Chapter 28
I knew what was going to happen long before I picked up the microphone and pushed the transmit button. Going missing for several hours wasn’t going to endear me to the line of folks who were no doubt waiting to bend my ear. But the breakfast break had done me good. My head was clearer than it had been in hours.
I pulled the patrol car to a halt facing the stop sign on State 17. I flipped open my notebook, clicked my pen, and keyed the mike.
“PCS, Three ten.”
“Three ten go ahead.”
I glanced at my watch. Gayle Sedillos was back on the air. She was getting as little sleep as the rest of us.
“Three ten is ten-eight,” I said.
She didn’t ask me where I’d been, didn’t ask what I’d been doing. Instead, she replied with a cryptic, “Ten-four, three ten.” The radio went silent.
I closed my eyes, trying to picture Gayle sitting in front of the radio, telephone to her left, logs to her right, message file behind the microphone stand. I pictured her slender fingers rifling through the little slips of paper. I gave her to the count of ten. When I reached eight, the radio crackled and I grinned.
“Three ten, PCS.”
“Three ten.”
I could imagine her with a fistful of messages, considering which one to pick. Or maybe Sheriff Holman was standing at her elbow…or Captain Eschevera, wondering when in hell I was going to condescend to talk with him…or someone from the hospital… or…
“Three ten, ten-nineteen.”
I sighed. “Ten-four. Ten minutes.” Always politic, and always mindful of my irritation at messages that went out over the radio airwaves for anyone to hear, Gayle had taken the simple approach by shagging me back to the office where I could fight my own battles. I pulled out onto the highway and headed for Posadas.
Gayle saw me coming up the walk from the parking lot and met me at the door. She handed me half a dozen slips of paper, all with While You Were Out printed on the top. I reached out to take them, but Gayle held on to their collective corners until she was sure she had my attention.
“Sir, Sheriff Holman wants to see you before you do anything else. He said even before you read these.” She released the messages and I fanned them out.
“Thanks,” I said. “What’s the word on Estelle?”
“Nasty cut on the left temple, broken bone in her ankle, and a torn left elbow tendon. She was released from the hospital just a few minutes ago. Francis took her home.”
I nodded and was about to say something when Gayle added, “And she wants to talk to you.” She pointed at one of the notes.
“But you weren’t supposed to tell me that,” I chuckled. “Thanks, Gayle. His majesty in his office?”
“Yes, sir.”
I glanced at my watch. I could have counted on one hand the number of times Sheriff Martin Holman had been in his office before seven o’clock in the morning. Nine o’clock coffee with the politicos down at the Posadas Cafe on Third Street, yes. I pushed open the door of his office.
He was sitting behind his desk, swivel chair reared back, hands clasped behind his head, polished boots up on the corner of his desk. His tie was pulled askew, and when he heard the door open, he opened one eye and surveyed me without moving another muscle.
I closed the door behind me.
“How do you do this?” he asked as the door latch clicked.
“Do what, sheriff?”
“How do you stay up all night long, all day long, all night long…” He let it drift off. I sat down in the padded leather chair in front of his bookcase.
I couldn’t think of an intelligent reply, but Holman saved me the trouble. He tipped his head back and rubbed his right eye with one hand while he held his left hand straight up, as if he had just finished giving blood. “I want to go to bed,” he said, and swung his feet down off the desk. The chair screeched as he leaned forward. For a minute I thought he was going to lay his head down on the desk blotter and pass out. But he stopped just short of that, hands folded in front of him.
“Tammy Woodruff died en route to Cruces,” he said. “In the Medivac helicopter.” He took a deep breath. “She made it for a whole goddamned day, and then couldn’t hold on any longer, I guess.”
“Did you talk with the family?”
Holman nodded and rubbed his eye again. “Got back about…” He glanced over at the wall clock. “About an hour ago, I guess. They’re taking it hard. Especially the idea of an autopsy.”
“Karl’s aware of the law,” I said.
Holman shot me a quick glance of reproof. “That doesn’t make it any easier, Bill.”
“I’m sure it makes it a good deal more difficult, knowing there are lots of questions about the circumstances of the girl’s death.”
“Francis Guzman is sure it was homicide.” Holman leaned back again and folded his hands over his belly.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk with him.” One of the messages in my hand was from Estelle’s husband.
“No,” Holman said, holding up a hand. “I’m telling you. That’s what he said. I talked to him at the hospital.”
“What makes him think so?”
“Apparently he believes Tammy Woodruff’s level of intoxication was too high for her to function in any conscious way. She could never have driven that truck. That’s what he’s saying.”
I chewed on my lower lip, frowning. “So someone took her for a drive. Have you talked with Sergeant Torrez yet? What’s he say?”
“No word yet. I sent the information out to the scene with Mears so they’d maybe have a little more direction in what to look for. I didn’t want it out over the radio.”
“Good.” I looked down and fanned the messages. “What’s Schroeder want, do you know?” The district attorney had called less than half an hour before-another banker’s hours habit shot to hell.
Holman let a hand fall to the desk. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Listen.” He sat up a little straighter and ticked off the points on his fingers. “The DA and the county attorney both want to see you about Sonny Trujillo. Eschevera wants to talk with you about Sonny Trujillo. I’m sure Trujillo’s family is going to sue the county, the department, and you in particular for billions of dollars. Linda Real’s mother wants to sue every one of us as well, but you in particular. More than that, of course, she wants to pin you down and waste half your day caterwauling about Linda, who’s doing just fine, by the way. Except she can’t remember anything else about the incident.” Holman took a deep breath. “And the press, of course. Frank Dayan wants this and wants that, especially now that he figures we owe him.”
“How do we owe him?”
Holman grimaced with irritation. “He turned over an entire set of photographic prints from the other night. He’s been one hundred and ten percent cooperative.” The sheriff waved a hand. “And this, and that. Now listen. I don’t want you taking time with any of that shit.”
I sat back, not bothering to hide the surprise on my face. “I wasn’t planning on it, sheriff.”
“No, I mean with any of it-not with the county attorney, not with Eschevera, not any of it. I want you full time on the Encinos case. Period. I’ll run all the interference for you that you need. As far as I’m concerned, you aren’t available to anyone, for anything.” He leaned forward. “Estelle tells me that you all are close to this thing. That it’s going to crack?”
I took a deep breath. “Martin, remember those thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles?” He nodded. “That’s what we’ve got. It’s starting to coalesce around the corners.” I drew lacy curtains in the air with my fingers. “It’s taking some form. But the entire middle section-the picture-is just a jumble of pieces. But one at a time. If Tammy Woodruff’s death was a homicide-if we can find one little piece that tells us for sure that it was-then that’s more of the puzzle.”
“Gayle said you were out all night.”
“Yes.”
Holman waited a moment, and a smile slowly lit up his dark features. He held out a hand. “Do I get to know?”