Heartshot (17 page)

Chapter 25

“He’s skipped,” Estelle Reyes said. I held the phone tight to my ear.

“His wife is still home?”

“Sure is. Depressed as hell, obviously. She didn’t know what to do at first, and didn’t want to talk to me. She finally gave in. I spent half an hour listening to her sob before I could get two coherent words out of her.”

“What were those?”

“David Barrie apparently left sometime the day before yesterday. She thought he was going to the store, and was a little worried about him. She said he was irritable and absent-minded. She called the store mid-morning, and it was closed.”

“She didn’t bother to call anybody? Like her friendly sheriff’s department?”

“Nope. Apparently she had a feeling that it was a skip, not something else. She isn’t anxious to talk about it. Anyway, he cleaned house.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the receipts he could lay his hands on. He cleaned out their joint accounts at First National. He even took a coin collection that had been in a safety-deposit box. A bunch of other stuff as well.”

“And she has no idea where he went?”

“Nope.”

“Is she going to file suit?”

“Another day or two to think about it, and she might. Right now, she’s just sitting in her house, feeling small.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to find a silver Corvette. He took that, didn’t he?”

“Yup. And it took about half an hour to find it. I put it on the computer this morning as a hit. The Las Cruces PD found it. They were very proud of themselves.”

“Where was it?”

“Parked in the lot at Las Cruces-Crawford Airport.”

“Well, son of a bitch.” My pulse soared. “Get a warrant for the hobby shop, Estelle. And one for the house.”

“Judge Deal said I can pick it up on my way over.”

“Stop and pick me up on the way.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. I feel fine.”

Estelle didn’t argue with me, and didn’t waste any time. Ten minutes later, she pulled into my driveway, and I was ready. I yanked open the door before she even had time to shut off the engine. “Did you get the warrant?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go use it.”

Mrs. Barrie seemed more than eager to cooperate—she’d had some time to think, I guess. That her husband had obviously split and left her nearly destitute except for some inventory and real estate had produced first a mix of guilt and remorse, then some healthy self-pity fired with rage.

She met us at the store, and opened the front door with a kind of grim satisfaction. “It’s all yours, officers,” she said.

“Mrs. Barrie, were you and your husband having difficulty before this week?”

She almost laughed, and it came out as a half-sigh. “Difficulty isn’t the word. I’m fairly sure he was seeing somebody else on a regular basis.”

“Another woman, you mean?”

She nodded. “He was keeping some strange hours. But I guess it didn’t matter. After his daughter was killed, we really didn’t have much to say to each other.”

I was leaning against the doorjamb, listening with half an ear while I surveyed the store’s interior layout. Her emphasis caught my attention. “His daughter?”

“Yes. Jenny was from his first marriage. She and I were so close, I felt she was mine, too, but she was really my stepdaughter.”

Too bad that hadn’t been true with the Fernandez kid, I thought. There was more I wanted to ask this woman. When we had first interviewed parents after the July Fourth car crash, I had talked with David Barrie. His wife had sat silently by, watching and listening to the conversation.

But now, any questions I might have found breath to ask were interrupted by the screech of tires outside. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Martin Holman’s car jar to a stop behind ours. Holman got briskly out and so did his passenger—Dr. Harlan Sprague. The fact that he was blundering right into the middle of a field investigation apparently didn’t occur to Holman.

I held up a hand. “No further,” I said flatly. I directed it more at Sprague than Holman, since Holman was free to do pretty much what he wanted. “Dr. Sprague, did you want something in particular?”

“I thought it would be all right,” Holman said lamely.

The physician blushed slightly. He didn’t like being caught in the middle. “I came at Sheriff Holman’s request. Dr. Perrone wouldn’t come, but apparently suggested me as someone you knew and maybe trusted.” He looked at me shrewdly. “You know the risk you’re taking, in your condition and away from medical care?”

“I tell you what, Doc. I appreciate your concern. If you want to wait outside in the sheriff’s car, or across the street in the coffee shop, feel free. I don’t want unauthorized personnel in here. I’m sorry to be so rude, but that’s the way it is.”

Sprague nodded with resignation. After he left, Holman took me by the elbow. Estelle was already prowling. Mrs. Barrie sat down in a chair by the cash register and waited.

“Look, Bill,” the sheriff started to reason, but I cut him off. I kept my voice down to a gravelly whisper.

“Sheriff, David Barrie skipped town early yesterday. He took what money he could, and drove to Las Cruces. They found his car at the airport.”

“And that has something to do with the Salinger murder?” he asked quietly.

“We think so. It’d be too much of a coincidence otherwise. Give us some time, and then I’ll explain why.” It didn’t take much time. Estelle Reyes emerged from a back room carrying a large, brightly colored box. The top was off, tucked under.

I looked at the Japanese characters, supplemented with English and German. “Giant-scale stunter,” I read aloud. Estelle had the plans for the big model airplane unrolled. “Just junk in here,” I said, rummaging through the scraps of plywood, balsa, pine, and plastic. There were several almost empty squeeze bottles of glue, used straight pins, and several clothespins. “And bingo,” I said. I held up the roll of plastic covering.

“And here,” Estelle Reyes said. She had unrolled a sheet of full-sized plans. She pointed at a long piece of wood that formed the leading edge.

“That thing is big,” Holman said in wonder. “And what are we looking at model airplanes for?”

“Says here that it’s one-third scale. The wingspan is ninety inches. And look at the size of that engine,” I said ignoring the question.

“Mrs. Barrie?” Estelle Reyes showed the woman the plans. “Did this belong to your husband?” Mrs. Barrie nodded. “Do you know where it is now?” Estelle asked.

“I have no idea. All I know is that he spent months building it. He worked down here at the store. Not at home.” She looked peeved. “Of what concern is a stupid model airplane? He sold them, you know. This is a hobby shop.”

It seemed the right time. “Detective Reyes, would you go out to the car and get the evidence envelope?”

Estelle did so, and I pulled out the bit of plastic and spruce. There was no need to hold it up against the scraps in the box. “Mrs. Barrie, this material was found in Scott Salinger’s back pocket. We have reason to believe he picked it up just before he was killed.” Mrs. Barrie’s face was blank. She looked at the plastic and wood, and then at the plans that Estelle still held. For emphasis, Estelle turned and picked up the partial roll of the plastic that lay in the box.

“My Lord,” she breathed. She sagged into the chair.

“Now, there are other possibilities that we’re checking out,” I said. “There may be other explanations. It’s possible that your husband was flying the airplane somewhere, and Salinger was just watching. Perhaps the plane crashed, and Salinger took a piece as a souvenir. Then, later, he stumbled into the trouble up on the hill. That’s possible.”

“But you don’t think that’s what happened,” Mrs. Barrie said, so faintly I could hardly hear her.

“Mrs. Barrie,” Estelle said, “I’ve been able to find no witnesses that your husband was flying model airplanes the last few days. There is a place out by the airport where enthusiasts fly. No one has seen your husband flying for months.”

“I never realized that he was particularly interested,” she said. “He told me once that he was learning to fly radio control so that he would know something about the products. Good for business, he said.” She looked at me beseechingly. “You don’t really think David was responsible for that boy’s death, do you? I mean, he couldn’t do a thing like that. Could he?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Holman said when the silence stretched just a second too long. “Mrs. Barrie, I think I should take you home.” The woman agreed readily. She wasn’t ready to cope with the implications of her husband’s sudden flight to who knew where. “Bill, I want to talk to you later today. When you’re finished here.”

“Right,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. “Don’t forget the good doctor.” I watched them go and then turned my attention back to the airplane box. I made notes, and Estelle went out to the car and got her field kit. She carefully lifted prints from several places in the store.

“What do you think?” she said finally.

“I think I want to see a print comparison. These against the one partial from the Magnum casing.”

“What do you think Barrie was up to?”

“Only one thing fits…drugs are involved. Look at the record. His daughter killed in a car wreck. And hell, before that, she was best friends with another girl who OD’d. Scott Salinger knew Barrie’s daughter was involved in drugs, but didn’t know what to do about it. And then he gets himself blown away, and Barrie splits, taking all the money he can lay his hands on. And that may be plenty, if he was dealing on the side. It’s the only thing that fits, Estelle. The only thing that fits.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home and go to bed,” I said, and Estelle looked surprised. I leaned back against a counter, feeling suddenly exhausted and light-headed. “I think I can stand up long enough to get to the car. That’s about it. Call whoever is available, and I’ll have them run me home. Then they can come back and give you a hand.”

“I can run you home.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want you to leave here until you’ve combed every particle of dust. And let me know as soon as you process the prints.” There was plenty more to do at the store, but Estelle would handle it far better than I. Bob Torrez’s patrol car idled up to the curb a few minutes later, and I sagged into the passenger’s seat wearily. On the way to the house, I called the office and made arrangements for 310 to be dropped off at my house.

The adobe was dark, cool, and welcome. I didn’t bother to look at my watch…time had no real meaning, anyway. I undressed and made sure the telephone was carefully placed. Then I lay down and almost instantly fell asleep.

The phone had become my alarm clock. This time, I wasn’t groggy. It was Estelle Reyes and my pulse jumped.

“Prints match,” she said. “I’m sending off to the lab for an official verification. But it’s obvious, even with the casing print being a crummy partial.”

“You’re one-hundred-percent sure?”

“I am.”

“Then get a warrant out for David Barrie’s arrest. And call the
Register
. Give them an exclusive. That’ll make Leo Bailey happy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?” I asked, and Estelle hesitated, as she did when she’d just done something no one else had thought of.

“Well, I drove out and talked with Jim Bergin at the airport.”

“Oh?”

“There hasn’t been much going on lately out there.” She paused. “The only local traffic was Harlan Sprague’s plane. He came back yesterday from Albuquerque.”

“So?”

I could almost hear Reyes shrug. “I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but Jim Bergin was uneasy.”

“Why?”

“Well, from hearing him talk, I gather that he’s a real stickler for following the book. He changed the oil on Sprague’s Centurion last week. He logs all that kind of stuff…in the plane’s engine log, and in one of his own…some maintenance record he keeps for regular customers.”

“Again, so?”

“So, it’s a two-hour flight from here to Albuquerque in Sprague’s plane. A round trip would be four hours.”

“Duh,” I said, irritated at being led like a child.

Estelle chuckled. “Even with some sightseeing, not much more than six. The point is, the Hobbs meter in the Centurion shows almost fourteen hours.”

“So somebody made a mistake.”

“I don’t think so. The tachometer roughly agrees. And nobody in Albuquerque refueled Mike Bravo one-seven-eight. And nobody in Mid-Valley. Or Socorro. Sprague has always paid for av-gas with a credit card. Somebody would have a record.”

“Unless he paid in cash.”

“Bergin says that fixed base operators would remember the plane.”

“When did he leave Posadas?”

“Bergin says the day before yesterday.” Estelle Reyes waited a minute and listened to me thinking. “It’s about thirty minutes airtime to Las Cruces-Crawford, sir.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“And if he picked up Barrie there…”

“Right. They could have slipped across into Mexico as easy as can be. Jim Bergin says all you’d have to do is fly low, and it’d be a piece of cake.”

“And so you think he took Barrie out of the country?”

“Well, I’d be a little slow to jump to that conclusion except for one thing. He made another long flight a few days before.”

“Bergin is sure?”

“Reasonably. But you know, Sprague flies to conventions all over the place.”

“What catches your eye about that particular flight, then?”

“Bergin isn’t sure when Sprague left, but he knows when he returned. He landed back in Posadas late in the afternoon on the day you were in Gallup at Art Hewitt’s funeral. Very late in the afternoon. Just about dusk.”

“Did he have anyone with him?”

“Bergin doesn’t know. Sprague put the plane away. Bergin had already gone home. It was after five.”

“Then how does he know that’s when Sprague came in?”

“He said he saw him. He was getting a backyard cookout ready. He saw Sprague’s plane fly over. Low.”

“That’s the day Scott Salinger was murdered,” I said, as if Estelle needed reminding.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Do you know where he went?”