Heartshot (10 page)
“What do we know about David and Theresa Barrie?” I asked Estelle Reyes when I walked into the office early that afternoon.
Even if the detective noticed my lack of greeting, she didn’t miss a beat. “I talked to them.”
“I know you did. What did you find out that’s new?”
Reyes shrugged and rummaged for her notebook. She flipped pages and said, “Personally, I think David Barrie is a first-class creep. His wife is a mouse. She lets him walk all over her.” Her venom surprised me, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss other people’s marital problems.
“Dr. Sprague blames Jenny Barrie for his daughter’s death last year.”
“That’s the impression I got, too.”
“I spent three hours with him in his airplane. It wasn’t just an impression. He blames himself for letting it happen. What did David Barrie have to say?”
“Indignation is his game, sir. No matter what question I asked, he bristled. I think he figured he could scare me off. He also likes to threaten law suits. If we try to pin anything on the memory of his daughter, he promises to sue. I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I get the impression he would have liked the chance to sue Benny Fernandez, too. He said he still might sue the estate.”
“Because the son was driving the car?”
“Right. He’s a great guy.”
“That’s all he said?”
“Just about. Except that he told me we should check the trucks that bring in food-service supplies for Fernandez’s restaurant.”
I sat down heavily. “Hell, why not? It’s a waste of time, but why not.”
“You don’t think Fernandez was involved?”
“No, you’re right. I don’t. I don’t know why he came unglued in the park, but I sure as hell intend to find out. But no, I don’t think he was running drugs.”
Estelle watched me light a cigarette and then pushed an ashtray toward the extended match. “It was pretty rough up in Albuquerque?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was pretty rough.”
Estelle nodded, then changed the subject. “It was convenient that Dr. Sprague was around to provide air taxi.”
“Yes. He had a conference to attend. He got bored early.”
“Is that what he told you?”
I looked sharply at the girl. “You should have been a goddamned oriental. What’s on your mind?”
“He didn’t have a conference.”
“You checked?”
“Yes. I called a friend on the Albuquerque Police Department who called a friend whose best friend is an internist, too.”
“Tight line of evidence, there.”
A trace of a grin crossed Estelle Reyes’s pretty face. I realized I hadn’t really seen her smile in a hell of a long time. “And I also called Francis,” she said, referring to her fiancÉ. “Anyway, there was no medical conference in Albuquerque this week. Not even a meeting of the tooth fairies. There was no conference for medical writers. Or medical salesmen. There was only one conference in the entire city scheduled for yesterday and today.”
She paused and I prompted, “And?”
“The city school bus drivers are having a two-day workshop.”
I frowned and stubbed out my cigarette. “So why would Sprague make up a story?”
Estelle shrugged and tapped the edge of her small notebook on the desktop. “Maybe he didn’t want to have to explain to you why he was there?”
“Well, obviously. But why
was
he there?” I asked, and then answered my own question. “He made a point of seeing me at the hospital. And then a point of offering me a ride home.”
Estelle nodded. “Now, I may be a little cynical, but it’s a bit much to expect him to be that concerned about Hewitt’s welfare. He didn’t know the kid from Adam. When I talked to him that night in the park, Sprague did mention that you needed to see a doctor.” She smiled slightly at the surprise on my face.
“Horse shit.”
“But I don’t think he would fly all the way to Albuquerque and back because of that. Unless he was your personal physician.”
“Which he isn’t.”
“So that leaves us with three choices. One, he is a concerned citizen with plenty of money who flies great distances on the outside chance that he can be helpful.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
“Two, he wanted to find out what you knew. Or what Art Hewitt knew. If that’s the case, then he stands to gain or lose something by that information.”
“And three?”
“We don’t know why he did it.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Number two is the most interesting. If he is trying to track down, after more than a year, the source of the drugs that killed his daughter, he would be interested. Vitally interested.” Estelle nodded. “That’s what you were thinking?”
“
Sí
,” she said, making her slight accent a heavy imitation of JosÉ Jimenez.
I lighted another cigarette. “Why didn’t he just say that, then? He had ample chance during the flight back down here. And what put the bee in your bonnet to check on Sprague?”
“Just a hunch. When I spoke with him first, he said, ‘Don’t hesitate to call me later if there’s anything else you need.’ Less than twelve hours later, I find out from your call that he’s in Albuquerque. I just found it odd that he didn’t mention his conference commitment when I talked with him. I mean, the odds were good that I would want to talk with him again.”
“So? Everyone says, ‘Don’t hesitate to call.’ That doesn’t mean they really mean it. Especially doctors.” I remembered her fiancÉ. “No offense.”
“What can I say? It was a hunch.”
“Follow up on it. Very quietly. If Sprague is off on a personal vendetta, I want to know about it. I don’t want another Benny Fernandez. And if he’s just a good samaritan, I don’t want him harassed.”
“What are you going to do?”
I stood up. “I’m going home to clean up and get out of this monkey suit. And then I’m going out to the football camp for the afternoon.”
“Ah,” Estelle said. “It’s that time of year, almost. When you pursue the pigskin. May your team always win.”
“I’m touched.”
“I’m just practical. Last year, every time your team lost, we couldn’t get a civil word out of you.”
“You exaggerate. I’m not that bad. Anyway, this is partly work. Scott Salinger has had a couple weeks to stew. He’ll be there. Maybe he’ll have come to terms with what he knows.”
“If he knows.”
“My instinct says he does and is just frightened to deal with it. He might have to step on a few friends. Some folks have a hard time doing that.” I picked up my Stetson and headed for the door. “Oh, and tell Sheriff Holman, if you see him before I do, that the funeral is at two o’clock Thursday afternoon. I already committed him. We’ll drive up in three-ten.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be overjoyed about the drive. Bob Torrez says the sheriff still talks about the last time he rode with you.”
I grinned and left the cubbyhole that Estelle called her office. On the bulletin board above the dispatcher’s desk, I pinned a Magic-Markered sign. J. J. Murton looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re back!” Then he looked at the sign and read aloud, “Wash and wax three-ten by six P. M. Wednesday. Yessir, I’ll have the trustees get right to that. Wash ’er right up.” I reached out and pointed to part of the message. “Oh, and wax,” Miracle said. “Right. Wax.”
I nodded and smiled at him encouragingly. “I’ll be ten-seven until tomorrow noon, J.J. Don’t call me unless the town is burning down.”
“Right.”
“And I’m taking three-ten,” I reminded him. His eyebrows shot together, and he looked back up at the sign I’d stuck to the bulletin board. “That’s for tomorrow, J.J., not today.”
I left the office and headed home. I walked through the front door of my house for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, and stopped short. Dr. Sprague had taken me straight from the airport to the sheriff’s office, because it seemed urgent to talk with Estelle. Now I was home, and it struck me like a well-placed blow. I’d forgotten that Art Hewitt’s personal effects were still scattered around my home—a jacket here, pair of tennis shoes there, toilet articles on the bathroom counter. It’s the kind of heartshot that makes for a rotten afternoon.
I packed his things and put the bundle by the front door so I wouldn’t forget it come Thursday. Then I showered, changed clothes, and left for the mountain football camp.
It was a yearly ritual that marked the beginning of the sacred season, an advance peek at the high school team on whose behalf I would bellow myself hoarse during fourteen games. I figured it to be potent medicine for what ailed me.
***
The car only scraped bottom once as I drove carefully up the twisting Forest Service road. Where the elevation tipped 8200 feet, I thumped across a cattle guard that marked private property. The sixty acres were owned by a Posadas businessman. The attraction was a large open field, reasonably smooth, and a casually laid-out camping area. Every year, the Posadas head football coach hosted a week-long “football camp.” On paper, the idea was to provide a camping and recreational opportunity for area youngsters who couldn’t tell a football from a yucca. There was lots of camping, and hiking, and running, and ball throwing. In short, lots of pre-season football practice. By chance, the camp was well attended by any student who wanted a place on the team. Not mandatory, but next-best thing. Coach Fred Gutierrez figured that young lungs that survived a workout at 8200 feet would probably handle any strain down below.
I drove in the cow path that led to the only structure on the property, a small, neat log cabin known as “Coaches’ Cabin.” As I pulled up, I could hear shouts out on the field. I locked 310 and walked through the thick grove of Gambel oak and ponderosa pine that separated the field from the cabin site. Up at the other end of the field I could see a straight row of tents, but it was the action out on the turf that interested me most. I picked a thick-boled ponderosa and sat down at its base with a comfortable grunt. I pushed the cap back on my head and rested my forearms on my drawn-up knees.
Gutierrez and his four assistants—just camp counselors, mind you—were running the forty campers through simple passing routines. There actually were some younger kids there, too. And the Posadas Jaguars’ starting lineup, or I was watching fly fishermen. I sat and relaxed for nearly a half hour, picking out the lineup that was going to make other schools beg for mercy that fall. Enough brain cells remained stubbornly fixed on business that after a few minutes I realized Scott Salinger was not on the field.
One of the assistant coaches saw me, finally, and trotted over. Mark Tatman recognized a faithful booster and grinned widely.
“Sheriff, how are ya?” he said. We shook hands, and then he turned serious. “Say, that was an awful thing about that young cop who got killed downtown. Some of the kids were saying he was living with you. They thought he was some kind of relative until they read the story in the paper yesterday.”
I just nodded, still watching the players. The coach asked, “What was he undercover for, drugs, or what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it right now, Mark.” I nodded at the action on the field. “They look good.”
The assistant coach turned so he could survey the players. “I think so. A good year comin’ up.”
“When do the official two-a-day practices start?”
“August fifteenth.”
“Super.”
“Did you need anything, or were you just cruisin’?”
“Just getting a pre-season peek, Mark. But say, where’s Scott Salinger? I don’t see him.”
Mark Tatman shrugged. “He and Coach Gutierrez exchanged a few words yesterday. He left and hasn’t been back.”
“No shit? What was the problem?”
Tatman held up his hands. “All I know is he was real moody. Depressed. Couldn’t keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing. Yesterday Gutierrez shouted some instructions at him and Salinger cussed at him. Nothin’ real bad, but with the little kids around, you know, you can’t let it slide.” Tatman shrugged again. “Not very like Salinger, either. He left after that. Just got in his car and left.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Couple of the guys say he’s still pretty shook about that July Fourth accident. Him and Tommy Hardy were pretty good friends, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’ll come out of it. Coach said just to let him go. Let him unwind.”
“Probably best.”
“If he comes back, should I tell him you wanted to see him?”
“No. If I need him, I’ll find him.” The coach was anxious to return to his players, and I let him go with a grin and a pat on the back. I watched for another ten minutes, then went back to the car. It was time to find out if Scott Salinger was as tough off the football field as he was on it.
Posadas cooked under the hot July sun. Downtown that late afternoon was quiet. Many of the shops were closed already. I came in from the east and noticed that the Fernandez Burger Heaven was open. I wondered who was running it. Farther on, with the traffic only one or two cars deep at each light, the town looked like what it was—a slow-paced southwestern town where the single wide main drag was a little unkempt and weed-strewn.
I had lived in Posadas long enough that I could accurately visualize the interior of every store and shop along that main drag. I figured I knew every clerk and owner, too.
As I drove past the intersection of Grande and Fourth, I saw David Barrie walking from his now locked and dark hobby-craft shop to the parking lot. He looked like a caricature of one of those World War II British officers. Very blond, he wore his hair long on the sides, combed so that it looked as if he were facing a strong wind. A long, slightly ski nose jutted below very blue eyes, and his not-quite lantern jaw was set resolutely. He marched with arms swinging vigorously and rhythmically, and when he reached his car, he unlocked the door and slid in gracefully.
By then I had driven past, and I watched in the rearview mirror as Barrie’s silver Corvette eased out onto the street, heading east. The hobby business was obviously a good one.
Scott Salinger’s home was well away from the main drag, in one of the older sections of town that had been established during the heyday of the silver mines forty years before. The place was small, overshadowed by the collection of vehicles in the graveled driveway. A big boat, its cockpit covered with canvas and the engine booted, rested with its stern close to one garage door. The trailer hitch was supported at a convenient height by a cinder block. Between that and the street was a motor home perhaps twenty feet in length. A small motorbike was obviously a permanent attachment to the vehicle’s nose, secured with two padlocks and a hefty chain. A middle-aged Chevy Nova with Texas plates was parked beside the boat. Between the garage and the brown plaster wall of the house was an old Grumman canoe, two bicycles long past their prime, and something that might once have been a wire dog-run.
I pulled into the driveway behind the Nova. It didn’t look like anyone was home, so I left the engine running when I got out.
“May I help you?”
I spun around, startled. The young lady was in grubby gardener’s clothes that served only to enhance her lithe figure. She pushed the wide-brimmed floppy hat back and surveyed me with eyes almost the color of jade.
“I’m Undersheriff Bill Gastner,” I said, and extended my hand.
She shook with a slightly grimy hand and no apologies for it. “I’m Amy Salinger.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I remember you as the lead in that musical that the high school put on a number of years ago.”
She smiled slightly. “You have a good memory, Sheriff.”
I indicated the Nova with a nod. “You’re a Texican now?”
“I’m a nurse at Texas A and M. I’m home for a week or two vacation. I assume you wanted to see Scott?” Her tone was sober and businesslike. I nodded. “He should be back in an hour or two. He went hunting.”
“Hunting?”
Amy Salinger took off her hat and scratched her head, further tangling her already wild mane of strawberry hair. “That’s what he calls it. Mostly it’s just hiking around the hills. He seems to need the solitude. Especially now.”
“It’s been pretty rugged for him?”
“Yes, it has,” Amy said. “The car crash really threw him for a loop. Mom and Dad just get frustrated talking with him. Scott and I have always gotten along well, and they asked if I would come home for a while.”
“It helps?”
Amy wiped her hands on her jeans. “I don’t know. Maybe a little. He says he doesn’t know what to do. I don’t know what he could do, unless he knows something about the drugs you found. But he won’t tell me everything, so I can’t do much except be supportive in very general terms. He’s always been the kind to keep things bottled up. Some kids are fortunate enough to be articulate. He isn’t.” She shrugged.
“I spoke with one of his football coaches a few minutes ago. He said Scott left the camp. The coach said Scott was pretty depressed a good deal of the time.”
“Small wonder,” Amy said, and her voice carried some of the professional steel that good nurses always seem to have at their disposal.
I chewed on the corner of my lip a little, wondering how to phrase the next question. There was no easy way. I moved a few steps and leaned against 310’s fender. “He’s not apt to do anything rash, is he? I mean, you know him as well as anyone.”
“Rash?”
“Well, if he’s really depressed, and doesn’t know which way to turn…”
“You mean rash like suicide?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean.”
“I hope not.” She hesitated. “I know it’s crossed his mind, though.”
“Really?”
“I mean before. When he’s had problems before. A couple of years ago, in fact.” She shrugged and added, “What adolescent doesn’t entertain the notion at one time or another? We just hope it’s a notion that passes harmlessly, or that we can make the kid see that it’s unnecessary. All things pass. Of course, convincing even supposedly mature college students of that isn’t easy. And if they’re the kind who finally decides to go lights out, the odds of doing anything to stop them are nil.”
“You said he’s out hunting now?”
“That’s what he said. Once he told me he likes to go out on top of the mesa behind Consolidated. It’s quite a view from up there.”
“He took a gun with him?”
“His old twenty-two rifle.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“Of course I’m worried, Sheriff. He’s the only brother I’ve got. And I love him a lot. But you can’t put a teenager in a cage. Scott’s not self-destructive—just confused.” She blinked rapidly and cleared her throat. “And you can’t believe how much it hurts to talk like this. But I have faith in Scott. I really do. Other than that, about all you can do is love ’em and make ’em really believe there’s something worthwhile to come home to. And when they do come home, there better be someone to talk to who’ll just listen and not make them believe they’re being judged.”
I looked at Amy Salinger for a long minute, and she returned the gaze evenly. “Then he’s a lucky kid,” I said.
“Thanks. But I think it’s just common sense.”
I nodded agreement with that. “What’s he driving? I really need to talk to him.”
“A 1974 Bronco. Blue over rusty white. It’s got four of those big chrome lights on the roof and a power winch in front that doesn’t have a cable. You can’t miss it.”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“If he comes home and we haven’t talked, would you ask him to call me?” I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it to her. “It doesn’t matter what time. If I’m not home, have him call the office number. They’ll find me.”
“I’ll tell him, Sheriff. But in some ways, he’s a stubborn kid. He’ll mull things around in his head and then finally decide what he’s going to do. Try and force something on him and he’ll just clam up.”
“I know. But I got to give it a try. It’s been two weeks or better since the accident. He’s had time to think. I really believe he’s got some answers we badly need.”
Amy Salinger said she’d do what she could, and I believed her. I backed out of the driveway as she headed back toward her garden. I knew the odds of finding Scott Salinger up on the mesa were slim, but I was stubborn, too.
***
To reach the mesa top, I drove up County 43 past the mine and the turn off to the lake. The pavement almost immediately gave way to gravel, then to rough and rutted government surplus caliche—hard as concrete when it was dry and slick as silicon syrup when wet. I half-expected to meet Scott’s Bronco on the way down. One of us would have to take the ditch, and it wasn’t going to be me. The county car straddled ruts most of the time, but once in a while crunched down hard enough to make me wince.
The road wound up the mesa face and finally came out on top. I couldn’t see anything through the piñon and juniper, but when the road reached a triple fork, I stayed left, knowing I was heading toward the rim. Another hundred yards on I passed a derelict refrigerator, ten miles from the nearest 110-volt outlet. I always wondered what strange soul would go to all the trouble to cart such a thing out there when the county landfill was only a mile from town. A quarter mile farther on, an old mattress and the backseat of a van rotted slowly into the dirt. At least I could figure out what they had been used for.
After another ten minutes, I could see only emptiness through the trees and knew I was making progress toward the edge. And some of the tire tracks in the dust looked fresh. The road skirted a thick grove of mixed piñon and juniper and ended in a wide spot liberally littered with beer cans, a disposable diaper or two, and two bright-yellow oil cans. Parked under a fat juniper was Scott Salinger’s Bronco.
I switched off the car and got out. The keys weren’t in the Bronco, and it was locked. I felt a little better. I walked slowly and carefully through the timber…not because I was stalking anyone, but because I didn’t want to fall on my face. I broke out of the trees and involuntarily slowed, struck by the view. The mesa rim was a wonderful place. The rocks were jumbled into scores of the best benches nature could provide. You could look out and see hundreds of square miles—old and new mines, two villages besides Posadas, a score of human enterprises, and endless works of nature. I stood still and scanned the rim. After a minute I saw Scott Salinger.
He was lying stretched out on a large flat rock, using another as a pillow. If he had the rifle, it was hidden behind him. I walked across toward him, and when I was a hundred feet away he decided to notice. He turned his head just enough to see who was intruding. I was well aware of the effect uniforms had on people, especially youngsters, and was glad then that I had changed into casual clothes. As I walked toward him, I thrust my hands deep in my pockets, hoping the effect was that of a harmless old man out for a simple daily constitutional, and that the meeting was entirely by chance.
“Scott, how are you doin’?” I said casually.
“Amy must have told you I was here.” He sat up and watched my progress across the rocks.
“Yup, she did.” I started to lower myself to a rock, and hesitated. “Do you mind?”
“Pull up a chair,” he said, and managed a smile. I felt better.
“She seems like a wonderful gal,” I said.
“She is.”
“She’s a little worried about you. So are a lot of people. I talked with Coach Tatman today.”
“Yeah. Well.” Salinger looked out into the distance. A slight breeze ruffled his hair and he ran a hand through it self-consciously. The family resemblance was striking.
“What happened? With football, I mean.” I asked that and the boy shot me a glance as if to ask what business it was of mine, but then thought better of it. He returned his gaze to the distance and locked it there.
“It just got so it wasn’t fun anymore. That’s all. I was having a good time playing with some of the little kids. Watching ’em try to throw cracks me up.” He grinned and curled his hands as if he were spastic. “The coaches aren’t supposed to spend more than about an hour with us each day. With the varsity team, I mean…some state rule like that. But push, push, push. You’d think we were going for the Rose Bowl or something.”
“You don’t think it’s pretty important?”
“No. Not compared to other things.”
“Like?”
He was a long time in answering, and obviously knew why I had bothered tackling the mesa. “Like that undercover cop getting killed. Like Mr. Fernandez getting killed.” There was a tremor then in his voice, and he turned his head further so I couldn’t see his face. “Like Tom Hardy. Ricky. Isabel. All the rest.” He twisted and looked at me then, under control. “No. It’s not important.”
“Life goes on, Scott.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I lighted a cigarette and the breeze took the smoke back away from the rim. “I guess it’s not such an original thought. But it’s true.”
“Yeah.”
“Where did the cocaine come from?”
Scott let out a breath that was the beginning of a weak chuckle. “I saw you coming across the rocks there, and knew that’s what you wanted to ask me.”
“Well? Here I am.”
“Where do you get the idea that I know?”
“That first interview. When I used the tape recorder. I listened to that quite a few times. So did Detective Reyes.”
Scott Salinger grinned at the mention of Estelle Reyes. “You know what she said to me a day or so ago?”
“I have no idea. She didn’t tell me she’d talked to you.”
“I was downtown. She was walking out of the bank. She stopped and stuck out her hand, like she wanted to shake, you know? I was kinda embarrassed, but what the hell. So I shook hands and she wouldn’t let go right away. She hung on for a minute, and put her other hand up here, on the side of my face. Then she said, ‘I wish I knew what was going on inside that skull of yours.’”
I laughed. “That sounds like Estelle. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘So do I.’”
“Fair enough.”
“She’s something else. She didn’t say anything more than that. Just kinda smiled and let me go. I was embarrassed as hell.” He glanced at me. “She knows my sister. Went to school with her.” I nodded and remained silent. He reached out and stripped a grass stalk bare and chewed on the end of it. After a minute he said, “I think the cocaine belonged to Jenny Barrie.”
“What makes you think so?”
Salinger shrugged. “You hear talk. And once, I think it was a couple weeks before the end of school, Tommy was talking to me and asked me if I thought coke was as bad as everybody was telling us it was.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said I didn’t care, one way or another. I told him he was stupid if he was messing with it.”
“What’d he say to that?”
Salinger frowned. “I don’t remember. I think he just kind of shrugged it off. But he was going with Jenny Barrie, and she was a space case. She always was, even in grade school. Tommy said once that her old man smoked pot. I thought that was kinda funny.”