I frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. But maybe she didn’t see much of an alternative.”
“And maybe it was the boy’s father who tangled with Jim,” Linda said.
“Maybe, maybe.” I sighed. “What I’d give for a single clear fingerprint right now.”
We started down the interstate exit ramp toward the village of Posadas, the headlights picking up large puddles standing on the uneven pavement of Grande Avenue.
I leaned forward, turned on the police radio, and was greeted by silence. “Either it’s a quiet evening or lightning blew out the transmitter again,” I said. “Go ahead and swing by your house. I’ll take the car back. I’ll be at the office for a while if you think of something I missed in our conversation with Mrs. Congeniality.”
The car was rolling to a halt in the middle of a fair-sized lake on 3rd Street when the cell phone chirped.
“Gastner.”
“Sir,” Ernie Wheeler said, “Las Cruces PD called. Mrs. Sisson and one child left the Vista del Campo address and are headed westbound on the interstate. State police are keeping an eye on her for us.”
“All right. Make sure a deputy is clear to take the handoff. And, Ernie…as long as Grace Sisson behaves herself, there’s to be no intercept. Just keep an eye on her. Make sure the deputy understands that. When she’s home safe, we’ll figure out what we want to do.”
“Yes, sir. And you have two other calls. Estelle Reyes-Guzman would like you to get back to her this evening. She said it didn’t matter how late.”
I grinned when I heard that. I had four children, all long grown and gone. I cheerfully counted Estelle as a fifth, and her two Utile monsters were closer to grandchildren than the godchildren that they actually were. “Who else?”
“Leona Spears spent an hour or two in the office earlier this evening, then left. She said that when you got back, she wanted to talk to you. She left a number.”
“I’ll be in the office in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
I clicked off the phone and tossed it on the seat. Linda was already out of the car, stepping carefully to avoid being sucked into the morass of the front yard. I got out, navigating around the lake that Linda had chosen as a parking spot. The air smelled good, heavy with a thousand desert fragrances turned loose by the pummeling rain.
“Linda,” I called, “thanks for riding along. We’ll see you after a bit.”
I had slid halfway into the car when I saw her standing on the small front step, keys in hand, frowning.
“What’s the matter?”
She turned to look at me. “The key doesn’t work.”
“Try the right one.”
“I did.” She bent down, peering at the lock. If she’d left the porch light on, that would have helped. The nearest streetlight was fifty yards away, providing not much more than shadows.
I picked up my flashlight and walked across the yard, grimacing at the squelching sound of mud under my feet. “Have some light.” I said. She held up the small collection of keys-no more than half a dozen at most.
“This is the house key,” she said, and held it up. She turned and tried to thrust it in the front door slot. “No dice. It doesn’t even go in.”
“Let me see,” I said. The key included a large stamped M design on the flat just under the ring hole. I bent down and peered at the front door lock. “Bates,” I said.
“That’s not the one that was there before,” Linda said.
I straightened up. “Someone changed the lock?” I turned and looked at Linda Real. “Was Tom going to do that?”
“If he was, he didn’t say anything to me,” she said. “And even if he was, he wouldn’t bother do to it right in the middle of his work shift.” She took the keys from my hand and held up the Martin key. “This one worked when you and I left.”
I chuckled weakly. “Ah.”
“What, sir?”
“I would guess that Carla Champlin has the answer.”
“She can’t do that, can she?” Linda rattled the doorknob. “She can’t just change the locks, can she?”
“Apparently she did just that,” I said. “Did you try the back door?”
“This place doesn’t have a back door.”
“Or a window?”
With a disgusted mutter, Linda made her way around the house. I followed with the flashlight. Sure enough, one of the west windows was open, the curtain hanging sodden and limp.
“Looks like a little rain got in,” I observed, and that prompted another mutter from Linda.
“I forgot to close it when we left,” she said. She pushed the flimsy aluminum window fully open and, with a youthful agility that I could only dream about, clambered inside. The physical therapists had evidently done a fine job on her injured shoulder. In a moment, light flooded the room.
“Yuck,” I heard her say.
“What’s the matter?”
“It really did rain,” she said. “What a mess.”
I refrained from sticking my head through the window to marvel at Linda’s problem. Instead, I rapped the flashlight lightly on the windowsill. “I’ll be at the office if you need anything.” I didn’t offer to call Carla Champlin for her-that was an experience the kids needed to enjoy themselves.
Chapter Nineteen
When I arrived at the Public Safety Building, the good news was that the fancy new roof installed the previous fall hadn’t leaked too badly. One of the prisoner trustees-at that moment the only resident in the county lockup-was mopping along the baseboard just beyond the main entrance.
Water had first soaked an area of the ceiling’s acoustical tile, then run down the wall, tracing stained fingers behind several of the framed portraits of former sheriffs of Posadas County, and then puddled on the floor.
Lance Smith paused in midmop and gazed at me with amusement. “Real good roofing job,” he said.
I stopped and regarded the mess. “Is that tile going to fall on someone’s head?”
Lance looked up and shrugged, then gently nudged one of the sodden ceiling titles with the tip of the mop handle. The tile didn’t move, but the handle pressed a dent into the tile like a finger pushed into the crown of an undone cake. “If it does, that’s what the county attorney is for.”
I laughed. “You’re a practical soul, Lance. But thanks for your help. I’ll call someone from Maintenance over here in the morning.”
“Hey, what the hell, it’s probably not going to rain again today,” he said. “I got nothing better to do, anyway.” Even so, he was in no hurry to restart the mop. I left him regarding the water stain patterns on the wall. In Dispatch, Ernie Wheeler was on the telephone, and he held up a forefinger as I approached.
“He just walked in, Mrs. Spears. Hang on.” Ernie turned and held out the receiver. “Leona Spears, sir.”
I sighed and trudged to my office. It felt good to sink into the old leather chair. I glanced at my watch and realized with a start just how many hours this day had racked up. The light on the phone continued to blink, and I picked up the receiver. “Gastner.”
“Sheriff, this is Leona. I’ve been trying to track you down all evening. I know it’s late, but do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
“You sound tired,” she said, leaving an opening for me to tell her, without being asked, how I’d spent my time. I declined the offer.
“I am.” I tried not to sound too abrupt.
“It’s been a busy couple of days.” Again the pause, that silent fishing line cast out in the hopes of a nibble.
“Yes, it has,” I said.
“Sheriff, the reason I called…” She paused and I could hear the sound of paper rustling near the receiver and then a sort of poit sound-the noise a bar of soap might make when knocked into the water. “The reason I called is about this puzzling note I received. It was stuck behind my screen door when I got home…the darnedest thing. I think you’d be interested.”
“I’m sure I would,” I said, realizing that I should have said something like, “A note? What kind of note?” But I could guess what she was talking about and greeted the news with considerable relief. If the note Leona Spears had been favored with was the same as the others, Thomas Pasquale was off the hook. Leona was the most vocal candidate running for sheriff, a staunch Democrat. Someone was playing politics.