Read Online Bag Limit by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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what’s the point of paying attention, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you happen to notice the date of issue?”
“Date of issue?”
“It’s on the license, in small print.”
“I didn’t notice that, no.”
“It had his picture, though?”
“Yes.”
“Same one as this?” I held up Baca’s license.
Tommy Portillo leaned close and squinted. “No.” He settled back in the chair. “It wasn’t the same picture.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” I said, and leaned my head back against the chair again. “That’s something to go on, anyway.”
“I just wanted you to know. It was nagging at me, you know? You know how that goes?”
“Oh, yeah. I know how that goes.”
“I think maybe I can go home now and get some sleep.”
“I appreciate this, Tommy. I really do. We may want to talk to you again.”
“Anytime, Bill. Just anytime.”
After he left, I put Matt Baca’s license back in the small, tagged evidence bag. My intuition told me that Tommy Portillo was telling the truth. He had good reason to make any attempt to cover his ass, especially now, with a fatality involved—however tangentially.
A second license explained the boy’s reaching for ID in the Broken Spur. If Tommy Portillo was correct, Matt Baca had been about to show the bartender his freshly minted license. Victor Sanchez stopped the game before it had even begun.
Victor was no threat to Baca—he might not honor the bogus license, but he wouldn’t report the kid, either. The kid was free to go elsewhere. It made sense that he’d head for home, where Sosimo was known to keep a bottle or two. But when the red lights blossomed as the trio left the Broken Spur, Matt Baca had reason to run. His cousin, the undersheriff of Posadas County, knew exactly how old he was.
Having the fake license was one thing. Explaining where he got it was another story entirely.
Chapter Eight
I spent a couple of hours drafting my own written explanation of the night’s events. It was a simple enough incident, and ordinary circumstances would have required just a few minutes to whack out the necessary paragraphs of the deposition, beginning with the collision of Matt Baca’s car and my own.
“Ordinary circumstances” would have been if the incident had happened to someone else. As it was, I lingered over every sentence, letting my mind search and sift, looking for something that might strike a spark. I knew exactly why the kid had been mangled by the delivery truck. He was fast, I was slow. It was that painfully simple. Discovering why he’d decided to run in the first place wasn’t so simple.
Later in the morning, one of the deputies would have the chance to talk at length with Jessie Montoya, the young lady in the backseat. And maybe Toby Gordan would be able to mumble a few words past his stitches. The rules of the game had changed since I’d last seen those two kids—there was no need now for them to worry about protecting Matt Baca, or even saving face in front of their friend.
Whether or not Matt had told them where he got the license was another question. I was confident that he had, since humans are notoriously blabby when they’ve done something stupid of which they’re inordinately proud. I was sure that if Toby or Jessie knew, they’d tell us.
Shortly after five that Saturday morning, I finished the affidavit and walked out to dispatch. The deep, predawn hush included the Public Safety Building. Gutierrez and Bergmann, the two Border Patrol agents, had long since left, Deputy Taber was somewhere in the county prowling the shadows, and dispatcher Brent Sutherland was trying his best to remain alert as the adrenaline rush from earlier in the night wore off.
“Dig out your seal, would you?” I asked, and Brent looked grateful for something to do and eager for an excuse to use his freshly minted Notary Public commission. A few minutes later, as I slid the notarized statement into Taber’s mailbox, I said,
“Did you happen to notice the date of issue?”
“Date of issue?”
“It’s on the license, in small print.”
“I didn’t notice that, no.”
“It had his picture, though?”
“Yes.”
“Same one as this?” I held up Baca’s license.
Tommy Portillo leaned close and squinted. “No.” He settled back in the chair. “It wasn’t the same picture.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” I said, and leaned my head back against the chair again. “That’s something to go on, anyway.”
“I just wanted you to know. It was nagging at me, you know? You know how that goes?”
“Oh, yeah. I know how that goes.”
“I think maybe I can go home now and get some sleep.”
“I appreciate this, Tommy. I really do. We may want to talk to you again.”
“Anytime, Bill. Just anytime.”
After he left, I put Matt Baca’s license back in the small, tagged evidence bag. My intuition told me that Tommy Portillo was telling the truth. He had good reason to make any attempt to cover his ass, especially now, with a fatality involved—however tangentially.
A second license explained the boy’s reaching for ID in the Broken Spur. If Tommy Portillo was correct, Matt Baca had been about to show the bartender his freshly minted license. Victor Sanchez stopped the game before it had even begun.
Victor was no threat to Baca—he might not honor the bogus license, but he wouldn’t report the kid, either. The kid was free to go elsewhere. It made sense that he’d head for home, where Sosimo was known to keep a bottle or two. But when the red lights blossomed as the trio left the Broken Spur, Matt Baca had reason to run. His cousin, the undersheriff of Posadas County, knew exactly how old he was.
Having the fake license was one thing. Explaining where he got it was another story entirely.
Chapter Eight
I spent a couple of hours drafting my own written explanation of the night’s events. It was a simple enough incident, and ordinary circumstances would have required just a few minutes to whack out the necessary paragraphs of the deposition, beginning with the collision of Matt Baca’s car and my own.
“Ordinary circumstances” would have been if the incident had happened to someone else. As it was, I lingered over every sentence, letting my mind search and sift, looking for something that might strike a spark. I knew exactly why the kid had been mangled by the delivery truck. He was fast, I was slow. It was that painfully simple. Discovering why he’d decided to run in the first place wasn’t so simple.
Later in the morning, one of the deputies would have the chance to talk at length with Jessie Montoya, the young lady in the backseat. And maybe Toby Gordan would be able to mumble a few words past his stitches. The rules of the game had changed since I’d last seen those two kids—there was no need now for them to worry about protecting Matt Baca, or even saving face in front of their friend.
Whether or not Matt had told them where he got the license was another question. I was confident that he had, since humans are notoriously blabby when they’ve done something stupid of which they’re inordinately proud. I was sure that if Toby or Jessie knew, they’d tell us.
Shortly after five that Saturday morning, I finished the affidavit and walked out to dispatch. The deep, predawn hush included the Public Safety Building. Gutierrez and Bergmann, the two Border Patrol agents, had long since left, Deputy Taber was somewhere in the county prowling the shadows, and dispatcher Brent Sutherland was trying his best to remain alert as the adrenaline rush from earlier in the night wore off.
“Dig out your seal, would you?” I asked, and Brent looked grateful for something to do and eager for an excuse to use his freshly minted Notary Public commission. A few minutes later, as I slid the notarized statement into Taber’s mailbox, I said,
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