Read Online Twice Buried by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online

saws.”
    “An engine hoist? Isn’t that kind of big to get out through a hole in the wall?”
    “It was one of those kind that you hang from the ceiling joist of a garage.” Torrez held his hands up to form a circle about as big as a basketball. “Like so. Couple chains hang down from it.”
    “So what’s your next step?”
    He tapped the folder. “The print shows that the sneaker wasn’t too worn. The cuts are nice and sharp. So I’m guessing it was pretty new. I was going to go down to Payless tomorrow and see if I can get a match for the brand.”
    “What makes you think the kid, if it was a kid, bought the shoes here in town?”
    Torrez shrugged. “Just a hunch, sir. I’ve got three or four names on my list, and none of ’em have the kind of money to drive to Cruces to shop. I’ll start here at home.”
    “And by the way, Roberto. While you’re digging around on this burglary, there’s something else I want you to do.” I told him about Fuentes’s dogs.
    “That’s a new one to me, sir,” he said.
    “You haven’t heard any new twists on the dare games at the school? That’s about all that makes sense to me.”
    “I’ll ask around,” Torrez said. “Maybe Glenn Archer will know.”
    “Which reminds me…I’m supposed to call him. He wants to complain again about why we won’t assign fifty-five deputies to each basketball game.” I waved a hand in dismissal and Deputy Torrez was about to leave when I asked, “Is Miss Reporter still riding around with you?”
    Torrez actually blushed. “I dropped her off at her office earlier this afternoon. I think she had enough of waiting in the car.”
    “I don’t doubt that,” I said.
    “And she told me to tell you that the first installment on her series about the department is scheduled to come out in Monday’s paper.”
    I grinned. “Along with all the grocery store ads. I can’t wait. Be sure to tell Sheriff Holman if you see him.” That was a dirty trick, but what the hell. Martin would spend two wakeful nights, worrying his way toward an ulcer. Sometime when he was in a good mood I’d tell him that it was payback for smudging the prints on Anna Hocking’s windowsill.

9
    Anna Hocking’s place became a damn magnet. I had a dozen things I could have been doing that Saturday afternoon—some were even important.
    I had Deputy Robert Torrez chasing what was, in all likelihood, a bunch of kids who wanted to be burglars. I had a high school principal annoyed with me for not caring a whole lot about fistfights at basketball games. I had some freak poisoning an old man’s mutts. I had guns being dropped at the post office.
    In short, it was a long and frustrating list on my Things to Do Today pad. But I didn’t accomplish any of them. Instead I found myself parking on the shoulder of County Road 19, with Anna’s little adobe house just ahead.
    An open chamiso- and cholla-studded field separated the mobile home park from Anna’s property. I got out of the car and walked across the field, cutting a big circle around the old woman’s house. Earlier, deputies with eyes far sharper than mine had searched a generous perimeter around the house, including most of this field. They had turned up nothing.
    I thrust my hands in my pockets and ambled along, head down and relaxed. My boots crushed the dried sage and nettles and the aroma wafted up delicate and fragrant. Mix a little pungent piñon pine smoke with it and it would have been goddamn festive. With a start I remembered that I was supposed to pick up the little ropon that Augustina Baca was sewing for me.
    This padrino business was serious stuff, I was coming to realize—even though Estelle Reyes-Guzman had given me fair warning. I had made the mistake of saying that I would pay for everything that the godfather normally paid for by Mexican custom…and Estelle had grinned. She’d told me that wasn’t necessary, but I was stubborn. And she grinned wider. She didn’t exactly give me a