Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  Her husband snorted a little chuckle and shook his head. “I’m not sure vandals think much about the ‘why’ of things, Querida. I mean, they protest in the streets and burn their own cars, for Pete’s sake.” He looked at the clock again. “See you for dinner with the contractors? It’d be nice to have a repeat of last night.”

  She grimaced. “I’ll try my best. Especially if we don’t have to eat like we did last night.” She pinched her husband’s left biceps. “And there’s another worry. Francisco and Angie’s fingers near hammers and saws and other sharp things? I’d like to have a restraining order slapped on that project that requires them to watch from a distance.”

  “I think they’re just watching cement harden right now. That’s pretty safe.”

  “Getting fingers caught between the cement chute sections. Tripping over rebar. Choking on cement dust. I could go on.”

  Dr. Guzman held her face firmly between his large hands. “Concentrate on finding your shooter,” he said. “And send lots of positive vibes Pam Gardiner’s way. She needs ’em.”

  Hours later, with the newspaper editor in the hands of Albuquerque brain surgeons, and Glenn Archer’s truck safely stored in the Sheriff’s Department impound at the county boneyard, Estelle returned home, shed her hardware, and crawled into bed. Sometime later—­she didn’t have the energy to look at the clock—­she heard her husband in the shower. When she awoke again, it was to the popping of the metal roof expanding under harsh morning sun and bright light seeping around the edges of the thick curtain.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Well, you know, they take one little thing and blow it up into somethin’ it ain’t.” Deputy Edwin Hennesey’s expression suggested that his analysis was the final explanation of the events leading up to the strafing of the Posadas Register office.

  Estelle relaxed back in her chair, one hand fisted under her chin. She had managed to return to the office just before the graveyard shift dispatcher left for the day, and had taken that opportunity to hear his side of the note for news tale.

  “Who asked you to put the note on that particular report, Eddie?”

  “What do you mean, ‘asked me’? I don’t let anybody come in here and tell me what to do with the reports and such. It ain’t nobody’s business but the department’s.”

  “So you decided to mark that particular story, out of all the others?”

  ‘“All the others?’ Weren’t but half a dozen in the basket at the time.”

  “But you marked just the one.”

  Hennesey pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace, and combined that with a huge shrug of the shoulders.

  “Just this one,” Estelle repeated patiently.

  “Hey, you don’t like the way I run dispatch, then you’re free to make any changes you want.” For the first time, Hennesey looked directly at Estelle, as if daring her to engage in a pissing contest with him.

  Ignoring his obvious pique and damaged ego, she leaned forward, both hands folded on the desk calendar in front of her. It would be a simple matter to write Hennesey off, but Estelle was loath to go that route. In most instances, Edwin Hennesey was reasonably good at his job…a job that she knew full well was, ninety-­eight percent of the time, one of crushing boredom. Short-­staffed as the department was, Estelle had no one—­no one with the required skills, anyway—­waiting in the wings to move into dispatch.

  “Here’s the deal, Eddie. We don’t know yet what direction this investigation of the Register shooting is headed. When the call for the medivac went out to take Pam Gardiner to Albuquerque, you handled dispatch.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you know that Pam Gardiner has a brain aneurysm, a dangerous one. If she dies, then this isn’t just an investigation into malicious vandalism. Because Pam and Rik were inside the office at the time, it’s assault with a deadly weapon. If she dies, it becomes a murder investigation. A death occurs during the commission of crime…” She leaned back and spread her hands. Eddie Hennesey’s eyes darted this way and that before settling again on Estelle’s.

  She gestured toward the nearest and most comfortable chair. “Have a seat for a minute.”

  “I’m good.”

  “If you want to stonewall this thing, that’s your privilege, Deputy Hennesey. Both the sheriff and I hope you’ll cooperate with us.”

  “Never said I wouldn’t. I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Then sit down and relax.”

  He grudgingly sat, making a show of relaxing his arms on the arms of the chair.

  “Every little detail, every one, will come under scrutiny, Deputy Hennesey. The when, the why, the who…every one. If anywhere along the line,” and she leaned forward and made a chopping motion across her desk, “there’s a question, an inconsistency, a missing piece—­then that’s the direction we go.”

  Hennesey was not a stupid man, and he immediately seized upon the connection. “That’s just what I’m sayin’, undersheriff. I didn’t think we were done with that particular arrest. Now you’re sayin’ that Quentin Torrez shot up the newspaper office because his name was in the paper?”

  “Do you think that could happen? Would he do that?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “He never called you after he was ticketed? Never spoke to you about it?”

  “Nope. Maybe he did with Wheeler, ’cause Wheeler was workin’ day dispatch when the kid was processed through here. Maybe he bitched to Sarge about it. I don’t know. He was the arresting officer.”

  “But you wrote the not for news message, not Ernie Wheeler or Sergeant Pasquale.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  With effort, Estelle kept her irritation in check. Pushed into what he might perceive as a corner, Hennesey was not about to become everybody’s cooperative friend.

  “How did that come to pass? What prompted you to do that?”

  Hennesey took a long, deep breath to show how patient he was, then said, “I just figured that in this case, it would be better to wait and see what happened during his arraignment, that’s all. I know—­” Hennesey paused. “I know that there was some issue with how the arrest went down. You know about that, him being a three-­time offender and all. I just thought it was better not to jump the gun and splash this all over the paper, without really knowing.”

  He held up both hands. “Hey, call it what you want. Call it a favor to the sheriff’s family. Whatever you want. I just thought it best to wait a little bit and see what comes down before goin’ public with it.”

  He shifted in his chair, knocking hardware against the woodwork. “Now we’ve had troubles with deputies before, sitting outside bars, waitin’ for patrons to come on out and drive away. ’Course they’re going to be violations. ’Course they are.”

  Hennesey shifted position again and crossed his legs, leaning hard on his left elbow. “You might recall some of the flack with Torrez and Victor Sanchez years ago, down to the Broken Spur Saloon, back when the sheriff was just a flatfoot deputy. He’d park right across the road from the saloon in one of those two tracks, and when someone came out of the saloon, he’d nail ’em. Old Victor, him, and Bill Gastner went round and round about that.

  “You look at Pasquale’s report, and you’ll see about the same thing. ’Course, Pasquale didn’t say nothing about it to me when he put the report in the basket. But sittin’ dispatch, I know what goes on. I knew where Pasquale was parked, and I know where the traffic stop took place.” Hennesey shook his head in disgust. “This kid…the sheriff’s nephew…you two think he’s involved in shooting up the newspaper?”

  “No. I’m not saying that. We have no evidence that’s what happened. But think on this, deputy. Suppose it becomes clear that the attack was because of the newspaper article.” She held up a hand to forestall Hennesey’s response. “Just suppose. And suppose further that it comes out that you, as dispat
cher and keeper of the records for that shift at the Sheriff’s Department, tried to protect the assailant by keeping his name out of the paper. But somehow his name appears anyway, and the kid is pissed. He decides to leave a message, peppered all over the front of the newspaper office. Two people are seriously hurt.”

  Hennesey’s face was an interesting mix of flushed and pale. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’d be in a world of shit. But I wasn’t protecting the kid. He didn’t ask me to keep it out of the paper. And he didn’t ask Ernie, far as I know. I mean, Ernie never mentioned.” He rested a mea culpa hand on his chest. “I just did it because it seemed to me that some aspect of his case…” and he chopped the air with his hand. “Might not be just right. I was thinkin’ that maybe Sarge was a little premature puttin’ the report in the basket.”

  “Then why not just take it out of the basket and leave it in the sergeant’s ‘pending’ file? Or double-­check with Sergeant Pasquale if you were concerned?”

  “Coulda done that.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Sergeant Pasquale himself put the report in the basket. Who am I to second-­guess what he done?”

  “But that’s exactly what your note for news did, isn’t it? You’re deciding what’s news and what isn’t.”

  The room fell silent. She watched Hennesey’s jaw muscles twitch as he examined the edge of her desk. Finally, he shrugged. “Are you bringing this Torrez kid in for questioning?”

  “He’s on the list, for sure. I’m giving the sheriff some time to decide what he wants to do.”

  “I don’t see what choice he’s got.”

  “We build a file of evidence. Then we see what our choices are. So tell me—­” She relaxed back, hands folded over her stomach. “What was there about the Torrez boy’s DUI arrest that bothered you? I mean other than the issue of possible entrapment.”

  Hennesey looked uncomfortable. “It ain’t my place.”

  Estelle gave him a few seconds of think time, and when nothing more was forthcoming, she said, “Eddie, I appreciate your discretion. And I’m sure that Sergeant Pasquale does as well.”

  “Have you talked to Sarge yet?”

  “No.”

  “You going to?”

  She smiled at the dispatcher without much humor and didn’t answer.

  Hennesey eased forward in his chair, hands clamped on the arms as if about to push himself upright. “I’ll just say this much, even though it ain’t none of my business. If that kid is in any way protected from what he done, whatever he done, then it’s going to come back and bite the sheriff right on his ass. I mean, that was Quentin’s third arrest for DWI. You see what I mean?”

  “I’m sure you’ll make any concerns you might have clear to Sheriff Torrez at your first opportunity.” Hennesey correctly read her glacial expression, and arose with a deferential nod. “You need me for anything else, ma’am?”

  “Thanks for coming in, Deputy. We appreciate the work you do.” She watched him as he left the office, the man obviously having difficulty deciding which stride to use. Bluff? Obsequious? I-­showed-­her? Over-­casual? Angry at the world? Estelle sighed. It was always easier to talk with folks who didn’t lug along a world’s worth of excess baggage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Linda Real Pasquale was anchored to her computer, her desk and an additional side table covered with an array of finely detailed photos. Her husband, Sergeant Thomas Pasquale, sat beside her, one arm resting across the back of her chair. Both looked up when Estelle appeared in the doorway. Linda’s chubby but pretty, dark face broke into a radiant smile of greeting.

  “You want pictures of bullet holes?” She held out both hands, indicating the assortment. “We got bullet holes.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’m not sure why B-­Cube wants a separate picture of each hole through the glass, but there we are. Whatever he wants, he gets.”

  Unlike Edwin Hennesey, Linda Pasquale was completely comfortable in her skin, and wonderfully adept at allowing others their own private foibles…with the possible exception of Sheriff Robert Torrez, aka “Big Bad Bobby,” or “B-­Cube,” whom she teased without mercy. It was a tribute to her skills that the sheriff took her kidding in stride.

  “They’re good for comparison work, though,” her husband added. “Working with the angles.”

  “God, you’re as bad as he is,” Linda laughed. “A hole is a hole when you’re talking about plate-­glass windows. What do you think, my boss?”

  “I think you’re doing marvelous work. And you’re right. If the sheriff asked you for separate portraits of each bullet hole, that’s what he gets. He always has a reason for what he wants.” She was about to turn to leave, but added, “I’m sure the sheriff didn’t ask, but I will, since you’re both here. How are the twins?”

  “Still entirely innocent,” Linda bubbled. “Most of the time, they’re about eleven on the ten-­point cute scale. I’ll be done here in a few minutes, and then Thomas and I will head home and pretend we’re attentive parents. Tom’s mama won’t want to give them up, but there you are.”

  Her face crinkled into a frown as she pulled a set of photos sealed in plastic evidence wraps. “This, however is not in the least bit cute. Another inch or two to his right, and young and handsome Rik Chang would have been in deep caca.” She lined up the two photos of Pam Gardiner’s arm and neck wound with the portrait of Chang’s punctured shoulder. “And equally ugly. They both are sooooo lucky.”

  “Not as lucky as they should have been,” Estelle said.

  “Oh, I know. And I heard that Pam was in route to UNMH with complications. Soooo sad.” She looked up pleadingly at Estelle. “So if a bazillion photos of holes in glass helps to corral whoever did this, that’s just fine with me.”

  Tom Pasquale pushed himself upright, the leather of his Sam Brown belt creaking. He towered over Estelle, and a few years of married bliss had tucked a few extra pounds here and there on his broad, burly frame. Creeping up on middle age, he still rode mountain bikes with passion and abandon, despite the resultant bruises and missing patches of skin.

  “Did you need to talk to me?” he asked deferentially. “The sheriff said you might.”

  “My ears are soooo plugged,” Linda quipped, rocking her head with a hand over each ear.

  Estelle made no effort to draw Pasquale out of his wife’s hearing. “I’m curious about what Quentin Torrez said to you, or to Eddie Hennesey, after you arrested him last week for his third DWI offense.”

  “You mean, like maybe threat-­wise?”

  “Like anything at all.”

  Pasquale’s forehead wrinkled in thought, drawing his closely cropped ginger-­colored hair forward.

  “At first, he wanted to fight me, but I talked him out of that. He’s into that kung fu stuff, but he was too drunk to make use of it. Then he didn’t want to be cuffed, but I didn’t give him much choice in the matter, and he became increasingly profane.”

  “Such language you’ve never heard before,” Linda said. Estelle rested a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Sorry, boss.”

  “Tell me about the arrest,” Estelle said.

  “Well, nothing special. He and one of his buds and his girlfriend came out of the Don Juan just as I was driving by. Quentin was behind the wheel of his truck, and he damn near piled into me as he pulled onto Bustos.”

  “So you stopped him right there.”

  “About a hundred yards east. Just before you get to that construction they got going on there. He got himself all tangled up in the traffic cones.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “Rolando Ortega. Both of ’em were soused, although Quentin was the worst. He blew a one point six. Rolando was right on the verge with a point eight five. And Esmeralda Lucero, she was with them, riding in the little jump seat in the back. She blew clean. I don’t know where they got the booze, and
they wouldn’t say. Maddy Lucero was embarrassed as hell.”

  “There were three of them, then, including the one female. Did you call in for backup?”

  “Uh, no, but Captain Taber was about a minute behind me, and she took Maddy in her unit while I took the two bozos. They were both thinkin’ of their karate moves, but I cuffed ’em both and put ’em both in the back seat of my unit, then I called Stub to come pick up Quentin’s truck.” He shrugged. “Lots of blah, blah, blah, none of which I listened to. When we got back to the office, Hennesey keeps giving me looks like, ‘well you’re in trouble with the sheriff now,’ but Quentin being arrested isn’t exactly a new story. And I’m sure Sheriff Torrez would have chewed me a new one if I had let his nephew slide.”

  “And with good reason,” Estelle said.

  “He was goin’ at it all the way back here to the office. At one point he tried to kick out a window of my unit. No luck there. Maddy blew clean, so we let her go with a ticket for not being belted in. Mears and I booked both Quentin and Rolando in, and Quentin’s mouth is still yammering away. He cussed at Eddie, he cussed at me, and when the captain happened by, he cussed at her. He cussed at Ernie Wheeler. He made a mess of his fingerprint card, and we had to redo that. When the cell door clanged shut, he was blubbering that we were ruining his life, and that the whole town would be laughing at him.”

  “Any threats?”

  “Not really. I mean nothing that we don’t hear all the time. He said that he didn’t want his name in the paper. That it was going to screw up his job possibilities. Said it wasn’t fair, us confiscating his truck. I told him he could pick it up after his arraignment, and after he sobered up, if Judge Talbot lets him keep his license. And he said that wasn’t fair. Then he took off on a rant that his uncle was going to fire me, fire Eddie, fire Cap, fire everybody if we didn’t just let him go.”