BULLETS (14 page)

“So why Roger Carlson, why kill him, if he was so beloved?” he asked.

“I don’t know. And what’s also very curious,” she said, “is that if you wanted to kill Roger Carlson and get away with it, there are probably far better suspects than Pedro to pin the murder on. I know there are. Why pick a choir boy?”

“Because he’s the one Mexican that they’d know would be home by himself at midnight on a Friday night?”

“They didn’t know for certain he’d be home alone. A lot of them work on Saturday mornings, didn’t Pedro? Wasn’t he at that diner to have breakfast before work?”

“Good point. And also, how did whoever it was had to know that Roger would be roaming outside on his grounds at midnight?”

“Maybe he heard something and went out to investigate.”

“Without his shotgun? Doris had one in her hand when I visited her, during the day, I can’t see Roger stepping out into the night without it to see what was making noise. Standard rancher procedure when one hears a noise, ain’t it?”

“I’ll have his messages checked. And a conversation with Doris, I think.”

“Don’t have someone else check his messages, do it yourself,” Slick said. “If someone did frame Pedro, they’d have to get his shovel.”

“Yes. Now I am very interested to hear what this Sergio has to say.” Camilla’s phone buzzed a message. She checked it and sighed. “I have to get back to work. I will pick you up tonight at eight-thirty. Where are you staying?”

She pulled in and parked in front of the Indian restaurant where Slick had left his rental car.

“I’ll meet you right here, this same spot, at eight-thirty sharp.”

“Don’t you dare try to ditch me, I will make you pay if you do.”

For some reason the way she said that sent a tiny thrill through Slick’s body. He grinned at her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A thought hit him as he climbed out of her car. He stopped and leaned back inside. “Just remembered something.”

“What?”

“When I visited Doris Carlson earlier today, she said, ‘Maybe I’ll end up selling this place after all.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but…”

“‘After all,’ she said. Like it’d been under discussion before.”

“Exactly. I’d thought at the time that maybe it was something she’d been thinking about since her husband’s death, but the way she phrased it, it sounds like—”

“Someone had been trying to buy their land from before that and they’d turned them down. I can check that out. See you tonight.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Jon.”

She said his name. He liked that, he liked that quite a lot. “Yeah?”

“Be careful when you’re … driving around town on your own. Try not to get pulled over. Stay in public areas and … just be careful. Okay?”

“You have my word on that, counselor.”

“You can call me Camilla.”

He smiled. “Camilla. See you tonight, Camilla.”

He shut the door, not trusting himself to say anything more. He felt like a damn school kid and was fairly certain that his grin was giving his bubbling emotions away to the whole wide world. But the other thing he was pretty certain of was that, when he’d said her name out loud to her, Camilla had blushed from head to toe.

He thought about that as he went back to his car, the image of her whole body blushing lodged in his mind, and for the first time he didn’t even notice the stifling Arizona heat.

S
lick had planned
to get into his car and go back to his room, but he spotted a familiar face inside the restaurant and stepped inside.

“How do,” Navajo Joe said, his lanky frame nearly overwhelming the small table and chair he sat at. He nibbled at some bread. “Figured I’d find you here.”

“Food’s good, ain’t it?”

“It’s still hard to overcome the irony of finding myself dining at an ‘Indian’ restaurant, but once a fella gets past that, yeah. Have a seat. Hungry?”

“I can always eat.”

Slick joined him, picked up the menu.

“Heard they dropped all the charges, letting you go. But that you ain’t going.”

“Yep.”

“Also heard five local rednecks got tuned up pretty good outside at a roadhouse outside county lines. Every one of those rubes is gonna spend some time in hospital and sport plaster for a while. Musta been fun times. Your work?”

“Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies.”

“I know those boys, pretty sure they likely had it coming, so no complaints from me, excepting that I wish I’d been there to dish some of that out to them myself.”

Slick just smiled. The waiter came and he ordered food.

“So what’s your plan?” Navajo Joe asked after the waiter disappeared. “Just hang around and be a boil on Ted’s ass?”

“Is that a bad thing? No, wait, I’m pretty sure that is a bad thing, probably on the very bottom of karmic totem pole. A man commits grievous sins against mankind and finds himself reborn as a boil on Ted’s ass.”

“Heh. You said totem pole, heh-heh.”

“Feel free to reference basketball, rap music or watermelon if you want.”

“Maybe later. But in the interests of your personal safety, I am keen to know what your exact plan is.”

“Find out who killed Roger Carlson and why.”

The food came and, as he ate, Slick recounted what he and Camilla had deduced thus far, but left out the upcoming meeting of Sergio at Barrio’s later that night. Slick figured that was best kept between him and Camilla. Navajo Joe just listened as the other man ran it down for him, deep in thought.

“I knew Roger, everyone did around here,” the trooper said after some consideration. “Have the same response, he had some kooky political ideas, way out there kinda stuff, but I don’t know a soul who disliked him. Always had his checkbook ready, too, to donate to good causes. Same can’t be said for many others. Haven’t heard any whispers that someone wanted to buy his place, but even if they did, why would that be worth killing a man over? It’s a fine spread, surely, one of the largest in these parts, but it’s not like there’s a shortage of lettuce farms.”

“Or undocumented workers. He hired a bunch, didn’t he? Maybe that inflamed some of the local hate groups.”

“I don’t see it. You gonna kill everyone who hired undocumented workers, that’s a mighty long list with many a fine upstanding citizen on it, including some in office. The powers-that-be like to demonize the undocumented and call ’em illegals, but they ain’t never gonna to go so far as to criminalize those who hire them.

“They’re needed for the local economy, unless we want Arizona to get out of the farming industry as a whole. Lots of unemployed white boys around here wouldn’t be caught dead picking lettuce. Same ones who turn their nose up at those collecting welfare and yet collect unemployment and workman’s comp for themselves.”

“And jump on black and brown folks in roadhouse parking lots.”

Navajo Joe laughed at that. “I have to tell ya, I’ve had a run-in or two with Orville, he was the really big dumb one of that group. He liked to call me Tonto, and I’ve often thought about doing a thunder dance on his ass a few times myself, with the badge off. Wish I coulda been there.”

“Thunder dance, that’s good. I’d like to see that, too.”

Navajo Joe sighed and slid back in his chair. “Thing is, though, Orville and his boys, they’re amateurs, you know? Just big, stupid, racist idiots looking for trouble with more time than brains on their hands.”

“I noticed that about them.”

“They ain’t the problem. At least, they’re not the biggest problem. There’re others in this state who share the same viewpoint and violent tendencies as Orville who ain’t amateurs, who take this race war shit serious, who are preparing for it, who are arming and training and even praying to their white god for it. Some of those fellows even work in law enforcement, I’m sad to say. Those are the ones I worry about, should they take an interest in your presence here.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of groups like that. Have even run into a member or two during my travels.”

“They’re for-certain-sure bad news.” Navajo Joe stood up and stretched. “Watch your back and if you feel the need, give me a call. I don’t have as much swing in these parts as I’d like, but what little I do have I’m happy to share.”

“Will do and thanks.”

Navajo Joe nodded and stepped away then turned back.

“Always interesting, the pictures these white folks have of their churches showing Jesus as blonde and blue-eyed, isn’t it?”

“Surely is.”

Navajo Joe grinned and walked out.

W
hen Camilla pulled
up to the restaurant at eight-thirty sharp, Slick was waiting outside in the shade. Even at this hour, the setting sun was still harsh. She honked at him. Slick had changed into a nice button down short sleeve shirt and khaki pants, recently purchased. He told himself he’d sweated out the other clothes, but he knew the real reason was that he wanted to look good for her.

He waited until she rolled down the window and could hear him.

“Lock it up and follow me.”

She did as instructed and followed him inside the restaurant. He kept walking through the dining area and into the back, through the kitchen. The waiters and cooks all nodded and smiled at him as they passed through and out the back door.

“I think I’m their best customer,” Slick said. “Certainly their most dedicated.”

In the back lot an elderly Indian waiter waited with an old car, a Chevy Nova. Slick palmed a fifty into the man’s hand and climbed into the driver’s seat. Started it up.

Camilla just stared at the creaky old beater, eyebrow raised.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Incognito,” he said.

“That’s one word for it. I can think of others.”

“Tell me on the way.”

She sighed and climbed into the passenger seat, moving some old papers and fast food containers out of the way.

“Ghetto rental, sorry about that,” Slick said. “I didn’t have time to be picky.”

“How is it that a waiter at a vegetarian restaurant eats at McDonalds?”

“It’s a mystery to me. You’d have to put a gun to my head, and even then I might choose a bullet over a big Mac.”

Slick put the car into gear and pulled out into the street, zipping fast and watching behind him in the rear view mirror.

“Doris Carlson isn’t answering my calls, I left a message but if I don’t hear from her, I’ll drive out there tomorrow afternoon and speak with her in person,” Camilla said. “I read through the police report and Doris did tell the first responders that it was pretty common for Roger to go out walking on the ranch late nearly every night. It was a habit of his ever since the loss of his son.”

“So anyone watching him on a regular basis would know he’d be out to walk his grounds at some point in the evening and would only have to wait for him.”

“Pretty much. I also have a friend who might know if someone was looking to buy the Carlson ranch, Del’s in real estate and he knows pretty much every deal going on in town. I’ll call him tomorrow, too.”

“Did you say Del? That’s his name? Del Martin? I met him.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. He was in the diner the morning I got my head dented by Brower and Ted. He found me later on to apologize for what happened to me on behalf of the town’s citizens, though he didn’t feel bad enough to go officially on record on my behalf.”

“Yeah, that would be Del. He’s all about gestures. But he’ll know if anyone’s trying to buy any property. And according to the file, they checked Roger’s phone for text messages, there was nothing from anyone for the last few days.”

“No messages at all?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s suspicious. But he and his wife lived and worked at home together, there was no reason to text each other.”

“I dunno. I know a guy who would text his wife when she was in the next room.”

“I’ll have to ask Doris when we talk. Recent calls were few, too, and that’s suspicious, Roger was definitely very social and you’d expect a lot of calls. His phone was found on him at the scene, so whoever it was took the time to erase messages, maybe?”

“And why would Pedro do that? You should still be able to track that, the deletions.”

“Yes. But it’s tricky because it’s not my case and I have to be, well, circumspect about it. I wouldn’t like it if someone else snooped on one of my cases, which is what I’m basically doing to George, so I have to be careful. But I have a very good friend who can help me with the phone without anyone knowing. I called him today and left a message. I should hear back from him soon. He always calls me back in less than twenty-four hours, no matter where he is.”

“A very good friend?”

“A very good friend.”

“I see. You trust him to keep his mouth shut?”

“Absolutely. He and I go way back.”

“So just how far back do you and he go?”

“We grew up together.”

“And he can help you retrieve deleted messages without your office elders knowing what you’re doing … ah, I get it.”

“You get what?”

“He works in law enforcement, but not local and probably not state. Federal, ATF, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security or…”

“FBI. How do you DO that?”

“You wouldn’t go to a hacker, that ain’t your style, you don’t bend laws, much less break them. If it was a statie solution, you could ask Joe Stormcloud just as easily, but staties also face certain privacy issues. Feds don’t, they can access phone records quick as pressing a button and it’s legal, plus your guy, he’s a very good friend, but he ain’t around too much, ergo, he’s a fed of some kind.”

“Yes. FBI, based in Phoenix, but he travels a lot. And if we prove Pedro is innocent and Ted guilty of manslaughter, having Javier in on this will help at some point. Ted is sheriff, after all. None of Ted’s deputies or cronies are going to help us put him in jail, and we won’t be able to try him here. George can’t do it, he’s a friend of Ted’s and there’s a conflict of interest. We’ll need Javier to make this work.”

Slick glanced at her, computing something in his head. “So how long?”

“How long what?”

“How long did the two of you go out? You and Javier.”