Heartshot

by Steven F Havill

  “Just a minute.” There was a second or two of voices in the background, then Mitchel said, “We’ll have to telephone her, sir. You’re at home?”

  “Yes. But tell her not to bother calling me. I need to see her.” I hung up to spare Eddie the obligation of asking how I was. Then I settled back to wait, filling the telephone pad with mindless doodles.

  Thirty minutes later, Estelle Reyes arrived, and she wasn’t alone. A Buick stationwagon pulled in behind her Ford. Ryan Salinger—a big, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced man with widely spaced and deeply set eyes—and his wife and daughter followed Estelle in. Diane Salinger was trying to look composed and doing a rotten job. It was Amy I found myself looking at as they trooped in.

  “Sir,” Estelle Reyes said, “I got your call. I was talking with the Salingers, and they wanted to come down with me for a minute.”

  I extended my hand and Ryan Salinger engulfed it in his. It seemed that he made a conscious effort to keep his grip firm but gentle. “It’s good to see you again,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your illness, Sheriff. And I apologize for not coming sooner. But…” He let it trail off and shrugged helplessly. “Anything we can do, we’ll do.”

  “We appreciate that. Come on in.” I ushered them inside, down the hall to the living room. They were all edgy and ill at ease.

  “I’ve got to ask you, though,” Ryan Salinger said. “I’ve talked to Detective Reyes now a couple times, and it’s not that I don’t trust her word. But I gotta ask. Is your department absolutely convinced that Scott’s death was murder?”

  It was hard for him to say, and hard for the others to listen to. He stood with one arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders.

  “Yes, I am,” I said, and wasn’t sure how to translate the expression on his face. “We are completely convinced it was murder.”

  “What do we do?” he asked. I had no advice about how to handle the grief—and how to handle the inevitable sudden release of guilt and its replacement by rage at the killers.

  “Sit down,” I said, and when they were all perched on the edges of their seats like patients in a dentist’s office, I continued, “Be available to us anytime of day or night. Let us work without our having to worry that you’re out there too, trying to track this down on your own.” Salinger nodded slightly. “We’ve got good, solid leads,” I added. “The killer made a basketful of mistakes, thank God.”

  “Whatever I can do,” Salinger said.

  “Let us work. But one question you can help us with. Did your son build model airplanes of any kind?” Ryan Salinger shook his head. “No flying models, for instance?”

  “He never built models, period,” Salinger said. “Detective Reyes asked me the same thing.” I glanced at Estelle. She was standing by the dark cavern of the fireplace, with her elbow resting on the low mantel. I felt about a week behind. “Oh, he built a few when he was little,” Salinger said, “but not anything later. He was into sports and hunting.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. They didn’t ask me about the question. It was obvious that Ryan Salinger had the answer to the one question he cared about. I remembered how quick he had been to hie off by himself, looking for his son. I hoped he wasn’t planning to go solo again. We didn’t need another Fernandez case. The folks looked miserable, and so I stood up, ready to end the meeting. “I appreciate you coming by. We’ll keep you posted as much as we can.” They made their uncomfortable exit, and Amy took the opportunity to step close to me. Her hand squeezed my arm.

  “Are you heading back to A and M?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “We’ll do our best, Amy.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Estelle?” I asked as soon as the Salingers had left.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Holman was here a bit ago. He was talking like you were some kind of mental midget. The impression was that you’re just running around, doing errands for me.” Estelle came close to grinning, and I added, “Hell, I just kept that scrap of junk so I’d have something to do.”

  “What’d you find out about it?”

  “It’s from a large-size model airplane. One of those radio-controlled things. With a couple questions to the right people, we can even determine what the brand name of the plastic covering is.”

  “And Scott Salinger never dabbled in that hobby,” Estelle added.

  “So his family says.”

  “He walked into something, then, and somehow that wood and plastic is a signal.”

  “You think he picked it up and put it in his pocket, maybe knowing that he wasn’t going to get clear?”

  Estelle nodded soberly. “That’s what I think.”

  “Knowing that there was a chance someone would find it.”

  She nodded again. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Who are you going to ask about the brand of plastic?”

  “I was thinking about Herman Tollis.” Tollis was an old straight-arrow who worked for the Forest Service. He was a Boy Scoutmaster in his spare time. His Scouts had been flying airplanes for what seemed like generations. “I hesitate to just waltz into the hobby shop. You never know who might be tipped off.”

  “You have reason to suspect David Barrie?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But you never know who his customers are, either.” I saw something on Estelle’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  Detective Reyes looked at her watch and frowned. “Can I use your phone?”

  I nodded toward it. She pulled the slender local directory out from under the receiver and thumbed through its few pages quickly. She dialed and waited. And waited. Maybe twenty rings, and still no answer. “Who?” I asked.

  She finally put the phone down. “Barrie Hobby and Crafts. You just jogged my memory. I was driving through town on my way to the Salingers’. There were three kids on the sidewalk, peering through the front door of the hobby shop. You know, leaning up and shading their eyes to see in? The place was obviously closed.”

  “And it still is?”

  “It still is.” She looked at her watch again, and then thumbed the phone book. She dialed again, and this time it took only four rings before a female voice answered.

  “Good morning,” Estelle said in her best saleswoman’s greeting. “I was wondering if the hobby shop would be open later today.” She listened briefly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Isn’t this the David Barrie residence? He said if I needed supplies I could buzz him at home.” She listened again and frowned, then looked at me as she hung up the phone. “She said, quote, I don’t know anything about the store. Unquote. Then she hung up.”

  “You had the right number?”

  “She didn’t deny that it was the Barrie residence. She just didn’t sound like she wanted to talk.”

  “Go find out, Estelle. Hell, take this with you.” I got her the brown envelope and handed it to her. “If you find Barrie, ask him about this stuff. If he’s clean, no problems. If he spooks, you’ll know. And what about the fingerprints? Anything yet?”

  Reyes took the envelope and shook her head. “I should be hearing from Santa Fe this afternoon, if they have any hit. It’s not as clear as I first thought.” She hesitated. “You know what I figured, don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The question you asked me first…the one I didn’t answer. I made a point, when I was talking to Holman or anyone else who wouldn’t know the difference, to use your name a lot. I figured I could move a little easier if attention was directed at you. And there was always the possibility that if the killer bought the story of you managing evidence, whoever it was might come out of the woodwork, trying to find out how much you knew.”

  “I’m bait, you mean.”

  “Well, it’s not like I expected them to sneak in here at night and thump you on the head or anything.”

  “I appreciate your concern. What would you have done if they had?” I grinned with more amusement than I
felt. “According to everyone else, I’m infirm in both mind and body.”

  “Good point,” Estelle said. “You’ve got a gun?”

  I made a sour face and waved a hand in dismissal. “Let me know ASAP about Barrie. My gut is turning flip-flops. That’s always a sign. Maybe the missus will talk to you if I’m not along. And as devious as you are, you should be able to talk her out of any information she has.”

  “I’m not devious,” Estelle Reyes said.

  “So you say.”

  When she left, I had the feeling my hours of relaxation at home were at an end. There’s only so much rest a man can take.

  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 Es
telle 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.”