Heartshot (3 page)

Les did, patient as ever. “Careful around that, miss,” he called. “Everything’s kinda loose.”

“You better believe that,” I heard Estelle Reyes say. She stood up, face impassive, and waved a hand. “Okay, pull it another foot or so, and stop.” She glanced around and caught my eye, then put her left hand in the crook of her right elbow and closed that arm tight, catching her hand between forearm and biceps. For a minute, I didn’t understand, but then I nodded. It had been a while since I’d given blood, but I’d done the same thing when it was over, holding the small gauze pad in place over the needle hole. The tangle of metal lurched a little bit and stopped again. Estelle Reyes conferred with Torrez, and then she reached for the wrecking bar that Torrez still held. She worked intently, wrenching and prying, and Torrez stood back and watched. The whole ball of metal shook. When a piece of bodywork curled open just right, she took more pictures—she must have been on her fifth roll. She stopped taking pictures and scrambled up the bank. “No, not yet,” she shouted when Les moved a hand toward the winch controls.

“Let me borrow your slicker, sir,” she said to me. In the sixteen months she’d been with the department, she’d never called me anything but that. Not Bill, not Gastner. Just “sir.”

“Is there very much?” I asked.

“A kilo, maybe.” She took the folded rain slicker that I dug out of the trunk of 310.

“Grass?”

“No.” She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “It must have been under the front seat originally.”

“With that kind of impact, it could have started out anywhere.”

“True.” Estelle Reyes took the slicker back down the hill, and I went with her this time, standing between her and the spectators. She made the transfer slick and fast, then backed away, holding the small bundle under her arm. “We’ll have to take the car apart bolt by bolt. I’ll have Les put it down in one of his bays. That way we can have a little security.” She sounded as confident as a ten-year veteran.

Shortly after three, Estelle Reyes was satisfied that she had gleaned all she could until morning. She had an exhaustive inventory of personal effects. She had photos of skid marks, dirt tracks, grease blotches in grass, bent metal, and torn people. She was a methodical worker, and used a 35-mm with tripod, flash, filters, the works. A goddamned artist. And after each shot, she stopped to make notations in her field book. The rest of us, including me, did as she asked. And now, because the little package had changed the complexion of the crash, Estelle was extra careful.

Finally, the car was gone, the debris collected. When Detective Reyes was sure she needed no more pictures of the scene, she held up her hands. “All right,” she said. “We can secure this area until morning. Daylight might find us something. Torrez or somebody needs to stay with the car. Locking it up isn’t enough. I’ll get down there when I can.”

“He’ll be there until Encinos relieves him. Eddie Mitchel is going to sit out here.” Stealing from other shifts and double-timing was all we could do.

“And Bishop went to the hospital. I’ll call him so he can put a lid on things down there. I should be back out about seven,” Estelle Reyes said. Then she hesitated. “Before I go to the hospital, I’m going up to the lake for a quick look. Won’t do much good in the dark, but you never know. Oh, and you might tell Mitchel to sit out of sight. Maybe just up the hill by the water tank. He might turn up something interesting. You never know. Somebody might be worried about their package.”

“Fine,” I said. “Be careful. And make sure your radio is on.” We watched the rest of the traffic pull away.

“It’s going to be a mess,” Estelle said. “And all those poor kids.”

“You’d better believe it. And we better be damn sure we don’t make any mistakes. When we find out where that shit came from, I have a feeling some folks in this town will advocate a return to lynching.”

“Maybe we should donate the rope.” It was a line from a joke, but there was no humor on Estelle Reyes’s pretty young face.

Chapter 3

Sheriff Holman wasn’t a cop. He spent his time playing politics and working innocuous civil cases, something he actually did pretty well. But that night he did something else that clicked my estimation of him up several notches. The dispatcher, Gayle “Wondergirl” Sedillos, had called him as soon as she knew that the crash was a multiple fatal. Holman left a small party he was hosting and drove to the office. He stayed out of our way, but when it came time for someone to notify next of kin, he took that job on himself, chauffeuring clergy here and there until the stunning message had been delivered to the four households that still remained innocent of grief.

He met with me, Estelle Reyes, and Bob Torrez around noon the next day, and he was serious. No veiled sex jokes to make Estelle blush, no cracks about my age, no ethnic jokes meant to rib Bob Torrez, who had a thin skin that way.

“Let’s have it in order, short and simple,” he said to me. I nodded at Estelle, who shifted in her chair, smoothed her khaki skirt, and flipped open one of the manila envelopes she carried.

“All right, this is what we’ve got. Four of the five kids in the car were eighteen. One, Hank Montaño, was a minor. Ricky Fernandez was driving. I think Tommy Hardy was riding shotgun. Pretty sure. Jenny Barrie was sitting left rear. Hank Montaño was sitting center rear. I’m pretty sure Isabel Gabaldon was sitting right rear.”

“Why do you say ‘pretty sure’?” Holman asked quietly. He held a pencil poised over a blank legal pad.

“I think what happened…” Estelle paused, searching for the right description. “I’ve heard that strange things happen sometimes in wrecks, Sheriff. In this case both Hardy and the Gabaldon girl were crushed up under the dash. Whichever one was riding in the back would have been forced past the front seat, between the seat and the collapsing door. I still need to get some details from the medical examiner. But I’m pretty sure. Both of his shoes were up front, for instance. Only one of hers was. Things like that.”

Holman shook his head slowly, looking as if he wanted either to say something or vomit. He settled for, “Go on.”

“There is evidence that Hardy may have turned off the ignition key.”

“He what?”

“Turned the key. The driver never would, I don’t think. Not at that kind of speed.”

“What did the speedometer say?”

“Zero,” Estelle said. “It didn’t break at speed. Maybe it wasn’t working. But trajectory and skid marks tell us that the car was doing well over a hundred. It had almost a quarter mile of straight road to wind out, and a big engine.”

“So the kid riding shotgun got scared?”

“Maybe,” Estelle said. “If Ricky Fernandez knew what was under the seat, he had good reason to panic when he saw the gum balls in his rearview mirror.”

“Maybe he just thought he could get away,” Holman said dubiously. “Hell, kids run from cops all the time. If they have a motorcycle, they usually succeed.”

“That’s true. But he must have known that the deputy got a good look at the car and knew who he was. And it should have become readily apparent that Bob wasn’t pressing the chase.”

“I stayed back,” Torrez offered.

“So Hardy gets scared and turns the key. Wouldn’t that lock the wheel?”

“No, not while the car is in drive. But it must have flustered Fernandez enough that he lost his concentration. It doesn’t take much at that speed.”

“And the cocaine was under the front passenger seat?”

“I think so. The way one corner of the package was wedged against the seat rail, it seems likely. The only other place is on the floor, between the Gabaldon girl’s feet. That’s unlikely.”

Holman thought for a long minute. “So what you’re saying is that it’s possible that Fernandez was worried about the coke, and Hardy was just scared about driving so fast. If the drugs had been Hardy’s, he would have been all for a clean, fast getaway.”

“Maybe,” Estelle said carefully. She reached a hand back and toyed with the bun of black hair at the back of her head, then frowned. “It’s possible they all knew it was there. Or maybe just one of them knew. It’s possible. We have no way of pinning the stuff on any of them, yet. When the medical examiner’s report comes back, it may shed some light.”

“What if they had it in their bloodstream?” Holman asked.

“Well, then obviously that ties them to it.”

“And if not? If they’re clean?”

“Then there’s another set of possibilities.”

“Including,” I said, after clearing my throat, “that none of the five kids knew the coke was in the car. Maybe they were just trying to outrun the cops.”

“If it isn’t theirs, then whose?” When no one answered the sheriff, he added, “I mean, is Benny Fernandez a dealer now? And one more thing. Is there any possibility, any at all, that the ignition key could be turned off by the crash? Bounce back, somehow?”

“I suppose anything is possible,” Estelle Reyes mused. “Especially in a crash that violent. I’ve never heard of it happening. Have you, sir?” She looked over at me. I shook my head.

Holman ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “So we wait until the medical examiner finishes. You found nothing else in the car?”

Estelle shook her head. “We tore things apart…what little wasn’t apart already. An old roach clip in the front ashtray. That’s all.”

“And nothing more up on the hill.”

“A couple of six packs they apparently ditched. Other than that, nothing.”

Holman sat back and played with a pencil. “Wow,” he said finally, like a preacher groping for a cuss word, “is there any reason why the discovery of the cocaine in the car should not be made public? The editor of the
Register
is waiting, believe me. He wants to know why we’re being so vague about things.”

Estelle Reyes looked over at me, and I said, “I see no reason not to make the report available. Simply say that nine hundred and fifty-three grams of a substance whose appearance is consistent with cocaine was found in the vehicle. Nothing else. Just ‘investigation continuing.’ That covers everything without hiding the facts.”

“I see no value in that,” Holman said.

“No value in what?” I shot back, not sure I understood him.

“No value in hiding anything.” I relaxed. “And I like the way you phrase things, Bill. The ‘appearance is consistent’ bit is nice.” He stood up. “What’s that worth, anyway? Street value?”

Estelle shrugged. “If it’s been stepped on, say ready for the street, that’s about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“God Almighty. Five kids one month after graduation…and one hundred fifty grand worth of hard-core drugs. Terrific.” He turned and stared out the window for a minute. “It’s a long way from the big time, but it’s enough for this little town. I’ll talk to the press, then. I’ll leave out the value until you’re sure. But believe me, this is sensitive. Estelle, make sure whatever you do goes through Undersheriff Gastner.” He pointed at me to underscore his serious formality. “Or myself,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You remember last year, when Dr. Sprague’s daughter died from a drug OD? It about turned the good doctor into a basket case for a few months. Darlene was his only child and all…There was all kinds of talk, because it was the first instance in a long time that a kid in Posadas died from drug abuse, as far as we know. This is going to be worse, far worse. Bet on it. Shit like this is supposed to happen in the cities. Not out here.”

It was obvious we were being dismissed, but Holman called me back when the others had left. “Bill, I want her full time on this thing, with you directly supervising.”

I looked at him steadily. “All right,” I said after a minute. That was the way we were organized anyway, but I said, “I’ve got more time than anybody else.”

“It’s not that,” Holman said. He looked down at his desk. “You’re also good at what you do.” That surprised me. “And Reyes probably is too. But she’s too goddamned young to…well, to have all the right perspectives. And I’ve got some ideas about this, too. Some directions that we can take if you don’t turn something quickly. And I want this resolved fast. We’re too close to the border for scum to get the idea they can just walk all over us. And if we don’t move, the feds will, believe it. We don’t need that kind of atmosphere in this town.”

The more Martin Holman talked, the more he sounded like a man running after votes or a bigger county budget. Or both. But hell, I didn’t care just then. I agreed with him. I wanted to hang somebody, too.

Chapter 4

No amount of wishful thinking helped, though. There was no evidence that leapt out of the wreckage and shouted, “This is the way it WAS!” The medical examiner found no trace of any drug in the blood samples. Ricky Fernandez, Jenny Barrie, and Tommy Hardy had each consumed one beer. Whoopie. I was surprised at that. A six-pack each would have been less surprising. Deputy Torrez must have interrupted them at the beginning of the party. There was nothing to connect any of the five with the bag of cocaine that had nestled down near Isabel Gabaldon’s once pretty feet.

Estelle Reyes found no fingerprints on the bag. Nothing. Even the cocaine was generic. Nothing special. A long way from pure, but still a pretty good deal for a hundred fifty bucks a gram. It wasn’t blended to kill anyone instantly and it wasn’t a cheap shot. Just garden-variety, stepped-on shit that a kid could depend on. Wonderful.

It was hard for any of us to accept that one or more of the five kids had been into peddling junk on that scale. The car was registered in Benny Fernandez’s name, and that was as good as any starting gate. I volunteered because I had known Benny for years, and maybe because of some lingering guilt. Benny had taken the time to corral me during the parade, fearful for his son’s safety. We hadn’t been much help. I desperately wanted to wait until after the mass funeral, but Holman gently but firmly nixed that idea.

“We need to move fast, Bill,” he said, and so I found myself ringing the doorbell of 907 Mesa Crest Drive. It was a posh neighborhood, newly landscaped and as neat as something out of a gardening magazine. I parked well down the street. As I walked toward the address, I looked hard at the cars parked along the curb. About the time the folks would want some peace and quiet to deal with their grief, all the friends and neighbors would be swarming, trying to be helpful. Just before the front step, I straightened my Stetson and sucked in my gut. I took off my sunglasses and slipped them in my pocket. The doorbell was one of those multi-chimed affairs that sound like a symphony. First voices, and then the door was pulled open. I didn’t know the lady who took one look at me and then squinted angry eyes.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said quietly. “I’m Undersheriff William Gastner of the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. I know it’s a bad time, but I need to speak with Mr. Fernandez.”

“Oh, now what?” she said, first annoyed, but then with a combination of curiosity and weariness.

“I just need to speak with him, ma’am.” Behind her, in the front hall of the house, I saw a couple of teenagers peeking around the corner. The woman was about to say something else when Della Fernandez strode to the door briskly, as if she were about to assault a door-to-door salesman.

“Now what do you want?” she snapped. Her eyes weren’t so much reddened from weeping that I couldn’t see the steel in them, even through the screen. She pushed past the woman and regarded me sharply. We knew each other enough that there was no need for more introductions.

“I need to speak with your husband, Mrs. Fernandez.”

“Now? Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“He’s with Father Vince Carey.” Her thin lips compressed even thinner into two bloodless white lines. “You’ll have to see him later.”

I normally don’t worry about tact, but this time, I actually took a second or two to weigh my options. I evaluated the stern face and said, “I need to speak with him now, Mrs. Fernandez.”

She regarded me silently for a minute, then said, “I certainly wish you people would put as much effort into prevention as you do investigation well after the fact.”

I took a deep, slow breath and let that zinger slide by, chalking it up to distraught emotions. “Mrs. Fernandez, before you slam that door in my face, I’ll remind you of something that’s common knowledge now around town. There was a kilo of cocaine found in that car. We have no idea who it belonged to. The car is registered in your husband’s name. That is sufficient cause for him to be interviewed, at the very least. And when we’re dealing with a felony of this magnitude, it is not something that waits, Mrs. Fernandez. In this case, it is Father Carey who will wait.” I saw the lips compress some more, and knew I was making an enemy. What the hell. “Mrs. Fernandez, either I talk with your husband for a few moments now, or I return with a warrant for his arrest, and we talk down at the sheriff’s office.”

She muttered something in Spanish that I didn’t catch, but turned away from the door. “Show him to the kitchen,” she said to the woman, who remained silently fascinated.

***

Benny Fernandez tried hard, but he couldn’t keep the reproach from his eyes or his voice. He walked into the kitchen followed closely by Father Vincent Carey. Carey, tall and angular, touched Fernandez protectively on the elbow and nodded at me. “I’ll stay, if that’s acceptable with you, Bill.”

“I really need to speak with Benny alone, Father. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t argue, just nodded and quietly left.

“I guess…” Benny began and stopped. He forced in a breath and looked away. “I guess it didn’t do much good, eh?”

“Benny, I know it’s hard, but give me five minutes, all right?” He nodded and locked his eyes on the highly polished bricks of the floor. “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. You know about the cocaine found in the car. We have no idea who it belonged to. No link. Nothing.” I paused to let that register. Benny Fernandez remained immobile, head down. “Do you have any reason to believe, any at all, that your son was involved with drugs in any way?”

Benny shook his head slowly, but looked up at me. He couldn’t keep back the tears, and didn’t bother to try. “Bill, you can’t…can’t imagine what it is like. It is bad enough to lose a child.” He stopped and looked off through the window. “I had hopes. Some hopes. For him, I mean. Any father does, eh? But now…” he shrugged and turned back to me. “But to think now that maybe he was somehow involved…” He waved a hand helplessly in the air and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen stools. “That thought, it tears at me, Bill. And how can I know? Eh? How can I know? Sure, I can say, ‘Not my boy. Ricky would never do something like that.’ But in this day and age?” He reached over and yanked a tissue out of the counter dispenser and dabbed his eyes. “The only thing I can tell you, Bill, is that I pray to God…I really do…I pray to God that Ricky died knowing nothing about that stuff in his car. To think that he might…” but Benny Fernandez couldn’t go on. He sat with his head down, hands feebly tearing at the tissue in his lap.

I patted him on the shoulder. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Benny. We’ll do everything we can.”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He dabbed his eyes again and said, “I will tell you this. If my son was involved in some fashion, I will spend any time, any money, to find the people who pushed him to it. And there will be justice done for them.”

“I think what happened is that Ricky just panicked, Benny. I checked the computer. He was not too many points shy of losing his license through speeding tickets. I figure he saw the lights come on and did what many kids would have done in the same situation. If he’d known the cocaine was under the seat, he would have played it cool. All the deputies knew him. They had no reason to suspect anything, except that he drove too fast too often. Benny, your son had to know that no deputy would bother to search his car.”

“You cannot imagine how much I pray that you are correct, Sheriff. And tell me this. Is it true that the deputy slowed down? That he wasn’t even speeding after my son’s car?”

“That’s what Deputy Torrez says. You know the road. He wanted to avoid exactly the kind of accident that happened.”

Benny Fernandez grimaced. “Waste. Such a waste. I sit and think, how can I face those other good people? Knowing their children are…” He waved a hand helplessly in the air.

“I wish I had an easy answer, Benny. But I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll keep you posted, but I shouldn’t have to bother you or your wife.”

“My wife,” he said, and almost managed a smile. He glanced at me almost apologetically. “She is my second wife, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes. Ricky is the son from my first marriage. His mother died when he was only two. With Della, I have the five daughters. The oldest is now thirteen.”

“I see.”

“She and Ricky never really…” He paused. “It was as if there was some kind of wall between them. I don’t know.” He straightened up, obviously realizing that what he was telling me was more in Father Carey’s province than mine. His face hardened a little. “I intend to find out the answers, Sheriff. Ricky was my only son. He carried my good name. And when I find who was to blame…”

“The best thing you can do is stay in touch with us.” I turned toward the door. “If you think of anything I should know, don’t hesitate to call me, Benny. Anytime of the day or night. You have my number.”

He nodded and I left the house. I always trusted gut feelings, and now my gut told me Benny Fernandez was clean as the driven snow. For my money, his wife was wacko, but that made little difference. Not the cocaine type—whatever that is. As I drove off, I tried to picture what had been going on in that charging Firebird during the last few seconds before it became tangled junk. There were too many versions, a tangled video I could replay in almost infinite variety. I thumped the steering wheel in frustration.