“Sir, I need your help.”
Crowley made no reply, but she saw his right eyebrow drift up a fraction of an inch. At that moment, stereo radios carried first the bark of squelch, and then Bob Torrez’s matter-of-fact voice.
“PCS, three oh eight is northbound on State Seventy-eight.”
“Ten-four, three oh eight.”
Estelle turned the volume up just a bit and keyed the radio’s transmit button. “Three ten copies.”
The corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkled, and he reached around with his left hand without looking and turned down the volume of his own portable radio.
“Looks like the big man himself is on the way,” he said.
“Sheriff Torrez knows this country a little better than I do,” Estelle said, and stepped up close to the fence. She reached out with her radio and touched the top wire with the stubby antenna. “Sir, I noticed that you were videotaping the county meeting yesterday afternoon. I was wondering if you were there for the morning session as well?”
“What difference does that make?” Crowley’s tone was businesslike, calmly neutral.
Estelle took a long, slow breath. She had hoped for a simple “yes,” but even though his reply hadn’t been contentious, Crowley gave the impression that he was practiced at living each moment with his guard held high, ready to scrutinize the most innocuous remark or question for hidden meaning. She glanced at the sign again, wondering what had prompted his mood the day he’d painted the message.
“The county manager attended the morning session, but didn’t return for the afternoon,” she said carefully. “I was hoping that maybe you had talked to him sometime during that first session.”
“You’re talking about Zeigler?”
“The county manager, yes, sir.”
Crowley smiled and patted the post again. “Can’t help you there.”
“Sir, did you film both sessions?”
“It’s a public meeting.”
“I know that, sir. Your right to film the meeting isn’t at issue.”
“Goddamn right.” Again, his tone was one of pleasant agreement. It reminded Estelle of talking to the old ex-Marine, former Sheriff Bill Gastner, in one of Gastner’s more recalcitrant moments, and because of that impression, Estelle found herself liking Milton Crowley. She hesitated, weighing how much to take this man into her confidence. As if he had read her hesitation correctly, Crowley withdrew his hand from the post for the first time and crossed both arms over his chest.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want, young lady? I have things to do, and I’m sure you do, too.”
“All right. If you recorded the entire session, sir, I’d like to look at the tape.”
“The county clerk records every meeting. It’s public record.”
“I’m aware of that. But she doesn’t use video. You do, sir.”
“If you’re trying to find out who was there, the clerk has a sign-in sheet.”
Estelle smiled. “Yes, sir, she does. But not everyone signs it.”
“It’s an open, public meeting,” Crowley said. “People are free to come and go as they please. They aren’t required to sign some silly little attendance list for the county clerk…who has no need of that information in the first place.”
“That’s true, sir.” She heard the sound of a vehicle, and turned to see Torrez’s white Expedition nose over the rise and stop immediately behind her unit.
The handheld radios crackled. “PCS, three oh eight is ten-six, Crowley’s.”
“Your reinforcements are here,” Crowley chuckled, a good-natured grin deepening the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.
The sheriff took his time, apparently arranging a mountain of paperwork before getting out of his vehicle, no hint of urgency in his motions. When he did get out, Torrez strolled up the two-track toward them as if he had all morning just to soak up the sun.
“Howdy, howdy,” he greeted. He paused at one point and looked down at a small scattering of deer pellets beside the path. He toed them with his boot, then glanced up at Crowley. “I was up at Copperton Springs the other day. Pretty good herd hanging out there.” Crowley didn’t respond, but he unlocked his arms and his right hand drifted back to the comfort of the juniper post. “How you been, Milt?” Torrez stepped up close to the fence, at the same time taking off his Stetson and running fingers through his tousled hair. He wiped his forehead and resettled the hat. “Things going all right?”
“As good as they’re going to get, I suppose,” Crowley said.
“Sir,” Estelle said, “would you consider letting us view the videotape of the meeting yesterday?”
“Not goddamn likely,” Crowley said, and this time there was some bristle in his tone. Estelle wondered how much of it was for Bob Torrez’s benefit. “If you want surveillance films, you take ’em yourself.”
Torrez looked up from his examination of the ground near the fence and grinned. “How come it ain’t surveillance when you take ’em?” he asked. Estelle groaned inwardly, but Crowley didn’t rise to the bait. The sheriff rested his hand carefully between two of the barbs on the top strand of the gate. He bounced the wire thoughtfully.
“This is what we’re lookin’ for, Milt. The county manager went missing yesterday.” He looked across the gate at Crowley and grimaced in frustration. “We don’t know where he went, or with who, or what. Gone without a sign. And it don’t look good.” He bounced the wire again. “It don’t look good.”
“That’s none of my concern.”
“Nope, it isn’t. But in tryin’ to cover all the bases, your videotape was just something we thought about. Maybe someone came into the meeting, maybe talked with Zeigler. The commission covered a lot of ground in the morning session.” He shrugged in self-deprecation. “Hell, it isn’t something that I pay much attention to. Other than a few big things, I couldn’t tell you what the commission talked about, or what they decided, or who argued with who, about what.” He shrugged again. “But a video camera don’t miss much.”
“I don’t turn over my tapes to anybody,” Crowley said. “They’re not for the government’s use.”
“Would you consider letting us see the tape in your presence?” Estelle asked. “That way, the tape would never leave your custody. If you don’t want us on your property, we could view them at the sheriff’s office.”
Crowley shook his head deliberately from side to side. “I don’t work for the government,” he said. His expression had lost any trace of affability, the lines of his jaw set hard. Estelle could see clearly that she was wasting her time. “Get yourself a court order.” He drew himself up a bit, unable to resist tossing in the challenge. “And then see if you can serve it.”
Estelle looked at him curiously, but Bob Torrez just grunted a chuckle.
“Relax, Milt,” he said. He bounced the wire again, as if dismissing the entire conversation and finding the fence far more important. “I thought the Forest Service was going to put in a solid gate for you.”
“This one’s just fine.”
“I’d think messin’ with this wire every time you want to go in or out would be kind of a pain in the ass.” He gave the wire a final flex and then held up his hand. “We got to go. You have a good day, Milt.” Torrez stepped close to Estelle as he passed. “We got some interesting results back from the crime lab that you’re going to want to see,” he said, obviously not caring whether Crowley heard him or not.
Chapter Eighteen
A gap in the pinons allowed just enough room to turn the vehicles around, and Estelle noticed that Milton Crowley didn’t bother to remain at the gate to watch them leave. As they reached the intersection of Forest Road and State Highway 78, Torrez pulled the Expedition over and got out. Estelle parked in the middle of Forest Road.
The sheriff settled on the front fender of Estelle’s unmarked Crown Victoria, arms crossed comfortably.