SISTER AGATHA WENT ALL THE WAY AROUND THE BLOCK, in case Mike was watching or listening for the bike, and approached Leon Jones’s home from the opposite direction. As she drove up the long driveway, a gray-haired man in his mid-sixties wearing jeans and a pullover shirt looked up. Stopping work trimming the hedge that separated his property from the Garcias, he waved at her.
She stopped the Harley, turned off the ignition, and flipped up her helmet visor.
“You have to be Sister Agatha. I saw you the other day and figured you’d be stopping by sooner or later. I’m Leon Jones,” he said, putting the hedge clippers down and wiping his brow. “You’ve got great timing, Sister. I was just about to take a break.”
He led the way inside the spacious Territorial-style house. The living room had the feeling of a cool, shady parlor, full of overstuffed furniture, but the large kitchen was bright and airy, with Mexican tile counters and backsplash. He pulled out two Cokes from the old-style white fridge and placed one in front of her. “These are imported from Mexico. They’re sweetened with sugar instead of corn syrup—just the way I like them. In the bottle okay with you?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” She remembered how young Sister Jo had raved about Mexican Cokes.
Leon used a “church key” to remove the caps, which weren’t twist-off, and handed her one of the icy bottles.
“So you’re here wanting to know about that row I had with Robert several years ago, right? I actually had to get a restraining order against that lowlife, and he was a deputy at the time!”
“I’ve heard that Mr. Garcia could get violent,” she said with a nod. “What happened between you?”
“Our neighborhood association rules are clear. You’re allowed to prune a neighbor’s plants back if their branches extend over onto your yard, but you can’t do anything that would kill the plant—in this case, a cottonwood. I’d asked Robert to give me a hand with the tree trimming several times, but he never got around to it. I was worried those cottonwood branches would come crashing down on my car during the next windstorm. You know how brittle they can be. So I finally decided to do the job myself.”
He took a long sip of the Coke, then continued. “It was bad timing on my part. He’d been arguing with Victoria that day. When he saw me on the ladder, he accused me of spying on him and his wife. I told him he was nuts, and that’s when he pulled me off the ladder.”
“Were you okay?” she asked, leaning forward.
“He nearly broke my arm, and all over a stupid tree. That was just the beginning, though.” Leon paused, shaking his head. “I filed assault charges, and the judge ended up granting me a restraining order. Robert was supposed to stay off my property and not come within fifty feet of me. Well, that order just made him crazier.”
“He came after you again?”
Leon nodded. “At first he was just trying to intimidate me. Whenever I went to the store, gas station, or anywhere in my car, he’d follow. He’d tailgate, even bumping into me at stop signs—just enough to shake me up. I tried using the camera on my cell phone, but I had my hands full driving most of the time. It was clear to me that he had a screw loose, and what’s worse, he was in his patrol car and carrying a gun.”
Sister Agatha nodded but didn’t interrupt.
“One day I finally had enough. I remembered that Smitty had told me that he’d installed new surveillance cameras in his parking lot, so I decided to set Robert up. He was tailgating me as usual, so I deliberately pulled into Smitty’s parking lot. Robert blocked me in so I couldn’t get back out, something he’d done before at other places. Knowing the cameras were rolling, I went over and asked him to move his car. When he laughed at me, I brought out my cell phone, took a photo of him, then started to call Sheriff Green. That’s when he really went nuts. Robert jumped out of his car, knocked the cell phone out of my hand, and stomped on it. Then he grabbed my arm and swung me around, slamming me face-first into his car. When Robert started punching me in the kidneys, Smitty heard me yelling and came out. If Smitty hadn’t been there, Robert would have put me in the hospital for sure.”
“Why wasn’t he charged with assault?” Sister Agatha knew that could have led to a felony conviction, and a man with a record wouldn’t have been able to run for sheriff.
Leon sighed loudly. “My print shop depended heavily on city business, and the sheriff didn’t want a scandal, so we cut a deal. Sheriff Green gave me his word that he’d handle the matter, and he did. I never had a problem with Robert again.”
“When Sheriff Green gives his word, you can count on it.”
“I agree with you, and I talk from experience,” he answered, then, giving her a long look, continued. “Detective Marquez came to talk to me about Robert yesterday. I think he thought I may have killed him.”
Sister Agatha didn’t respond.
“Were you wondering the same thing?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “The day Robert was killed, I was in the center of the park, playing my fiddle with the Good Gravy Band. We signaled for the start of the fireworks by playing the National Anthem, then performed five Sousa marches in a row. Everyone saw me. I was in the front row, sitting right beside the piccolo.”
“It sounds like you had a wonderful time,” Sister Agatha said, hoping to defuse the defensiveness she heard in his tone.
“The Fourth’s my favorite holiday,” he said, sounding much happier. “I love the parade, the picnics, and the fireworks, too.” He paused, then went on in a thoughtful voice. “I remember seeing Robert and feeling sorry for him. He was missing the point—it was a holiday. A day to honor your country and have fun, but he was doing neither. He was busy campaigning and giving out political flyers. I figure he must have had hundreds in that large envelope he was lugging around tucked under his arm. Despite his casual clothing, it was obvious he didn’t intend to give it a rest, even on his nation’s birthday.”
“Envelope?”
“Yeah, one of those large manila ones with the string fasteners. The reason I noticed it was because of his son. RJ loves Mitch Landreth—Mitch the Missile, you know—star pitcher for the ’Topes. He was there in the afternoon, signing autographs before he left for the ballpark. RJ wouldn’t leave Mitch’s side, even after the autograph. Finally Robert came over and hauled the kid away.” He shook his head slowly.
“RJ must not have been too happy about that,” she commented, hoping to keep him talking.
“You’ve got that right. I was sitting under a tree, working on my second hot dog, when I heard Robert tell RJ to hand over that autographed roster Mitch had signed, that he’d keep it safe for him. RJ didn’t want to give it up, but Robert grabbed it away and started to put it in that big envelope. RJ reached for the envelope, and that got his dad really ticked off. He shoved the kid to the ground on his butt, then folded up the roster and jammed it into his shirt pocket. RJ was in tears by then. Robert just made it worse, yanking his son to his feet and telling him to quit acting like a girl.”
Leon scowled; then his expression turned to sheer loathing as he added, “He didn’t have a clue on how to raise a kid.”
Sister Agatha leaned back in her chair and fingered her rosary beads, her thoughts on what she’d just learned. “Robert may have had lots of money, but he sure wasn’t a happy man.”
Leon gave her a wry smile. “Maybe so, but money can usually make you comfortable in your misery.”
She smiled but said nothing for several long moments. At last she spoke. “Tell me, what actually happened to Robert after you turned him in to Sheriff Green?”
“I don’t know firsthand. All I can tell you is what I heard through the grapevine. Robert was advised to resign or risk an internal affairs investigation that would have undoubtedly gotten him charged and fired. When I found out that . . . what . . . five years later, he was running for sheriff, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Had he been elected, I would have sold my house and moved out of town for good.”
“Do you think he could have actually won?” Sister Agatha asked, wondering if someone else Robert had terrorized had decided to settle matters in his—or her—own way.
“Sheriff Green’s a good man, and most of us are very happy with the way he’s run his department. Robert would have kept throwing his money around and convinced some of the people, but the majority would have backed Sheriff Green. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“I guess we’ll never know now,” Sister Agatha said pensively.
After saying good-bye to Leon, Sister Agatha and Pax set out once again, going the back way to avoid passing by Victoria Garcia’s home a second time. What she needed most of all now was the opportunity to think, to assemble details in her mind and see what kind of picture emerged.
Close to the bosque and the river beyond, she decided to take a drive down the shady ditch bank road. As she passed a parked city pickup—one of a small fleet of vehicles that maintained the road and irrigation system—she waved to the driver. He was looking away at the moment, busy with something on the seat, and didn’t glance up, even though the motorcycle and sidecar usually attracted attention.
Sister Agatha drove slowly, not wanting to generate any dust or excessive noise. Several residences lined the bosque—a quiet, peaceful location close to nature. It was easy to think here, among the willows and flowers of the wooded area and surrounded by the musky scent of the river beyond.
In the tranquility of that setting she allowed her thoughts free rein. There was so much that still wasn’t adding up right, starting with Tom. Though Tom Green knew he could trust her, he was still holding something back. It just made no sense . . . unless he was protecting someone else. But who?
At the heart of all her unanswered questions was Robert himself—a former deputy with an explosive temper. She knew how he’d treated his wife, but there were probably others out there he’d intimidated, too. It seemed doubtful that Leon had been the only other person he’d ever threatened.
She then thought about Mike Herrera, another unknown in the equation. He had a connection to the Garcias in more ways than one, and he’d worked the food line that day at the park. Had he somehow drugged Tom so that the actual frame-up could be carried out with greater ease by his unnamed partner?
She then considered what she knew about Victoria. She liked younger men—or maybe it was just men in general. Stepping out on Robert could have been her way of getting back at the man who’d abused her.
That round of speculation brought her thoughts back to Tom and what he was holding back. Recalling Leon telling her about the envelope Robert had carried around on the Fourth, she now wondered if that was somehow the key.
From what she remembered, it hadn’t been on the list of items found at the scene. Logic assured her that if Robert hadn’t handed it to someone else prior to his murder, that envelope must have had some value to the killer. As she considered that possibility, she remembered that Tom had been very eager to see the list of everything found at the crime scene, but he’d never mentioned seeing any envelope . . .
Sister Agatha continued down the ditch bank at fifteen miles per hour, looking ahead for the next road leading away from the river. Behind, in her side mirror, she could see the white city truck closing the gap between them slowly. Knowing the access road was just ahead, she maintained her leisurely pace. She’d be out of his way soon enough.
As she reached the small bridge that crossed the ditch, she saw someone sitting on one of the big logs that comprised part of the traffic barrier. Beside it was a narrow opening in the fence with a log in the way that only people on foot or horseback could negotiate to enter the bosque. She slowed to turn left, toward town, and suddenly realized that the person sitting on the log was Scout.
She waved to get his attention, and, seeing her, Scout walked out to the edge of the road. This time he didn’t run away. Praying he wouldn’t change his mind, she slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road, braking to a stop about fifty feet from him.
Suddenly she heard an engine roar and, as she turned her head, saw the white city truck accelerating. It was moving so fast, it was losing traction and peeling out in the gravel and dirt. She placed a hand on Pax and prayed as the truck with the city logo on the side whipped past her, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. In a heartbeat, the pickup swerved, heading straight toward Scout.
“Look out!” she yelled, but by then Scout was already running down the road.
Realizing he had no chance of outracing the pickup, he dove headfirst over the fence into some brush, then bounced about ten feet. Scrambling to his feet, he took off through the waist-high shrubs, zigzagging his way in the direction of the river.
The truck, unable to follow, came to a sliding stop. There were two quick, loud pops, like gunshots; then the driver took off again down the road.
Sister Agatha, her heart pounding like a drum, saw Scout veer to his right, putting more distance between himself and the shooter, who’d come to a stop again. The pickup started to turn around, but Scout had vanished into the bosque.
Instantly aware that she was now the closest target to an armed man moving in her direction, Sister Agatha whipped the Harley around and raced away from the ditch road. As she glanced back in the side mirror, she saw the city truck hurtling back up the road, racing past the spot where she’d been only seconds earlier.
Knowing that Scout was still in danger, Sister Agatha reached for her cell phone and quickly dialed the sheriff’s department. In a matter of minutes she heard the wail of a siren. A car must have been nearby. When she looked back toward the bosque, the white city truck was no longer visible.
It was midafternoon by the time the sheriff’s department’s search for Scout and the gunman came to an end. To her own great disappointment, she hadn’t been much help. She hadn’t seen the license plate number, nor looked closely enough at the driver to get more than a vague impression of a short-haired man behind the wheel. Things had happened too fast.
After making her statement, Sister Agatha had remained at the station, hoping to learn something new about the city truck. After all, there were only a limited number of those around. Her hopes were dashed when Millie came into the office where she’d been invited to take a seat.
“I’ve got some news on that truck,” Millie said. “It was stolen earlier today from Al Russo’s driveway. The mayor used it to visit a construction site yesterday evening and dropped it off at Al’s, asking him as a favor to return it to the city yard this morning. Al didn’t notice it was missing until it was time for him to drive to his office.”
“Why didn’t he report it missing right away? You just got the news, right?” Sister Agatha wondered aloud.
“He reported it to the city motor pool, and they filed a report with us a couple of hours ago. The problem was that Al assumed that the mayor had sent someone else to pick it up. Al had apparently made a fuss about not being anyone’s errand boy, since he had morning meetings of his own. For that reason the motor pool decided to follow things up with the mayor before reporting it to us, but JD was in a meeting in Albuquerque. Rather than make a police report and embarrass him, they waited.”
“I was hoping that this lead would actually go someplace,” Sister Agatha said with a soft sigh. “The thief got lucky. Circumstances bought him some valuable time.”
Millie gave her a sympathetic tap on the shoulder. “Sister, it looks like you could use something cold to drink. Why don’t you and I take a few minutes off?”
Sister Agatha knew Millie well enough to instantly recognize the change in her tone. Although it had been made to appear like a casual invitation, it was anything but that.
As soon as they reached the break room, Millie glanced inside, then, shaking her head, took Sister Agatha down the hall. She led her all the way to the small office situated next to the evidence room and closed the door.
“We’ve got new information on the case, and I wanted to pass it along,” Millie said, keeping her voice low. “It appears that both Robert and Sheriff Green were drugged with benzodiazepines, though Robert didn’t have quite as much in his system as the sheriff did. A tox screen was done using organ and tissue samples taken from the deceased. Doug Sanchez, the sheriff’s attorney, insisted on the test. He’d initially hoped to find too much alcohol in Robert’s system—something that would precipitate aggression and support the claim of self-defense—but this is even better for Sheriff Green. It strongly suggests a third person was involved.”
“Right. The drug was in the relish, yet no one else was drugged, apparently, so that means only those two men were targeted,” Sister Agatha said, thinking out loud. “Only one answer makes sense and clears up all the apparent inconsistencies. A third person wanted both men out cold so he, or she, could stage the scene and frame the sheriff.”
“It works, but you’ll still need to find a way to prove it. Lawyers can argue that the sheriff purposely ingested the drug. As part of our investigation, we’ve already spoken to Mike Herrera and Arnold Cruz—Cruzer—who served the hot dogs that day, but we’ve got nothing.”
Sister Agatha thought about Mike Herrera and Cruzer. Mike had given her all he was going to for now, but Cruzer . . . now that he’d had time to think about things, perhaps he’d remembered something else that might turn out to be helpful.
After leaving the station, Sister Agatha stopped by Tom’s home. No cars were there, however, and no one answered her knock. Hoping that Tom was only out on a short errand, she drove around for a bit, then returned. The driveway was still empty. She then called him on the cell phone, but all she got was voice mail.
It was long past dinner at the monastery when she decided to stop at the community center on her way home. She wasn’t sure which days Cruzer taught, but she did remember something about evening classes for adults.
Hearing an unexpected clicking noise coming from the sidecar, Sister Agatha pulled off to the side and checked the tire. A big piece of gravel had wedged in the tread. All in all, a simple fix. She dug it out with a screwdriver she took from the cockpit, then remounted.
“I bet you’re hungry, too, by now, Pax,” she said to the dog, who’d been incredibly patient all day. “Don’t worry. We’ll eat when we return home, and it won’t be long now.”
Pax snorted and gave her a haughty look.
“Hang on just a little while longer,” she said, switching on the ignition again. “We’ve got work to do. Others are counting on us.”