Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “Padrino,” Francisco said, “this is your home. You can’t just give it away.”

  “Why the hell not?” The old man folded his arms on the table. One craggy eyebrow drifted upward.

  “No, really…”

  “Really, schmeelly. I’m eighty-four goddamn years old, and I’ve used up about eleven of my nine lives. So. And, you know, my old man used to say that a fellow was smart to always reserve time to clean up his mess before leaving, if the Fates gave him the chance. Lots of people never get the chance to do that. Those of us who do are the lucky ones. Plus,” and he held up both hands, “I’m your Padrino, your Godfather. I see that as entailing certain responsibilities.”

  He frowned hard at Angie. “What the hell is she blubbering about?”

  Angie burst out laughing, rose, and skirted her fiancé so she could envelope Gastner in a hug. She didn’t dab away the tears.

  “Careful,” Gastner protested. “You’re breakin’ my neck.” He patted her arm as she straightened up. “See, this is the bottom line. I do not need to rattle around in this big old mausoleum all by myself. That’s probably why I’ve got such a case of insomnia. I lay there waiting for some little noise to worry about. You know I never cook for myself, so all I need is my bedroom suite, and I’m happy. Even happier with some company once in a while. And this is what I figure. When I get too old—and I’m damn near that already—these two,” and he nodded at Francis and Estelle, “can figure out what to do with me if I can’t figure that out for myself. If not them, my eldest daughter, Camille, is just itching for the excuse to be a home care provider—if I agree to move to Flint, Michigan—which isn’t goddamn likely.”

  The room fell silent. Gastner pointed at his coffee cup, and Carlos shot out of his seat to do the honors.

  “Say yes, and I start on the paperwork tomorrow,” Gastner said. “Then the architect here can confab with you, and start that process.” He turned and regarded the circular, sunken living room behind them that he called his own private kiva. “I figure you’ll want your Steinway somewhere in here. Its own room, I’m thinking. But for sure, you know best about that.”

  “I wonder,” Francisco started to say slowly, and he shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m a little bit apprehensive about what your four kids might say.”

  Gastner smiled and leaned back. “One of ’em is already stinkin’ rich, married to her oral surgeon hubby, and she doesn’t need the headache. Another lives back east and doesn’t even know that New Mexico is part of the United States. My son Buddy is now a colonel in the Air Force, has his own Air Force base in Germany, and has a dozen other things more important to think about. The fourth kid lives in California, has his own life tangled up with computers, and who the hell knows what he might think?” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s my decision to make, not theirs.”

  He examined the surface of his coffee. “Damn, I wish there was more of that pie. Two pieces just wasn’t enough.”

  “We’re going to need to think about all this,” Francisco said. “I mean, it’s one of those offers that’s hard to refuse.”

  “That’s the intent. Give me one good reason why you would.”

  “Uh…uh.” The young man laughed. “Uh…”

  “This is what I’ve done already,” Gastner said. “I had the place appraised not long ago. Needed to do that, whether you take me up on the deal or not. And look, I’m not trying to twist arms here. Well, maybe just a little. Look, if it doesn’t work out, you can always sell it and pocket the money. While I’m living here, I take care of the utilities and the property taxes. So, no worries there.” He took a deep breath. “The appraisal was lowball, to my way of thinking.”

  He reached out again and took Carlos by the shoulder, rocking him from side to side. “The house was appraised at a bit over three hundred thousand. Three thirty-five, to be exact. So that’s the amount of the check that this guy receives as his part of this whole deal.”

  He turned and leaned toward Carlos. “You’re twenty-one, right?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then you don’t have to ask permission.” He winked at Estelle. “This is fun, you know that? Best Christmas I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Back in Berlin, it’s going to be really hard to keep my mind on the music,” Francisco said. “But Padrino, you know—it’s really hard just to accept something like this without having worked for it.”

  “That makes no sense. If I were to croak tomorrow, or even later tonight, much as I’ve eaten, then they’d read the will and lo and behold! Guess who’s named as beneficiaries of the house, and an equal value check to guess who? You wouldn’t refuse that, would you?”

  “Of course not. Not if that’s what you wished.”

  “Well, then, this is sure as hell what I wish, and I don’t see why I should be deprived of the pleasure of not waiting. I don’t buy green bananas, as they say. And you’re wrong, my friend. You have worked for it. For the past couple of decades.”

  “Wow.”

  And Carlos echoed his brother.

  “Merry Christmas,” Gastner said.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The wind across the asphalt was chilly, but Francisco held back before boarding the Gulfstream jet. He looked hard at his mother. “You know, you never told me what you really think about this whole deal.”

  “That’s because all of the decisions are yours, hijo. I can’t think of anything better than having you all living here, even if it’s just a few weeks each year. But you have to decide that. You have to add up all the pluses and minuses and see what you get. And you guys are young enough. If it doesn’t work out…” she shrugged. “There’s always St. Moritz or London or Manhattan.”

  The young man grimaced. “Done deal.” He reached out and took his father’s hand once again and drew the physician into a tight hug. “We’ll see you both in just a few weeks. The Aspen invasion.”

  “I’ve cleared my calendar,” Estelle said.

  “Yeah, right. Until the phone rings. By the way, I called him early this morning.”

  “Called who?”

  “Sheriff Torrez. I told him to pick up the keys to the truck from Jim Bergin. It’s no good having that old beast just sit in a dark building, replaying old memories. I’ll send him the signed title.”

  Estelle reached out and touched her son’s cheek.

  “I’ve thought about it, and you know, it was just one of those things.” Francisco shrugged. “An impulse. We were going to use it here, when we needed it. I had this fanciful vision of us cruising the dusty hills of Mexico.” He grinned. “Dumb, huh? At first Bobby said he wouldn’t take it. That he’d buy it off me. But I used Padrino’s argument and told the sheriff that I was leaving it to him in my will, so he might as well get the enjoyment out of it now.”

  “What’d he say to that logic?”

  “‘Wow.’”

  She laughed. “Good enough.” She hugged him once more. “I wish your visit had been longer, but we’ll take what we can get, no? You travel safe, and we’ll see you in a few weeks. I wish you smooth air. We love you all.”

  She clung hard to her husband as the jet’s engines spooled up, shrieking and blowing a dust storm out across the highway. Turning tightly, it headed for the eastern end of the taxiway, where it halted as the crew finished the pre-flight. After several moments, with a burst of power, it thrust its nose out onto the runway, then aligned with the center stripe as both engines sent a roar of roiling fumes into the crisp December air. Hands waved at them through Plexiglas as the Grumman Gulfstream shot past, gathering speed, finally rearing up sharply and streaking away, so thunderous that it shook the ground.

  “Quite a Christmas,” Francis observed. “You know, you could have hooked a fifteen-minute ride to Albuquerque with them.” The Grumman was now just a dot, the sun winking on its polished aluminum. “I’m sure the
y would have been delighted to take a little detour.”

  “I need my office with me, thanks just the same, not to mention needing a way to come back home. I really like my feet on the ground.”

  “You’re picking up Jackie?” She nodded. “That’s good. She’s good company. Stop and have a nice dinner somewhere.”

  “Oso, my stomach is tied up in knots at the moment. I’m not sure I could eat anything.”

  He walked her over to the Charger, his hand gentle on the back of her neck. “Let the lieutenant do some of the driving, querida.”

  “Sin duda. I was thinking about letting her do all of it.” She looked up at him for a moment and then knocked her forehead against his chest. “She’d make a good undersheriff, too.”

  “Rough week, wasn’t it?”

  “Ay.”

  “And now off to Albuquerque. You know, the odds of him being able to talk are slim to none.”

  “I know. But we have to try, Oso. Right now, Al Fisher is the only person who knows where Myron Fitzwater is.” She smiled. “I’ll take my thumbscrews and get it out of him.”

  Four hours later, she and Jackie Taber walked into the Intensive Care ward of University Hospital in Albuquerque. A young Asian American woman in spotless white greeted them with a reserved smile and a light handshake. “I’m Dr. Oromatsu. Dr. Guzman informed us that you would be visiting.” Her eyes flicked to Jackie Taber’s name tag, then back to Estelle. “Undersheriff Guzman, let’s go to the lounge for a little bit,” she said. “You’ve had a long drive. May I get you something?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Taber declined as well, and Oromatsu led them to a small room with an overstuffed sofa and two recliners.

  The physician sat on the edge of the sofa, hands folded primly. “The injuries this young man has suffered are catastrophic. But of course you know that already.”

  “Yes. Is he conscious?”

  “In little bits and snatches, and heavily sedated, of course. In one or two ways, he was very lucky. The machine did considerable damage to his face—the amputated jaw, a complex fracture of the left orbit…it will take several surgeries to reconstruct his face. But his brain was spared. We’re seeing no cranial bleeding. And of course, the arm. The damage to the shoulder and upper left chest is severe.” She leaned back. “In some ways, his case is remarkable. The time that passed between the initial episode and any kind of medical intervention was excessive, I’m understanding.”

  “Thirty-five minutes before the ambulance arrived, another hour before any kind of stabilization at Posadas General, then an hour for flight arrangements.”

  “So we can say at least three hours between the moment of injury and his examination in our ER.”

  “Yes.”

  “Most remarkable. In one way, he’s most fortunate.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  Oromatsu heard the sharpness in Estelle’s voice. “From our point of view, he is most fortunate,” the physician corrected. “I am aware of the two officers from our own APD who have been on the floor since Mr. Fisher’s arrival.” Her smile was thin. “I assume there is a great deal more to his story than we need to know.”

  Estelle avoided the fishing excursion. “I need to make every effort to speak with him. And if he cannot speak because of the damage to his face, then we need to communicate somehow. Also, Maria, his girlfriend, rode up in the ambulance with him. We’ll need to speak with her again as well.”

  “That may need to wait. The girl apparently has friends here in the city, and they came and picked her up. I’m sure she’ll be back before long. But for Mr. Fisher, there is no telling. As I said, you’ll just have to wait.”

  “It can’t wait, Doctor. As I’m sure you’re aware by the presence of the officers in your hallway, this is a capital crime case. One of the three victims is still missing, a young man who works with the U.S. Forest Service. We can presume him dead as well, but we don’t know with any certainty. The only person who knows for sure is Mr. Fisher, your patient.”

  “Perhaps just for a moment,” Dr. Oromatsu said.

  “Doctor, I’m the person who untangled Mr. Fisher from that lathe. I’m the one who clamped his torn brachial with a file clip and packed the wound with shop rags—the only thing we had at the moment. I supervised the packing of the various severed body parts into the cooler. At Posadas General, my husband, Dr. Francis Guzman, along with Dr. Alan Perrone, did what they could to stabilize Mr. Fisher for the flight to Albuquerque. Now…I know what Mr. Fisher’s condition is. I know exactly how badly he’s hurting.” She leaned forward and clamped a hand on top of Dr. Oromatsu’s. “If he dies without telling us what we need to know, then in all likelihood some hiker will find the victim’s bones a year or two from now.”

  “So what difference does it make, really? Our job is to keep our patient alive, to render whatever medical treatment is indicated. If you know his victim to be dead, of what use are the immediate, extraordinary, and perhaps harmful, measures to communicate with Mr. Fisher? We also must be aware that if the injuries don’t kill him, post traumatic infection might well.”

  Estelle could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. She chose her words carefully. “The young woman who came on the air ambulance—there’s every probability that she will eventually be charged with complicity in this incident, Doctor. What Mr. Fisher is able to tell us may make a difference in how she is eventually charged. She may have acted entirely in self-defense, or she may be charged as an accomplice in a double homicide. At this point we have only her version of events.”

  “I see.”

  Estelle stood abruptly. “You’re welcome to remain in the room with us, with him, at all times.”

  Dr. Oromatsu rose, obviously deep in thought.

  “The entire conversation, if there is one, will be recorded…and witnessed by Lieutenant Taber. I’d like to get started right now.”

  “You know, he’s in and out. You may end up waiting most of the day. And even then…”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Chapter Forty

  Al Fisher was definitely in an “out” phase when Estelle and Lieutenant Taber entered the ICU. Dr. Oromatsu consulted her charts, and nodded at the small epidural pump that hung on its own stand near the bedside. “When he’s stabilized a bit more, he’ll be on a demand epidural for pain.”

  “He can give himself a shot,” Estelle said.

  “Exactly. Strictly controlled. It’s a mix of fentanyl citrate and bupivacaine. The machine monitors carefully so there’s no way he can over-medicate.”

  The monitor at the head of the bed reported Fisher’s vitals, with the pulse showing a steady fifty-eight with a respiration rate of eighteen. Estelle stepped close to the patient’s right side. The heavy bandages swathed most of his head, leaving only his right eye, right ear, and nostrils exposed. His right arm played host to a variety of tubes, and a great mound of bandages covered his left shoulder and chest.

  “If you need anything,” Dr. Oromatsu said, “just press that buzzer. One of us is always nearby.”

  “Thank you.”

  For several moments, she stood at the side of the bed, gazing down at the wreckage. An eyelid flickered.

  “Al, it’s Undersheriff Reyes-Guzman from Posadas.”

  The eyelid flickered again. Estelle reached down and took Fisher’s right hand, careful to avoid the taped IV. His flesh was warm and dry. A faint sound issued from behind the bandages, and Estelle felt a slight pressure in his grip.

  “You can hear me all right?” The grip tightened again, then relaxed. “Can I get you something?” His fingers moved ever so slightly, forming the grip that would hold a pencil. His index finger and thumb bobbed a little, as if imagining the act of writing. “Just a minute.”

  “A pad and pencil?” Jackie asked, and Estelle nodded. In a moment, the lieutenant returned with a yellow legal pa
d and pencil.

  Estelle slid the pad under Al’s hand and placed the pencil in his hand. His grip was weak, and twice he dropped the pencil. On the third attempt he was able to touch the pencil point to paper, and produced a wandering scrawl as Estelle held the pad steady. She cocked her head and watched as the words appeared.

  Give me yr gun for a minut.

  “I don’t think so, Al. But I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  The pencil was motionless for long enough that Estelle thought Fisher might have passed out again. Then, one agonizing letter at a time, he managed, I cant live like this.

  “You’ll be all right, Al. They’ll take care of you. You have to be tough.”

  And then jail.

  “Most likely, yes. I’m sorry.”

  A long silence followed before he managed the one word. Maria?

  “She’s in custody. She’s given us a statement of her version of the way it happened. She rode up with you, and she may be in later to see you.”

  Accident, the pencil laboriously managed.

  “Which part, Al? What was an accident?” The pencil slipped and rolled across the pad to nestle in the sheets. Estelle retrieved it and slid it back between his fingers, but Al Fisher’s grip was limp. The monitor showed that his pulse had increased a couple of beats, and his respiration came more rapidly.

  “Uhhhh,” he groaned loudly and tried to shift his body. That brought an even louder groan.

  Estelle covered his hand with hers, but she felt no motion, no response. She picked up the pad and made a few notations near each one of Al Fisher’s, then removed the page. As she did so, Dr. Oromatsu appeared by the curtain.