“He said that he didn’t want me finding out from someone else,” she said.
I took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t figure it out. The son of a bitch who’s writing the notes obviously thinks that he’ll accomplish something-damned if I know what.”
“Tom said that you hadn’t actually gotten one directly.”
“That’s right. Two county commissioners and a newspaper publisher passed them along.” I glanced over at her again. “I’m trusting you in this, Linda,” I said.
“Sir?”
“You need to understand that whoever is writing those damned notes has a reason. It’s not just a joke. You’re an intelligent young woman, and you can figure out the possibilities just as well as I can. There’s the possibility that the note writer was fed what he believes to be reliable information. That means someone else is in on it, too. Or there’s the possibility that whoever is sending those notes just wants to make life hard for the department during an election year and picked Tom as an easy target. I’m sure you can add to the list of creative possibilities.”
Linda gazed out the passenger side window in silence for a moment, then turned back and regarded me. “What makes you think that Tom isn’t involved, sir?”
“I don’t remember saying that I thought that.”
“I guess I’m hoping,” she said. “Tom got that impression from what you said to him.”
“Well, then he’s right. For two reasons. First is intuition, which I freely admit in my case isn’t much to go on. But, for instance, my intuition tells me that I can trust you.” I shrugged and smiled at Linda. “I’ve known you for a while, through some trying circumstances. I’ve watched you work, as the saying goes. The same is true for Thomas Pasquale.” I chuckled at a sudden memory, and Linda looked puzzled.
“I’m sure he told you of his most famous stunt, when he flipped his village patrol car in the middle of the Twelfth Street intersection with Bustos. Before an audience, so to speak. What I remember most about that incident is that he never tried to make an excuse. He never tried to make the accident appear to be anything other than what it was-a young hot-rodder going altogether too fast in the wrong place.”
I slowed 310 as we started the endless ramp that took us from Interstate 10 to Interstate 25 northbound. “It’s little things like that. They tend to collect over the years.”
“You said there were two reasons, sir.”
“The second is simpler. If Thomas Pasquale actually was putting the arm on traffic stops for some quick cash and an honest citizen found out about it and had proof, I find it hard to believe that the logical response would be to write little anonymous notes to politicians. The logical thing would be to give me a call. Or the district attorney. Or Judge Hobart. Or even the state police or the attorney general.”
“Maybe they’ve already done that and we just don’t know about it. Or maybe they haven’t because they’re just afraid of repercussions.”
“Maybe. But you don’t think so, and neither do I.”
“I’m glad of that, sir.”
We shot north, passing a large water tank with the history of the Southwest painted on it, and then dived down Exit 1. “I’m sure you are. And for the time being, I’m going to ask that you keep all this to yourselves. I don’t want you discussing those notes, or any possibilities about them, with anyone else.” I glanced at her to make sure she was listening. “Not even with anyone in the department.” I grinned. “Except the officer in question, of course. Not that it’s any of my business, but I wasn’t aware until today that you two were living together.”
“We’re sort of pooling our resources a little bit,” Linda said. A light flush crept up the side of her neck.
“Well, as I said, it’s none of my business. But you’ve got my best wishes. And you should know that Tom is going to need some help with all this before it’s over.”
She nodded. “He was pretty down earlier today.”
“And it’s going to get worse,” I said. “As a born pessimist, I think I can pretty much guarantee that.”
At the first stop sign, I pulled a small note out of my pocket that included the directions the Las Cruces PD had given me and handed it to Linda. “Navigate,” I said. “I can’t read the damn thing.”
At ten minutes after six, we pulled into the driveway of 2121 Vista del Campo.
Chapter Sixteen
I shut the engine off and sat quietly for a moment. A block west, a large moving van was pulled into a driveway across the street, its tractor wedged sideways against the curb, out of traffic. Nearly hidden behind the truck, a Las Cruces police patrol car was parked facing us.
Vista del Campo curved gracefully away from the main feeder street and the heavy stone wall that ran as far as the eye could see, undulating over what had once been the open valley. The housing project was surrounded by walls, like a vast, spreading fortress.
From the backyard of 2121, Grace Sisson’s parents had a marvelous view of the interstate, and if they craned their necks, they could see the spread of development east of the interstate as well.
“You’d sure as hell have to like people to live here,” I muttered, and Linda chuckled.
“Some people actually do, sir.”
In a decade, Grace’s parents, the Stevensons, would feel as if they lived downtown.
“Nice place,” Linda said, regarding the house.
“Uh-huh.” I guess it was, all bright and cheerful with its red-tile roof, manicured water-guzzling lawn, and tidy approach plantings. I was old-fashioned, preferring the dank insulation of old adobe in deep shade to the constant hum of a swamp cooler.
The sun was still hot as we got out of the car and so bright bouncing off the hood that I winced. A GMC Suburban with Posadas County plates was parked on the apron in front of the three-bay garage, and I walked up along the driver’s side with Linda following. All three garage doors were down and snug.
“Two cars and a boat,” I said.
“Sir?”
“That’s my bet. The boat’s in here.” I rapped the first door, the one directly in front of the parked Suburban, with my knuckle as I squeezed past. “And they haven’t had time to do much boating, either.”
Somewhere inside the house a small dog started yapping, and as we walked across toward the tiled entryway I could hear him racing through the house, making his way toward the front door.
Before I touched the bell, the front door was opened by a doughy-looking man in tan Bermuda shorts and a tan knit golf shirt. He was shorter than me, perhaps five-six or so, with thinning gray hair that he combed in a wave upward from his right ear and across his round, balding dome. He grinned a perfectly benign smile of greeting, but nothing cracked from about the bridge of his nose upward. His eyes were watchful, shifting first from me to Linda and then back to me. In one arm he held the pooch, one of those tiny creatures with long fur that covered everything but the twitching black nose.
“Reverend Stevenson?” I said pleasantly. “I’m Sheriff Bill Gastner, from Posadas. I think we’ve met once or twice over the years. This is Deputy Linda Real.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, pushing open the screen door. He thrust out a hand to Linda. “Mel Stevenson,” he said, and then shook my hand, his grip moist and limp, just a light squeeze of the ends of my fingers like a politician working the crowds. The dog squirmed in his grasp but stayed quiet.
“No one mentioned that you were stopping by, but I’m glad to see you just the same. What can I do for you folks?” he added, making no move to step out of the doorway. Before I could reply, he added, “This has been some sort of nightmare, I can tell you. Such a tragedy.”
“We’d like to talk to Grace,” I said, and Stevenson frowned as if taking offense that I might leave him out of the loop. “I realize it’s inconvenient, but it’s a lot easier than asking her to drive all the way over to Posadas.”
“Boy,” Stevenson said with a shake of his head. “She’s been through the wringer, you know what I mean?”