I crouched down and swept the flashlight beam around the room, bouncing it off half a million chrome legs. Wherever the kid kept his stash, it wasn’t there.
Richard Staples didn’t say anything else until we were halfway through the first locker room upstairs. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” he said to whoever would listen. I paid no attention.
“Coach, will you do me a favor? Call Glenn Archer and have him meet us down at the sheriff’s office?”
“You want me to do that right now?”
“Right now,” I said. We reached the coaches’ office and Kessel made for the phone. The door to the parking lot opened and Estelle looked inside.
“Torrez will be here in about two minutes, sir.”
“Fine. Son, have a seat.” I pointed at one of the straightbacked chairs. Staples did so, with a expression that said he’d tear me limb from limb if I’d oblige by taking off the handcuffs. He sat on the edge of the chair as if he were painfully constipated.
“Mrs. Archer?” Kessel said into the telephone. “This is Elwood Kessel down at the school. Is Mr. Archer there?” He waited and I could hear the shrill chatter of Dorothy Archer’s voice across the room. “Well, we’ve got a little problem down at the school, and I need to reach him.” Again the chatter, and I waved a hand, gesturing for the receiver.
“Mrs. Archer? This is Undersheriff Bill Gastner. Where can we reach your husband?”
“Well, as I was telling Coach Kessel, Glenn said he was going downtown to buy a new pair of shoes. My goodness, what’s going on?”
“Nothing earthshaking. We just need to see him. The sooner the better. Could you do us a favor, ma’am?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you track him down for us? Tell him I need to speak with him at the sheriff’s office?”
“Well, I…I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I handed the telephone back to Kessel.
“How’d he get in here?” Kessel asked. Staples ignored him.
“That’s one reason he’s in cuffs,” I said. “I would imagine we’ll find some interesting things in his pockets.”
“You ain’t going to search nothin’,” Staples said with venom.
“That’s the other reason you’re in cuffs, son.”
“Yeah, well—”
Estelle stepped outside and I saw her wave an arm.
“Let’s go,” I said and Staples gave me that wonderful sneer that said “You old fat fart, if you’d take these off…”
I didn’t bother to argue. I waited about ten seconds, long enough for a car door to slam and footsteps to reach the entrance to the coaches’ office. Deputy Bob Torrez appeared in the doorway. He filled most of it.
“What’s this?” he said, looking down from his six feet four at the seated youth.
“This is Richard Staples. He’s taking a ride with you downtown.” Posadas didn’t have a downtown, but it sounded good. “Read him his rights and book him on criminal trespass and unlawful entry.”
“All right. Let’s go.” He crooked an index finger in Staples’s direction. The kid hesitated just long enough and then pushed to his feet.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he said. I knew his attitude wasn’t going to change as long as he had an audience and until we were able to tie some pieces together. For the moment, I was content just to have him under lock and key.
“We’ll be down in a minute, Robert,” I said. “Glenn Archer is going to meet us there. Make sure that kid isn’t out of cuffs for even a second. If he has to go to the bathroom, tell him to piss his pants.”
Staples looked pained at that, but he quickly recovered. Torrez deposited him in the back seat of the county car, behind the heavy screen. When a kid landed there for the first time, he usually mellowed a bit when he saw there were no door handles, no window cranks, no door locks. It’s the first small taste of jail. But Staples didn’t bat an eye.
“What do you think, sir?” Estelle said as we watched the county car drive out of the lot.
“I think he’s glad we’ve got him,” I said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. “He wasn’t hiding in the basement of the school just to avoid us.”
“Even if he saw us and was tipped off when we first pulled into the apartment parking lot, he wouldn’t have done that,” I said. “He could have just ignored my knock on the door.”
“He didn’t look very overjoyed to me,” Elwood Kessel said.
“It’s easy to be brave when you know how you’re going to be treated,” I said. “He may be in cuffs, but he’s safe with us…he can practice being a hardass without worrying about getting the shit kicked out of him.” I stuck out my hand. “You were a great help,” I said.
Kessel looked puzzled as he shook my hand. I was puzzled too, but I tried not to look it.
27
I wanted Richard Staples to stew a little bit, so I suggested that Estelle and I swing by the hospital.
Reuben Fuentes was sleeping peacefully. Estelle flipped a page on his chart and frowned at all the numbers.
“They checked his BP and pulse just half an hour ago.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t know. I wish I could read it.” She looked heavenward. “Doctors.” She slipped the clipboard back in its bracket and moved around to the table near the head of the bed. She picked up a folded piece of yellow paper and glanced at the message. “Francis took the baby home,” she said.
“Home?” I asked, feeling a twinge of panic.
“Your house,” she said, and smiled. “We need to stop by there for a few minutes.” She rested her palm on Reuben’s wrinkled forehead for a moment. The old man didn’t stir, but his breathing was regular and easy. Estelle took his pulse at the wrist. “Eighty-eight,” she said. “That doesn’t seem too bad to me.”
“He must be doing better. They took him off drip,” I said, remembering the relief I’d felt when they’d jerked the damn needles out of me. When we were out in the hallway, headed for the car, I asked, “What are your plans?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I want to talk with Francis for a few minutes to see what he found out today. I guess we’ll play it from there.”
“You know,” I said, “that even if your great-uncle does recover, he may need constant care.”
Estelle grimaced. “He’s going to hate that more than anything else in the world, sir.”
“A fact of life, though.”
“I’ll wait and see what Francis says,” Estelle said.
“He’s in the clear now as far as this case goes, though.” I held the outside door open for her. “You certainly don’t have to go dragging around with me, investigating a case that doesn’t have anything to do with Reuben. He couldn’t have killed the boy or Torkelson.”
Estelle looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “You’re sending us home?”
“Come on. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Both of you…all three of you. More than welcome. What I’m saying is that you have better things to do than chase around the countryside on a busman’s holiday.”
“We’ll see what Francis has to say.”
I unlocked the Blazer. “You’re sounding positively domestic, Estelle.”
“That can’t be all bad.”
I didn’t bother to check in with the office when we left the hospital, but drove straight home. Francis was stretched out on the old leather sofa in the den, shoes off, head propped up on two pillows, the television on, and little Francis Carlos curled up on his stomach like an awkward, hairless puppy.
I glanced at the television. Lauren Bacall was bristling at the Duke’s refusal to take his meals downstairs with the other boarders.
“This is a pretty good movie,” Francis said, careful not to shift his position.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.” I watched for a few seconds. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this part. I always fall asleep.”
/> Francis picked up the remote and popped the set off. “Estelle, you want to take chiquito-ito-ito here for a minute so I can get up?” Estelle took the baby, who blinked in surprise and then looked at me over his mother’s shoulder. He frowned.
“What’s the latest?” Francis asked, swinging his feet off the couch.
“That’s what we came to ask you,” Estelle said. “I looked at Uncle Reuben’s chart, but I couldn’t read it. He was sleeping when we left.”
“Actually, he’s doing really well, considering.” Francis ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I’m amazed. He was awake when I checked in on him about two hours ago. He asked if you two were out at the cabin. He wanted to know if the place was all right. I said it was, and that you’d be in later with a report. He was relieved that someone hadn’t walked off with the ranch.” Francis paused and laced his fingers together.
“The problem, of course, is that we’ve got a patient who’s ninety years old or so with congestive heart failure. And that’s apt to bring on all kinds of other complications. There are already some signs of kidney failure, pulmonary edema…on and on. One thing just sort of leads to another.”
“All this just comes on suddenly?” Estelle asked. She sat down on one of the hassocks with the kid in her lap.
“Of course not. But my theory is that with someone like Reuben, his pattern of living just slows down to compensate. He accomplishes in a day what you or I would do in fifteen minutes. And he can continue doing that, functioning slower and slower, until something comes along to upset the applecart.” Francis held up his hands. “The flu or pneumonia…a broken hip, a stroke.”
“In this case, finding his pets dead and then deciding that he has to bury them himself,” I said.
“Sure.” Francis nodded.
“So what’s best? Is he going to need extended nursing care?”
Francis took a deep breath and glanced over at me. “No.”
“Then what?”
“Estelle, Reuben and I talked about more than just his cabin this afternoon. He’s really pretty aware of what’s going on, and what his prospects are. He’s refused any more medication of any kind.”
“Is that why he was taken off the drip?”
“Yes. As far as I’m concerned, and as far as Dr. Perrone is concerned, he was lucid when he made the decision and request.”
“He’ll just sink, won’t he?”
“Yes.”
Estelle lowered her head so that her chin rested lightly on top of the baby’s head. She blew out a long breath that mussed his fine, black hair. “Any happy news?” she said, breaking the silence.
“The position is mine if I want it,” Francis replied.
Estelle looked at me sideways without moving her head from the baby’s. The crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes deepened.
“What position is yours if you want it?” I asked, already knowing the answer. There was nothing about Reuben’s condition that would warrant all the meetings with first Perrone and then Fred Tierney, the hospital administrator.
“Allen Perrone wants to expand his practice in this part of the state. He wants more of a clinic approach, with four or five of us under the same roof so patients don’t have to travel.”
“Of us,” I said.
“Right. He wrote me to pop the idea a month or so ago, after a convention in Albuquerque. I mentioned to him then that we were thinking of relocating back down here to make school easier for Estelle.”
I turned my head slowly and fixed Estelle with a blank stare. “School? Why am I the last person to know all this?”
“I was going to surprise you next week, at the christening.”
My smile kept spreading wider and wider until I felt downright silly. “Well—” I started, and was interrupted by the telephone in the kitchen. “Let me get this and then—” I glanced at my watch. Bob Torrez had had almost an hour to package Richard Staples up and send him upstairs to one of the cozy eight-by-tens.
“Gastner.”
Bob Torrez’s voice was slow and deliberate. “Sir, are you going to be able to come down to the office before long?”
“What’s up?”
“Glenn Archer is here. He isn’t too happy.”
“He’s never happy,” I said. “Tell him I’ll be down there in about six minutes.”
“And Mrs. Perna is here. She’s not too happy either.”
“Wonderful.”
“And Linda Rael wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll bet she does. I don’t want to talk to her. Is that all?”
“So far, sir.”
“I’ll be right there. Is Sheriff Holman in the office?”
“Yes, sir. He’s standing between Glenn Archer and Mrs. Perna at the moment.”
“Take a picture for me.” I hung up. When I walked back into the den, I saw Dr. Francis Guzman sitting on the couch with the infant in his lap. “Where’s Estelle?”
Francis put on his most patient face. “She’s waiting at the front door, sir.”
“For God’s sake,” I said and stomped out of the room. It was going to take all my willpower to wipe the grin off my face by the time I got to the office.
28
I knew I had precious little time for mental celebration…maybe the six minutes it would take to drive to the sheriff’s office. Estelle rarely volunteered information, even to me—hell, maybe not even to Francis. I had gotten used to asking questions, whether the topic was any of my business or not.
“What are you going to study?”
“I’d like to eventually get into law,” she said.
I almost swerved into the big cottonwood whose roots were heaving Fernando Stewart’s sidewalk up out of the ground at the end of Guadalupe Lane.
“Law? You mean like in lawyers?”
“Right.”
“Christ, Estelle. You don’t read much Shakespeare, do you.” She smiled. “Well,” I added, “I guess there’s always room for a good one, and you’ll be a good one, gal.”
“I hope so.”
“Where are you going to school?”
“I’m going to start at Cruces in the fall.” She grimaced. “It’ll take three years or so to get my bachelor’s. That’ll give me time to decide if this is really something I want to do.”
“And then? After law school? Where are you going to make your millions? Wall Street?”
“Sure. I can see me in New York City, sir.”
“You’ll do fine anywhere. For selfish reasons, I can always hope you guys end up out here.”
“We’ll be here for a while,” she said. “One step at a time.”
I pulled into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office and cursed. Someone’s green Mitsubishi was in my parking spot. The sheriff’s Buick was carefully parked so that it took up not only Holman’s spot but half of another. All of the other spaces were taken as well.
“Don’t these people have anything goddamned better to do?” I muttered, and parked directly in front of the gasoline pumps.
As we got out of the truck and walked toward the building, Estelle hooked her hand through my elbow for ten paces and gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. “Take a deep breath and count to fifty, sir,” she said.
We walked through the door and instantly I wanted to be back home, snuggled in my warm, quiet den watching the second two-thirds of my one movie. Martin Holman stood in the short hallway that led to the dispatcher’s office. He was leaning with one elbow on top of the filing cabinet, the other hand hooked in his belt. His back was to the door.
Facing him, broad of beam and steel gray hair tied up in a tight, determined bun, was Marianna Perna. She was talking and Holman was listening, nodding in rhythm as if he was directing a band in two-two time. I didn’t know Mrs. Perna well, but had crossed tracks with her a time or two in the village offices where she worked as one of the billing clerks.
She was wagging her index finger under Holman’s nose, and I wondered how long she’d had him pegged there
. Eight steps beyond Mrs. Perna and her hostage stood Robert Torrez. At first glance it looked as if he had wadded up and crumpled Glenn Archer into a corner, but I realized the high school principal was sitting on the edge of the small reports table, his arms folded across his chest. What surprised me most was that he was listening…and Deputy Torrez was talking.
Standing half in and half out of the dispatch room, which meant the rest of her was in my office, was Linda Rael. She had to be talking with someone interesting, since she wasn’t haunting either Holman or Archer.
Holman turned at the sound of the storm door slamming and relief flooded his face.
I nodded at Mrs. Perna, making sure my own expression was set in stone.
“Ma’am, I’ll need to talk with you in a bit,” I said before she had a chance to launch an attack at her new target. “Sheriff, can I have a minute? Let’s use my office.” I continued past them and beckoned to Glenn Archer. He wasn’t a happy camper, but he followed me without question.
“Bob, make sure Mrs. Perna stays close,” I said as I walked past the deputy. He nodded, but I was already headed for Linda Rael. She turned, saw me, and raised both eyebrows as if to say, “Ah, here’s the scoop.”
“Ms. Rael, you’ll have to excuse us for a few minutes,” I said. Sitting on the edge of my desk, looking as unperturbed as only a lawyer can, was Ron Schroeder, the district attorney we shared with two other rural counties who couldn’t afford their own.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I liked Schroeder. He worked hard, was a good listener, and didn’t make too many mistakes. Some of his plea bargain deals left me a little cold, but I knew the pressures on his office from district court.
“Bill, how you doin’” Schroeder said, pushing himself away from the desk. We shook hands.
“Ron, you know Glenn Archer, don’t you? Principal at the high school.”
“Of course. Glenn, good to see you.”
Holman started to close the door in Estelle’s face and I said, maybe just a shade too sharply, “I need the detective in on this, sheriff.” Holman looked at me, frowned, shrugged, then held the door for Estelle.
Twice Buried Page 16
