“Sheriff’s Department. Deputy Mitchel.”
“Eddie, this is Gastner. I need to talk to Estelle Reyes. Where is she?”
“Just a minute.” There was a second or two of voices in the background, then Mitchel said, “We’ll have to telephone her, sir. You’re at home?”
“Yes. But tell her not to bother calling me. I need to see her.” I hung up to spare Eddie the obligation of asking how I was. Then I settled back to wait, filling the telephone pad with mindless doodles.
Thirty minutes later, Estelle Reyes arrived, and she wasn’t alone. A Buick stationwagon pulled in behind her Ford. Ryan Salinger-a big, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced man with widely spaced and deeply set eyes-and his wife and daughter followed Estelle in. Diane Salinger was trying to look composed and doing a rotten job. It was Amy I found myself looking at as they trooped in.
“Sir,” Estelle Reyes said, “I got your call. I was talking with the Salingers, and they wanted to come down with me for a minute.”
I extended my hand and Ryan Salinger engulfed it in his. It seemed that he made a conscious effort to keep his grip firm but gentle. “It’s good to see you again,” I said.
“I’m sorry to hear about your illness, Sheriff. And I apologize for not coming sooner. But…” He let it trail off and shrugged helplessly. “Anything we can do, we’ll do.”
“We appreciate that. Come on in.” I ushered them inside, down the hall to the living room. They were all edgy and ill at ease.
“I’ve got to ask you, though,” Ryan Salinger said. “I’ve talked to Detective Reyes now a couple times, and it’s not that I don’t trust her word. But I gotta ask. Is your department absolutely convinced that Scott’s death was murder?”
It was hard for him to say, and hard for the others to listen to. He stood with one arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders.
“Yes, I am,” I said, and wasn’t sure how to translate the expression on his face. “We are completely convinced it was murder.”
“What do we do?” he asked. I had no advice about how to handle the grief-and how to handle the inevitable sudden release of guilt and its replacement by rage at the killers.
“Sit down,” I said, and when they were all perched on the edges of their seats like patients in a dentist’s office, I continued, “Be available to us anytime of day or night. Let us work without our having to worry that you’re out there too, trying to track this down on your own.” Salinger nodded slightly. “We’ve got good, solid leads,” I added. “The killer made a basketful of mistakes, thank God.”
“Whatever I can do,” Salinger said.
“Let us work. But one question you can help us with. Did your son build model airplanes of any kind?” Ryan Salinger shook his head. “No flying models, for instance?”
“He never built models, period,” Salinger said. “Detective Reyes asked me the same thing.” I glanced at Estelle. She was standing by the dark cavern of the fireplace, with her elbow resting on the low mantel. I felt about a week behind. “Oh, he built a few when he was little,” Salinger said, “but not anything later. He was into sports and hunting.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. They didn’t ask me about the question. It was obvious that Ryan Salinger had the answer to the one question he cared about. I remembered how quick he had been to hie off by himself, looking for his son. I hoped he wasn’t planning to go solo again. We didn’t need another Fernandez case. The folks looked miserable, and so I stood up, ready to end the meeting. “I appreciate you coming by. We’ll keep you posted as much as we can.” They made their uncomfortable exit, and Amy took the opportunity to step close to me. Her hand squeezed my arm.
“Are you heading back to A and M?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“We’ll do our best, Amy.”
“What the hell’s going on, Estelle?” I asked as soon as the Salingers had left.
“What do you mean?”
“Holman was here a bit ago. He was talking like you were some kind of mental midget. The impression was that you’re just running around, doing errands for me.” Estelle came close to grinning, and I added, “Hell, I just kept that scrap of junk so I’d have something to do.”
“What’d you find out about it?”
“It’s from a large-size model airplane. One of those radio-controlled things. With a couple questions to the right people, we can even determine what the brand name of the plastic covering is.”
“And Scott Salinger never dabbled in that hobby,” Estelle added.
“So his family says.”
“He walked into something, then, and somehow that wood and plastic is a signal.”
“You think he picked it up and put it in his pocket, maybe knowing that he wasn’t going to get clear?”
Estelle nodded soberly. “That’s what I think.”
“Knowing that there was a chance someone would find it.”
She nodded again. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Who are you going to ask about the brand of plastic?”
“I was thinking about Herman Tollis.” Tollis was an old straight-arrow who worked for the Forest Service. He was a Boy Scoutmaster in his spare time. His Scouts had been flying airplanes for what seemed like generations. “I hesitate to just waltz into the hobby shop. You never know who might be tipped off.”
“You have reason to suspect David Barrie?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But you never know who his customers are, either.” I saw something on Estelle’s face. “What’s the matter?”
Detective Reyes looked at her watch and frowned. “Can I use your phone?”
I nodded toward it. She pulled the slender local directory out from under the receiver and thumbed through its few pages quickly. She dialed and waited. And waited. Maybe twenty rings, and still no answer. “Who?” I asked.
She finally put the phone down. “Barrie Hobby and Crafts. You just jogged my memory. I was driving through town on my way to the Salingers’. There were three kids on the sidewalk, peering through the front door of the hobby shop. You know, leaning up and shading their eyes to see in? The place was obviously closed.”
“And it still is?”
“It still is.” She looked at her watch again, and then thumbed the phone book. She dialed again, and this time it took only four rings before a female voice answered.
“Good morning,” Estelle said in her best saleswoman’s greeting. “I was wondering if the hobby shop would be open later today.” She listened briefly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Isn’t this the David Barrie residence? He said if I needed supplies I could buzz him at home.” She listened again and frowned, then looked at me as she hung up the phone. “She said, quote, I don’t know anything about the store. Unquote. Then she hung up.”
“You had the right number?”
“She didn’t deny that it was the Barrie residence. She just didn’t sound like she wanted to talk.”
“Go find out, Estelle. Hell, take this with you.” I got her the brown envelope and handed it to her. “If you find Barrie, ask him about this stuff. If he’s clean, no problems. If he spooks, you’ll know. And what about the fingerprints? Anything yet?”
Reyes took the envelope and shook her head. “I should be hearing from Santa Fe this afternoon, if they have any hit. It’s not as clear as I first thought.” She hesitated. “You know what I figured, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The question you asked me first…the one I didn’t answer. I made a point, when I was talking to Holman or anyone else who wouldn’t know the difference, to use your name a lot. I figured I could move a little easier if attention was directed at you. And there was always the possibility that if the killer bought the story of you managing evidence, whoever it was might come out of the woodwork, trying to find out how much you knew.”
“I’m bait, you mean.”
“Well, it’s not like I expected them to sneak in here at night and thump you on the head or anything.”
“I appreciate your concern. What would you have done if they had?” I grinned with more amusement than I felt. “According to everyone else, I’m infirm in both mind and body.”