The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(45)
Josie knew what lay behind his question. If this were more than a onetime occurrence, then Martínez’s job was in serious jeopardy. Bottom line, whether Bloster was the one who’d passed off bad bills or not, it was still the sheriff’s signature that went to the commissioners.
*
At noon, Josie walked next door to visit Mayor Moss. It was a sunny, blue-sky day with not a cloud overhead. The temperature was in the eighties, no humidity, a slight breeze—the kind of day that made her want to take off in the mountains with Chester and enjoy the outdoors. Instead, her back muscles were in knots up and down her spine as she walked down the hall to Moss’s office. His door was closed, but the secretary rang in to him and Josie was allowed five minutes. It was all she needed.
“I need to know when we’re getting reinforcements for the jail,” she said once she was standing in front of his mammoth mahogany desk. He didn’t gesture for her to sit. “The sheriff and I have other priorities. We can’t take men off the road to guard it. I was serious about the jail coming under attack. We have two Mexican drug cartels with a personal interest in one of our prisoners. They’ll storm it just like they did the Trauma Center.”
Moss’s chin jutted out. His small eyes were dark and focused. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him and stared at Josie as if trying to figure out how to explain something complicated to her. “I’m working with the governor to arrange for help from the National Guard. It takes time. You don’t snap your fingers and get help. You think we’re the only city with troubles?”
“What kind of time frame did they give you?” Josie asked.
“They don’t give time frames, Chief Gray. When I know something, I’ll call you.” He turned back to his computer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m preparing for a meeting.”
“And your committee? What kind of progress has your committee made in shutting down these cartels? Do you have a time frame for your committee work?”
Moss leaned back in his desk chair and gripped the leather armrests with both hands. “I would like to think that you have more productive things to occupy your time with than harassing me. This conversation is over.”
Josie walked out of his office furious not just with him but also with herself. She had sounded childish and unprofessional. She had to get a grip on her hatred toward him before it began to cloud her ability to run her office effectively. In the meantime, the safety of the officers at the jail was still a major worry.
*
Josie did not go back to her office. With the nauseating thought of her mother lurking around the department for lunch, she opted to ratchet up the morning with a little Hack Bloster. She called the sheriff’s office and talked to the dispatcher, who said Bloster didn’t come on duty until noon, but gave her his home address.
Josie drove south toward the bend in the Rio where the rock walls grew steeper with each mile. She turned onto a switchback road that zigzagged down a thirty-foot canyon. There was barely enough land to build into the rock. The three houses on the switchback looked like fishing shacks, although their inhabitants were permanent residents.
Hack Bloster’s house was a thirty-foot-by-ten-foot wooden structure built into the face of the rock. To the left of the shack was a gravel area big enough for two cars to park. To the right of the house was a similarly sized garage. A twenty-foot swatch of rocky land covered with clumps of cactus and granite boulders separated the house from the road. On the road’s opposite side, a twenty-foot drop led to the river below. Josie parked beside Bloster’s police car and caught him by surprise when she walked into his open garage. Ted Nugent, blasting from a boom box at his feet, had kept him from hearing her car approach. A window fan on the floor blew air toward him.
He sat on a five-gallon bucket with no shirt on, wearing dusty jeans and cowboy boots. He cradled a red and black rooster in his lap with one leather gloved hand, and held a small instrument in his other hand that appeared to be sharpening the long black talons of the rooster. When he saw Josie, he stood and placed the rooster in a metal cage on a workbench behind him, then turned off the music.
“I hear those fighters run about twenty-five hundred dollars. That true?” Josie asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Bloster said. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face.
“I’ve heard for years there were cockfights out here on Saturday nights, but I’ve never been able to pin one down. There’s supposedly a caliche pit back in here that gets used for cockfights and dog races. You ever hear any rumors like that?” Josie asked.
“Not a one.”
“Word is, it’s by the windmill and water tanks.” Josie gestured behind her where the top of a windmill could be seen over the trees. “Want to take a drive back there and check it out? I’m guessing you have some insider knowledge.” She pointed to three metal cages along the far wall of his garage, each containing a rooster, all sitting idle in the heat of the day.
“You got a warrant to search the land, then go for it. I got no say in the matter. There’s no law against having roosters, so you can take your suspicions elsewhere. You got something else to say to me?”
Josie noted the pocket holster in his front jeans’ pocket and the butt of the pistol in plain view.
“You getting him ready for the fights this weekend?” she asked.