“Make yourself comfortable, doll. We’re going to be talking a while. This is Gastner.”
“Now what have you done?” She said it as a joke, in between breaths. “Are you in Posadas?”
“Of course. Where did you think I’d be?”
She laughed. “No way of telling, sir.” She took a deep breath. “How are you?”
“Fine. I really am. We’ve got a little problem of a different sort up here.”
“Oh? Que?” Her voice, once she found her breath, was rich and velvety.
“You remember Stuart Torkelson?” When she didn’t respond immediately I added, “He’s a realtor here…has been for years.”
“I know the name. I’m not sure I ever met him…wait. A great big man? White hair like one of those people in the silver hair commercials?”
“That’s him.”
“Right. He tried to sell Francis and me a home once. And I saw him again at a Lions Club luncheon where I was the guest speaker. He introduced me. What did he do?”
“He got himself killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How?”
I hesitated. “Someone shot him.”
“Right there in town?”
“No. About seven miles southwest of the village.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Out by Uncle Reuben’s place?”
“Yes. One of the deputies was close-patrolling the area after an earlier complaint we had, and he found the body. About fifty feet off the road in that big pasture that fronts on both the county road and the old man’s two-track.”
“And he’d been shot?”
“Yes. Twice.” I told her every detail of what we’d found, including Torkelson’s tale of his confrontation with Reuben earlier.
“I don’t think so, sir,” she said when I’d finished.
“Neither do I. But it’s harder to argue with Martin Holman when he’s got the medical examiner behind him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, earlier I was operating under the assumption that a shotgun was used for the head wound. We didn’t move the body, and we didn’t do much of an on-site examination. The weather wasn’t cooperating, it was dark-that sort of thing. We took a half million photos and figured the examiner would tell us all we needed to know.”
“Sure. The deputies did a grid search for shell casings and the like?”
“Yes. And found nothing. But that’s not the point. The belly wound was caused by a heavy-caliber handgun, fired from far enough away that there was no flash burn, no powder. The slug hit him just above the belt and drove right on through. Through and through.”
“So no recovered slug.”
“That’s right. But Estelle, this is where I went wrong, I guess. The head wound was pretty massive. Lots of skull case missing, that sort of thing. I saw the wound and assumed shotgun, held close.”
“I don’t think Reuben ever owned a shotgun in his life.”
“That’s what I was figuring. But the medical examiner says the head wound was caused by a handgun, probably the same caliber as the other wound…and the damn thing was held so close that the corona was only a couple inches in diameter.”
“Under the chin?”
“Almost. The point of entry was right on the left jawbone, just in front of where the bone starts to curve upward toward the ear. The M.E. says the bullet hit that heavy bone and mushroomed right away.”
“Huh,” Estelle said. “And let me guess the bad news. Uncle Reuben was carrying one of his guns when he and Torkelson had their set-to a week ago?”
“That’s what Torkelson told me.”
“And he was wearing it in the post office too?”
“Yes. Three witnesses. No doubt about it.”
There was a long moment of silence and then Estelle said, “It doesn’t look good, sir.”
“Nope.”
“You find a corpse shot to death on the property of a person who you know carries a gun and who has been known to use it in the past and you’re bound to make certain conclusions.”
“Yep.”
“And Sheriff Holman wants you to arrest Reuben?”
“At least hold him for a preliminary hearing.”
“I suppose I can’t blame him. But he doesn’t know Reuben Fuentes like I do…or like you do.”
“No, he doesn’t. But he’s the sheriff. And he’s got the district attorney’s ear. They sit at the same table during Rotary.” Estelle ignored the acid in my tone.
“You can’t talk him out of it? I mean, where does the sheriff think Reuben will go?”
“He thinks the old man will run to Mexico.”
“Por Dios,” Estelle said with considerable acid of her own. “Ahora el se las da de experto.”
“Speak English, dammit.”
“Sorry, sir. I said now he wants to be the expert. Why can’t he stick to talking with the legislature about the budget?”
“Come on, Estelle. He’s not as much of an idiot as we first thought, three years ago.”
“He is if he thinks Reuben would leave his place for Mexico.”
“There’s always a chance.”
“No, there isn’t. He’s so old and…and…caduco that he probably doesn’t remember what direction the border is.”
I let that pass and said, “Sheriff Holman wants to go out this morning and bring him in for questioning.”
This time, there was more than exasperation in Estelle’s voice. “This is going to kill him, sir. If he thinks for one minute that he’s going to jail for something…especially something he didn’t do, it’ll kill him.”
“Yes.”
“Should I come up?”
“Yes.”
“I can be there in an hour. Will you have Holman at least wait until I get there?”
“It’s a promise, Estelle.”
16
Holman returned to the office a few minutes later, after I told our dispatcher to bring him in. Hell, he’d been out tramping around that field long enough. I didn’t want him dreaming up any more complications. He stood in the doorway of my office, his hands in his coat pockets, Stetson pulled low over his forehead like a real goddamned lawman.
“I don’t think you’re right in this,” he said, sounding like some goddamned counselor.
“Yes, I am,” I said. I was blunt, but sometimes that was the only kind of instrument that worked on Holman.
“And if we wait to arrest the old man, what are you planning?”
“Look,” I said, exasperated. A fleeting memory surfaced of a former sheriff, Eduardo Salcido. Salcido had had the good sense to hire me, twenty-three years before. I’d learned his habit of telling people things once and letting it go at that. Martin Holman liked to hear the same song half a dozen times, maybe hoping that the words would change.
I moved my empty coffee cup two inches to the right, as if it were in my way. “Look, sheriff. We’ve got a uniformed deputy parked at the entrance to Reuben’s property, with the county road sealed off beginning at the intersection with the state highway.” I held up my hands. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s a waste. I mean, the damn road was open all night, when we were measuring and popping flashbulbs. Nobody’s going out there. Nobody’s going to touch anything. And most important, Reuben Fuentes isn’t going to slip out from under our noses and slide into Mexico.”
“I don’t see why you have to have Estelle Reyes-Guzman on hand before you do anything. She doesn’t work for us.”
“I know that.” I paused to take a deep breath, my patience running thin. “Reuben Fuentes speaks English about as well as you and I talk Spanish. I need someone he trusts to talk with him. Estelle is nearby, and obviously he trusts her. It just makes sense. I want him to understand what’s happening to him.”
Holman nodded slightly and straightened his Stetson. “I was thinking of signing up for beginning Spanish at the community college this spring.”
I stared at him for a moment in disbelief. I didn’t know what to say, but Holman saved me the trouble.
“So…the minute Reyes-Guzman arrives, we go out,” the sheriff said.
“You’re not planning a cavalcade, I hope?”
“What do you mean?”