He walked around the SUV, just the trace of a gimp marking his progress. He carried a cane that could be folded out into a minimal canvas seat—a “photographer’s stool,” he called it.
“You guys keep this up, and you’ll join us denizens of the night.” Gastner stepped carefully up onto the sidewalk, then ambled toward them. “Kids go to bed, after all?”
“No. They’re lying in wait inside. A special night, I guess. That’s my excuse.”
He pointed the cane toward the Corvette. “Is this their ride?”
“Yes. Nonstop from Kansas.”
“Ah, the energy of youth.” Gastner’s imitation of W.C. Fields was spot-on. “How’s the grand lady?”
Estelle laughed. “She’s the only smart one. She went to bed a bit ago.”
Gastner walked halfway to the front stoop and stopped again. “My radio about burned itself out today.”
“It’s been busy.”
The old man ran a hand across the short gray stubble that topped his round skull. “Frank Dayan’s going to have a stroke, I think. And Leona Spears tried to corral me. And Arnie Gray, for God’s sakes. It’s been a while since a county commission chairman tried to nose his way into your business. I don’t know what they think I can tell ’em. Or would tell ’em, I should say.” He stepped into a bear hug with Estelle, then turned loose and shook hands with Francis. “You look as if you’ve been up ’round the clock yourself, Doctor.”
“A very, very interesting day,” Francis replied.
“I just had a conversation with Frank,” Estelle said. “Leona hasn’t called me, which is a surprise.” The county manager, an accomplished gadfly, liked to talk with Estelle, who would listen to her, as opposed to trying to pry information from Bob Torrez, who wouldn’t.
“You know, just a nasty time.” Gastner followed that with a resigned shake of the head. “Any ideas who Coach Scott crossed?”
“Only the vaguest of notions. Slim possibilities.”
“At least you know it wasn’t simple robbery. I wouldn’t think a shower would be the place for that.” He dug the tip of his cane into the sod, flipped the canvas seat open, and gently lowered himself. “Ah, that’s the ticket.” He folded his arms across his still-ample stomach, balanced with his feet spread wide. “You know, a little bit full of himself, that guy,” Gastner said. “I got to know him years ago when he was one of the assistant football coaches. Surprised the hell out of me when he jumped to volleyball.” The former sheriff’s passion for Posadas Jaguars football was no secret. “A little more center-stage, maybe. Hell of a record he’s amassed, though.”
A small form appeared, gazing through the screen door. “Padrino is here, and the lasagna is cool enough to cut,” Carlos announced in a loud stage whisper.
“The words I long to hear.” Gastner rose from his stool, folded it, and followed Estelle and Francis inside. Both boys earned hugs, and then Gastner stopped and stood stock still, hands on his hips, regarding Francisco’s traveling companion.
“Padrino, this is Angela Trevino, from school,” Francisco said.
Gastner reached out and took Angela’s hand thoughtfully. “What a pleasure, Angela Trevino from school. And you play what, other than this young man’s heartstrings?”
Angela ducked her head in amused embarrassment at Gastner’s blunt assessment, but then offered a radiant smile. “The cello, sir.”
“She’s headed for Julliard,” Francisco added.
Gastner turned his head and cocked an eyebrow at the fifteen-year-old. “And you haven’t decided yet whether that’s a good thing or not.” He paused. “Unless you’re going along.”
“Most likely not, Padrino.”
“Most likely not.” Gastner was clearly amused at Francisco’s precise manner of speech. “Well, time will tell. So you two vagrants drove down here from,” and he waved a hand eastward, “somewhere over there. Long haul.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re off again when?”
“Sometime Sunday, we think.”
“Well, even a short visit is better than none at all.” He pointed an index finger at both boys, one of whom was delivering the dish of lasagna to the table. “You two are staying at my casa, right?” He looked at Estelle. “Right?”
“That would be perfect, if you’ll have them,” she said.
“Well, you have a key, so make yourselves at home. And you know where the food is, or bring what you like.” He leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “On the off-chance that there might be any leftovers from this.” He circled Addy’s waist with one arm as she set a large glass bowl of Caesar salad on the table, along with a large loaf of garlic bread. “We should do this more often,” he added.
For the next half-hour, conversation played light, with Gastner a seemingly inexhaustible source of questions for Francisco and Angela, but he skillfully included Carlos as well. At one point, his fork laden with lasagna, he leaned over close to the small boy, who had made it a point of securing the chair on Padrino’s immediate right, and said in a gruff stage whisper, “Do you have any idea just how good this is, kiddo?”
Carlos nodded vigorously. “Thank you.”
“You’re entirely welcome. The question is, did Adorina lend her talents to it, or is it a solo performance?”
“Carlos made it all by his lonesome,” Addy said from the kitchen. “You’re lucky there aren’t chocolate chips in it.”
Dessert was another of the little boy’s trademarks, a key lime pie’s crisp, cold flavor helped to mellow the aftereffects of the lasagna’s green chile. Finally, as dishes were being cleared to the kitchen by the younger generation, Estelle leaned close to Gastner. “Do you remember anything about Coach Scott that might shed any light?”
Gastner grimaced. “Are you kidding? I don’t even remember getting up this morning.” He shook his head. “No, as far as I’m concerned, he was just another face in the parade of coaches who come and go. Except he never left, for some reason. He found whatever he was after right here in lowly old Posadas.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Maybe a classic example of a big fish in a small pond.” He set the cup down carefully. “You know, I never actually spoke to him. Face-to-face, I mean. One-on-one. Never had the occasion.”
He lowered his voice another notch. “Somebody just walked into the school after-hours and found him alone?”
“Yes. It appears that way. He was in the shower.”
“Good God. So what’s the direction so far?”
“We’re concerned…I’m concerned, that Stacie Stewart might be somehow involved.” His grizzled eyebrows shot up at that, but he waited as Francisco approached.
“We’re going out to the patio for a bit,” the boy said, and Estelle watched as her older son escorted Angie Trevino, a hand light on her elbow, out through the sliding doors. The boy was mindful to close the door behind him, rather than leave the screen gaping, giving his parents and Padrino privacy. Carlos clanked and banged in the kitchen, and Addy leaned on the counter.
“Shall I buzz over to Mr. G’s place and get the rooms ready?”
“By all means,” Gastner said. “Use the two adult bunk beds in Buddy’s room. The bedding is in that closet. Lock up all my valuables, put a padlock on the fridge, and chain the pitbull. And warn the neighbors.”
“That would be wonderful, Addy,” Estelle added. “Thanks so much.” She pulled the girl into a hug.
“Are you headed out again tonight?” Gastner asked.
“I need some sleep,” Estelle said. “I’m starting to go in circles.”
He watched Addy head out the front door, face thoughtful. “So what’s with this Stacie Stewart thing?”
“She’s disappeared, Padrino. She went to The Spree, left her baby in the car along with a puppy, and that was the last we saw of her. Tommy Pasquale watched her go inside the store, and that’s it. We haven’t seen her since. Todd is trying his best to cope, but he doesn’t know which way to turn.”
“Huh.”
“This is what bothers me, Padrino. LT and I watched the volleyball game video from the night before. There she is, sitting immediately behind Coach Scott, buddy-buddy with her elbow resting on his shoulder. And then sometime shortly after the game, he’s murdered and the next day, she splits town. Hubby has no idea where she went. That’s what worries me.”
“I can’t see hubby working up the gumption to go on a shooting rampage.”
“Nor I…unless he’s up for an Academy Award acting job. When I saw him earlier at the hospital where the EMTs took the baby, that’s what his mind was on—not murder. And by then, Scott was dead.”
Gastner pursed his lips. “So what happens tomorrow?”
“We need to go through Scott’s house and see what we turn up. I need to go through Stacie’s things, which Todd is not going to like.”
“Not that that matters.”
“No, but…Then we hit up Scott’s colleagues to see what we can turn.”
“Sex, drugs, money, or power…that’s what makes the world go ’round. Any or all.”
“There was no apparent physical fight, so no forensic trail there. And there’s no sign that the killer and Scott stood in the shower, having a spirited conversation before the shots were fired. I mean, he didn’t even have time to turn off the water. It’s a puzzle. As I recall, the kind of case you liked the best.”
Gastner smiled. “That was back when I could remember from one minute to the next where the puzzle pieces went when I found a new one. You have a hell of a team, Sweetheart. Use every one of ’em.” He leaned back and peered toward the kitchen. After a moment he was able to gain Carlos’ attention. “Seconds on key lime? Carlos, how about that?” He held his fingers an inch or so apart. “Just a little savory piece, sort of a shot for the road?”
“Coffee with it?” the boy asked.
“Of course. Thank you.” He turned back to Estelle and her husband. She was resting her head on Francis’ shoulder, eyes heavy. “I’ll scarf down the pie, and then get out of here.” He cocked an eyebrow at the physician. “What keeps you busy these days?”
“Same old, same old,” Francis said. “Right at the moment, it’s babies on the way, elderly folks breaking various body parts, and the occasional teenager trying to defy gravity.”
Gastner laughed. “Why do I not miss all of that?”
“Francis said they were working on Efrin Garcia last night in the ER,” Estelle said. “He’s about eighteen or a little older…Art’s younger brother? You would remember Art Garcia, I think. He had a passionate love affair with trying to manufacture his own meth. Not especially successful, either.”
“Oh, indeed, I do remember the lad. Art’s father skipped to Mexico, leaving wife and kids behind. We thought he was probably the brewer behind the meth. It would have been better if he’d taken Art with him. But that was a while ago—I wasn’t even sheriff then. But Efrin? How’d he get into trouble? Miles was wondering why he wasn’t working today up on the mesa. He mentioned it to me when we were over in the theater on the tour. I think he wanted to show the kid off to the press. I mean, that’s quite the mural he’s got going.”
“Sir?” Estelle pushed herself upright, leaving a hand firmly on her husband’s shoulder.
“The kid is an amazing artist, if we’re talking about the same Efrin Garcia. He’s working on a huge mural that will circle the planetarium theater from one end of the curved screen all the way around the audience to the other end. What I saw was a section he just finished that features the Horsehead Nebula. Most impressive work, I gotta tell you. But Miles was a little concerned because the kid has about a hundred feet to go in order to finish up, and he decides to take a day off. But he’s pretty quick with his airbrushes.”
“He won’t be finishing up any time soon,” Francis said. “If he’s very lucky, he’ll live.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Way too fast on one of our excellent county byways. First it’s a deer, then he loses it and clips a utility pole. No seat belt, and he was tossed out. We shipped him off to UNMH. He might make it. We managed to stabilize him for a little bit.” Francis grimaced. “Bad deal.”
“Well, shit. Does Miles know?”
“We didn’t know he worked for Miles, Bill. And he was in no condition for conversation.”
“And now he’s up in Albuquerque?”
Francis nodded. “Medevac transported him last night.”
Gastner relaxed back in his chair, regarding the empty pie plate almost wistfully. “I was glad to see him hooked up with Waddell’s project. There’s lots of opportunity there for a talented artist. Kid gets in on the ground floor of a project like this, and there’s no limit for him.”
Estelle stared at Gastner for a moment, then rose suddenly and left the room. She returned in a moment with a photograph. “Did you get one of these earlier?”
“I did. Nice shot. They found that this morning on one of the railcars. There’s another one on the dish itself, if you can figure that one out. Waddell was going to have a chat with Efrin later today.”
“So he thinks Efrin did this?”
“We know he did. Well, let me amend that. I know he did. That’s the first thing I told Miles, but he’s one of those nice guys who would rather deny the possibility that somebody has crossed him. But he’ll come around. You take that photo up to the theater and compare it with Efrin’s mural and decide for yourself.” He traced around the photo of the graffiti with his finger. “Same brilliant colors, same heavy use of deep space blacks. Same washes of really clean shades of gray. That’s what drew my eye. Same clarity of design. I mean, I don’t care much for modern art, and I sure as hell don’t care much for gang graffiti, but this is a cut above, right? The kid is an airbrush artist.”
Estelle remained silent.
“So you heard about the dish being defaced?”
“Both Bobby and Frank mentioned it.”
“Yeah…I was thinking of breaking Frank’s camera arm so he wouldn’t get a photo of it, but right now the design is so high up, I don’t think he can. Too far away. They had the dish parked like this,” and he cut his hand sideways through the air, indicating a horizontal attitude, “while they worked on something or other. It’s been that way for several days. And then they were doing something with the azimuth hardware this morning and tipped the dish almost all the way upright, as if it was listening to something just over on the horizon.” He hand-chopped the air in a vertical line. “So there’s the big dish facing out for the whole world to see, and what do you suppose is painted high up on the rim?”
He shrugged and added, “Were it not for my new job with Waddell, I would never have seen it.” He held up two fingers, one to each eye. “But the crew sure as hell did.”
“Your new job?”
“Of vast importance, too. Waddell wanted my input and advice about where to locate the new benches. See,” and he drew a circle on the table, “this is the dish and the fence around it. Miles wants places for tourists to stop, rest, and gawk when they take a break from hiking the access trails. He’s got a really nice, really ugly, and really insecure chain-link around the dish itself right now, and outside of that, he’s marked about eight places where he’s planning to put benches around the circumference of the site when the new arty fence is built. So, I go up there and sit and ruminate at different times of the day, making sure we don’t install permanent benches that put the person staring right into the sun or some dumb thing.” He shrugged again. “I’m good at sitting and ruminating.”
“So you think Efrin Garcia painted the dish as well as the railcar.”
“I do. And the only time the kid could have done it without sliding off into space was when the dish was parked, lying on its back. Even then, he’d have to be like one of those damn geckos that can cling to window glass. Go take a look. Take the photo of the railcar with you. Same use of color. Some design elements that are derivative.” He chuckled. “Don’t I sound like some goddamn ar
t critic, though?”
“How would he get up there?”
“Piece of cake. Remember, Efrin is only eighteen or so. Monkey in human clothing. There are access ladderways all over. When the dish is parked the way it was, all the walkways line up. All a kid has to do is a pull-up to reach the first one, and up he goes, one stairway after another. The hatch out to the dish surface is secured with a couple thumb screws.” He smiled. “At the moment, it is, anyway.” He chuckled again. “Miles is going to change the fence, but that’s always been in the works. Day by day, though, he’s getting a bit less trusting. That in itself is an interesting evolution to watch.”
Estelle frowned. “How’d Efrin avoid all the security to climb up there in the first place? All the workers?”
“Well,” Gastner said dismissively, “dark night, dark T-shirt, dark pants…no problem.”
“And because he works on the mesa, it would be no problem to be there at night. He wouldn’t have the problem of getting through security down at the gate.”
“Perhaps so. Have you talked with him?”
“No,” Estelle said. “Bobby made sure that everyone saw a copy of the railcar photo, but I didn’t give it much thought. I was busy with other things.”
“Efrin’s not talking at the moment,” Dr. Guzman offered.
“How long was he without medical attention after his crash?”
“That’s hard to say. Not too long, actually. I think that’s why he’s still alive.” He rubbed his side. “Lots of blood loss from the lacerated spleen. Perrone said he got six more units in Albuquerque, in addition to the four we pumped into him. When he was brought to the ER, his pulse was rock bottom.”
“Well, he’ll keep.” Gastner watched Estelle’s face as she regarded the tablecloth with more concentration than it deserved. “What?”
“Are you up for going for a ride, Padrino?”
“What, you mean right now?” He glanced at his wristwatch. Dr. Guzman groaned, and Estelle clamped both hands on the doctor’s forearm.
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