“I mean,” I said, “that just Estelle and I go out and bring the old man in. That’s more than enough. Anything beyond that is just plain silly.”
Holman eyed me askance, his eyes carrying that practiced hard glint that television actors adopt when they’re playing the crusty lawman. “You know, it is possible that the old man did it,” he said quietly. “And if he did, then certain security measures are called for. Completely called for.”
“I suppose so. But he didn’t do it.”
“We’ll see.”
Holman left my office, headed who knows where-maybe to smear more prints out at Anna Hocking’s. And I waited, poring over what information the medical examiner had already sent to our office. It wasn’t much. And now that the long night had worn the first flush of excitement from the chase, Martin Holman and I seemed to be the only ones still worried.
Deputies Paul Encinos and Tony Abeyta went back to the highway, looking for speeders-and no doubt flashing their spotlight into every damn field and yard, hoping for some more action.
Eddie Mitchell, an officer who was even less excitable than Bob Torrez, volunteered to sit out in Fuentes’s driveway until we oldsters finally decided to do whatever it was that we were going to do.
I got the distinct impression that everyone in the department thought I was several cards short. Hell, I suppose the evidence agreed. We’d found a man blown to pieces in a field owned by a known crazy…and I was the one who was refusing to arrest our solitary suspect.
I saw Bob Torrez pass down the hallway and shouted at him.
“Estelle is on her way up, Roberto.” I suppose I wanted at least one person on the staff to agree with me.
“I heard, sir.”
The tall deputy stood in the doorway, a manila envelope under his arm.
“What are you working on?” I asked. I leaned back in the chair and hooked my hands behind my head. He lifted the envelope and gazed at it as if this were the first time he’d seen it.
“The arson investigator from Albuquerque sent back the second set of pictures I took of Sheriff Holman’s house after the cleanup,” he said. “I was going to go through them and see what he said.”
I grimaced. The odds of us ever finding out who flipped the match were slim to none. I had given the case to Torrez because I knew he’d keep plugging. The case wouldn’t end up at the back of a file drawer somewhere, covered with cobwebs.
“That and a million other things,” I said. I took a deep breath and glanced out the doorway toward the dispatch room. “We may need your help this morning.”
“Sure.”
“Estelle and I will go out to talk with the old man. I don’t want a damn contingent following us out there.”
Torrez nodded and I added, “Maybe you can think of something to keep Holman busy if he shows up here in the office again. I really don’t want him out there. Or the press either, for that matter. You may want to run out to the Hocking place again with him…it wouldn’t hurt to look around again. See if we missed anything.”
“He may want to see these photos,” Torrez said, clearly thinking that the Hocking case was closed tight. I could imagine him methodically explaining each photograph to Martin Holman. The sheriff would love it, even if the photos showed next to nothing.
“That’ll be fine. And by the way, I talked with Mrs. Sloan yesterday afternoon. I forgot to tell you.”
Torrez looked uncomfortable. “I had some things I was going to do on that case today, but we sort of got…ah, busy.”
“Well, I can save you some legwork, then. She said the main man went to live with his father in Florida.”
“Todd Sloan? He went to Florida?”
“That’s what she said.”
Torrez frowned.
“What’s the matter? As the old joke goes, his leaving raises the average IQ of both places.”
Torrez almost grinned. “That means she and Kenny Trujillo are the only ones living in that trailer, then.”
“I suppose so. Kenny was still at work when I talked with Miriam. She’d just come back from a trip to Albuquerque.”
“Huh,” Torrez said, still frowning. “Well, maybe.”
“Well maybe what?”
“Well, I stopped by the discount store and talked with a couple people. One of the salesladies remembers Todd and three of his friends in the store during the earlier part of the week. She thought one of them was shoplifting, but she didn’t say anything because she wasn’t sure. Anyway, she says Todd Sloan bought a pair of tennis shoes.”
“The same kind as in your photograph?”
“The same kind. Same size. Same everything. And the lack of wear on the ones in the photo would compare with some only a week old.”
“Thin, Robert. Thin.”
Torrez smiled. “But maybe enough to get him to talk.”
“Except he’s in Florida now. And I don’t think you’re going to win an extradition for tennis shoes.”
Torrez took a step nearer the desk. “But I think she’s lying for him again,” he said. “You said that she claims he moved a couple weeks ago? This was Monday, when he was in the store. So he didn’t move…at least not until just a few days ago.”
“Mothers of teenagers are easily confused,” I said. “But it would be convenient to move right after the burglary.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Well, keep thinking. Go out to the junkyard and talk with Kenny Trujillo. Maybe he needed a new engine hoist, so Todd obliged. You might ask Kenny when Todd moved to Florida. It might be interesting to compare his date with Miriam’s. You’ll get your chance to nail the little bastard. I’m sure that after a week or so, the juvenile authorities in Florida will be more than glad to send him back.” Torrez almost grinned.
Unlike Bob, I didn’t have a myriad of little details from other cases to look after-or at least none that I cared to bother with at the moment. By the time fifteen more minutes had passed, I had reached the limit of my patience. My hand kept straying to my shirt pocket, hoping to find an orphaned cigarette.
Finally I gave up. I walked out to the dispatcher’s room and Randy Ames, one of our part-timers, swiveled his chair around at my approach.
“Morning, sir.”
“I suppose. You got a cigarette?”
“No, sir. I sure don’t. I don’t smoke.”
“Good. Don’t start.” A convenience store was kitty-corner from the department parking lot, across the street. I headed for that, and almost made it. Just as I was about to step off the curb, the only vehicle on Bustos Avenue turned from the eastbound lane and pointed its flat nose at me.
I recognized the blue Isuzu Trooper. I grinned widely when I saw that Estelle Reyes-Guzman had brought her entire family with her. Dr. Francis Guzman swung into the parking lot with the easy familiarity of an old-time employee. He pulled into a space marked Reserved for Sheriff.
On those rare occasions of a Gastner family reunion, my eldest daughter Camille was expert at those all-encompassing bear hugs that squeezed out what little breath I had. Camille was twice this slip of a girl’s weight, but Estelle always managed to surprise me. She hugged me so hard one of the ballpoint pens in my shirt pocket cracked. And she did it while holding my godson in one arm.
“I was just headed over to the store,” I said.
She pushed away and looked me up and down. “We’ll walk over with you.”
“That’s okay. It wasn’t important. God, it’s good to see you.” Francis ambled around the front of the Trooper, a wide grin on his handsome, swarthy face.
“Hey, Padrino,” he said, and we shook hands. “You’re lookin’ good.”
Estelle grinned and wrinkled her nose. “You’re still not smoking.” She saw the expression on my face and added, “But if we’d had been ten minutes later, you would have started again, right?”
“Five,” I said. “It’s been one of those days.” I reached out and moved the blue knitted shawl away from the baby’s head. He was sound asleep. “You know this is the first time this kid and I have met?”
“And at work, too,” Francis said with a laugh. “What a start.”