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  Not everyone was supportive. There were folks who found it fashionable to vow never to darken the doors of the new store, even if it meant driving to Deming or Las Cruces to buy what they needed.

  Deputy Pasquale didn’t dabble in politics. He didn’t concern himself with thorny civic issues, like which box store might bulldoze lesser competitors out of business. He hadn’t even lobbied for a passenger seat on the narrow-gauge train sliding out of town earlier that morning for its much ballyhooed public run out to NightZone. Maybe the sheriff would go. Probably not. Certainly the ebullient county manager, Leona Spears, would never miss such an event. Pasquale had seen the news crews assembled for their ride, had seen the two choppers parked out at the municipal airport.

  In another stroke of good fortune, he had missed having to work the eardrum-and record-shattering volleyball game Thursday night, choosing instead the peace and quiet of an evening at home.

  More exciting things than politics were on his mind…and when it came right down to it, more exciting things than watching the Lady Jaguars work up a sweat, or more exciting even than a glimpse of Stacie Willis Stewart.

  An early-term sonogram clearly showed that Tom’s six-year marriage to Linda Real Pasquale was about to produce not one child, but two—a his and hers set of twins. Linda and he, both with no siblings of their own, had tried without success to imagine what life was now going to be like with twins—and when both tots were dashing about as terrible twos. Often, they lay in bed now with Tom’s hand comfortably resting on Linda’s enormous belly, feeling for the first signs of territorial spats between boy and girl.

  And they wondered about the years ahead. Was there a strategy to prevent the twins from becoming, in thirteen or so years, sullen, distant, parent-hating teenagers? Beyond that, when they grew up, what would the twins do? What would they be? Would the world still be a blue sphere in orbit?

  Like with computers, would it be possible to trade the twins in for upgrades, if things went wrong?

  Ever-practical, Deputy Tom Pasquale knew that the myriad diapers he was going to have to buy were substantially cheaper at The Spree than anywhere else in town. That mattered, even though his wife could enjoy paid maternity leave from the Sheriff’s Department, where she was treasured as the department’s only full-time photographer.

  On this particular day, he wasn’t after diapers, but the glimpse of Stacie Stewart wearing a white outfit of light summer duds was a nice bonus for a scorching Friday morning in September. Not that his eyes and heart wandered to pretty women as a matter of course, but who could not enjoy the view?

  Even with newshounds flooding the town, even with everyone skipping with delight over the volleyball victory, working the day shift required inventive measures to chase boredom. Baked by the usual hot weather of summer’s last gasp in southern New Mexico, an entire day shift could pass without a single radio call.

  Were he given the choice, Deputy Pasquale would work the four-to-midnight shift, or even midnight-to-eight, when the world could be a different place. Midnight was when the action was—fueled by saloon traffic, bored kids, and family disputes, lubricated by alcohol or by drivers just too tired to keep it on the road. He’d even missed the solitary one vehicle accident the night before, when the driver had hit first a deer and then a utility pole over on Fifth Street.

  With Labor Day now three weeks past, kids were enjoying yet another holiday on this Friday as their teachers tried to concentrate on some arcane subject that somehow warranted a full day in-service. That meant that a few teen thugs might be out and about, risking the exposure of daylight, and that could prove entertaining.

  Even now, a photograph of the latest gang graffiti was clipped to his logbook. Deputy Pasquale recognized the work—a certain precision and talent evident in the presentation—that marred the polished wooden sides of the railcar. He didn’t know the artist, but taggers didn’t work in the heat of the day. Night creatures, they’d be nailed by one of the swing shift deputies. Who knew, though.

  With the twins soon to arrive, his work schedule had been shifted around to days to favor domestic tranquility—a change that smacked of the Posadas County undersheriff’s fine touch. Estelle Reyes-Guzman was perfectly capable of subtle adjustments of staff scheduling when circumstances warranted. Tom wanted to work nights, when stuff happened. The undersheriff wanted the deputy home at night to help Linda cope with the twins. The undersheriff won.

  Undaunted, Tom found work to keep his eyes from going heavy-lidded with boredom. One of his tried-and-true remedies was to idle through parking lots—even at the high school—checking license plates of out-of-towners. With his usual department ride in the shop, he drove one of the older Expeditions, this one normally used by his wife, Linda, and he enjoyed the lingering smell of her perfume. The vehicle lacked an onboard computer. That meant a call to dispatch for each ten-twenty-eight, and he kept young Mike Estancia busy.

  He had already checked the parking lot of the Posadas Inn, south by the interstate interchange. He’d cruised the on-street parking on Grande, including the Handi-way gas station and convenience store. He’d been instructed to “stay central” during his shift, within easy reach, instead of wandering the rural countryside.

  Even with school not in session, he circled through the high school parking lot, since hiding a vehicle there was clever thinking. More likely was finding randy teenagers sweating away in the back of an SUV or crew-cab pickup. Twice before, during school hours, he’d discovered rifles left in the rear window racks of ranch kids’ pickups, and in both cases sent the gun and the owner home to disarm before school officials could overreact. But this day, the lot had been empty of student rides. Five vehicles were parked in the staff lot.

  The wants and warrants checks usually reaffirmed for the deputy that a surprising percentage of drivers were in violation of some motor vehicle law, even if just an unpaid traffic citation. Unless the hit was a felony warrant, Pasquale usually let it go after filing the information away. He could not bring himself to care if a motorist had an outstanding parking ticket issued in Salt Lake City or Dubuque.

  So far, it had been poor hunting, and Pasquale was considering some radar work on south NM 56, the two-lane state highway that wandered from Posadas down to the tiny village of Regál and the Mexican border. Or the interstate was tempting, where high-speed traffic abounded. The sheriff wouldn’t care if the deputy stopped a speeding reporter or two, but County Manager Leona Spears would, what with the county’s hospitality on high alert this day.

  The new store, The Spree, might turn a hit or two, although it was several blocks away from the busy interstate, with only the store’s enormous red, white, and blue four-story-high sign to attract motorists.

  Seeing Stacie Stewart was a bonus. A memory or two about a dream girl from his raging adolescence was always entertaining. He glanced ahead toward the store’s automatic front doors, hoping for another glimpse. Pasquale’s recollection was that Stacie had managed to survive all the peer traps of high school, including his own wiles, and upon reflection the deputy realized that was a remarkable achievement. No doubt she had gone to the game the evening before. It would bring back memories for her, for sure. A mean spike, that girl had.

  After graduation, Stacie went to Texas Tech to study something like corporate bookkeeping—duller than a day shift at high noon he thought. She’d earned her chops working for an oil company in Lubbock for a while, but then returned to her hometown to marry Todd Stewart, now the first vice president of Posadas State Bank.

  In high school, the future banker had been a year ahead of Pasquale and Stacie Willis. Stewart, one of the BMOC at Posadas High, graduated second in his class and attended State in Las Cruces, leaving Tom Pasquale safe to ogle the back of Stacie’s fine neck throughout his senior year.

  Pasquale had seen Stacie Willis Stewart perhaps a dozen times during the three years after her return to Posadas and her marriage to the banker, always during informal “sidewalk” moments
such as this one. And he’d earned a friendly twiddle of the fingers each time. Maybe she had been aware of his existence in that English class. But she had never made it a point to stop and chat.

  An Illinois license plate drew his attention to the row of cars on his left, and he examined a charcoal gray Ford Fusion. The trim little sedan was obviously new, even showing the scab of glue on one back window that outlined where the dealer’s price sticker had been. But its license plate was a veteran, old enough to be scarred with signs of wear and tear, including the characteristic horizontal dig left by the repeated hitching and unhitching of a trailer. No reporter’s car, this.

  Denting a license was neither unusual nor uncommon. Pasquale had done the trick several times as he hitched his motorcycle trailer to his older model Jeep, letting the trailer hitch slide a couple of inches forward, riding over the top of the ball, to smack into the license plate.

  The Fusion didn’t carry a trailer hitch and ball—not even a socket for a removable one. And the license plate location was far too high above the bumper, nestled just under the trunk release.

  In New Mexico, drivers could take the old plate off a trade-in, keeping it for the new car. Pasquale had no idea what Illinois’ practice was, but even if it were legal, who would be so cheap as to put a scabby old plate on a brand new car? Curiosity won out. Pasquale lifted the mike.

  “PCS, three oh four. Ten twenty-eight on Illinois two baker thomas three zero five.”

  The radio fell silent. Dispatcher Mike Estancia was enjoying his first week working solo in dispatch after eight weeks with supervision breathing down his neck. Eventually he found the transmit bar. “Three zero four, ten four.” He did not parrot back the plate number as he should have, perhaps still a little self-conscious about stumbling through the phonic alphabet.

  While he waited, Pasquale continued on down the row toward the store, keeping the Fusion in sight in his wing mirror. Reaching the end of the aisle, he swung the Expedition in a wide circle, the all-terrain tires jerking and complaining on the hot pavement. He backed up along the broad sidewalk, far enough that he wouldn’t block shoppers as they left the store. He parked ten spaces away from the Fusion. Not by coincidence, Stacie Willis Stewart’s Volvo was also in view up the aisle—a pretty deep-blue late-model wagon with a bright yellow New Mexico—Land of Enchantment front plate.

  “Three zero four, PCS. Illinois two baker, uh, thomas three zero five should appear on a 2002 Ford three-quarter-ton pickup, color white. Registered to a Clayton Bailey, Star Route 12, Cathay, Illinois. Negative twenty-eight.”

  Pasquale’s attention snapped away from Stacie Stewart’s Volvo. Every nerve fiber honed in on the Fusion. He let the Expedition idle backward a few feet. Slipping the compact binoculars out of the center console, he rechecked the Fusion’s license, reading the number aloud several times.

  He hadn’t made a mistake—Illinois two baker thomas three zero five. “PCS, run that plate again for me.” He repeated the tag number as he backed farther along the sidewalk so that if the Fusion’s owners left the store, their attention wouldn’t be drawn immediately to the cop vehicle.

  “Three zero four, copy that. Illinois two baker thomas, three zero five.”

  In a moment, Estancia repeated the electronic computer news. “No wants or warrants,” he radioed. Just a plate borrowed off someone’s pickup truck, the theft—if that’s what it was—not yet noticed. Pasquale pondered that for a few moments.

  “PCS, three zero four.”

  “Go ahead, three zero four.”

  “PCS, find me the phone number for the sheriff’s department that serves that area in Illinois.” Silence followed. Had Estancia fallen asleep? Or had he expected the deputy to explain how to find the number?

  In a moment, his tentative “Ten four, three zero four,” followed. “Be a minute.”

  Pasquale settled back to wait. If the plate was stolen, the Illinois SO would know. There were all kinds of possibilities. He didn’t have long to ponder that before his cell phone interrupted, jarring the peace and quiet with a ringtone that mimicked a Harley Davidson motorcycle revving and then accelerating away.

  “What you got?” The three unadorned words announced Sheriff Robert Torrez, and his voice was hard to hear, little more than a hoarse whisper. The call surprised Pasquale, since it was possible to work for days—maybe even weeks—without any indication that Torrez inhabited the same planet. And the big man wouldn’t show much interest in a license plate stolen out of Illinois.

  Chapter Three

  “Sir, we have a new gray Ford Fusion sedan in The Spree parking lot, and it looks to be carrying an Illinois plate originally tagged to an Illinois pickup truck.”

  “You talked to the driver?”

  “Negative, sir. I would guess he—or she, or they—are inside the store.”

  “Huh.” Just bubbling enthusiasm, but Pasquale knew Sheriff Torrez would sound the same way if the impending end of the world were announced.

  “Negative twenty-eight, though. Maybe he just borrowed the plate off the truck for a few days for the trip.”

  “Check him out anyway. Pay attention.”

  “Ten four.” Pay attention? Was I not? Pasquale thought. During his now-ten years total employ with first the now-defunct Posadas Police Department and then with the Sheriff’s Department, the thirty-two-year-old Pasquale had managed enough bone-headed escapades to warrant a sharp supervisor’s eye, but he’d also managed more than a handful of truly spectacular apprehensions—including one that had put him in the hospital with a bullet through the hip.

  Apparently it took a long time to earn Sheriff Robert Torrez’ unqualified respect. The man still treated Thomas Pasquale as if the deputy were a fresh sixteen-year-old. Pasquale took comfort in realizing that Robert Torrez treated most people that way.

  The sheriff had terminated the phone call with nothing more to say, and Pasquale keyed the mike.

  “Three zero four is ten six Spree, reference Illinois two zero baker, two seven five. You have that information for me?”

  “Ten four, three oh four.” Estancia transmitted the phone number for the Cathay County Sheriff’s Department, repeating it twice. “And be advised we have a complaint of an infant locked in a vehicle, that location. The sheriff is responding.”

  In the radio background, Pasquale could hear voices, which meant that dispatcher Estancia was still holding down the transmit bar. “Sheriff Torrez is heading that way, three oh four,” the dispatcher repeated.

  “Ten four.” He surveyed the parking lot, seeing only a handful of customers in transit to their vehicles, or in the act of loading purchases. Out on the sidewalk of Grande Avenue, a gaggle of half a dozen middle-school-aged kids moved southward, toward The Spree.

  Simultaneously, the motorcycle ringtone inside Pasquale’s cell phone roared again. Robert Torrez’ voice was still unexcited and a near-whisper.

  “Stay away from the car. I’m just around the corner. Be there in a minute. Go to channel three.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pasquale settled back and took a deep breath. With just the hint of possible action, his pulse had come awake. He switched the radio to the car-to-car frequency where there were fewer police-monitoring freaks, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pushed hard, squaring his shoulders. Through painful experience, he knew that his best course of action was to do exactly as the sheriff requested.

  Before he had time to dwell on the “what ifs,” he saw the sheriff’s rolling wreckage, his long-of-tooth Chevy pickup, burble into the parking lot from the north side. The thirty-year-old truck, with its sun-bleached paint and large spots of gray primer, was the perfect undercover unit—had ninety percent of the county’s population not been well aware of the veteran vehicle. At the same time, three people left The Spree, heading in three different directions.

  Across the lot, close to where he’d first seen Stacie Willis Stewart, an elderly woman stood by the open trunk of her Toyota seda
n, frowning at her own cell phone. The Ace 1 Plumbing and Heating utility truck had left, leaving a slot between the woman’s Toyota and Stacie Stewart’s Volvo.

  “Where’s the Illinois car?” the sheriff’s disembodied voice murmured from the radio.

  “Third row, dead ahead. About halfway down toward me.”

  “Got it.” His pickup truck idled down the row, and he regarded the Fusion with no particular display of interest. In a moment, he pulled up window-to-window with Pasquale’s unit.

  “Look, do you know Helen Barber?”

  “Sure I do.” Pasquale pointed. “She’s standing right over there by her car. The Toyota with the open trunk.” On numerous occasions long ago, the now-elderly and retired elementary schoolteacher had swatted then-second-grader Thomas Pasquale, had even shaken him until his teeth rattled. She bore him no grudge, but was certainly pleased to see him advance to third grade, yet another child in a long line of hyper, attention-deficit-disordered youngsters who needed to be outside raising hell, rather than cooped up indoors.

  His truck already rolling, Torrez said, “She’s the one who reported the abandoned child. I got an ambulance comin’, just in case. Stay put here. If the folks show up at the Fusion, just detain ’em for a little bit until you get the answers.”

  “Sir, that Volvo…the blue station wagon right by Ms. Barber’s Yote-tote? That’s Stacie Stewart’s. I saw her go into the store a little bit ago.”

  “We’ll see,” Torrez said. At the same moment, the flashing lights of one of the EMT units appeared, and as he kept watch for the owners of the Fusion, Pasquale glanced toward the action now and then, surprised to see the sheriff’s pickup truck and the ambulance stop directly behind Stacie Willis Stewart’s Volvo, partially obscured by other vehicles.

  Did Stacie Stewart have a child? Pasquale couldn’t remember, but why wouldn’t she? A little dog yapped incessantly, and now Pasquale could see it leaping up and down in frantic excitement, locked along with the infant in the Volvo station wagon, seeing danger with all the strangers gathering around the car.