When it came to criminal investigations, Martin Holman had learned long ago to adopt a hands-off policy. He hadn’t interfered with my work, or attempted to supervise me-that being a losing battle anyway. It had taken him several years to accept Estelle Reyes-Guzman as more than just a pretty face.
He had sometimes offered suggestions and ideas-not all of them bad, either. On a few occasions-thankfully, very few-he had spent some time by himself in a marked patrol unit cruising the county, and those times always made me nervous. Gayle Sedillos had standing orders to call me whenever Martin Holman suffered an attack of lawmanitis and took it upon himself to go patrolling.
How Martin Holman had been elected to the county’s top law-enforcement position three times running was one of those political marvels that happened routinely in the southwest. But at least he had been no speedtrap-loving redneck, and if any county could win the “Be Kind to Tourists” award, it should have been Posadas-if only more tourists had chosen to stop.
Thus it was with considerable surprise that toward the back of the second file drawer from the top in the unit to the right of his desk, I stumbled upon a file division whose ear was clearly marked in the sheriff’s neat, almost architectural block printing. “Pending cases.”
“What pending cases?” I said and pulled out the entire section. We all had our own active files, kept separate from the main department collection until the cases were resolved one way or another. With some careful thought, I probably could have listed the important cases that each one of the deputies was working on at any given moment. We didn’t hide work, and we didn’t keep our favorites to ourselves.
But, judging by the contents of the folder, it appeared that Martin Holman had been doing exactly that.
Estelle looked over my shoulder and lifted up the corners of the manila folders. “He’s got three separate files here,” she mused. I handed the bundle to her and she opened the first file, turned, and spread it out on the desk. “Well, now.” She pressed the covers of the folder open flat against the desk and leaned on them while she looked at the pages inside, as if the covers were controlled by heavy springs, ready to snap the thing closed.
“So what is it?”
“A complaint filed against County Commissioner Sam Carter by one of his employees.”
“You’re kidding. Which one?”
“Taffy Hines.”
“You’re kidding again. Taffy?” An image of the stout, middle-aged cashier flashed through my mind. I could picture her where I’d seen her just hours before, bent over the inventory books at the register of Sam Carter’s supermarket.
Estelle nodded and held up a tape cassette in one hand and a deposition in the other. “Alleging telephone solicitation. She says here that she recorded Carter on three separate occasions. She calls them ‘obscene telephone calls soliciting sexual favors.’”
“What’s the date?”
“April nineteen is when she made the signed statement to the sheriff.”
I groaned. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t know why it surprises me when I find out things like that.” I held out my hand. “Let me see that damn file.” I took the folder and scanned the deposition. “And Sam Carter, of all people. He’s got to be as old as I am. What a jerk. Why didn’t he just proposition her in the store when no one was around to listen?”
“I can see why the sheriff had this filed away in here,” Estelle said without trying to answer my question.
“Sure. With Carter being a county legislator, I’m not surprised that Martin was procrastinating.” I looked at the tape cassette, then dropped it back in the folder in disgust. “Wonderful,” I said. “Maybe if I ignore this, it will go away.”
“I’m sure,” Estelle said. She reached out for the folder. “Let me talk to Taffy and then to Mr. Carter.”
I shook my head. “With less than a week to go before you pack it in, I don’t think you want to get involved in a mess like this.”
Estelle almost smiled. “I think Taffy will drop the complaint, and I think Sam Carter won’t ever call her again,” she said.
I looked closely at her, then grinned. “Can I be there when you talk with Carter? I’m beginning to understand why he was concerned that you might be appointed sheriff.” She laughed and I gestured at the folders. “What’s the other stuff? I’m not sure I want to know.”
Estelle turned the second folder right side up and opened it. She frowned and read for several seconds. “It’s paperwork from Sheriff Burkhalter requesting an evaluation on Eddie Mitchell.”
“I’ll make sure Burkhalter gets something. Someday. What’s the third?”
Estelle opened the last folder, glanced at the cover page, and grinned.
“What?”
“You don’t want to know, sir.”
“Yes, I do. What is it?”
Estelle smiled up at me and handed me the folder so I could read it for myself. “It’s a list of people he wanted to be sure to invite to your retirement party, sir. It looks like he was still in the process of adding to it. Probably when he remembered a name, he’d add it to the list.”
“A party?”
“September thirtieth at the Don Juan de Onate, in the Conquistador Room. Seven P.M.”
“He never told me about that. Let me see this thing.”
“Of course he didn’t, sir. Evidently it was supposed to be a surprise.” I caught the wistful note in her voice and glanced up at her.
“There’re a lot of people here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Including you and Francis.” She nodded and I closed the folder. “You were going to come all the way down from Minnesota?” She nodded again and I added, “That would be silly.” The telephone on the desk buzzed and blinked, and with a sigh, I dropped the three folders on the desk.
I picked up the phone and slumped down in Holman’s chair. “Gastner.”
“George Payton on line one, sir,” Gayle Sedillos said, and the phone clicked.
“Thanks,” I said and punched the button. “George? This is Bill. What’s up?”
“Hey there,” George Payton said. We’d been friends for two decades, and we were both at that stage where we figured the other would die first. “I’ve got company.”
“I know you do,” I said.
“This is sure a sorry, sorry business,” he said and coughed. “How come you didn’t come over with these two feds?”
I chuckled. “Estelle and I are sorting through the wreckage of Martin Holman’s office paperwork, George. I couldn’t break away.”
“Sorry, sorry thing. But Eddie’s all right.”
“Yes, he is,” I said, assuming he was referring to Sergeant Mitchell. “What can I do for you?”
“Look…” He hesitated. “The law says that I have to make all the federal paperwork involving firearm sales available to law enforcement if so asked, correct?”
“That’s correct, George.”
“There’s nothing on the yellow forty-forty seventy-three form that asks why a customer is purchasing a firearm. Did you know that?”
“I guess I knew that.” I heard some conversation in the background and could picture Agent Walter Hocker standing there patiently, arms folded over his chest.
“If a bona fide law-enforcement officer asks me what my knowledge is of a customer’s purpose in purchasing any weapon-or any product at all, for that matter, even a goddam chain saw-am I required to tell him?”
“If there’s evidence of a crime, and if what you know is germane, and if it’s not self-incriminating, then yes-either now or later, and later, it may be in front of a Grand Jury,” I said. “But understand that we’ve got a significant criminal offense here. We need all the help we can get.”
“What’s the offense?”
“Evidence indicates that Martin Holman was murdered.”
Dead silence followed. “Nobody told me that,” Payton said finally. “Johnny Boyd did that?”
“We don’t know who did it.”
<
br /> “I thought Martin was killed in a plane crash.”
“He was.”
“Then you’re not making sense.”
“George, we’ve known each other for a long time, isn’t that true?”
“Sure enough, we have.”
“Will you trust me on this one, then?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure.”
Payton chuckled dryly. “Sure I do. So you want me to tell these gents anything they want to know?”
“That’s just about it. And by the way, while I’m talking to you…did Johnny Boyd ever actually tell you why he bought all that hardware?”
“Well, of course he did.”
“Then tell the agents, George. It’s as simple as this: what Johnny Boyd did with his various weapons purchases, and I mean all the details, may well end up as the stuff of a Grand Jury session. Whether he’s innocent or not.”
“Sorry, sorry state of affairs.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. By the way, do you have any South Korean two-twenty-three ammo in stock?”
“Sure.”
“The agents are going to ask you that. Do me a favor and give them a few samples, will you?”
“I can do that. What, did someone shoot Holman, or what?”
“Someone shot the plane and the pilot, George.”
“Good God.”
“Yep. Just tell the feds what they need to know. And keep it confidential for the time being, all right?”
Payton agreed, and I hung up. “I don’t know why he felt the need to call me,” I said.
“Because you’re an old, trusted friend, sir,” Estelle replied. “Remember Johnny Boyd saying to have Judge Hobart sign the warrant? Same thing.”
I sighed. “I suppose.” I looked up at her. “Can I go to Michigan with you?”
“Minnesota, sir. And that’d be neat.”
I grinned, picked up the three file folders again and handed them to Estelle. “That’d be neat,” I repeated. “And this shit is not neat. A complaint of solicitation by one of the county fathers, a threat to hire away one of my dwindling supply of best officers, and a goddam party that Marty Holman will never get to attend.” I relaxed back in Holman’s chair and watched Estelle shuffle the files into order. A deep weariness was finally beginning to catch up with me. I rested my head back against the chair.
“I’d like to know what the actual trajectory of that bullet was,” Estelle said, and she sounded as if she were talking just to try to keep me awake. “What the path was through the airframe. And then, if we can coax Charlotte Finnegan to focus a little, she might remember just where the plane was when she heard the backfiring. That might give us a closer idea of where the shot came from.”
“Within a county or two,” I said. “Buscema will be down at the hangar, I imagine.”
“Unless he took time out to eat or sleep.”
I looked at Estelle in mock surprise. “Now who does that?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
We refueled hurriedly at the Don Juan, and I could have lingered over the wonderful green-chili burritos and fresh coffee for the rest of the evening. But I was anxious to find out what Vincent Buscema had determined as he sifted his pile of junk, and Estelle needed to stop by her home on Twelfth Street for a moment to reassure her family that she hadn’t abandoned them.
I waited in the Bronco. Her husband’s Isuzu Trooper was parked in the driveway, and ten minutes later when she came back out, she wasn’t smiling.
“Francis finished the autopsy,” she said as she closed the car door. “At least all that they could do here.” She looked across at me, and I could see that there was something else.
“And?”
“Nothing beyond the gunshot wound that would contribute to the crash. There’s still quite a bit of lab follow-up that they want to do. But that’s going to take several days.”
That answer didn’t explain the expression on her face, so I repeated, “And?”
“And Martin Holman had multiple myeloma.”
I heard and understood perfectly well what Estelle had said, but my reaction was to say, “He what?”
“Multiple myeloma. It’s a bone cancer.”
“I know what it is,” I said, mystified. “Francis told you that?” She nodded. “At what stage was it?”
“If he’d felt ill enough to be seeing a physician, it wasn’t anyone in town, sir. It was a surprise to both Alan Perrone and Francis.”
“How did they discover that? It’s not a cancer that you’d see, like a big tumor or something, is it?”
“Francis said that the protein levels in the blood test tipped off Alan. They had done a preliminary screening in the lab here at the hospital. And then they did a series of X rays of bone samples, and I suppose that confirmed whatever it is that they look for.”
“Christ.”
“Do you suppose he knew, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Martin was something of a hypochondriac, so if he’d been under medical treatment for cancer, he would have found a way to say something. And with as much time as I’ve spent in the hospital for various wonderful things, I think he would have mentioned it to me. I don’t think he’d keep it to himself.”
“Francis said that the average prognosis is two or three years after diagnosis.”
“I think he would have wanted those years,” I said. “And Janice didn’t know, or she would have said something to us earlier, when we were over at the house.”
“Francis said he was going over there this evening,” Estelle said. “He thinks that Janice ought to know.”
“Of course she should,” I said, and at the same time, felt a selfish wash of relief that someone more talented than I at breaking news of that nature was taking the initiative. I saw a small head appear in the living-room window of the house. A hand lifted and offered a sober wave.
“Are the kids okay?” I asked, returning the greeting. It seemed weeks, not the short day or two it had been, since my two godchildren had used me as a target for their energies.
Estelle nodded. “Francisco asked me if Erma was going to Minnesota with us.”
I grinned. “And what did you say?”
“I said she can if she wants to.”
“How does she get along with your mother?”
“Mama calls her hija,” Estelle said.
“And that’s what she calls you too, so I guess it’s settled,” I said. “All you have to do is break the news to Erma.” I shrugged and gestured forward. “Let’s go find Buscema and get some details.”
By the time we arrived at the airport, it was dark, with the wind still fitful out of the west. Buscema’s team had done an amazing job of assembling the wreckage, but it looked like a caricature of its former self. Everything was in generally the right place, give or take a foot. The resulting jumble resembled an airplane as it might appear if six blind ladies had tried to make a patchwork picture quilt.
A folding table had been set up off to one side, and five very weary men sat around it, eating from an enormous tub of fried chicken. The size of the mess told me that others had come and gone, leaving just the bones picked clean behind.
Vince Buscema looked up as Estelle and I came through the door. He waved at us and shouted, “Pull up a chair!”
“We ate, thanks,” I said and stopped at the end of the table. Tom Pasquale had a plate in front of him with a pile of chicken bones ten drumsticks high. The others were working hard to catch up. “What did you find out?”
Buscema gestured toward a second table on the opposite wall, near the front of the shattered fuselage. “Lookee here,” he said and got up, a chicken breast still in hand and a smear of grease on his chin. We followed him over to the table.
Three large schematic drawings of the airplane were taped to the table, one that included both left- and right-side views, another including top and bottom, and the third showing front and rear. Over the top, Buscema had laid a transparent plastic sheet. The
black marker lines clearly told the story.
“In order to enter through the outer skin here”-he tapped the circled X on the bottom view of the fuselage just ahead of the wing’s trailing edge-“and then exit here”-he pointed at a second X on the left side of the aircraft, approximately a foot above the left wing root, just behind the vertical line of the pilot’s-side window frame-“and send a fragment into the pilot, we’re talking about a trajectory that would be approximated by this back line.”
“Shooting steeply upward,” I said. “Just a few degrees off of vertical.”
“The old duck shot,” Buscema said grimly. “Almost over the blind.” He tapped the paper again. “The bullet fragmented against one of the frame members and secondarily against a portion of the seat framework.”
“Did you find any other pieces of the bullet?”
“We’re not going to be that lucky.”
“And no evidence of other shots? No other holes anywhere that don’t belong?” He shook his head. “What are the odds of intentionally making a shot like that?”
“Depends on the marksman, of course,” Buscema said. “But if the plane was flying low, it was a pretty big target.”
“But moving fast,” I said.
I sensed someone standing right at my elbow, and I turned to see Bob Torrez. The sergeant smelled of sweat and fried chicken.
“How hard would it be?” I asked him. Torrez spent every hunting season in the field, and I couldn’t recall when he’d ever come close to running out of venison, elk, or antelope steaks. He hunted duck and geese along the Rio Grande bosque and chased quail all over New Mexico and a few prized, secret spots in Arizona.
“I mean, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” I said, “because the shot was, in fact, successfully made. But what are the odds?”
Torrez shrugged. “Who’s got a calculator?” Buscema reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of those little things that looks like a case for carrying business cards. He handed it to Torrez. “If we use a hundred and fifty miles an hour for the plane, that means that…” Torrez punched the tiny buttons with the eraser of his pencil “…that it covers two hundred and twenty feet each second, give or take.”
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