forehead.

  His hands were shaking.

  Gabe didn't see any bulges in Lenny's clothing. He made a circular motion with his finger.

  "Very slowly,

  Lenny, I want you to make one complete turn and then stop. Keep your hands away from your body."

  Lenny finished the turn to find two of the cops within striking distance. One held a gun on him while a baby-faced officer patted him down.

  "He's clean," the baby-faced cop said as he tossed Lenny's truck keys to Gabe.

  "Check inside," Gabe ordered.

  The cops moved into the house as Gabe walked to Lenny, smiled, and handed him some papers.

  Lenny couldn't focus on the document.

  "What's this?"

  "You want me to read it to you?"

  "No."

  "What's inside your trailer, Lenny?"

  "You tell me."

  "How about a truckload of stolen goodies from Texas?" Gabe asked.

  "I don't know nothing about that."

  Gabe took the papers out of Lenny's hand and waved them in his face.

  "This is a warrant to search your truck and trailer, Lenny. Let's try again. What's in the trailer?"

  Lenny's shoulders sagged.

  "Water heaters, washing machines, and some other stuff."

  "You got a bill of lading for the cargo?"

  "No."

  Gabe stepped behind Lenny, pulled his hands to the small of his back, and cuffed him.

  "You arresting me?" Lenny asked.

  "Yeah. Let's go take a look in the box," Gabe said.

  "But first let me tell you about your rights."

  Lenny refused to confess to anything other than transporting one load of stolen property, still in original factory crates and boxes, boosted from a regional warehouse distribution center in El Paso.

  Gabe took Alarid into the kitchen, closed the door, sat him down at the table, and had him write a voluntary confession. The kitchen was right out of the late 1940s. It had a cast-iron enamel sink positioned under a window, a run of metal kitchen cabinets painted white with a battleship gray linoleum countertop, and a badly worn tile floor. The oval kitchen table had chrome legs and a yellow top, and the matching chairs were padded with cracked vinyl cushions. On one wall hung a framed photograph of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

  While Art Garda and Abe Melendez inventoried the stolen merchandise, Russell Thorpe stood watch over Gloria, who was in the living room feeding Perfecta her meal. Gabe had let the senior citizen van driver deliver it on his way back to the village.

  Through the closed door, Gabe could hear me elderly woman complaining that she wanted lamb and peas, not fish.

  Gabe watched Lenny sign his name at the bottom of the paper.

  "Date it," he said.

  Lenny scribbled the date and held out the confession.

  Gabe read it and shook his head.

  "This isn't going to work, Lenny."

  "Why not? I confessed, didn't I?"

  "I forgot to explain a few things to you."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm going to have to book you on a murder charge."

  Lenny's armpits got sweaty.

  "I didn't kill anybody."

  "I know that. But we found Rudy's truck and the murder weapon hidden on your property. That makes you an accessory after the fact to murder."

  "I didn't know he'd killed Boaz."

  "The law is funny about being an accessory. If you helped Rudy in any way, you can be charged with murder.

  Probably second degree."

  "That's crazy."

  "Then there's the conspiracy charge."

  "What conspiracy?"

  "You paid Rudy for all that wood he poached. Don't tell me you didn't know where he got it."

  Lenny rubbed his nose with a thumb.

  "He never told me."

  "You'll have to convince a jury of that. You're looking at a shitload of felonies." Gabe ticked them off on his fingers.

  "Murder, conspiracy, and multiple counts of receiving and transporting stolen property. Each item in the trailer can be a separate charge against you. Have you ever been in prison?"

  Lenny shook his head.

  "You could get over a hundred years. What about Gloria? Has she done time before?"

  "She can't testify against me."

  "She might want to, if it means staying out of the slammer. After all, she's got a mother who needs looking after, and a brand-new baby grandson. You know how women get when it conics to families. I'll talk to her."

  Lenny held up a hand to stop Gabe.

  "What do you want?"

  Gabe tore off Lenny's handwritten page from the tablet and slid the pad across the table.

  "All of it.

  Your Texas contacts, who you deliver to, what Rudy boosted that you trucked out of state, where you took it, and what arrangements you had with Joaquin Santistevan."

  "What do I get?"

  "Probably a break from the district attorney, if you cooperate."

  "What kind of break?"

  "Tell you what: I'll ask the DA to drop the murder and conspiracy charges. He might even be willing to cut back on the number of receiving stolen property indictments. After all, you'll be going into court as a first-time offender."

  "I'll do time?"

  "Maybe, maybe not."

  Lenny reached for the pad and pencil..

  "Answer one question for me before you start writing," Gabe said.

  "How did Joaquin tip off Rudy that I was nosing around? He didn't use the office telephone."

  "He used my cell phone."

  "You were at the wood lot "I was on the office crapper when you came into the trailer. I just stayed out of sight until you split."

  By noontime, Kerney was down to the last person on the list of names Orlando Gonzales had given him. So far, none of Bernardo's friends and former high school classmates had provided any relevant information.

  His last potential informant, Melissa Pena, now married and known as Melissa Valencia, worked as a secretary for an independent insurance agent. Kerney arrived at the agency and found the young woman standing behind a reception desk in a small, two-office suite, filing paperwork in a four-drawer metal cabinet.

  She had long dark hair that fell below her waist and wore a jumper over a short-sleeve turtleneck top that didn't hide her pregnant belly.

  Kerney guessed she was in her last trimester. He identified himself and asked about Bernardo.

  "I really can't tell you very much about him," Melissa said as she
eased herself into her secretarial chair.

  "I was told you were once good friends."

  "Not me. He was my best friend's boyfriend. I kinda put up with him because of her, but I never really liked him."

  "Who would that be?"

  "Patricia Gomez. She went with him for three years, during high school and her first year in college."

  "Didn't she have Bernardo's baby?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why didn't she marry him?"

  "They were going to get married."

  "What happened?"

  "After high school, Patricia enrolled at the university and I started working here. We got an apartment together. She kept dating Bernardo.

  It was more than dating, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she soon got pregnant."

  "How did Bernardo handle it?"

  "He seemed real happy. They both did."

  "And then what?"

  "Patricia had a lot of problems carrying the baby, especially morning sickness. One day I came home for lunch and found her crying. Bernardo had come over, wanting sex. When she said no, he beat her up."

  "Was she badly beaten?"

  "Mostly he slapped her and pushed her around. She had some bruises and her face was all red."

  "To your knowledge, had this happened before?"

  "No. Patricia was like in shock about it."

  "What did she do?"

  "She broke up with him right away. Patrida isn't stupid.

  She wasn't going to put up with an abusing asshole."

  "What did Bernardo do?"

  "He kept calling and stopping by, trying to apologize.

  But Patrida wouldn't see or talk to him."

  "Did Patrida report the inddent to the police?"

  Melissa shook her head.

  "No, but she told her parents.

  When school got out she moved back home and lived with them until the baby was born."

  "Why did Patrida go to Denver?"

  "To get away from Bernardo. He was like stalking her."

  "In what way?"

  "Mostly just following her when she left the house.

  But only when she went out alone. He wrote her a few letters about how she was making a big mistake by breaking up with him, and that he'd get even with her."

  "You know this for a fact?"

  "Patricia showed me the letters."

  "Did she get a restraining order against Bernardo?"