Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “As a matter of fact, at the moment, I do. Two of the deputies went down that way on another matter. I’ll have them swing by Connie’s place and see if your wayward range tech is there. Maybe the two of them got tired of the commute and eloped.”

  “Right now lying on a beach in Bermuda, probably.”

  “Probably.”

  “Undersheriff, thank you. I appreciate it. This is one of those incidents when the weekend got in the way. Fitzwater forgot to check in, and we didn’t follow up. Everybody’s in such a hurry to get out the door on a Friday afternoon. All this came about because his name is on the crew list to head up to Flag on Monday for a reconstruction conference after their fire. But he’s gone, truck’s gone…so they dump Mr. Fitzwater and his escapades in my lap.”

  “I’ll get back to you asap. Or Deputy Pasquale will. I’ll have him call you one way or another.”

  “Let me give you my cell. No one’s going to be in the office by then.”

  “You got it.”

  He rattled off the number, then said, “The truck he’s driving is a standard issue 2016 Ford F-150 crew, color government white. Last time I saw it, he had about six rolls of barbed wire and fifty or so steel posts in the back. Chrome locking toolbox across the bed.”

  “Maybe it was just more convenient for him to keep it over the weekend rather than driving back to the boneyard in Douglas. Especially if he’s decided to spend the weekend over here with Connie.”

  “No doubt. Just so long as he didn’t drive it head-first into some arroyo and ended up spending the night looking up at the stars.”

  “We’ll check for you.”

  “Everything else going all right over there?”

  “Sure, depending on what your definition of ‘all right’ is.”

  “I hear that.”

  “I have to ask, though. What are you doing working in the middle of the night, Craig?”

  “Ah, like I said, we had a little fire. Maybe a hundred acres, but it’s about burned itself out. One of the firefighters came up with a good tip about who started it. We made a good arrest, but of course the magistrate let ’em go ’cause there was no property damage, other than a campground restroom. Same old, same old. Apparently a hundred acres of prime timber doesn’t count for much.”

  “And so it goes. Look, if Fitzwater’s truck is down at Connie’s, I’ll have the deputy wake him up and call in. If he’s not there, I’ll make sure the road deputies are on the look-out for government license A-163100.”

  When Estelle hung up, she made a couple of quick notes to herself and then left her office, stopping briefly at the dispatch island. “Pasquale is ten eight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ernie Wheeler ran a pencil down the log, then rested a fist on the mike’s old-fashioned transmit bar. “Three oh four, PCS. Ten twenty.”

  Pasquale’s response was immediate. “Three oh four is just coming down off the pass into Regál, mile marker thirty-nine.”

  She explained the brief note to Wheeler, who frowned and transmitted. “Three oh four, BOLO a U.S. Forest Service truck, tag Alpha 163100. White 2016 Ford F-150. Should be operated by a Milton Fitzwater, range tech out of Douglas.”

  “Ten four.”

  “Check at the Suarez residence. If the truck is there, give Fitzwater the message to call USFS Law Enforcement ASAP.” Wheeler read off Stout’s cell number.

  Pasquale acknowledged. Wheeler looked amused.

  “Do you want to be notified if this guy Fitzwater is in Regál?”

  Estelle stifled a yawn. “No. If he locates him, Tommy needs to tell Fitzwater to call Craig Stout in Douglas for a heads-up. The rest is up to them. This one’s not my child.”

  “I hear ya.”

  Nothing else on her list warranted a return call in the middle of the night, and Estelle left the office in Ernie Wheeler’s capable hands, with the county under Deputy Thomas Pasquale’s watchful eye, and with soon-to-be-deputy Tanner Garcia to keep Thomas awake. When he was finished in Regál, Pasquale would stay central, since the county Sheriff’s Department also provided coverage for the village of Posadas—its own police department one of the victims of economic collapse with the closing of the area mines.

  With such scant coverage, the best to hope for was a quiet rest of the night, with everyone keeping their domestic squabbles behind closed doors.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey.”

  Not “good morning,” or “are you coming to work today?” or “how did it go last night?” The classical music of her cell phone followed by Sheriff Robert Torrez’ monosyllabic greeting finished the job that Estelle’s alarm had tried to do an hour before.

  “Good morning, Robert.” Her voice was husky from too-deep sleep, and with her free hand, she chopped a trough through her pillow so she could see the clock.

  “Are you going to be able to see Perrone this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” she managed, and coughed hard, once. “Excuse me,” she added. There’s just nothing I’d rather do than gag through an autopsy. But if Dr. Alan Perrone was willing to spend his Sunday afternoon in the morgue to advance their case, she would support him in any way she could.

  “You sound like shit,” Torrez said, about as close to sympathy as he ever came.

  “Too much sleep.” Maybe Bill Gastner had discovered something with his persistent insomnia, she thought—never having to wake up feeling as if clubbed into submission the night before.

  “It ain’t no surprise,” the sheriff continued. “The bullet I recovered from the cab of Fisher’s pickup came from the gun found lyin’ between his feet. That’s all preliminary, but I’m sure it’s right.”

  “We expected that, didn’t we?”

  “Yep. And the gun is his. The wife found the paperwork for it from Rio Grande Shooting Sports stuffed in the back of his reloading journal.”

  “She told me that he’d bought it—she wasn’t too pleased about that. In fact, it sparked another knock down, drag out. Anyway, the bullet came from his own gun. A tough nut for her to face. She said her husband had talked about suicide once before.”

  “Taber thinks that what he did to the little boy triggered it,” Torrez said. He sounded almost sympathetic. “That and knowin’ that he might be facing some jail time.”

  “Not likely in this day and age.” Estelle rolled onto her back and watched the morning sun patterns on the closet door. “Remorse can sometimes be a powerful thing, Bobby.”

  “More likely that if he was all that sorry about makin’ the kid hike, he’d just try to make up for it. Buy the kid a new bike or something.”

  “Most likely. But he didn’t do that.”

  “Nope. Hey, Craig Stout called a few minutes ago. That deal from last night? They found their guy’s truck up north of Newton. Grant County’s lookin’ into it.”

  “Found it? Where?”

  “You know where County Road 0910 comes into Newton from the west?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just about five miles west of there. Where the road dips down into that set of arroyos comin’ out of the Oria. Truck was pulled into that area that used to be a campground. Ain’t nothin’ there now. Ground’s too hard for tracks to tell ’em anything.”

  “But no Myron Fitzwater?”

  “Nope. A load of fencing shit in the back. Wire, posts, stuff like that.”

  “His radio or phone?”

  “Don’t think so. Deputy Miles Clark is the local contact, if you want to talk with him. Him or Stuart, either one.”

  “Stout didn’t say whether or not Fitzwater was supposed to be working on something up there.”

  “He says not.”

  “I’m sure the Forest Service is capable of handling things,” Estelle said. “And Grant County will assist. There’s no connection with us.”

  “Just his girlfriend in Reg�
�l, but Pasquale didn’t contact her last night. She wasn’t home. Her car was, but the trailer was dark. Maybe off visiting for the holidays. Her mom don’t live there anymore…in some kind of home up in Albuquerque.”

  “Maybe Fitzwater hiked in a ways from the truck. That’s big fossil country in that area. Maybe he took a header in one of those arroyo cuts.”

  “They’re checkin’ all that. Didn’t get any snow up that way, so it’s like workin’ with shoe prints on concrete. Tough country. It don’t look good.”

  “The Feds are mounting a search?”

  “Lookin’ that way. I’m sendin’ Mears and Garcia up there for whatever help they can give, make sure they take a hard look at that vehicle and the area around where it was parked.”

  “Do we have a good photo of Fitzwater coming?”

  “Yep. Got both his ID photo and a snapshot blow-up…him sittin’ on the tailgate of his truck, talkin’ with his girlfriend. Stout faxed me those this morning.”

  “Was the truck locked?”

  “Nope. And no keys.”

  “Disabled? Could they tell?”

  “Don’t think so. Mears’ll find out for sure. He’s going to talk with Deputy Clark.”

  “If it was disabled, Fitzwater could have just walked back to Newton if his phone and radio didn’t work out there. There’s not a lot of traffic out that way, but Hippie Dan still lives in Newton. He would have helped.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Something like this, an air search might be productive, Bobby. Were you going to touch bases with Jim Bergin?”

  “Yep. They’ll be in the air here in a few minutes. Pasquale’s ridin’ with him.”

  “Did you have a chance to talk with the Fishers’ neighbor, by the way? Mr. Escobedo?”

  “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “He said he heard one loud kind of whump noise. Like someone hittin’ a mattress with a baseball bat.”

  “That’s an interesting observation.”

  “Yeah, but nothin’ else. By the time he got out of his chair and used his walker to move over to the front window, there was nothin’ to see, even if he coulda. Or hear, for that matter. He thinks he might have heard a vehicle drive by, but he wasn’t sure. He said couldn’t really see if Fisher’s truck was in the driveway or not.”

  “But he could tell that Penny Fisher’s car was gone?”

  “So he says, and he didn’t see anyone walkin’ around, or hear anybody talkin’. Never did figure out what caused the noise.”

  “No other traffic?”

  “Maybe not payin’ attention to it, if there was.”

  “Maybe he heard the truck door slam when Fisher climbed inside.”

  “Nothin’ he was payin’ attention to,” Torrez said. “Right now, it’s lookin’ like Fisher did just what it seems like. Climbed in that truck, thought about it for a minute or two, then did it.”

  Estelle heard the skepticism in the sheriff’s voice. “Maybe so. Except for the matter of the scuffed handprint on the dash, and the maybe footprint on the passenger side.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.” That request came as a surprise.

  “As long as Alan Perrone has questions, I have questions. I trust his judgment.”

  “Yep. I can’t see him leavin’ the kid all alone in the house while he takes the easy way out.”

  “Remember that this is the same idiot who put his son out of the truck in the middle of a snowstorm,” Estelle said. “Anything goes with this guy. I’ll see you at two, then, if not before.”

  After switching off, Estelle lay quietly, phone resting on her stomach.

  Quick and easy, she thought. A simple, uncomplicated ruling by Dr. Alan Perrone, coupled with finding range tech Myron Fitzwater safe and sound. Then Estelle’s husband would be home, and her sons and Francisco’s fiancée would jet in, and all would be perfect for a quiet Christmas. She groaned as she sat upright, and massaged the heavy scar that rippled diagonally from right armpit to almost the center of her torso below her right breast. Despite eight years of healing time, her battered ribs and muscles still protested the damage done by a nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet and the hours of surgery that followed.

  After letting the shower’s hot water beat on her for ten minutes, she stepped out and wrapped herself in the huge white towel, preparing to do a series of careful stretch exercises before rescuing the two piecrusts that waited in the refrigerator. The piano chord interrupted her, and she turned to see her cell phone walking circles on the bureau top.

  Chapter Twelve

  The voice was muted and distant, as if the speaker was holding his cell phone well away from his mouth. He responded to her initial greeting with a question.

  “Is this Sheriff Guzman?”

  “This is Undersheriff Guzman. Who’s calling, please?

  “I didn’t know if I should call or not.” The man’s voice was soft, but with the hint of a west Texas twang. “Anyways, I figured I should.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Oh. Sorry. This is Al Fisher?”

  “Darrell’s brother.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He started to add something else, but choked. After some snuffing and heavy breathing, he said, “I just thought I should call.”

  “We’re sorry for your family’s loss, Mr. Fisher. Did Deputy Pasquale speak with you?”

  “No, ma’am. My girl…that’s Maria? She said he stopped by. But I wasn’t back from Texas yet. I got home late yesterday and heard what happened. God almighty, I don’t believe this. I mean, Darrell? I’m all…everyone else is okay?”

  “His wife wasn’t home, and the little boy was asleep.”

  “Derry didn’t see it happen, did he?”

  “No, sir. He was asleep at the time. You talked with Penny?”

  “No, ma’am. Well, I tried to, but me and her, well you know how it can be.”

  “Where are you now, Mr. Fisher?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “I need to meet with you, sir. It takes forty-five minutes to drive from Regál to our office in Posadas.” She turned and looked at the wall clock over the kitchen range. “It’s ten thirty-five now. I’d like to meet with you at eleven-thirty, in my office. Is that possible for you?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Good. Eleven-thirty.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “Is there something special I can tell you? I mean, my brother, he…” That’s as far as he got before choking into silence.

  “There are probably lots of things you can tell us. Lots of things that you can help us with. And we’ll appreciate any help you can give us, Mr. Fisher. So eleven-thirty.” Estelle hung up and looked at the wall calendar. Friday night, when he’d been arrested, Darrell Fisher said that he’d been in Regál, visiting his brother. Possible. And then Al had driven over to Texas bright and early Saturday morning for a pig hunt. A very brief pig hunt—home again by Saturday night. That was also possible.

  She dialed Bob Torrez’ number and the sheriff’s robot picked up on the fourth ring. “You have reached Sheriff Robert Torrez. I can’t come to the phone right now, but…” And the robot was chopped off at the knees. “Yup.”

  “Bobby, I’m going to be talking with Al Fisher here in an hour or so. I thought you might want to sit in on that.”

  Silence followed that for a moment. “What are you thinkin?”

  “I don’t know. But there are just too many dark spots in this picture.”

  “What time with Fisher?” Estelle could hear little voices in the background, and Gabe came close to his father’s phone, jabbering nonstop.

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there. Say goodbye, Gabe.”

  “Bye!” the five-year-old shouted.

  “That’s one of the da
rk spots, Bobby,” Estelle said, and his grunt of agreement told her that he knew what she meant.

  An hour and ten minutes later, Al Fisher walked into the Public Safety Building. He saw Estelle standing behind the dispatch island and tried to pull his shoulders back a little. Two years older than his brother, four inches shorter and thirty pounds heavier, Al looked as if he hadn’t slept much in the past forty-eight hours.

  “Couldn’t help it,” he said by way of greeting. “Dang truck wouldn’t start. And Maria wanted to come, but I wouldn’t let her.”

  Estelle shook hands. His grip was limp. “And why is that, Mr. Fisher?”

  “Well, ’cause. This is a family deal, right?” He followed Estelle into her small office, and stopped short when he saw Sheriff Robert Torrez sitting relaxed in one of the three vinyl padded chairs, leaning it back until it rested on the plastered concrete blocks of the wall. The sheriff didn’t get up, or offer his hand.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Fisher,” Estelle said. He slumped into the chair on the opposite side of the room from the sheriff. For a moment he couldn’t find a spot to rest his hands, and finally crossed his arms over his chest, resting them on his comfortable belly. “I’m sorry your family is facing this tragedy,” she added. Pushing a small tape recorder toward Al’s side of the desk, she added, “We need to record this conversation. It’s standard record- keeping.”

  Al ducked his head—the same defensive expression Darrell Fisher had relied upon to field insults from life. “My brother had his problems, see. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean, it ain’t an excuse, but I’m offering it up to you so maybe it’d make things a little easier to understand.”

  “We appreciate that. And I’m sure your brother appreciated your coming up with his bail so promptly after his hearing.”

  Al shook his head vehemently. “Ain’t right. The judge was wrong on that one. Puttin’ my brother in jail only makes things worse.” He glanced sideways at Torrez. “Even I know that. I had to get him out. I told Penny she had to take the money before things got any worse. She didn’t want to, ’cause she doesn’t like me, but she needed it.”