“Even if they knew that if they were caught without a license they would have to perform five years of full-time public-service work?”
“And let their families starve?”
“So whose fault is that? Did they have to drink and drive? I don’t mean to be argumentative, Sheriff. I’m just making the point that we aren’t willing to pay the price. Yet. It just isn’t important enough to enough people. We all think we can dodge fate. I stand down from my soapbox now.” He grinned. “You asked for it.” He gestured at the airplane. “There’s nothing like having a captive audience.”
“If you ever figure out the answers,” I said, “be sure to let me in on the secret.”
“Be assured,” Sprague replied, nodding vigorously. Then he added, “But don’t hold your breath. Humans are strange creatures. It takes a catastrophe of royal proportions to drill through the average person’s complacency. I lost a daughter and a wife, and saw little stirring in the community. A car crash kills five teenagers.” He shrugged offhandedly. “Still, not much. A few feeble efforts to form a parents’ awareness group. A prominent merchant is killed after he mortally wounds an undercover police officer.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow in question. “What’s it take, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know.”
Sprague looked off ahead, then pointed. “That hump on the horizon there is the mesa north of Posadas. We’ll be home in about fifteen minutes.”
Home. I thought about Posadas, and felt uneasy. For a hundred years or more, a sleepy, tiny border hamlet. For thirty years after that, a booming mining town, jerked so fast into the twentieth century that it lost almost all of its former color, culture, and dignity. A two-bit, booming mining town. Now the mine was gone, the mill closed. And what was left was struggling under something ugly and threatening. I looked up at the bright blue of the sky. Harlan Sprague was absorbed in his own thoughts, and we flew the final miles in silence.
Chapter 14
“What do we know about David and Theresa Barrie?” I asked Estelle Reyes when I walked into the office early that afternoon.
Even if the detective noticed my lack of greeting, she didn’t miss a beat. “I talked to them.”
“I know you did. What did you find out that’s new?”
Reyes shrugged and rummaged for her notebook. She flipped pages and said, “Personally, I think David Barrie is a first-class creep. His wife is a mouse. She lets him walk all over her.” Her venom surprised me, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss other people’s marital problems.
“Dr. Sprague blames Jenny Barrie for his daughter’s death last year.”
“That’s the impression I got, too.”
“I spent three hours with him in his airplane. It wasn’t just an impression. He blames himself for letting it happen. What did David Barrie have to say?”
“Indignation is his game, sir. No matter what question I asked, he bristled. I think he figured he could scare me off. He also likes to threaten law suits. If we try to pin anything on the memory of his daughter, he promises to sue. I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I get the impression he would have liked the chance to sue Benny Fernandez, too. He said he still might sue the estate.”
“Because the son was driving the car?”
“Right. He’s a great guy.”
“That’s all he said?”
“Just about. Except that he told me we should check the trucks that bring in food-service supplies for Fernandez’s restaurant.”
I sat down heavily. “Hell, why not? It’s a waste of time, but why not.”
“You don’t think Fernandez was involved?”
“No, you’re right. I don’t. I don’t know why he came unglued in the park, but I sure as hell intend to find out. But no, I don’t think he was running drugs.”
Estelle watched me light a cigarette and then pushed an ashtray toward the extended match. “It was pretty rough up in Albuquerque?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was pretty rough.”
Estelle nodded, then changed the subject. “It was convenient that Dr. Sprague was around to provide air taxi.”
“Yes. He had a conference to attend. He got bored early.”
“Is that what he told you?”
I looked sharply at the girl. “You should have been a goddamned oriental. What’s on your mind?”
“He didn’t have a conference.”
“You checked?”
“Yes. I called a friend on the Albuquerque Police Department who called a friend whose best friend is an internist, too.”
“Tight line of evidence, there.”
A trace of a grin crossed Estelle Reyes’s pretty face. I realized I hadn’t really seen her smile in a hell of a long time. “And I also called Francis,” she said, referring to her fiancÉ. “Anyway, there was no medical conference in Albuquerque this week. Not even a meeting of the tooth fairies. There was no conference for medical writers. Or medical salesmen. There was only one conference in the entire city scheduled for yesterday and today.”
She paused and I prompted, “And?”
“The city school bus drivers are having a two-day workshop.”
I frowned and stubbed out my cigarette. “So why would Sprague make up a story?”
Estelle shrugged and tapped the edge of her small notebook on the desktop. “Maybe he didn’t want to have to explain to you why he was there?”
“Well, obviously. But why was he there?” I asked, and then answered my own question. “He made a point of seeing me at the hospital. And then a point of offering me a ride home.”
Estelle nodded. “Now, I may be a little cynical, but it’s a bit much to expect him to be that concerned about Hewitt’s welfare. He didn’t know the kid from Adam. When I talked to him that night in the park, Sprague did mention that you needed to see a doctor.” She smiled slightly at the surprise on my face.
“Horse shit.”
“But I don’t think he would fly all the way to Albuquerque and back because of that. Unless he was your personal physician.”
“Which he isn’t.”
“So that leaves us with three choices. One, he is a concerned citizen with plenty of money who flies great distances on the outside chance that he can be helpful.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
“Two, he wanted to find out what you knew. Or what Art Hewitt knew. If that’s the case, then he stands to gain or lose something by that information.”
“And three?”
“We don’t know why he did it.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Number two is the most interesting. If he is trying to track down, after more than a year, the source of the drugs that killed his daughter, he would be interested. Vitally interested.” Estelle nodded. “That’s what you were thinking?”
“Sí,” she said, making her slight accent a heavy imitation of JosÉ Jimenez.
I lighted another cigarette. “Why didn’t he just say that, then? He had ample chance during the flight back down here. And what put the bee in your bonnet to check on Sprague?”
“Just a hunch. When I spoke with him first, he said, ‘Don’t hesitate to call me later if there’s anything else you need.’ Less than twelve hours later, I find out from your call that he’s in Albuquerque. I just found it odd that he didn’t mention his conference commitment when I talked with him. I mean, the odds were good that I would want to talk with him again.”
“So? Everyone says, ‘Don’t hesitate to call.’ That doesn’t mean they really mean it. Especially doctors.” I remembered her fiancÉ. “No offense.”
“What can I say? It was a hunch.”
“Follow up on it. Very quietly. If Sprague is off on a personal vendetta, I want to know about it. I don’t want another Benny Fernandez. And if he’s just a good samaritan, I don’t want him harassed.”
“What are you going to do?”
I stood up. “I’m going home to clean up and get out of this monkey suit. And then I’m going out t
o the football camp for the afternoon.”
“Ah,” Estelle said. “It’s that time of year, almost. When you pursue the pigskin. May your team always win.”
“I’m touched.”
“I’m just practical. Last year, every time your team lost, we couldn’t get a civil word out of you.”
“You exaggerate. I’m not that bad. Anyway, this is partly work. Scott Salinger has had a couple weeks to stew. He’ll be there. Maybe he’ll have come to terms with what he knows.”
“If he knows.”
“My instinct says he does and is just frightened to deal with it. He might have to step on a few friends. Some folks have a hard time doing that.” I picked up my Stetson and headed for the door. “Oh, and tell Sheriff Holman, if you see him before I do, that the funeral is at two o’clock Thursday afternoon. I already committed him. We’ll drive up in three-ten.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be overjoyed about the drive. Bob Torrez says the sheriff still talks about the last time he rode with you.”
I grinned and left the cubbyhole that Estelle called her office. On the bulletin board above the dispatcher’s desk, I pinned a Magic-Markered sign. J. J. Murton looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re back!” Then he looked at the sign and read aloud, “Wash and wax three-ten by six P. M. Wednesday. Yessir, I’ll have the trustees get right to that. Wash ’er right up.” I reached out and pointed to part of the message. “Oh, and wax,” Miracle said. “Right. Wax.”
I nodded and smiled at him encouragingly. “I’ll be ten-seven until tomorrow noon, J.J. Don’t call me unless the town is burning down.”
“Right.”
“And I’m taking three-ten,” I reminded him. His eyebrows shot together, and he looked back up at the sign I’d stuck to the bulletin board. “That’s for tomorrow, J.J., not today.”
I left the office and headed home. I walked through the front door of my house for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, and stopped short. Dr. Sprague had taken me straight from the airport to the sheriff’s office, because it seemed urgent to talk with Estelle. Now I was home, and it struck me like a well-placed blow. I’d forgotten that Art Hewitt’s personal effects were still scattered around my home—a jacket here, pair of tennis shoes there, toilet articles on the bathroom counter. It’s the kind of heartshot that makes for a rotten afternoon.
I packed his things and put the bundle by the front door so I wouldn’t forget it come Thursday. Then I showered, changed clothes, and left for the mountain football camp.
It was a yearly ritual that marked the beginning of the sacred season, an advance peek at the high school team on whose behalf I would bellow myself hoarse during fourteen games. I figured it to be potent medicine for what ailed me.
***
The car only scraped bottom once as I drove carefully up the twisting Forest Service road. Where the elevation tipped 8200 feet, I thumped across a cattle guard that marked private property. The sixty acres were owned by a Posadas businessman. The attraction was a large open field, reasonably smooth, and a casually laid-out camping area. Every year, the Posadas head football coach hosted a week-long “football camp.” On paper, the idea was to provide a camping and recreational opportunity for area youngsters who couldn’t tell a football from a yucca. There was lots of camping, and hiking, and running, and ball throwing. In short, lots of pre-season football practice. By chance, the camp was well attended by any student who wanted a place on the team. Not mandatory, but next-best thing. Coach Fred Gutierrez figured that young lungs that survived a workout at 8200 feet would probably handle any strain down below.
I drove in the cow path that led to the only structure on the property, a small, neat log cabin known as “Coaches’ Cabin.” As I pulled up, I could hear shouts out on the field. I locked 310 and walked through the thick grove of Gambel oak and ponderosa pine that separated the field from the cabin site. Up at the other end of the field I could see a straight row of tents, but it was the action out on the turf that interested me most. I picked a thick-boled ponderosa and sat down at its base with a comfortable grunt. I pushed the cap back on my head and rested my forearms on my drawn-up knees.
Gutierrez and his four assistants—just camp counselors, mind you—were running the forty campers through simple passing routines. There actually were some younger kids there, too. And the Posadas Jaguars’ starting lineup, or I was watching fly fishermen. I sat and relaxed for nearly a half hour, picking out the lineup that was going to make other schools beg for mercy that fall. Enough brain cells remained stubbornly fixed on business that after a few minutes I realized Scott Salinger was not on the field.
One of the assistant coaches saw me, finally, and trotted over. Mark Tatman recognized a faithful booster and grinned widely.
“Sheriff, how are ya?” he said. We shook hands, and then he turned serious. “Say, that was an awful thing about that young cop who got killed downtown. Some of the kids were saying he was living with you. They thought he was some kind of relative until they read the story in the paper yesterday.”
I just nodded, still watching the players. The coach asked, “What was he undercover for, drugs, or what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it right now, Mark.” I nodded at the action on the field. “They look good.”
The assistant coach turned so he could survey the players. “I think so. A good year comin’ up.”
“When do the official two-a-day practices start?”
“August fifteenth.”
“Super.”
“Did you need anything, or were you just cruisin’?”
“Just getting a pre-season peek, Mark. But say, where’s Scott Salinger? I don’t see him.”
Mark Tatman shrugged. “He and Coach Gutierrez exchanged a few words yesterday. He left and hasn’t been back.”
“No shit? What was the problem?”
Tatman held up his hands. “All I know is he was real moody. Depressed. Couldn’t keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing. Yesterday Gutierrez shouted some instructions at him and Salinger cussed at him. Nothin’ real bad, but with the little kids around, you know, you can’t let it slide.” Tatman shrugged again. “Not very like Salinger, either. He left after that. Just got in his car and left.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Couple of the guys say he’s still pretty shook about that July Fourth accident. Him and Tommy Hardy were pretty good friends, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’ll come out of it. Coach said just to let him go. Let him unwind.”
“Probably best.”
“If he comes back, should I tell him you wanted to see him?”
“No. If I need him, I’ll find him.” The coach was anxious to return to his players, and I let him go with a grin and a pat on the back. I watched for another ten minutes, then went back to the car. It was time to find out if Scott Salinger was as tough off the football field as he was on it.
Chapter 15
Posadas cooked under the hot July sun. Downtown that late afternoon was quiet. Many of the shops were closed already. I came in from the east and noticed that the Fernandez Burger Heaven was open. I wondered who was running it. Farther on, with the traffic only one or two cars deep at each light, the town looked like what it was—a slow-paced southwestern town where the single wide main drag was a little unkempt and weed-strewn.
I had lived in Posadas long enough that I could accurately visualize the interior of every store and shop along that main drag. I figured I knew every clerk and owner, too.
As I drove past the intersection of Grande and Fourth, I saw David Barrie walking from his now locked and dark hobby-craft shop to the parking lot. He looked like a caricature of one of those World War II British officers. Very blond, he wore his hair long on the sides, combed so that it looked as if he were facing a strong wind. A long, slightly ski nose jutted below very blue eyes, and his not-quite lantern jaw was set resolutely. He marched with arms swinging vigorously and r
hythmically, and when he reached his car, he unlocked the door and slid in gracefully.
By then I had driven past, and I watched in the rearview mirror as Barrie’s silver Corvette eased out onto the street, heading east. The hobby business was obviously a good one.
Scott Salinger’s home was well away from the main drag, in one of the older sections of town that had been established during the heyday of the silver mines forty years before. The place was small, overshadowed by the collection of vehicles in the graveled driveway. A big boat, its cockpit covered with canvas and the engine booted, rested with its stern close to one garage door. The trailer hitch was supported at a convenient height by a cinder block. Between that and the street was a motor home perhaps twenty feet in length. A small motorbike was obviously a permanent attachment to the vehicle’s nose, secured with two padlocks and a hefty chain. A middle-aged Chevy Nova with Texas plates was parked beside the boat. Between the garage and the brown plaster wall of the house was an old Grumman canoe, two bicycles long past their prime, and something that might once have been a wire dog-run.
I pulled into the driveway behind the Nova. It didn’t look like anyone was home, so I left the engine running when I got out.
“May I help you?”
I spun around, startled. The young lady was in grubby gardener’s clothes that served only to enhance her lithe figure. She pushed the wide-brimmed floppy hat back and surveyed me with eyes almost the color of jade.
“I’m Undersheriff Bill Gastner,” I said, and extended my hand.
She shook with a slightly grimy hand and no apologies for it. “I’m Amy Salinger.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I remember you as the lead in that musical that the high school put on a number of years ago.”
She smiled slightly. “You have a good memory, Sheriff.”
I indicated the Nova with a nod. “You’re a Texican now?”
“I’m a nurse at Texas A and M. I’m home for a week or two vacation. I assume you wanted to see Scott?” Her tone was sober and businesslike. I nodded. “He should be back in an hour or two. He went hunting.”
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