“Range?”
Mitchell nodded. “He’s got a place where he’s set up a small range. Just a couple of target supports, some silhouettes, things like that.”
“You’ll show us where that is?”
“Yes, sir. It’s not far from the crash site, actually.”
“Could a bullet have gone astray from there, do you think?”
“No. You’ll see why when we get there. It’s deep in a narrow arroyo. In order for a bullet to fly out of there, it’d have to be fired up in the air intentionally.”
“Did Boyd ever tell you why he was buying these guns?”
The deputy shook his head. “He’s not required to have a reason, sir.”
“But you weren’t curious?”
“No, sir. What he spends his money on is his business.”
Hocker grimaced again, and this time, he shot an annoyed look at me, as if it were my fault that my deputies listened to me when I lectured them on procedure. “Well,” he said, “let’s find out why he bought all those guns. Who’s the dealer that he uses? In a town this size, there can’t be too many…and anything he got mail-order has to go through a dealer as well.”
“The dealer for every transaction on that list is George Payton.” Mitchell glanced at the wall clock. “This time on a Sunday afternoon, he’ll be home in front of the television watching wrestling, if you want to talk with him.”
Hocker nodded. “Good. Maybe he can shed some light on the ammunition sales, too. I want to take that casing with me. And then, while we’re at it, let’s run out to Boyd’s private shooting range and pick up some of that brass you were talking about. Maybe we can tie together a whole bunch of loose ends.”
“Estelle and I will be here, ripping the sheriff’s files apart,” I said, and I reached out a hand to make contact with Mitchell’s shoulder. He had been headed toward the door, but stopped in his tracks and fixed his calm blue eyes on me. “When you’re out there, remember Johnny Boyd’s temper, Eddie,” I said. “That’s his property, so tread lightly.” The two FBI agents had already gone out the door, and I nodded after them and added, “And make sure that they do the same. Keep your radio on.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Martin Holman had never hinted to me that he was the least bit interested in branching out on his own into criminal investigation. He’d never hinted to me that one of his passionate goals was to lead an important investigation-or any investigation, for that matter. I had considered ourselves lucky if we kept him from ruining evidence on those rare occasions when he had shown up at a crime scene. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened too often.
His turf, his expertise, had been administration-dealing with county government, other agencies, the forward march of technology, grant-writing, budget concerns-and especially the press. Over the past decade, Posadas had suffered its share of high-profile cases, the sort that attract big-city television cameras. Each time, Martin Holman had been an effective buffer. He was the elected official who represented the department when we needed an official “face.” Now I knew that I had only a matter of hours before providing that “face” was going to be my own personal headache-unless I could pawn the duty off on someone else.
With Martin Holman, my status had been simple, and perfectly suited to my liking. As undersheriff, I had been given supervisory status over all of the deputies and their law-enforcement activities. I had little or no interest in civil work, and so I had delegated the department’s civil matters to Sergeant Howard Bishop. The pace of civil work suited him just fine.
When it came to criminal investigations, Martin Holman had learned long ago to adopt a hands-off policy. He hadn’t interfered with my work, or attempted to supervise me-that being a losing battle anyway. It had taken him several years to accept Estelle Reyes-Guzman as more than just a pretty face.
He had sometimes offered suggestions and ideas-not all of them bad, either. On a few occasions-thankfully, very few-he had spent some time by himself in a marked patrol unit cruising the county, and those times always made me nervous. Gayle Sedillos had standing orders to call me whenever Martin Holman suffered an attack of lawmanitis and took it upon himself to go patrolling.
How Martin Holman had been elected to the county’s top law-enforcement position three times running was one of those political marvels that happened routinely in the southwest. But at least he had been no speedtrap-loving redneck, and if any county could win the “Be Kind to Tourists” award, it should have been Posadas-if only more tourists had chosen to stop.
Thus it was with considerable surprise that toward the back of the second file drawer from the top in the unit to the right of his desk, I stumbled upon a file division whose ear was clearly marked in the sheriff’s neat, almost architectural block printing. “Pending cases.”
“What pending cases?” I said and pulled out the entire section. We all had our own active files, kept separate from the main department collection until the cases were resolved one way or another. With some careful thought, I probably could have listed the important cases that each one of the deputies was working on at any given moment. We didn’t hide work, and we didn’t keep our favorites to ourselves.
But, judging by the contents of the folder, it appeared that Martin Holman had been doing exactly that.
Estelle looked over my shoulder and lifted up the corners of the manila folders. “He’s got three separate files here,” she mused. I handed the bundle to her and she opened the first file, turned, and spread it out on the desk. “Well, now.” She pressed the covers of the folder open flat against the desk and leaned on them while she looked at the pages inside, as if the covers were controlled by heavy springs, ready to snap the thing closed.
“So what is it?”
“A complaint filed against County Commissioner Sam Carter by one of his employees.”
“You’re kidding. Which one?”
“Taffy Hines.”
“You’re kidding again. Taffy?” An image of the stout, middle-aged cashier flashed through my mind. I could picture her where I’d seen her just hours before, bent over the inventory books at the register of Sam Carter’s supermarket.
Estelle nodded and held up a tape cassette in one hand and a deposition in the other. “Alleging telephone solicitation. She says here that she recorded Carter on three separate occasions. She calls them ‘obscene telephone calls soliciting sexual favors.’”
“What’s the date?”
“April nineteen is when she made the signed statement to the sheriff.”
I groaned. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t know why it surprises me when I find out things like that.” I held out my hand. “Let me see that damn file.” I took the folder and scanned the deposition. “And Sam Carter, of all people. He’s got to be as old as I am. What a jerk. Why didn’t he just proposition her in the store when no one was around to listen?”
“I can see why the sheriff had this filed away in here,” Estelle said without trying to answer my question.
“Sure. With Carter being a county legislator, I’m not surprised that Martin was procrastinating.” I looked at the tape cassette, then dropped it back in the folder in disgust. “Wonderful,” I said. “Maybe if I ignore this, it will go away.”
“I’m sure,” Estelle said. She reached out for the folder. “Let me talk to Taffy and then to Mr. Carter.”
I shook my head. “With less than a week to go before you pack it in, I don’t think you want to get involved in a mess like this.”
Estelle almost smiled. “I think Taffy will drop the complaint, and I think Sam Carter won’t ever call her again,” she said.
I looked closely at her, then grinned. “Can I be there when you talk with Carter? I’m beginning to understand why he was concerned that you might be appointed sheriff.” She laughed and I gestured at the folders. “What’s the other stuff? I’m not sure I want to know.”
Estelle turned the second folder right side up and opened it. She frowned and read for several seconds. “It’s paperwork from Sheriff Burkhalter requesting an evaluation on Eddie Mitchell.”