Read Online Bag Limit by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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“I’m going home, Brent.” At the same time, I leafed through the messages taped above my name…the same messages I’d ignored earlier and that were now stale as day-old toast.
One didn’t require a response, and a second recorded that Cliff Larson, the district livestock inspector, had called at 9:30 Friday evening. “What did Cliff want, did he say?”
“No, sir. He said that it could wait until today sometime. I gave him your cell phone number, but I guess he didn’t call.”
“I guess not. And Frank?” Frank Dayan, the publisher of the
Posadas Register
, had called shortly after 10:00 PM —a good hour before all the action started. No doubt Frank would be gnashing his teeth that we’d been inconsiderate enough to make important news a week before his next issue hit the street. A central joy in his life was beating the big-city dailies to the hot stuff. I was sure that most of the time, the metro papers didn’t know they’d been scooped…or care.
“He didn’t say, sir. Just that it wasn’t important.”
“Huh,” I grunted. “If it’s not important, why do these people pick up the phone in the first place. One of the mysteries of life, I suppose.” The fourth note, recorded in Brent Sutherland’s careful printing, said that Dan Schroeder, the district attorney, had called from his home in Deming at 2:55 AM to tell me that a meeting at 9:00 AM was just fine with him.
“The DA doesn’t waste any time, does he?” I muttered.
“Sir?”
I waved the note. “The DA.”
Sutherland looked a bit uncomfortable. “The undersheriff said I should call him because of the fatality,” he said. “Because it involved us.”
“Not
us
,” I said laconically. “
Me
. And both you and the undersheriff did the right thing, and nine AM is just fine.” I crumpled the note and chucked it in the trash basket. “Like I said, I’m going home for a couple of hours. Is there another vehicle handy? I’ll try my best to keep it in one piece.”
I ended up taking the keys to 306, the Bronco that Deputy Tom Pasquale drove most of the time.
The breeze outside had freshened, driving the November chill down into the town from the San Cristóbal Mountains. It was the tonic I needed before meeting with the district attorney. If I went home and fell asleep, I’d wake groggy and unkempt for a meeting where Schroeder would expect me to be sharp and cogent.
The better strategy was a good, solid breakfast with enough strong coffee to see me through the morning. Then, after the DA was satisfied, I could go home and crash.
I bounced the stiffly sprung truck out of the parking lot and turned west on Bustos. The Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant opened at six, but I knew that the owners were there early and the side door would be unlocked.
I slowed at the intersection with Grande when I saw the aging pickup truck stop for the northbound light. Cranking the wheel hard, I turned south and then braked to a halt right in the middle of the intersection. Bob Torrez rolled his truck forward until we were window to window.
“I was going to get some breakfast,” I said. “Join me. My treat.”
“I thought of something that I wanted to ask you,” the undersheriff said without preamble. Not many words were wasted in the Torrez household, I had decided long ago. I wondered what constituted small talk when Bob and his wife Gayle were feeling blabby.
“Over a burrito,” I said. “Ask me anything over a smothered burrito.” A car emerged from one of the side streets to the west, and turned away from us. “And don’t tell me you’ve already had breakfast. Gayle’s not about to get up at this hour, and the only time you ever cook is over a campfire.”
“Now that’s true,” Torrez said, and the grin was a welcome break in what was otherwise a pretty gloomy face. “I’ll follow you.”
I nodded and continued my circle through the intersection. With a belch of smoke, Torrez’s pickup fell in behind. As an unmarked
One didn’t require a response, and a second recorded that Cliff Larson, the district livestock inspector, had called at 9:30 Friday evening. “What did Cliff want, did he say?”
“No, sir. He said that it could wait until today sometime. I gave him your cell phone number, but I guess he didn’t call.”
“I guess not. And Frank?” Frank Dayan, the publisher of the
Posadas Register
, had called shortly after 10:00 PM —a good hour before all the action started. No doubt Frank would be gnashing his teeth that we’d been inconsiderate enough to make important news a week before his next issue hit the street. A central joy in his life was beating the big-city dailies to the hot stuff. I was sure that most of the time, the metro papers didn’t know they’d been scooped…or care.
“He didn’t say, sir. Just that it wasn’t important.”
“Huh,” I grunted. “If it’s not important, why do these people pick up the phone in the first place. One of the mysteries of life, I suppose.” The fourth note, recorded in Brent Sutherland’s careful printing, said that Dan Schroeder, the district attorney, had called from his home in Deming at 2:55 AM to tell me that a meeting at 9:00 AM was just fine with him.
“The DA doesn’t waste any time, does he?” I muttered.
“Sir?”
I waved the note. “The DA.”
Sutherland looked a bit uncomfortable. “The undersheriff said I should call him because of the fatality,” he said. “Because it involved us.”
“Not
us
,” I said laconically. “
Me
. And both you and the undersheriff did the right thing, and nine AM is just fine.” I crumpled the note and chucked it in the trash basket. “Like I said, I’m going home for a couple of hours. Is there another vehicle handy? I’ll try my best to keep it in one piece.”
I ended up taking the keys to 306, the Bronco that Deputy Tom Pasquale drove most of the time.
The breeze outside had freshened, driving the November chill down into the town from the San Cristóbal Mountains. It was the tonic I needed before meeting with the district attorney. If I went home and fell asleep, I’d wake groggy and unkempt for a meeting where Schroeder would expect me to be sharp and cogent.
The better strategy was a good, solid breakfast with enough strong coffee to see me through the morning. Then, after the DA was satisfied, I could go home and crash.
I bounced the stiffly sprung truck out of the parking lot and turned west on Bustos. The Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant opened at six, but I knew that the owners were there early and the side door would be unlocked.
I slowed at the intersection with Grande when I saw the aging pickup truck stop for the northbound light. Cranking the wheel hard, I turned south and then braked to a halt right in the middle of the intersection. Bob Torrez rolled his truck forward until we were window to window.
“I was going to get some breakfast,” I said. “Join me. My treat.”
“I thought of something that I wanted to ask you,” the undersheriff said without preamble. Not many words were wasted in the Torrez household, I had decided long ago. I wondered what constituted small talk when Bob and his wife Gayle were feeling blabby.
“Over a burrito,” I said. “Ask me anything over a smothered burrito.” A car emerged from one of the side streets to the west, and turned away from us. “And don’t tell me you’ve already had breakfast. Gayle’s not about to get up at this hour, and the only time you ever cook is over a campfire.”
“Now that’s true,” Torrez said, and the grin was a welcome break in what was otherwise a pretty gloomy face. “I’ll follow you.”
I nodded and continued my circle through the intersection. With a belch of smoke, Torrez’s pickup fell in behind. As an unmarked
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