“This property is probably pretty well situated for some business,” I said. “I sure as hell don’t need it all.”
“If you don’t mind someone moving in close by,” Buddy said. “But hell, you don’t need the money. Just keep it. As long as you’re living here. Why worry about it?”
“I’m not worried. Just thinking, is all.” I flashed a smile at him. “Scheming.”
“Well, scheme away, Dad. Put in a helipad while you’re at it, and I can scoot over for a visit now and then, when things get slow.”
He meant it as a joke, but mention of helicopters crystallized an image in my mind so powerfully that Buddy frowned at the expression on my face. A comic-book panel would have had a huge yellow lightbulb hovering over my head.
“What?” he asked.
“The hospital doesn’t have room for a helipad,” I said. “They have to drive out to the airport, and that’s a long way.”
“You’re thinking here instead?”
“Why not? With five acres, there’s enough room for a clinic, parking, helipad…whatever the hell we want. We’re three minutes from the hospital.”
This time, the look of enlightenment spread over my son’s face. “Ah,” he said. “That’s ambitious. I didn’t know that Francis was serious about relocating back here.”
I took a deep breath, surprised that I had been so transparent. “I don’t know if he is or not, Buddy. If he is, then maybe some readily available land is just the ticket.”
“You think he has the financing to set up his own clinic?”
“He can get it,” I said.
My son regarded me with amusement. “No ulterior motives here, though.”
“Of course not.”
Chapter Thirty-six
The telephone rang at 2:20. My immediate reaction when the phone’s bell tingled my pulse was that Estelle Reyes-Guzman was calling to report that their flight had been snowed in somewhere in downtown Minnesota, or that they hadn’t been able to find a rental car in El Paso.
Tadd managed to manipulate the phone on the kitchen counter without breaking stride with whatever it was that he was doing…a process that appeared to involve a lot of loose flour.
“Gastner residence. This is Tadd Gastner speaking,” he said, and tucked the phone under his chin as he concentrated with both hands on kneading a long roll of dough. “Sure,” he said, and listened again. “No, he’s right here. Hang on.”
A lift of the chin and he dropped the phone and caught it deftly with a small explosion of flour. He extended it toward me. “Mr. Dayan would like to talk with you, Grandpa,” he said.
I took the receiver gently and dusted it off. “Frank,” I said into the phone, “I was about to call you.”
“I thought we had a moratorium against weekend crimes,” Dayan said.
“Don’t I wish,” I replied. Dayan’s Posadas Register hit the newsstands and the Post Office on Thursday afternoon. A major event happening close to the weekend made him easy prey for the big-city dailies whose circulation reached Posadas-should we have an event that piqued their curiosity.
“I tried to reach you yesterday afternoon, but you were busy, I guess. Pam was going to track you down too, but I didn’t hear if she managed or not.”
“No, she didn’t.” Pam Gardiner did most of the editing and reporting for the Register, but she was no ball of fire. I was certainly no judge of journalism, but it appeared that her favorite kind of news was the carefully prepared public relations release that she could paste into the newspaper without a second thought.
“Someone was telling me that it’s Undersheriff Torrez’s nephew who was killed Friday night in that truck-pedestrian accident, and his uncle who died Saturday morning. Is that right?”
“Almost. Matthew Baca was killed Friday night. He was one of Torrez’s cousins, not a nephew.”
“The other was his uncle, though?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re investigating the uncle’s death as a possible homicide? Did I hear that right?”
“That’s also correct. Your grapevine is pretty good.”
“Well, it’s Dan Schroeder, and he should know,” Dayan said with a short laugh. “How did the old man die, do you know?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Not shot or stabbed, though? Anything like that?”
“No. It doesn’t appear that way. It looks like there might have been some kind of tussle that precipitated Sosimo’s death.”
“Got a name yet?”
“For whom?”
“For whomever Mr. Baca was fighting with.”
“I didn’t say they were fighting, Frank. I said some kind of tussle. We don’t actually know what the hell they were doing, if there was a they. Dancing, maybe. And no, we don’t have a name.”
“Huh,” Dayan said, hesitating.
“That’s the way I feel,” I said. “A great big ‘Huh.’”
“Is the undersheriff heading things up?”
“Heading things up? What’s that mean?”
“Is it his investigation?”
I sighed. My intuitive feelers sensed the not-so-fine touch of Leona Spears behind that question. There was still lots of time for the daffy candidate to blow things all out of proportion before the polls opened at 7:00 AM Tuesday.
“What does Leona say?” I countered, and Frank Dayan laughed.
“I’m surprised she’s not camped on your doorstep,” he said. “She wants to know if I’m putting out an election eve special edition.”
“And are you?”
“Uh, no. But she kindly provided me with two letters to the editor, just in case I change my mind. In the first, she accuses Torrez of trying to cover up the facts about his nephew’s death.”
“Cousin. And what are the facts that we’re trying to cover up?”
“That the incident followed a high-speed chase that resulted in damage to two county vehicles and serious injury to two other teenagers, one of whom is reportedly hovering near death as we speak.”
“That’s goddamn creative,” I muttered, and Tadd glanced over at me and grinned.
“And that following a night spent out on the mountain, the boy was finally arrested at his home.” I heard the rustle of paper. “And then the questions start.” Dayan cleared his throat. “Why was the Border Patrol involved? Why did they stop the deputy who had Matthew Baca in custody?”
“The deputy?” I said. Despite my best efforts, I could hear my pulse clicking up a level or two.
“Well, whoever. And the last one. Why was the boy allowed out of the car along a busy highway?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the gist of it.”
“Leona is a head case, Frank. You know that. I’m not going to dignify any of that trash with a comment. Except to clarify the deputy thing. I had the kid in custody, not one of my deputies.”
“I know that, Bill. Schroeder set me straight, and said he was going to call Leona and set her straight. I just kept the letter as a souvenir. Something for my scrapbook in the chapter titled ‘Life with the Loonies.’ If you think that letter’s good, you ought to read the second one…just in case I decide to have an election eve special, mind you.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear.”
Ignoring me, Dayan started his recitation. “‘Despite the United States Border Patrol’s best efforts to investigate the death of a prominent Regal resident, the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department steadfastly refuses to divulge important information to federal authorities.’”
“Steadfastly. I like that word.”
“Me too. There’s more. ‘None of this is surprising, considering that the victim is a close family relative of Undersheriff Robert Torrez, who heads the investigation for the county.’”