“She told you, eh?”
“Yes. I can’t say I’m very happy about it. She’s going to be difficult to replace.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Maybe they’ll get sick of the north country and be back. I give them one winter up there.”
“Yep,” I said, and shifted my weight to the other foot. “What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Another reason I wanted Torrez to visit the old man this evening. Stanley Willit was showing me some papers a few minutes ago. Interesting stuff. Bank records, mostly. It appears that his stepmother was in the process of transferring funds out of her and her husband’s joint account. She had established a separate account, and what’s more, Willit has a signed power of attorney for all of Gloria Apodaca’s affairs should she become indisposed.”
“Or dead,” I said.
“Or dead. Convenient, isn’t it? That would block Florencio from accessing those funds under joint tenancy. At least for a while, anyway.”
“Did you explain all this to Torrez? So he doesn’t walk into this mess without some prior knowledge?”
“No, but I plan to.”
“And make sure that Willit does not accompany the officers to Apodaca’s,” I said.
“He seems content next door,” Holman said.
“In the district attorney’s office?”
Holman chuckled. “He asked if he could use the county’s law library. I think he’s trying to figure out who to sue next.”
Normally, all one had to do was suggest the idea of litigation involving the Sheriff’s Department to Martin Holman and his forehead began to sweat. He evidently thought Stanley Willit was as much of a fruitcake as I did.
“Well, it was my land that provided the burial site, so no doubt he’ll sue me. And Florencio did the burying, or says he did, so he’s on the list, too. And you’re the one who said ‘Oops’ when we exhumed the body, so you’re on there, too.”
“Did I really say that?”
“Yes, you really did. Perhaps it would be prudent to tell Mr. Willit that the county offices are now closed, including the DA’s law library. Let him go stew in his motel room.”
“I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him,” Holman said.
“Tell Bob to call me if he gets in a bind,” I said. Camille was holding up a bowl of guacamole dip.
“One last thing,” Holman said. “I put Tom Mears on the Cole situation. He said he wanted to keep somebody up on the mesa anyway, just in case. I told him that was a good idea. He’ll be following up leads from here. We’re spread pretty thin, but the Forest Service is going to help out, I think.”
“Good idea. Keep me posted.”
I hung up, my ear hot from the receiver.
“That was the sheriff?” Camille asked, and she handed me a small glass of red wine.
“His nibs,” I said. “The changing of the guard.”
“The changing of the guard?” Camille asked, and then she saw the expression on my face. “Oh,” she said.
“He’s sending someone over to talk with Mr. Apodaca?” Estelle asked.
“Torrez and Pasquale,” I said, and took a long swallow of the wine.
“They’ll do fine,” she said. It would have been nice, I thought, if she had hesitated just a bit before saying that. Francis Guzman, who over the years had grown as perceptive of my various moods as anyone, pushed himself to his feet.
“Let’s see what meds they’ve got you taking,” he said. I know how he meant it-as a helpful diversion-but checking prescription labels wasn’t my idea of recreation. It was too damn close to what old men in nursing homes did.
Chapter 29
We managed just over two hours of relaxation-enough to eat far too much of Camille’s pasta primavera, several salads, all of which bordered dangerously close to health food, and a low-fat raspberry cheesecake that was really pretty good.
Two telephones sounded simultaneously-a startling cacophony that prompted me to look at my watch. Dr. Francis Guzman carried one of those small holstered cellular telephones on his belt-a New Age progression from beepers. His belt phone chimed just as the telephone in my kitchen jangled.
“So much for peace and quiet,” I said, starting to push myself up and out of my old leather chair.
“Let me get it, Dad,” Camille said, and she was in the kitchen before I was upright. Francis migrated toward the foyer, the ridiculously small instrument at his ear. His voice was soft and muted, but Camille had never been muted in her life.
“Good evening,” she said, and then waited. I twisted around and saw the frown on her face. She was listening intently, but then she pulled the receiver away from her ear and glanced at it, as if she wasn’t hearing correctly.
“Who is it?” I asked.
She held up a hand, then said, “Is someone on the line?”
“Cranks,” I said, and turned away, grinning at Estelle. “Remember the days of the old party lines?”
“Dad,” Camille said, “maybe you’d better listen to this.”
By then, Francis had finished with his call, and he held up his hands in resignation. “Duty calls,” he said, adding, “Camille, thanks for the dinner. I’ve got to run.” He kissed Estelle on the forehead and waved at me. “And I’m sure you folks will be getting the call, too. Someone got themselves shot.”
By then, I was on my feet. Camille handed me the receiver. “It sounds like falling furniture, with a youngster crying way in the background,” she said.
As soon as I put the receiver to my ear, I could hear the lusty screams of a child, muted with distance, and then a series of heavy thuds close to the telephone, like someone thumping a book against a hassock.
“That’s a really hurting child,” Camille said.
I listened again, but obviously I didn’t have Camille’s fine-tuned mother’s ear. It sounded like a child who was unhappy about something, but that was normal for most kids the majority of the time. Estelle pushed herself up from the couch, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“Gastner,” I said into the receiver. A mighty crash was followed by more howling from the distant kid. It sounded as if the whole side of the room, telephone and all, had collapsed. “Jesus,” I said. “Hello?”
I was about to hand the receiver to Estelle when I heard a muffled cry, an urgent “Mmmmph.”
“This is Undersheriff William Gastner,” I said again. “Is someone there?”
“Mmmmmph. Mmmmmph. Mmmmmph.” And in the background, the child continued to cry, stirred on by whatever was making the wild thumping and banging.
“Can you understand me?” I said, and abruptly the ruckus stopped, followed by another string of grunts and moans.
“Grunt once for yes, twice for no. Are you hurt?”
“Mmmph, mmmph.”
“Is the child with you hurt?”
“Mmmph, mmmph.” Whoever it was put considerable urgency in those grunts, and then a slow, dim light began to glow somewhere in my dull brain.
“Are you using an automatic dialer?”
“Mmmph.”
“Estelle,” I barked, and I handed the receiver to her. She’d heard my side of the conversation and she didn’t bother with background explanations. I could see by the look on her face that she recognized the voice of the howling child, if nothing else.
“Erma?” she said, and my pulse jumped. She got a single loud “Mmmph,” loud enough that I could hear it standing three feet away. “I’ll be right there.” She thrust the phone at me and said, “Keep her on the line.”
“Erma, do you need an ambulance?” I shouted. Estelle was already racing toward the front door.
The two “Mmmph” ’s that came then were more like a whimper than a cry for help.
“Are you in any immediate danger?”
“Mmmph, Mmmph.”
“Why can’t you talk? Are you gagged somehow?”
“Mmmph.”
“How about the kids? Are they all right?”