Free Bag Limit by Steven F. Havill Page B

doesn’t do those dinky little things on the breakfast menu.” The second plate landed in front of me with a heavy thud. “It’s hot, so be careful.”
    “Brain food,” I said. “Maybe something will occur to me.”
    “When he sobers up, Sosimo might have some answers,” Torrez said.
    “Don’t hold your breath.”

Chapter Nine
    District Attorney Daniel M. Schroeder looked like a lawyer—perfectly fitted and pressed dark suit, spit-polished black wing tips, gold wire-rimmed glasses, a bulging, old-fashioned top-opening leather briefcase, and a gold Cross pen that flicked indecipherable notes on a fresh yellow legal pad.
    He was sitting by himself in the Public Safety Building’s conference room when I returned. With him looking so damned formal, I was glad I’d taken a few minutes to go home, shower, shave, and spruce up. Not that Dan would have cared how I looked. Over the course of twenty years, I’d come to the conclusion that District Attorney Schroeder was an interesting fellow, one of those rare folks who didn’t immediately transfer what he thought about the world to other people as a requirement for what
they
should think.
    Still, I had to admit to a certain small uneasiness. No matter how the story was told, no matter how the excuses fell, it was my fault that Matthew Baca was dead. The kid had been in my custody. With that in mind, I had a personal interest in what conclusions the district attorney reached.
    Schroeder looked up from his pad when I entered the room, and his round face cracked in a neutral smile. “Morning,” he said as he pushed the chair back and stood up. Not “good morning,” or “rotten morning,” or “how are you.” Just the single word into which I was free to read whatever I liked. We shook hands, and his grip was neutral, too—not forced hearty, not perfunctory or limp.
    “Do you want the undersheriff here for this?” I asked.
    “Ah,” he said, and looked down at the legal pad. “Not right away. Let’s just you and I talk for a bit.” I started to pull out a chair, but he was already gathering up his things. “Let’s use your office,” he said. “We might have fewer interruptions there.”
    Interruptions weren’t the issue, but I appreciated the gesture and didn’t object. If I had to be grilled, it was more comfortable to be well done on home turf. I appreciated an unspoken second gesture, too. Donald Jaramillo, the assistant district attorney who generally worked Posadas County, was not present. I didn’t care for the little weasel, and Schroeder knew it.
    As I closed my office door behind us, I said, “Go ahead and use the desk.”
    “This is fine,” he said, and settled in one of the two leather-padded captain’s chairs.
    “Coffee or something?”
    “No thanks. I’m fine.” He waited until I’d finally settled in behind my desk. With his elbows on the arms of the chair, he held his pen in front of his face, one end in each hand, and slowly spun it as if he were searching for imperfections in the gold finish. After a minute, his gaze switched to me.
    “I understand that you witnessed some or all of the undersheriff’s initial pursuit of Matthew Baca?”
    “Yes. I was parked up on the mountain, just this side of Regal Pass. A little after eleven o’clock. I could see the lights of the Broken Spur Saloon from where I was parked.”
    “And you saw the Baca vehicle arrive at the saloon, and then leave shortly thereafter?”
    “I didn’t see it arrive. Or at least I didn’t notice it arrive. That might be more accurate.”
    “How long had you been parked when you saw the vehicle leave? When you saw it drive out of the saloon’s parking lot?”
    “Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.”
    “Do you think that Baca had been at the saloon all that time?”
    “I doubt it. The bartender at the saloon said the kid was just in and out. Tried to buy beer, was refused, and left.”
    “So you just missed his arrival, then.