“Under the current fascination, he hasn’t been able to decide whether to study as an executive chef or an architect,” Estelle said. “These things change weekly.”
“He could design restaurants,” I said.
“One of the concert posters was prominently displayed in the motel lobby,” Lynn said. “They look very much alike, your two boys. I wish I could stay for the performance.”
“You should make a point to,” I said. “This sort of thing doesn’t come around very often. I’m about as musical as a fence post, but I know musical genius when I hear it.” Estelle made an impatient face, but didn’t disagree.
“Maybe I will. What does he play? I mean, piano, of course.” She reached out and patted the flank of the grand piano that rested in front of the living room window. “But what’s he studying?”
“Everything from A to Z,” Estelle said. “From the squarest classical to his rendition of desert car crashes to contemporary jazz.”
Carlos reappeared and delivered Lynn’s wine, then made a quick stop at his grandmother’s, leaning against the arm of her chair for a few seconds.
“And you’re committed to silence, right?” I said to the boy. He grinned and ducked his head.
“I really don’t know,” he pleaded.
“Do we have a polygraph around here someplace?”
“No, I really, really don’t.”
“He hasn’t let on what the surprise is?” Over Christmas, I’d heard Francisco during several of his practice sessions, and the kid’s progress was astonishing. His technique was now driven by all the energy of a powerful teenager, but tempered so that his range of emotion was startling. His slender fingers were capable of caressing the keys so gently that I had to strain to hear. But none of that was a surprise. Since age seven, the kid had been soaring, his progress upward like the brightest comet. It all made me nervous.
“Not a word,” Estelle replied.
“How did all this come to pass?” Lynn kept looking at the closed piano as if it was about to speak.
“Leister Conservatory encourages each one of their advanced performance majors to arrange a hometown concert.” She set the cup down on the end table carefully. “After Posadas, the kids go to Dos Pasos, Mateo Atencio’s hometown in Texas.” She smiled. “If you think Posadas is small…”
“You’ve met Mateo?” Lynn asked.
“We have. A quiet, immensely talented flutist. He’s a first-generation Texan who likes Italian food. That’s the extent of what I know. As for the rest…” She held up both hands in surrender. “There’s nothing we can do from our end about this concert, so other than saying ‘no’, which I’m not about to do, I guess we’ll just wait and see.”
As if the aroma of the dinner reached out and drew him in, Dr. Francis Guzman’s SUV pulled into the driveway, and in a moment Oso, as his wife fondly called him, appeared at the door in time to grab the knob before Carlos had a chance to fully open it. They tussled for a brief moment, and then the burly doctor appeared, grabbed Carlos and upended him under one arm, threatening to pound the youngster’s head into the parquet.
“About one more year,” he said with a cheerful grin. “Then the brute is going to be doing this to me.” He dumped the youngster unceremoniously on the floor, earning gales of laughter, then extended a hand of truce. “Sorry about that,” he explained when he noticed company other than myself. “It’s all part of the male-dominated tribal ceremony.”
He crossed to Lynn Browning. “I’m Francis Guzman. And I’ve met you before.”
“How good is your memory?” she said, rising to extend a hand. She allowed the physician a few seconds to try his recall. “Lynn Browning,” she prompted. “Your wife and I went to school together.”
“Ah! Well, that’s been a while. Welcome back.” He slipped behind Teresa Reyes’ chair and enveloped her in a massive hug.
“Oh, now,” the old woman protested, obviously delighted.
Estelle intercepted her husband as he was headed my way, and he swept her along with an arm around her waist. “I have about twenty minutes,” he said. “Blown appendix, but he’s stable now.” He extended a hand to me. “Padrino. You’re lookin’ good.”
“For what?” I replied. He gave me that practiced survey of clinical assessment, head-to-toe in ten seconds, and looked satisfied.
“Been hikin’ the mesa in the middle of the night, I hear.”
“An old habit.”
“I know it is. And it seems to be working.” His face went sober. “Sorry we lost the shooter. I’m sure you guys would have had a lot to learn from him. Like why.” He shook his head in resignation.
Carlos was standing in the foyer, hands thrust into his pockets. “Dinner is served,” he announced when his father glanced his way. The physician caught sight of Addy Sedillos, hard at work in the kitchen. Sure enough, he hugged her, too.
In due course, we managed a reasonably uninterrupted dinner, with the chipotle-laced salmon in a delicate crust, the huge, Carlos-required dollop of cheddar mashed potatoes, and half a dozen other garnishes. Dr. Guzman set his phone on the kitchen counter within easy reach, and the food went down the hatch so quickly that we could see he hadn’t been kidding about the eighteen minutes.
Addy Sedillos, plumpish, round-faced and with an easy smile who had always seemed to me to be the definition of serenity, reluctantly agreed to join us for dinner. It seemed to me that she was still embarrassed to be included, and doubly so when Estelle rose quickly at one point to replenish the salmon servings instead of letting Addy to it.
For whatever reason, everyone seemed to be keenly interested in my study of Bennett’s Trail—I chalked it up to a desire to avoid discussion of sensitive or even confidential topics, and it was convenient to spend the thoughts in another time and place. That was all right with me, since there aren’t many folks on Earth who don’t like to discuss their current, consuming hobby.
“Will Colt actually know about the gun?” Francis asked at one point.
“Their archives are actually pretty good,” I said. “But…” and I captured a Brussels sprout that no longer looked—or tasted, thank God—like a sprout. It was actually delectable. “Most of the time, the original sales and shipping records don’t mean much. I mean, we find out what caliber, and barrel length, and stocks, and finish and all that, but we usually don’t find out where it went after it’s shipped to the jobber. They might sell it anywhere. Although,” and I paused, savoring, “back in those days, they were more apt to ship to an individual. No paperwork, no restrictions.” I held up a forkful in salute. “And Addy, this is masterful. All of it.”
Lynn Browning clasped her hands in front of her, elbows firmly on the table, fork dangling. Teresa wasn’t impressed. I saw the slight twist of her lips, just a little purse of disapproval at such casual manners.
“And when you’re convinced that the Bennetts did whatever they did along this trail, what then?”
I looked puzzled. “I don’t guess there is a ‘what then.’ Mostly, it’s just the knowing. And if that’s his gun, then that’s another puzzle piece. If that’s his gun, something happened on top of that little hill. And then I work on that.”
“You might never find out. I mean, after all this time, what are the odds?”
“That’s true. And that’s part of the charm.” I smiled at her. “The journey, not the destination.”
On that note of heavy philosophy, Francis Guzman patted the table and announced, “If you folks will excuse me, I need to get back.” He rose and held out his hands. “Don’t let me interrupt the party.” He kissed his wife and said soto voce, “It’s going to be a while, querida. We have an eleven-year-old who tried to tough-out appendicitis, and it’s nasty.” It had to be nasty to leave before dessert. He made his exit, escorted to the door by his son, who returned shortly to serve the key lime pie, so sharply tangy that it
almost cut the tongue.
I expected Lynn Browning to make her exit as well, but she relaxed as Carlos refilled her coffee cup. With the boy and Addy busy over in the kitchen, she toyed with the cup for a moment, then opened both hands, her frown deepening.
“We’re in an interesting situation,” she said. “I wanted to run this by you.”
“Now might be the time for me to say good night,” I said, but Lynn held up a hand.
“I’d like your thoughts.”
“About what?”
She took a deep breath. “Just a sec.” She rose and retrieved the attaché case from the living room. “We’re in a bit of a pickle,” she said as she sorted papers. “This is what I mentioned when you and I talked.” She selected a sheet and slid it across to Estelle. Nosy as ever, I leaned against her elbow and read the letter of application. Dated in early November of the previous year, the letter was professional in appearance, nicely centered and free of blotches and strikeovers, although in this computer age, anyone could be a perfect typist.
What interested me most was the closing. Elliot Daniel’s signature was neat and intelligent, devoid of any extraneous swirls or embellishments.
“Well, son-of-a-bitch,” I said. Teresa shifted a little at my unchecked language, but she’d heard it all before. The letter’s return address was the apartment in Las Cruces. Daniel’s list of previous experience was brief, limited to fourteen months in the Air Force, four months with the United States Forest Service, and three as a private contractor for security services to Benson Fort Resort in Benson Fort, Florida. No education beyond high school was mentioned.
“As you can see, we received that on November 11th. We took no action on it other than a short form letter that basically said USR wasn’t hiring at the moment.” She handed us another letter. “This one arrived in mid-January of this year.”
In the same professional format, this letter promised something specific: Miles Waddell’s NightZone. “Although I am currently prepared to work anywhere in the world in security operations, should United Security Resources extend service to the new mesa project in Posadas County, New Mexico, I would be in position to offer my immediate expertise to your firm.”
“What was your response to that?”
“A polite e-mail of disinterest,” she said. “Nothing more. Now, as it turns out, we had already posted Mr. Waddell a preliminary correspondence to express our interest in his project. There are some really interesting challenges there. But we’re not hiring yet, or assigning existing staff in anticipation of anything. We haven’t reached any sort of agreement with Mr. Waddell. At this point, all he has is a nice roadway up to the mesa-top, and several hundred survey flags stuck in the ground.”
“By the end of summer, it’ll be a different story,” I said.
“Indeed. We hope so. It has potential to be a great addition to the county. And that puts us in a conundrum. First of all, we’re not in the habit of sharing personnel files with law enforcement. Now granted, we’re not priests or lawyers.” She smiled. “The notion of confidentiality is a little more fuzzy with us. But more important, I don’t want Mr. Waddell to think that we’re a bunch of vultures, jumping at the chance to make a profit out of someone’s misfortune. He may not want—may not even need—what we’re offering…if we make an offer.”
I stretched back. “It’s apparent that he’ll need something. There are rumors aplenty floating around the county, Mrs. Browning. If this power line incident is not just an isolated prank carried out by a bunch of jerks…”
“It’s our impression that the anti-government movement, if it’s serious enough to call it that, includes more blow-hards than not. A few of ’em will pick up the editorial pen, but there aren’t many people who will pick up a gun, or a chain saw, and do the dirty work. This is what I think: I think that Mr. Daniel decided that if his prank delivered Miles Waddell’s account to us, Daniel would stand a good chance of being hired. He’s obviously had troubles keeping a job, but he’s a calculator.”
“I’m curious how Daniel found out about the project,” Estelle said. “It’s been my impression that Mr. Waddell has been just about as private as he could be with all of this.”
“If he talked with Boyd, there’s a connection,” I said. “Boyd would know, since Waddell had talked with him or his father, or both, on more than one occasion. And really, all he needs to do is type in ‘security’ on his search engine, and there we’ll be. We don’t hide.” She smiled. “Sometimes, I wish we did. We hear from some unusual people.”
“What does United Security want from us?” Estelle asked. “We’re not even sure what Miles Waddell is going to end up with. If anything beyond a fancy roadway.”
Lynn nodded at the folder. “First of all, that’s yours to keep. It includes everything we have, or received, related to Elliot Daniel. If it does you some good, fine.” She regarded Estelle thoughtfully. “I want you to know…the sheriff’s department to know…that after talking to Mr. Waddell at some length out at the site today, that NightZone is a project that we’re keenly interested in. It appears to us that he’s making every effort to appeal to a broad base—not just a few stargazers, and not just a university program that’s limited in scope. If Mr. Waddell accomplishes only a small fraction of his entire dream, it will be an impressive installation.” She nodded. “It’ll also take some time for the general public to accept it for what it is.”
Estelle nodded, but said nothing.
“When the project is up and running, it’s going to put stress on your department,” Lynn continued. “We can help with that, but it’ll work better, more efficiently, if it’s a coordinated effort.”
“In your mind, what form will that coordination take? We’re a government agency, after all. You’re a private company.”
“I don’t know. I just want you thinking about it. How we can help you, how you can help us.” She looked hard at me. “Mr. Waddell thinks very highly of you, Sheriff.”
“We’ve been friends a long time, and Miles still has a hard time remembering that I retired a long time ago.”
“I think he knows that,” Lynn laughed. “He doesn’t like it, but he knows.” She slipped a business card out of her case, and printed two names on it before handing it to me.
“That first one is a state fair organization,” she said. “Piers Smith is the general manager. The second is one of our shipping contracts. You might want to chat with both them about United Security. I know that Mr. Waddell is going to ask for your opinion.”
“He already has,” I said. “Many times.”
“There you go.” She took a deep breath and stretched backward. “Beyond that,” and she indicated the folder that included Daniel’s file, “is there anything we can do for you?”
“We have the address that’s listed in here, and it’s a dead end,” Estelle said. “Mr. Daniel could be anywhere. I think we’re going to have to wait him out. Wait for him to make another mistake. He’s not using his credit card, and there’s been no bank activity. He’s just,” and she spread her hands out, “disappeared.” She gazed thoughtfully at me. “In that, he’s really remarkable. A friend dies, and he panics. He kills a cop, and at that point, he gets either clever or lucky. He manages to slip away. He could be in North Dakota by now. Or Mexico.”
“That’s the wonderful thing about computers,” Lynn Browning said. “It’s a small world. It’s hard not to leave any traces.”
And yet, I thought, that’s exactly what Elliot Daniel had done.
Chapter Twenty-two
Saturday dawned bright and cheerful. Lots of good food, lots of sleep, and I was a new man. On this momentous day, Francisco Guzman and his caravan would arrive from the Leister Music Conservatory. They’d spent the night in Socorro, and expected to roll into Posadas by mid-morning, giving them enough time to prepare their stage.
The concert had earned some big-
league attention. I didn’t care if they announced that an asteroid the size of Virginia was going to crash into the Earth. I was going to the concert. If no one else came, then I’d ask Francisco and his partner to play a concert just for me.
The Albuquerque paper had splashed the story down two columns on the back page of the Arts section, including one file photo of Francisco performing when he was so small that his feet didn’t touch the floor under his piano stool. Posadas itself earned mention by the writer as ‘a tiny, dusty border town, sandwiched between Deming and Lordsburg.’ Well, sort of. To my relief, the paper didn’t mention our escalating crime rate.
Over coffee I read and re-read the article, wondering where Posadas High School would seat everyone if all of Albuquerque showed up. Two dozen at the concert would be more our style. The phone jangled, and I reached across and snared it.
“Gastner.”
“Sir, do you happen to have a copy of the Albuquerque paper?” Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s voice was pleasant and without urgency, and I assumed that she was reading the same article I was.
“I’m looking at it, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m enjoying the spread on your number one son.”
“They’ll be here in a couple of hours,” Estelle said. “Then they’ll all be over at the high school if you have a yen for mayhem.”
“Ah…maybe a bit later. I’m meeting Mrs. Browning at the airport a little before eight. I wanted to talk with Miles Waddell too. I promised him I’d give him an opinion this one time, and I might as well get it over with. Who the hell knows? Maybe he’ll buy breakfast…”
“You might want to take a glance at the Letters to the Editor section on B-3, sir. There’s an interesting letter there from M.C. Todd.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“I was hoping you’d know, sir.”
“Well, I don’t. Just a minute.” I fumbled pages and found B-3. M.C. Todd’s letter was lengthy, and I skimmed it. According to Todd, the “Posadas Astronomy Project” was planning on drilling a series of six deep water wells around the base of the mesa, to “satisfy the potential needs of the project at the mesa-top.” Todd’s concern was for the fragile cave system that supposedly underlay the mesa, a formation much like Carlsbad Caverns in southeastern New Mexico. Damage to underground formations that depend on a consistent water flow will be “incalculable,” the article said. I grunted something and read that part again.
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