“No,” Estelle said flatly. “The cuts weren’t tears from an animal’s claws, or from a raven’s beak, or from anything of that nature. I examined them under a microscope this afternoon, and it’s quite clear. The fabric was cut. Four slashes in the back,” and she made stabbing motions with her hand, which turned Tiffany Cole another shade paler, “and one cross the front.”
“But why?” Browers asked. His voice was a half choke.
“The only thing that makes sense is that someone wanted us to think that wild animals were involved. It’s not too hard to imagine. But wild animals were not involved, Mrs. Cole.” Her tone was soft and matter-of-fact. “There are only four animals in this country that would be physically capable of taking a child.”
It was clear that the parents didn’t want to hear what Estelle had to say, but she continued anyway. “Black bears could but wouldn’t. This isn’t the time of year for cubs, and that’s when people get crossways with sows. Mountain lions could, but you had a fire and were making lots of noise. The cats are shy and wouldn’t have been in the same area. That leaves coyotes, and if they’d been in the area, you’d have heard them. They can’t keep a secret.”
Browers wasn’t amused. “You said four. That’s only three.”
“There have been one or two reports of Mexican jaguars on this side of the border. I don’t know anything about their hunting habits. But it doesn’t matter. None of the animals I mentioned have knife blades instead of claws. It was a human animal that was responsible.”
“You’re sure?” Browers asked.
“Yes.” She nodded at Holman. “I think the sheriff is right. Someone saw your fire, approached, saw an opportunity, and took Cody.”
“But that couldn’t happen,” Tiffany said, and some strength had crept back into her voice. “We would have heard. He would have cried out.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If someone approached and clapped a hand over his mouth, he wouldn’t have had a chance. One hand over his mouth, one hand around his waist, and he’s gone. Just like that.”
“Or, it could have been someone he knew,” Sheriff Holman said. “If that was the case, he might not cry out.”
Browers looked at him in astonishment. “You’re really saying that someone abducted Cody? You’re serious?”
“I’m saying that’s the most logical explanation,” Holman said. “What about the boy’s father, for example?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Browers snapped. “He can have custody whenever he likes.” He shook his head. “It’s not logical at all. Who the hell would take a child from a campsite on a pitch-dark night? We didn’t hear any vehicle, or see any headlights. I don’t think it’s possible that someone could sneak up on us, unless they knew we were there all along and had planned it all out.”
The room fell silent. Finally, Andy Browers said, “But that’s what you think happened?”
Holman nodded. Browers looked across at Estelle, and she nodded.
I said, “That’s why we need to know every single person you’ve come in contact with during the past few days-from the time you first decided to go on this camping expedition. Everyone you can think of. We already have a bulletin issued, so every law enforcement agency in the Southwest has been alerted, and they all have Cody’s photograph.”
Tiffany Cole rose slowly to her feet, her eyes closed and her head shaking from side to side. “No,” she said as Andy Browers took her by the elbow. “I’m going back up. That’s where Cody is. I know that’s where he is.”
“Ma’am,” I said, but Mrs. Cole was headed out. Sheriff Holman beat her to the door, but it was Estelle’s voice that stopped her.
“Mrs. Cole,” Estelle said, “there are one or two more things I’d like to ask you before you leave.” Tiffany Cole turned and looked at her, one hand still reaching toward the doorknob. Estelle pointed at the chair. “Sit for a minute,” she said, and the woman did.
Estelle leaned forward, her face not more than a foot from the other woman’s, and when she spoke, it wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Cole?”
“My husband?”
“Paul Cole.”
The woman shook her head. “August. He had Cody for a weekend in August, just before school started.”
“He works in Bernalillo?”
Tiffany nodded. “That’s where he was.”
“But you have custody of the child?” I said.
“Yes. Of course.”
“How long ago was your divorce from Paul Cole?” Estelle asked.
“Almost three years,” Tiffany Cole said.
“And what kind of arrangements were worked out as part of that?”
“I have custody of Cody,” the woman said. “Paul can come see him whenever he wants, but he hardly ever does. Just that one weekend in August, and even then he called to cancel one day of Cody’s visit.”
“Is there any unusual bitterness between you and your former husband that you’re aware of?” I asked.
She shook her head. “But he just doesn’t care.” She looked up at me. “I called him the day all this happened. I called him because I thought he had the right to know. But I couldn’t get through to him. I left a message on the machine in the coaches’ office at the school, in case he stopped in there, and on his answering machine at his house. He never returned the call.”
“We’ll talk with him,” I said. “Is there anyone else in your life who might have a grudge against you for any reason?”
“No,” Tiffany Cole said, and stood up abruptly. “And I don’t think anyone took Cody.”
“Mrs. Cole,” Sheriff Holman said, “we need that list. We really do.”
She lifted black-circled, bloodshot eyes and gazed at Martin Holman, her lips pressed into hard, thin lines. “My child is somewhere up on that mesa, and this will be his third night alone,” she said, and pushed past him.
Andy Browers followed her, and as he passed the nonplussed Holman, he said hoarsely, “We’ll get the list for you, Sheriff.”
The door closed on soundless hinges, and Holman shook his head. “I don’t think she heard a word we said.”
“That’s not surprising,” I said. “The woman is distraught. More than distraught. She’s panicked sick. I would be, too.”
“If that were true, then she’d be willing to grasp at any straws we held out to her,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said quietly, and I turned, surprised.
“No one is going to welcome the news that their child’s been abducted by some creep,” I said.
“No,” Estelle said, “but even Tiffany Cole should be able to understand that the odds of an injured child still being alive after three November nights, with off-and-on rain, are slim to none.”
“We don’t know if he was injured,” I said.
“If he wasn’t, then he’d have been found,” Estelle said. “It’s that simple. If he’s up on that mesa, he’s dead. It’s that simple. If he was abducted, then there’s a chance he’s still alive. That’s what Mrs. Cole needs to understand.” She stood up and snapped her notebook shut. I glanced at the wall clock and saw that I was fifteen minutes overdue on my promise to Camille to be home in time to gulp down another handful of medications.
“Do you have time to stop by the house for a few minutes?” I asked.
“Let me swing by the hospital first and check on Mama,” she replied, and then turned to Martin Holman. “Sir, if nothing turns up by this time tomorrow, I think that you can pull the primary search teams.”
“Mrs. Cole is going to go ballistic,” Holman said. “But you’re right. What are you going to do now? If the child was taken just because some wacko child molester saw an opportunity, it’s going to be tough following the trail.”
Estelle grimaced. “That doesn’t fit,” she said. “Child molesters don’t drive around the wilderness at night. Shopping malls, schools, neighborhoods-yes. Not mesas. What we need is a list of names. A list of the people who woul
d stand to gain something by taking a three-year-old child.”
I grunted to my feet as she continued. “Common sense would say that after a divorce, the noncustodial parent is the most likely to abduct. It happens all the time.”
“Paul Cole?”
Estelle nodded. “That’s a good place to start.”
Chapter 15
Estelle was relieved when Sheriff Martin Holman agreed to follow up on Paul Cole that evening.
“This is what I think we ought to do,” he said, standing behind his desk, pen in hand, looking down at the yellow legal pad filled with circles, doodles, and random jottings. “I’ll call the Bernalillo Sheriff’s office and have them make contact with Paul Cole. See if they can round him up for a few questions. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Holman frowned and regarded me. “I can’t help wondering why he isn’t down here already. I mean, we’re not exactly working in secret down here. This search has been all over television and the city newspapers. Maybe what his ex-wife said is true. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit. What do you think?”
“I just walked into the middle of this mess,” I said. “I don’t think anything.” I didn’t say that whenever Marty Holman started acting like a cop, I got nervous. “Just be careful that he doesn’t get spooked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Make sure that the Bernalillo deputies don’t give him any information that he doesn’t need to know. None of the circumstances of what’s going on up on the mesa. Nothing about what we might suspect, or don’t suspect. Just have them tell Cole that his son has gone missing while on an outing with his mother.”
“I would think he’s heard about the search already anyway, from the television reports.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but they might not have used the youngster’s name yet. One lost kid isn’t statewide news until something unusual happens. It’s entirely possible that he simply doesn’t know.”
“We’ll play it by ear, then,” Holman said, and that should have made me really nervous. But I was as tired as everyone else, perhaps with less reason, and Martin Holman needed to dive into his job headfirst, without me holding his hand. I had other concerns.
Estelle hadn’t left the hospital by the time I arrived home, and even though it was nearly nine o’clock, I was restless. I suppose I should have chugged a handful of medications and gone to bed, but that was a repulsive notion on both counts. Camille knew my habits, and she knew better than to nag.
Still, it surprised me when she agreed to accompany me on a visit to Florencio Apodaca’s. The old man might not care one way or another what his stepson thought, or what Stanley Willit planned to do, but I had a feeling that whatever was about to happen between the two parties, I was going to be caught smack in the middle.
“Why don’t we walk?” Camille said, and I stared at her.
“Walk?”
She grinned. “It’s one block, Dad. The fresh air will do you good. Maybe it’ll make you sleepy.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would,” I lied. “But the suggestion has been made that this is more than a friendly neighborhood burial. I’d feel better having a radio and transportation close at hand.”
She held up a hand in surrender. “Are Estelle and Francis coming over? Have you had a chance to talk with them both?”
“I told her to stop by. We’ll just have to see. I don’t know what their schedule is. But we’ll be gone just a few minutes. I’ll leave a note for them.”
We drove around the loop and I parked in front of Apodaca’s house-a small settling adobe. At one time in the late sixties, a peaked roof had been added to the structure. The loft had created a home for pigeons, bats, squirrels, and the previous tenant’s grandchildren.
When I knocked on the door, the only light I could see was the blue cast from a television. I knocked again, then heard a chair scrape against the wood floor.
Florencio Apodaca’s face and figure showed every one of his eighty-plus years. He opened the door and stood behind the dilapidated screen, squinting out at me.
“Mr. Apodaca, I’m Bill Gastner, from across the way,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, pulling the word out long and heavily accented.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Well, I guess that’s all right.” He turned and shuffled back inside without opening the door. The hinges squawked, and after I stepped inside, I was careful not to let it slam. I glanced back at the Blazer and could imagine Camille sitting in the dark, holding up her left wrist and tapping her watch at me.
Florencio Apodaca had made his way back to the blue light, and he was already seated in the remains of a recliner when I entered the room. He looked away from the television and nodded at a rocking chair. “Sit down. You want some wine?”
“No thanks,” I said. The chair groaned under my weight, and I balanced gingerly, trying not to capsize backward. “What are you watching?”
He pointed at the set with his chin. “They got this show here,” he said, as if that just about covered it.
I took a deep breath, made sure the rocker wouldn’t collapse, and said, “Stanley Willit called me today.”
Florencio regarded me with rheumy eyes. “What did he say?”
“He’s worried about his mother.”
The old man frowned and looked back at the television. “You know,” he said finally, “I don’t understand most of these programs that they have now. It’s getting so I don’t understand most of them.”
“They’re pretty bizarre,” I said. I looked at the screen and saw that he was watching a sitcom featuring a brassy fat woman who had a perfectly timed slice-to-the-bone retort for every comment that came her way. She was enough to make even the most hardened traffic cop cringe.
“He lives out in California now,” Florencio said.
“Willit, you mean?”
“Yes.” He pronounced it gess.
“I told him I had no objection to the burial on my property.”
He turned and regarded me again. “You own that land across the street?”
I nodded.
“I thought I owned that.” His eyes went back to the screen.
“That’s not really the problem, Mr. Apodaca. Mr. Willit is concerned with the circumstances of your wife’s death-with how she died.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He called you?”
Florencio Apodaca raised a hand in limp dismissal, then pushed himself out of the chair with surprising speed. “Let’s have some wine.” He left the television blaring, then returned in a few minutes with two small juice glasses filled to the brim with red wine. He handed one to me, his hands steadier than mine.
“He’d like to know how his mother died,” I said.
“She’s not his mother,” Florencio muttered, and he sat down with a loud cracking of knee joints. “But that’s a long story. You know my oldest son?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s a cabinetmaker down in Cruces.” Florencio sipped his wine. I wet my lips, just enough to discover that the stuff tasted just as rank as it smelled. I held the glass carefully in both hands, resting my forearms on my knees. “He makes all kinds of things.”
“I see.” I didn’t, and added, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Willit?”
“The last time I saw him was…” He paused and looked up at the ceiling, examining the tin sheets with the pressed floral pattern. “I don’t know. It was some time ago.”
“When exactly did your wife pass away, Mr. Apodaca?” Chief Eduardo Martinez’s incident report might include one version of that information, but I hadn’t read the paperwork yet. The chief had interviewed the old man shortly after the grave was discovered, but I doubted that his report would tell me much more than I was learning from the old man’s wandering memory.
He concentrated on the television, now featuring a commercial for a fancy pickup truck that leapt dunes, sa
nd cascading from the undercarriage.
When the advertisement ended, he said, “You know, my oldest son has himself a nice shop.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Was it just this past week or so that she died?”
“You could ask the police,” he said. “They were here.”
“I suppose.” I set the glass of wine on a small table. “Mr. Willit said he was coming to try to straighten all this out. We’ll have to wait and see what he wants to do.”
Florencio frowned and gazed at me appraisingly. I didn’t know what he could actually see through the crusted spectacles, but he took his time.
“There’s nothing for him here.”
“He just wants to know about his mother, that’s all. You can understand how he might want to do that.”
“She’s gone.”
“True enough,” I said.
“Where do you work?”
“For the county,” I said.
“They’re the ones who want to put a water line along the road over there?”
“That’s the village.”
“What do you mean, ‘the village’?”
“Village, county-they’re two different things. It’s the village that wants to put in the line.”
“Do I have to let them?”
“It’s my property, Mr. Apodaca. And no, I don’t have to let them.”
“How much you want for it?”
“It’s not for sale. If you want me to deed you a small plot of land that includes your wife’s grave, I’ll be happy to consider doing that.”
He nodded and took a sip of wine. “I thought I owned that.”
“I’m afraid not. But the village can put a kink in the water line, for all I care. The only thing I ask is that you clear up the circumstances of your wife’s passing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to know how she died, and when. The circumstances.”
“The circumstances.” He said every syllable as if it were a separate word.
“Yes. And I think that Stanley Willit has the right to know, too. It’s only a courtesy.”
Florencio Apodaca set his half-empty glass down beside mine. “He only wants the money,” he said with surprising venom. “If he causes any trouble, I know a good lawyer.”
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