Avenging Angel (21 page)

“Doesn’t the transfer have to be signed in front of a notary?”

“Yes. The seller has to have his own notarized deed and positive proof of identification—driver’s license with photograph, in most cases.”

“What about the buyer?”

“What for? The seller’s satisfied and proves it with his signature, and the buyer gets what he wants—the deed. Now if it’s a trade of property, or a contract payment, or restricted sale—mineral rights, water rights—then the buyer has to be notarized, too, to show that he read the contract he signed. But a fee-simple, cash sale, he just gets title to the property. That’s his proof of purchase.”

“What happens to the notarized sale?”

“You mean after we record it downstairs? We mail it back to the buyer. It’s his legal deed.”

“You don’t make a copy?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. We just enter it in the transaction book. It’s an old-fashioned way of doing things, but we don’t have the money for copiers and computers.”

Wager repeated, just to be sure. “So the only notarized copy goes to the buyer after it’s been recorded downstairs?”

“He’s the only one who needs it.”

Which meant that neither Wager nor anyone else could locate the notary who witnessed the seller’s signature. “Do you have a lot of sales? Any big properties?”

“In the last few years, yes. We’re getting a lot of vacation-home development, especially up in the mountains. But the biggest transfers are ranch land. A whole section’s not uncommon on the desert side of the county.”

“You don’t remember the names of the people who buy? Or the notary?”

“Not usually. We check the notary’s registration number to make sure it’s current. Who are you talking about?”

“Carmen Louisa Gallegos. I wondered if you knew her.”

“Gallegos? There must be a hundred Gallegos’s in the county. All related. You know how the Catholics feel about birth control.”

“I know.”

In the Jeep, Wager sat and mulled over the information, trying to determine what it was he’d found out. This was what Orrin was excited about—he was sure of that. Mueller dead on or about the time he sold his land to one Carmen Gallegos. Robbery? Paid in cash and somebody knew about it? Avenging angels robbing him? Why leave a drawing? And why hasn’t Gallegos come forward to claim the land? Well, if Wager didn’t have a clear idea of where he was going he at least knew where he was—at a point where he needed help. Cranking the Jeep’s loud starter, he turned toward the sheriff’s office.

The older woman who operated the switchboard and radios caught his eye when he came in. “Detective Wager! You have an urgent call from Denver. There’s a note on your desk.”

It said he was to call Chief Doyle immediately, and beneath it were the three times that the same message had been received.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Sheriff Tice said you could use his. He’s in his office and you can go right on in.”

Wager did, Tice looking up from the day’s stack of warrants to be served. “I’m going to have to give you a beeper, Detective Wager. That phone’s been jumping all morning for you.”

“I was working on Orrin’s notebooks.”

“Oh? Find out anything?”

“I’m not sure. How long does it take for the county to process an estate for someone who died without a will?”

“Intestate? Who?”

“Mueller. Mueller didn’t leave a will, did he?”

Tice leaned against his swivel chair, eyes narrowing. “No, come to think of it, he didn’t. Not that we found, anyway. But that’s the DA’s worry now.”

“So how long would the DA take?”

“Oh, hell, there’s no rush on it. Not for somebody like Mueller. Six or eight months. Now if there was a lot of property to liquidate or problems with titles, it might take a couple years.”

“Do you know a Carmen Louisa Gallegos?”

“I know three Carmen Louisa Gallegoses in this county. God only knows how many more’s around. Why?”

“A Carmen Louisa Gallegos bought Mueller’s land just about the time he was killed. She paid almost twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Tice’s wrinkled lids half covered his eyes as if he were a lizard baking in the sun. “Now that’s interesting.”

“No money was found at Mueller’s? No check or bankbook?”

The sheriff shook his head. “No receipt for sale either. But we weren’t really looking for anything like that. We figured it was still his land.”

“You inventoried the cabin?”

“Roy did. Took him two full days with all the junk Mueller’d stuck in there. But that’s what Roy said it was, junk. No twenty-five thousand dollars, that’s for sure.” Tice chewed his lip. “There could be a hiding place—man like Mueller probably hid anything important. He was gone from that cabin weeks on end when he hired out.”

“Maybe we should look again.”

“Maybe we should.” Tice nodded. “I think we should.”

“Yates told me that Mueller’s ranch was next to worthless.”

“Got some timber on it. But most of that’s second growth.”

“Then why would anybody want to buy it?”

Tice shrugged. “Put a summer cabin on it, maybe; we’re getting a little of that up there now.”

“A whole quarter-section for a cabin?”

“If you like privacy, I guess. But it ain’t worth no twenty-five thousand—you could buy Mueller’s place and a dozen more for that much. Most of that land’s straight up and down, Wager. You can’t do much else but look at it. Sure as hell can’t run cows on it.” He added, “And nobody wants to pay to look at it either. That’s what a lot of people up there are finding out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people up there think the avenging angels will be after them next. They’re trying to sell out. But nobody’s buying because the land’s only good for starving on.”

“Because of Mueller?”

“That, and one damn fool claims he got a phone call from an avenging angel. But I think it was somebody just trying to scare him and that’s what I told him. I couldn’t do a damn thing about it anyway. But some people are scared up there.”

“How long ago, Sheriff? Why wasn’t that information passed on to Chief Doyle?”

Tice set his ball-point pen down and leaned forward. “I ain’t obliged to pass a damn thing on to you or Doyle or anybody else, Wager. It was two, three days after Mueller was found, and you’d gone back to Denver, and Doyle didn’t have his statewide commission set up. And as far as I know, there haven’t been any more phone calls since.”

“This person hasn’t been able to sell his land?”

“Not that I know of. Who in hell would buy it?”

“Who bought Mueller’s land?”

The wrinkled eyelids blinked slowly, Tice’s flare of anger having gone to the one thing that attracted any good cop’s mind: a puzzling fact. He picked up the telephone and pushed the Intercom button. A second later one of the clerks answered. “Esther, I want you to go over to the courthouse for me. I want you to look up any land sales in the last two weeks—northern half of the county. Let me know who’s buying. Right away—thanks.” He set the receiver on its cradle. “We can ask Roy, too. Here—make your call before Doyle claims I’m holding you incommunicado or something.”

Wager dialed the familiar number and heard Doyle’s secretary’s voice answer with relief. “Yes, Detective Wager, one moment please.”

“Wager? How are you? How’s the eye?”

“No permanent damage the doc says.”

“Fine. Glad to hear that. Any leads to who did it?”

“Nothing solid. Just a damn good guess.”

“Uh-huh. On that,” Doyle’s voice pulled away from the telephone and then came back. “The FBI’s forwarded some information from Mexican sources. Willis Beauchamp’s religious group seems to have sent some men north. They’ve been under surveillance at the request of the local office since you came up with this polygamy thing. The report is that maybe fifteen men and boys loaded up and headed north. The FBI thinks they’re in the States by now. Probably crossed illegally somewhere east of Douglas.”

“How many?”

“Fifteen or so. They broke up into smaller groups for the crossing. Wager, the Mexican source says they came north well armed. He thinks they were coming up for some kind of religious war.”

“How long ago?”

“Yesterday morning. The report came into FBI-Denver last night.”

“They were still in Mexico when Orrin was shot?”

“Yes. But they probably intend to meet an advance party—which might be the ones who’ve been doing all the angel killings.”

If they’d located the Kruses, and those survivors were by themselves, they wouldn’t need that many people for a few women and kids. But if the surviving Kruses had found some friends …  “So they’re coming to finish it off.”

“It looks that way.”

Yesterday morning. They’d have to cross at night—last night. Then, if they pushed, they could reach Grant County sometime late today. Certainly by tonight.

“Wager, what kind of protection has that sheriff set up for those people out in the desert—the Winstons?”

“They didn’t want any. They’re hiding out. I’m sure the Kruse survivors are with them. But they claim they can take care of themselves.”

“That’s a bunch of crap.”

Wager wasn’t all that certain. “It’s a hell of a gamble, anyway. I’ll talk to the sheriff and see what he says.”

“Right. If he needs anything he’s to give me a call. The governor said we can use the National Guard if we need it. And one thing more—you’re going to have reporters all over you like flies on stink. The wires picked up on that local story about the editor being killed—Orrin Winston—and they’re sending people down. You might warn Tice.”

“Will do.” Wager hung up and Tice looked at him expectantly. “About fifteen armed men have come north from Mexico. Mexican sources say Willis wants to start a religious war. My guess is they’re after Zenas Winston.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Or Yahweh or Mohammed or Joe Smith. Wager couldn’t remember if the Greeks ever fought a religious war; he thought they only fought over women or wealth. “It’s still just a guess.”

“I don’t know of anybody else that Willis Beauchamp wants to get rid of.”

“So what do we do?”

Tice’s chair groaned with his reclining weight. “Tell you the truth, Wager, I’m not all that sure what there is to do.”

It wasn’t Wager’s jurisdiction, but he had more than a passing interest in the case. “I’ve got an idea. But we’ll have to move fast. And quiet.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Wager told him.

T
HE FIRST REPORTER
called before noon, while Tice was still moving toward a grudging consideration of Wager’s idea.

“If you’ve got a better plan,” Wager said again, “let’s hear it.”

“Well, I don’t. Not yet, anyway.” Tice prowled once more to the Silex coffeepot and splashed another cup half full. “But damn it, Wager, this don’t seem right. It may be the way you do things in Denver, but this ain’t Denver.”

“You could wait until after it’s over and then try to catch them. Otherwise, I don’t see what choice we have.”

“Oh, hell, Wager! You—”

The telephone interrupted Tice and he spoke loudly into the receiver: “Sheriff Tice!” Wager saw the man’s wrinkled eyelids droop slightly as if guarding a poker hand; and despite his irritation Wager realized that Tice had been re-elected for the last twenty years or so, and had built up his department among the hot jealousies of county politics.

“No, sir,” said Tice, “we don’t have a statement right now. We’re working on it. Yes, sir, I’ve called in help. The Colorado Bureau of Investigation is assisting with its technical services, and the Denver Police Department sent out a special homicide detective to help in the investigation.” A slight smile, like a twist at the corner of Tice’s mouth. “You can talk to him if you want. Sure.” He held the telephone out to Wager. “It’s a Denver Post reporter. Somebody called Gargle.”

“Crap.” He took the receiver. “Hello, Gargan. We don’t know much so we can’t tell you much.”

“Wager? Jesus H. Christ, is that really you, Wager?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, boy—wouldn’t you know!” He could almost see Gargan’s head shake. “Wager, I don’t like it either, but I’ve got to work with you and that hayseed sheriff, and you’ve got to work with me.”

“‘Got to,’ Gargan?”

“Got to. It was a newsman that was murdered, Wager, and that’s a national event. They’ve already had a report of it on the Today Show, and I came down on the Channel Four helicopter. It was one of our people that got killed, Wager; that’s a front-page story. Wire services, national television, news magazines. This time, Wager, you’ve got to talk to me.” A smile came into his voice. “Doyle said so.”

“We have no idea who killed the man, Gargan.”

“What about the drawing of the angel with a sword? The one they found on the victim? That sounds like a tie-in with the Denver murders. And what about the guy in the northern part of the county—Mueller?” His voice dropped. “And what about you getting shot at, Scarface? Do you tie that to the angel killings, too?”

“Gargan—”

“Come on now. This is a big story. I’ve put a lot of time in on it, Wager, and I’ve got a right to it!”

Wager covered the mouthpiece. “He’s asking about me getting shot at. It won’t be long before he finds out about Willis Beauchamp coming north. Then we won’t have a chance.”

“How in hell—?” Tice took the telephone. “This is Sheriff Tice, Mr. Gargle. We got an investigation going on here and we got no comment to make yet. No, I don’t, and I don’t care what your ‘confidential sources’ tell you. No sir, Mr. Doyle don’t tell me what to do in my own county. When we do find out something, we’ll let you know.” He hung up while the receiver was still squawking. Immediately, it rang again and Tice said “Who? Television? Goddamn it, Earl, I don’t know nothing about them!”

A knock on the door, and Cynthia, her worried eyes still avoiding Wager, leaned in to whisper, “Sheriff, it’s a reporter from the New Mexican down in Santa Fe. She says she’d like to ask you a few questions. Line three.”

“Shut the goddamn door! No, not you, Earl. Those people can take all the damn pictures they want. Yes, and interview any civilian they can catch: it’s a free damn country, Earl. But if I catch any sheriff’s employee shooting off his mouth to any reporter, they’re going to be looking for another job!” He hung up and stared at Wager with slightly wild eyes. “Jesus God, it’s like the circus come to town!” Then he glanced at the clock. “The morning flight from Denver. It got in a half hour ago, didn’t it?”