Prolonged Exposure (15 page)

“I don’t know, sir.”

“But you can guess.”

Estelle Reyes-Guzman nodded. “I think that she knows more about her son’s disappearance than she’s letting on.”

I rested my head in my hands and gazed at the remarkable woman sitting across the table from me. She was either so far ahead of me that we were working different cases or she was completely, dreadfully wrong.

“Well,” I said, “Is that the direction you’re going to go with it?”

“Yes.” There wasn’t a instant’s hesitation in her response.

I sighed and stood up. “And now, I’m tired,” I said.

“I’m glad you got your wife’s picture back,” Estelle said.

I tossed my cup in the trash and turned to look at her, puzzled. “How did you know that?”

“Camille called here earlier. About an hour ago.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“That’s what daughters are for,” Estelle said.

“She doesn’t need to worry,” I said.

“That’s what I told her. I said that your working all night was a sign that you were all better. All back to normal.” She grinned and patted my arm as she held the door open for me.

I stopped and looked at Estelle for a long moment. “I hope that you’ll be very sure of your evidence before you initiate anything against Tiffany Cole.”

“Yes, sir. I just wanted you to know what I was thinking.”

I smiled widely. “That’s always a treat, Estelle.”

Chapter 25

The light of day on Wednesday brought two unpleasant surprises. The first was the
Posadas Register
.

Marjorie Davis had done more than her share to fill the front page. I paused with a fork halfway from plate to mouth. The elegant breakfast of fake eggs mixed with green chili was Camille’s way of making up for being a surreptitious nag the night before. She wasn’t about to give up, though. A small paper cup of pills rested beside my coffee cup—decaf coffee.

Across the top of the paper was a screamer headline, usually reserved by editor/publisher Frank Dayan for the end of the world.
SEARCH ENTERS FIFTH DAY
it bellowed in letters an inch high. Under the headline and covering the top quarter of the page, little Cody Cole’s face beamed out at the world.

He was a fetching youngster, that was for sure. At the time the shutter was clicked for that picture, he’d been a genuinely happy little kid, with wide grin, sparkling eyes, dimples, the whole works. The tiny white cowpoke hat sat rakishly on his head, holding down a thatch of golden locks.

I sighed and flipped the paper over. Balancing the picture of Cody was another photo, this one positioned down in the lower-left quadrant. It was wonderfully composed, and I nodded in admiration at Marjorie’s skill. The sunlight streamed through the trees and brush, and just off center rested the tangle of a shattered helicopter.

Ms. Davis had waited for just the right moment of drama. A Guardsman on the left was gesticulating to someone off-camera, his mouth caught in full shout. On the right, framed by a grove of trees and the wreck in the background, was a New Mexico State Police Officer and a National Guardsman, both kneeling in front of another soldier, who was holding a bandage to his forehead.

“No metro paper is going to compete with this,” I murmured.

“Look at page four,” Camille said, and I put down my fork and did so.

“Jesus,” I said. In addition to various illustrated sidebars about the boy’s parents, quotations from every agency involved, and pleas for information, another large picture at the top of page four riveted my attention.

I read the caption aloud.
EVERYTHING POSSIBLE
, the lead-in said. “In an effort to duplicate the possible behavior of the missing child, Detective Estelle Reyes-Guzman brought her own son to the mesa early Monday. Despite all efforts, the only trace of the missing youngster is the discovery of a blue jacket thought to belong to the boy.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

The photo was one that Marjorie had taken when she saw little Francis and Camille waiting by the Blazer. The photo was cropped so that Francis appeared to be walking, head thoughtfully down, an adult’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“Incredible,” I said. At the bottom of the page was a large display advertisement promising a thousand-dollar reward for information on Cody Cole’s whereabouts. The telephone number was that of the
Posadas Register
.

“Anything that helps,” Camille said.

“I suppose,” I replied. “But I hope Marjorie actually talked to Estelle before running that caption.”

“The child was there,” Camille said. “Francis, I mean.”

“I wish she’d gotten a photo of Mrs. Cole hugging her son’s jacket,” I said, remembering my conversation with Estelle long before the sun came up that morning. “That would have been good for a tear or two.”

“Dad,” Camille said with considerable exasperation. “The newspaper’s got a right to cover events in its own way.”

“I know they do.” That didn’t mean I had to like it. I folded the paper and put it down, concentrating on my breakfast. I had slept fashionably late, and I was hungry enough to eat several dozen fake eggs.

I still smarted just a little from discovering that I was plodding along many steps behind Estelle. She had known about the big RV all along, even as I was stalking about in the dead of night, jotting ridiculous little notes under the beam of a flashlight.

“Do you want to help me do a little surveying today?” I asked.

Camille held her coffee cup delicately in both hands and looked at me over the rim. “Surveying what?”

“I’d like to do a little tramping out back here, with the horses in mind, and see if the whole thing will really work. I was thinking that if there wasn’t room, I could just buy some pasturage somewhere, but then I decided that wasn’t a good idea. The whole idea is to have the horses close at hand, not half a county away.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” Camille said.

We both would have been happy to do that, except the damn telephone rang. Maybe there was a higher purpose in that. As long as I was answering a telephone call, I was alive and kicking. An old friend of mine who owned a gun and tackle shop contended that the reason he’d lived so long with only half a functioning heart was that he always had something coming mail order. How could he kick off when there was something exciting arriving in the mail?

I glanced at my watch, saw it was 9:15, and said as I picked up the receiver, “It’s got to be Marty Holman.”

“It is Marty Holman,” the voice said, and I grinned at Camille.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Stanley Willit is sitting here in my office. He’s got a bunch of paperwork that looks really interesting. I think you should come down.”

“I can’t wait,” I said.

“I thought you’d say that,” Holman said.

“Give me ten minutes,” I said, and hung up. “We’ll survey another time. The weird stepson just hit town.”

Chapter 26

I don’t know what I expected Stanley Willit to look like, but I certainly wouldn’t have picked out of a crowd the man sitting in Sheriff Martin Holman’s office. Perhaps his real parents had been from Lebanon, or Syria, or Iran.

Stanley Willit turned black eyes to regard me as I walked into the office. He got up and extended a hand.

“Ah, Undersheriff Gantner,” he said. “I’m Stanley Willit. We spoke on the telephone.” His handshake was limp and fleeting.

“Gastner. Yes, we did.”

He smiled and his black mustache split, showing perfectly even white teeth. His face was square, with a broad, prominent jaw and high forehead. By noon, he’d need another shave and a fresh turban.

“I was just telling the sheriff that I’ve been able to assemble considerable documentation,” Willit said. His voice didn’t fit his appearance, sounding more like a prissy little accountant.

“Documentation of what?” I asked, and sat down in the chair at the end of Holman’s desk.

“First of all, I have the letters written to me by Gloria Apodaca, in which she makes reference to threats from her husband, and allegations that he was beginning to make moves that might result in her inability to access her own finances.”

He started to reach for a file folder that he had placed on Holman’s desk, but I waved a hand, impressed as hell with that “inability to access her own finances.” He made the two elderly folks sound like a couple of multinational corporations.

“Wait, Mr. Willit. Let’s cut to the chase on this thing and not get mired in paperwork. I decided, after I gave the matter some thought, that it’s best for all parties if Mrs. Apodaca’s remains are moved from my property.”

“So you’ve already instituted litigation to that effect?” Willit’s eyes narrowed like a ferret’s, and I decided I didn’t like him very much.

“No, I didn’t institute litigation. That would be ridiculous. She was buried on my property without my knowledge or consent. The best place for her, I would think, is in Our Lady of Sorrows Cemetery.”

Willit shifted in his chair, the folder in his lap. He really wanted to open it and use all that ammunition. The cover flapped tentatively. “It’s my understanding that he plans some sort of litigation should you make any efforts to exhume my stepmother’s body and move it elsewhere.”

I laughed, deciding that Stanley Willit loved the sound of the word
litigation
. Martin Holman leaned back in his chair and said, gazing up at the ceiling, “That’s a case I’d love to hear. ‘I buried my wife on your property, and if you move her, I’ll sue.’” He looked at me and chuckled.

“Let him litigate,” I said. “I agree with the sheriff.”

“Perhaps the correct strategy is to take the first step in this and file a suit demanding that the body be moved,” Willit said, rubbing his chin.

I laughed again. “No, Mr. Willit. That’s not the correct strategy. There’s no point in any lawyers making pocket change out of this ridiculous situation. Florencio Apodaca is a senile old man who’s confused. That’s the extent of it.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said. “This is what I plan to do. This afternoon, I’m going to hire Chris Lucero and his backhoe. He will gently and skillfully open the grave on my property. I don’t know how deeply your stepmother is buried. I plan to ask Gene Salazar to have a hearse swing by to transport Mrs. Apodaca over to Our Lady of Sorrows, where Chris will dig another grave with his backhoe. Your stepmother will rest in peace over there. Someone can even arrange a memorial service with Father Gilbert, I’m sure.”

I paused to take a deep breath. “If Florencio has any objections, he can hoot and holler all he wants. If he’s got a better idea that makes sense, he can say so.”

“A better idea? Like what?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he’d prefer having her planted in his own backyard. I’d have to check the ordinance to see if his lot is big enough, but if it is…” I shrugged again.

Willit’s olive cheeks showed signs of high blood pressure. “I don’t know why everyone is so casual here, but I really think an autopsy should be done.”

“Since we don’t know how she died, one probably should be,” Martin Holman said easily, enjoying one of his brief excursions into law. “Are you planning to swear out a criminal complaint against your father?”

“He’s not my father.”

“Stepfather, I mean.”

“I haven’t decided yet.

Unfortunately, a criminal complaint didn’t require any litigation, so I could understand Stanley’s hesitation.

“That would make an autopsy almost automatic,” Holman continued. “Judge Lester Hobart signs an order to that effect, and that’s it. Period. Takes five minutes, especially if we request it.”

“Will you?”

“What, request an autopsy?” I shrugged again and looked at Holman.

He shrugged back. “Technically, it’s not our case, Mr. Willit. Chief Martinez, the village chief, conducted the investigation. As I showed you in his report, the death was listed as natural causes and the case closed. But that’s not to say the judge can’t order it reopened.”

Stanley Willit deflated a bit with satisfaction. “How long will all this take?”

“I’ll make the telephone calls now, if that’s soon enough,” I said. “I can’t guarantee the autopsy schedule. If they do it here, at the hospital’s morgue, it won’t take long. If the body has to be shipped to the medical examiner’s in Las Cruces, it will take longer.”

Stanley Willit clutched the folder to his chest and stood up. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with solid broad shoulders and no taper at the waist. “Than that’s what we should do,” he said. “I would like to witness the exhumation personally.”

“Of course you would,” I said. Willit shot a glance at me, but I kept a straight face. Holman was smirking. “Where are you staying?”

“The Posadas Inn, room twenty-nine.”

I ushered Willit to the door. I patted his shoulder and he cringed. “I’ll call you as soon as the action starts.”

“What do you suppose he does for a living?” Holman said when the door of his office was safely shut.

“Sells Persian rugs,” I said.

“Or real estate. That’s my guess.”

An hour later, Judge Hobart flourished his silver ballpoint pen on the appropriate form and then glanced up at me. “How do you get yourself into these messes, Bill?”

“I made the mistake of leaving town for a little while,” I said.

“That’ll do it every time.”

Things moved quickly, at least by Posadas standards. By two o’clock that afternoon, Chris Lucero’s big yellow Case backhoe came belching into my driveway. Willit had telephoned three times from the motel, and it was with considerable relief that I called him back and told him the exhumation was about to begin.

Because Florencio Apodaca wasn’t going to be happy, I had copies of the exhumation order and the court order for the autopsy delivered to him personally by a uniformed deputy—in this case, Tony Abeyta, who spoke fluent Spanish.

The autopsy had postponed the need for Gene Salazar’s mortuary services. So, with the exception of the Posadas EMS ambulance standing by, as well as two units from the sheriff’s office, we could have been mistaken for a city crew digging up a water line as we gathered out back. Sheriff Holman looked like the foreman who would never let the wood of a shovel handle touch his hands.

“You know how deep?” Chris Lucero shouted over the clattering idle of his machine.

I shook my head. “The old man wouldn’t say. Just take your time.”

“Is there a casket or anything?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged and Chris looked heavenward as he climbed back on the backhoe. Deputy Abeyta had tried to talk Florencio into coming outside to supervise, but the old man just took the papers and waved him away.

Abeyta and I carefully uprooted the juniper cross.

“You think he’s going to want to keep that?” Holman asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “We just keep it out of harm’s way for now.”

Chris idled the machine into position and the massive out-riggers crunched into the soil. As delicately as a child digging with a fork, he swept the teeth of the bucket the length of the grave site, raking no more than an inch into the soil.

When he had what he thought were the grave’s dimensions marked, he began excavating in earnest. With the first scoopful, I had a mental picture of the eighteen-inch-wide bucket coming up out of the earth with half of the old lady dangling from its teeth. I glanced over at Stanley Willit. He had on a really nice camel hair coat over his dark suit—he could have been the mortician. His face was impassive.

The soil was easy digging—especially since someone had been there first the hard way, with a pick and shovel.

Chris hadn’t dug deeply enough to sink the bucket when he stopped the machine with a lurch. “Wood,” he shouted. I stepped forward and at the same time felt a hand at my elbow. I turned, to see both Camille and Estelle Reyes-Guzman.

Estelle stepped close and spoke just loudly enough that I could hear her over the machine. “Where’s the old man?”

“He wouldn’t come out of the house,” I said.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. Tony Abeyta was over there to serve the papers. He tried, but the old man just waved him off.”

“I’ll go see.”

I nodded. “Take Tony with you.”

Chris waited patiently while I walked to the edge of the hole and peered down. Eighteen inches wasn’t much for a grave, but it had probably seemed a mile to Florencio Apodaca.

Martin Holman walked to within a yard of the grave and frowned.

“Why don’t you see what that is,” I said to him. “See if it’s the top of the casket or just an old board, or root or something.”

“Here, let me,” Camille said. “I’ve got grubbies on.”

Holman didn’t pretend to protest. His gleaming shoes had been saved from soil for another day. Camille stepped into the shallow pit, then crouched down, gently swishing dirt away.

“It’s a flat board. Maybe the top. I’m not sure.”

Chris tapped the throttle of the Case for attention and indicated that he’d clean out a little more. Camille scrambled out of the way. As slick as can be, he shaved the dirt from the top of what looked like an old narrow door.

He took one more partial bucket, swung the boom out of the way, and settled it to the ground, shutting off the machine as he did so.

The little wooded area was suddenly still.

“I got a shovel in the truck,” he said.

“This reminds me of when we had to dig up Todd Sloan out on the old Fuentes place,” Holman muttered. “You remember that?”

“Indeed,” I said. “I think the circumstances are a little different, though.” Sloan had been a teenager who’d been murdered by his mother’s boyfriend—and then had been buried out in the country where no one would ever find him. Except that we had, much to the killer’s disappointment. “That was a December ceremony. This is only November.” And we hadn’t had a backhoe, and Holman hadn’t done any of the digging.

Holman grunted something and backed up a step while Chris Lucero jumped down in the hole and swept the remains of the dirt from the wooden door.

He put the point of the shovel underneath and it lifted easily. “I don’t think it’s attached to anything,” he said. “You want me to lift it up?” He sounded as if he really wanted me to say no.

“Sure.” It was a door, an old weather-beaten Z-braced door barely eighteen inches wide and five feet long, the sort of door that would grace an old-fashioned woodshed. Chris lifted it and Camille took it by one edge, laying it down on the ground next to the hole.

“Hmmm,” Chris said, and stepped up out. I didn’t know if he was reacting to the fragrance or just the idea of an occupied grave. “He didn’t dig too deep, did he?”

I heard twigs snapping and looked up, to see Estelle and Tony Abeyta working their way back through the underbrush.

“Ladrónes de tumbas,”
she said. “That’s what he called us—grave robbers.” She walked to the edge of the grave and knelt. The corpse was wrapped in a dark blue blanket, head facing the street. The blanket had been wrapped so neatly that I could see the outlines of the hands, folded together, no doubt clutching a rosary.

“That’s one way to do it,” Chris Lucero observed, “Just like in the old days. He didn’t have enough wood to make the whole casket, so he just used the cover.”

“Probably couldn’t bring himself to shovel dirt on her face,” I said. “Let’s get her moved.”

“Let me take photos first,” Estelle said. “It’ll only take a minute.” While she did that, I waved at the two paramedics who had been lounging near the chrome back bumper of their immaculate red-and-white unit. Lugging the stout gurney, they followed the crude path the backhoe had made trampling down the underbrush.

Estelle took more photos than I thought necessary, but her motto was that film was cheap. Most of the time, she was right.

One paramedic grasped the body by the shoulders and the other took the feet. Working in perfect unison, they lifted the mortal remains of Gloria Apodaca up and out of the shallow grave.

“Whoa,” Estelle said when it looked as if they were going to strap the body on the gurney.

She stepped close and knelt, hugging the camera with one hand. “Sir,” she said, and I stepped around the grave. As soon as I bent over, I could see what concerned Estelle.

“If she died of natural causes, I don’t think the blanket would be soaked with blood,” she said quietly.

And sure enough, the blue blanket at the back of Gloria Apodaca’s skull was the deep rich brown of dried blood.

“Oops,” Martin Holman muttered.