Heartshot

by Steven F Havill

  “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 combi
nation 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.

  Chapter 5

  With so little physical evidence, about all we could do was talk to people. Estelle Reyes and I interviewed teenagers until they all blended together into a composite. We followed up on rumors, we upset a community of already upset folks. And we found ourselves wishing there were ten of us, instead of two.

  We talked to those who hadn’t been close friends of any of the deceased. They all expressed shock, of course, some for real and some because they figured it was expected of them. None of them knew anything about drugs, of course. Wide-eyed amazement that we would think such a thing. I suppose I was a little cynical. I didn’t expect them to indict the whole county, but I had figured that someone would be touched hard enough to want to spill some names. Maybe that was naive on my part, but their collective innocence was irritating as well as frustrating. We figured somebody had to know something.

  To interview the friends and intimates was another matter. Estelle and I
compared notes frequently, and we came to the same conclusion. The incident had been a sledge between the eyes for many of them. Of course, they were depressed. Hell, they had lived through the initial shock, the talk, the rumors. They had all attended an emotionally brutal memorial service in the school gymnasium and heard the popular Father Vince Carey tell them that he had no answers for their grief and confusion. I went to the service too, but spent most of my time there just watching faces. I was in plain clothes, of course, but not so inconspicuous that I didn’t collect an icy stare from Della Fernandez.

  Carey had a tough time. Like most of us, he didn’t know what to say. His soft voice drifted in and out of my attention, but I happened to be tuned in when he said, “And that the police investigation is continuing is ample evidence that somewhere, our generation has failed yours.” That was the only mention of our work then, but of course as the days went by, the Register kept the coverage consistent, only shifting it to page 2 after a week when we hadn’t found anything.

  It wasn’t all empty circles, though. I got my first hint during an interview with one of Tommy Hardy’s friends. I talked to the youngster at Dial’s Home Improvement Center on the west end of town, and after we were finished, my instincts told me I had hit pay dirt. I drove back to the office and prepared to play the tape for Estelle Reyes. The frustration of pounding the pavement and talking to folks who’d rather not talk had worn her nerves a little thin.

  “So who is this?” she asked, as she plopped down in one of the cushioned chairs in my office.

  “His name is Scott Salinger.”

  “I know him.”

  “Sure you do. So do I. If you attend a Posadas High School football game, you know Scott Salinger. He was reasonably close friends with Tommy Hardy.” I punched the machine on, then sat back and smoked, feet up on the corner of my desk. Estelle sat back with her hands locked behind her head and stoically endured my cigarette smoke as she listened. Scott Salinger’s voice was quiet, close to a monotone. Even though the microphone had been held less that twelve inches from his face, it sounded as though he were sitting across the room.