My son laughed. “You timed it really well, if you wanted it to remain a secret. One daughter’s in South America, I was in Madrid, and Joel was over hobnobbing about transistors with the Japs. Camille is in Flint with a broken ankle.” He cleared his throat. “If your sheriff…what’s his name?”
“Holman.”
“Holman, that’s right. If he hadn’t been persistent and finally reached Camille, none of us would have found out until you got around to calling. You did good, Dad.”
“I try. But if Holman thinks I’m going to remember him in my will, he’s got another think coming. Anyway, I needed to ask you a question.”
“I had just about figured that out. Nobody calls at zero three-thirty hours just to chat, although I’m not kickin’. Which nurse is the one in question?”
“I wish. No, I’m home already. Not even in the slammer anymore.”
“That’s super news.”
“You bet. But look. Is Kendal still building one airplane model after another?”
There was a slight pause as Buddy tried to puzzle his way through my abrupt change of subject. “Yeah, he’s doin’ that. He’s a terminal airplane nut case. He even got me to join the base modelers’ club so he could be a member.”
“They fly those gas-powered jobs?”
“Right. Some of them are pretty sophisticated. Especially the radio-controlled ones.”
“There’s a Scout troop here in town that does that, too. They had a float in the July Fourth parade. I was just remembering how big they were. Nothing like those things you used to fly on the end of strings.”
Buddy laughed. “Nope. Whole different world. Last time I flew with Kendal, I put one straight down into the pavement. Shot about three hundred bucks. What, are you thinking of a hobby, or what?”
“No.” I reached over to the nightstand, turned on the light and pulled out the evidence bag. I held up the wood and plastic that had been found in Scott Salinger’s back pocket.
“I’ve got a curious piece of evidence. I wanted to run a couple things past you.”
“Shoot.”
“First of all, what’s the plastic stuff that people cover model airplanes with now? It feels like a very heavy, slick garbage bag.”
“Hell, there’s several brands. Just a sec.” I heard muffled voices, and Buddy said, “It’s Dad. He’s fine.” He came back on the line. “Edie just snuck up on me. She said to tell you to get back in bed where you belong.”
“Tell her I am in bed. And tell her not to go away. I want to talk to her when I’m through with you. So tell me about airplane coverings.”
“We use a brand called Unicoat. It comes in a roll about two feet wide and in several lengths. Six, twelve, and twenty-five feet. There’s three or four brands. Most of them are pretty much alike. I’m not into it as deep as some. Kendal would know more than me.”
“But it’s nothing like that paper stuff you used to use as a kid.”
“Silkspan? Hell, no. Some people still use the silk and dope, though.”
I turned the wood and plastic over in my hand. “What holds the plastic to the wood? The bond seems pretty tight.”
“You put it on with a hot iron, or a hair-dryer kind of thing. There’s some sort of high-tech stickum on the back side that adheres under heat.”
“How would I tell one brand from another if I had a sample?”
There was a moment’s silence. “Beats the shit out of me,” Buddy said. “The only thing I know is that to put on Unicoat, we have to turn the iron up to its highest setting. That’s not true with the others. I don’t know if it’s just because it’s thick, or what, but it always seems to take a humongous amount of heat. What the hell are you working on, anyway? Did somebody back there Unicoat somebody’s mouth shut, or what?”
“We don’t know yet, Buddy. I found a scrap of model-airplane wood and covering in a murder victim’s back pocket.”
“So your victim built models?”
“That’s something I’m going to check. I’ve been holding back for obvious reasons. The stuff in his pocket was just scrap. I can’t imagine why he would walk around out in the boonies with that. My theory right now is that he picked it up…and because it wasn’t crushed deep down in his pocket, my theory is that he picked it up just before he was murdered.”
“Who was the victim? Anybody I know?”
“No, I don’t think so. A high school kid.”
“No shit,” Buddy said in wonder, and he whistled softly. “The airplane stuff…what was it?”
“The crime lab said it looked like the leading edge of an airplane wing.”
“Shaped into a taper, you mean? The front edge is rounded?”
“Right.”
“How big is it?”
“The piece is about three inches long. I would guess about three-quarters of an inch thick at its widest point. Maybe a little more.”
Buddy made a sound of surprise. “Balsa wood?”
“No. Spruce.”
“A big sucker, then.”
“What’s big?”
“The model that the piece came from. Kendal’s got an airplane now that has a wingspan of about sixty inches, and it uses a piece of quarter-inch dowel for the wing’s leading edge.”
“This is three or four times bigger than that.”
“How long is the chunk you’ve got?”
I held it up close, as if Buddy could see it over the telephone lines. “About three inches. Maybe four.”
“On the back side…the trailing-edge-side…is there a slot of any kind?”
“No. The wood is smooth. There’s some glue residue. And a speck or two of white stuff. The crime lab said it was a kind of Styrofoam. No other marks of any kind. Why?”
“Well, it’s from a foam-cored wing, then. Usually, if the thing is all balsa, the wing ribs glue to the leading edge. There would be a mark, or even more likely, a slot in the wood itself where the rib fits in. But if it was foam core, that wouldn’t be the case.”
“Nope. So what’s the significance of foam?”
“It’s used in models that are either of simpler construction, or are intended for pretty high performance. Several of the new full-size airplanes-especially the aerobatic ones-have core wings. Composites, they call ’em.”
“So your guess is that this is from a pretty big model, then.”
“Yes. If it was balsa, not necessarily. But spruce or pine, yes. That spruce is put on there just as a leading edge, for a little stiffness and protection. Where’s the rest of it?”
“Beats me.”
“The piece is obviously broken out?”
“Yes. Both ends are fractured. There’s a split that runs almost the length of the piece.”
“The only thing that makes sense is that it got wrecked in a crash, or stepped on, or crushed by a car, or something. It took a hell of a thump. If it crashed, there should be other pieces. If it went straight in, they’d all be together. If it skipped around-and that’s just as common-you might have a bunch of pieces in one spot, then some more many yards away. Who knows. Weird case you got, Pop.”
“Yes, it is.”
He laughed. “I’ve seen some fruitcakes in this club down here who would probably kill if you did something wrong and caused them to screw their plane into the ground. Some of them get pretty serious.”
“I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“How was the kid murdered?”
“One shot through the heart. Kind of a clumsy attempt at making it look like suicide.”
“Well, you’ll nail ’em. Anyway, if you want to tell if the plastic is Unicoat, just get a modeler’s iron and turn it to the highest heat setting. If it takes all the iron’s got to make it stick, it’s Unicoat.” He hesitated. “But now that I think about it, five gets you ten it’s not. If you are ironing a covering onto foam, you don’t want to melt the foam. You’d need low heat. So it wouldn’t be Unicoat, then. Probably not. You’d want a low-heat cover of some kind. I don’
t know what they are, ’cause we never use ’em. Something like Colorfab. I think that’s one. I don’t know the others. Kendal would. And the other thing I’ve noticed is that they all have favorite shades. What color is it?”
“Sky-blue.”
“That should be an easy match. And a dumb color for radio-controlled airplanes, too.”
“Why?”
“Get it up against the New Mexico sky, and you can’t see it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Everybody around here seems to be stuck in the yellow-red rut. High visibility if it gets a little far away.”
I didn’t say anything, because my brain was kicking into high gear. The silence went on so long that eventually Buddy said, “You still there?”
“Yes. Let me ask you a question. Suppose the victim came upon the crash site of a big model airplane. What could there be about it that would be so incriminating as to prompt the kid to pick up a piece of the wreckage? And then a murder follows?”
“Where was the murder?”
“Up at the Consolidated Mine boneyard. You remember where that is?”
“Sure, but what have you got that suggests a connection between airplane and murder?”
“Not a damn thing. Except the junk was in the kid’s pocket, and there was no reason for it to be there.”
“One thing I’m not is a detective, Pop. But like I said, you and all your staff will figure it out. Sounds like you got it on the run. Say, keep me posted, will you?”
“You bet. And sorry about the night call. How was Spain, by the way?”
“I never saw it,” my son said with a laugh. “Got there at night, left early. What little ground I saw was brown…just like Posadas County.”
“You home for a while now?”
“About a week, I think. Anyhow, if I think of anything else, or if Kendal does, I’ll make sure we get right back to you. You want to talk to Edie?”
I heard her say, “Of course he does,” in the background.
“Buddy, take care,” I said, and then my effervescent daughter-in-law was on the line.
“When did you get out of ICU?” she asked, and like a fool, I told her. The lecture I got seemed to last ten minutes. There was no point in arguing. I finally mollified her by lying like a rug, promising faithfully to take all the medications as prescribed, and to visit them in Texas as soon as I could. Part of all that was true, at least. I was planning to make some visits, all right…but not to Texas.
Chapter 24
Despite the ideas whirling around inside my head, I fell back asleep almost instantly, and woke to the telephone trying to rattle itself off the nightstand.
It was Holman, and if he didn’t sound angry, he certainly wasn’t his usual blabby, politic self.
“You going to be home in a few minutes?” he said without preamble.
“Yes.” I looked at the glowing dial of the clock radio and saw that outside the sun already would be blistering the east side of the adobe. “Come on over. I’ll put the coffee on.”
Holman grunted something that I didn’t catch and hung up. I lay still for a minute, then swung my feet down to the cool brick floor. I took inventory and decided I felt almost human. Holman’s fist thudded on the door just as I was finishing shaving. With a towel around my neck, my bathrobe cinched up tight, and my slippers scuffing the tiles, I must have looked the part of a goddamn invalid when I opened the door and motioned him inside.
“Give me just a minute,” I said. “The coffee’s in the kitchen on the counter, and should be just about ready. Cups are up above on the right.” When I finished dressing and entered the kitchen, I found Martin Holman sitting at the table, a steaming coffee mug in front of him. He looked up at me, rose, and poured another cup.
“You allowed to drink this stuff?” he said, handing me the cup.
“Hell, yes,” I said and grinned. Holman scowled.
“I didn’t come over yesterday because I was too damn mad, Bill. Jesus H. Christ.” He sat down heavily, took a sip of coffee, and grimaced. “You behaved like a damn five-year-old, you know that.”
“I didn’t see it that way,” I snapped. I might take a lecture from my daughter-in-law, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to hear it from Martin Holman.
“Yeah, well,” he said, understanding the edge in my voice. “If we lose you, this whole case is going to fall apart.”
“That’s unlikely.”
“I don’t want a bunch of strangers laying this town wide open, Bill.”
“That’s not going to happen. Estelle Reyes is the best there is. I guarantee it.”
“She’s young, and you know it. And this morning she told me herself that she was just your legs, running errands, taking care of lab work.” Holman saw the surprise on my face. “That’s what she said. She said she didn’t have the handle on this that you did.”
“Bullshit. She’s worth five of me,” I snapped. “And the hours she puts in, we should be paying her five times what she’s getting. Is that what you came over for, to chew my ass about not letting a couple doctors cut me up?”
Holman lifted an eyebrow at me over the coffee cup. “I saw Harlan Sprague late yesterday afternoon.”
“So?”
“He wanted to know if he could come over and see you. I said he should call you first.”
“That’s thoughtful. I don’t need mothering. I need to see some son of a bitch in jail. That’s all the medicine I need.”
Holman took a deep breath. “I can see that asking you to lay off would be a waste of breath.” I started to say something I would have probably regretted, but Holman held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I want this case solved as much as you do…as much as anyone in the department.” He looked at me for a minute. “I’m not sure what sacrifices I’m willing to make to solve it tomorrow, though…or even next week. I think we need to understand all the angles…even the long-range picture.”
“What are you saying, Sheriff?”
“I’m saying that there’s nothing I can do to force you to relax and take care of yourself.” He smiled faintly. “Short of handcuffs. Kidding aside, I’m pleading with you to use good sense.”
“I am.”
“Uh-huh. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one man in this department who really understands the entire picture. That’s you. And you know it, damn it. I’m no lawman. I’m an executive…an administrator. I depend on you to make sure this department is as efficient as it can be. I don’t want the county legislature to have a single excuse to say, ‘Hell, let the state police run the county.’ Or worse, customs. Or the DEA. I want us to do it, Bill. Us.”
“I guess I should feel complimented.”
“Yes,” Holman said simply. “What it boils down to is that if you don’t do it, nobody in this department does. And speaking of the DEA, their aircraft are working the border about twenty-five hours a day. Found nothing. State police made a decent drug bust on the interstate north of Las Cruces yesterday. They nailed two jerks who were driving a pickup truck, trying to move a couple of kilos inside a dog house they had in the back. The dog was inside the house.” He chuckled, and then his face went serious. “Chief White called from Gallup. I told him we’d have something concrete by the end of the week.”
“No problem.”
Holman stood up and set the coffee cup in the sink. “‘No problem,’ he says. I wish I had your confidence. Is there anything you need?”
“No. Nothing.”
“You’ll keep it slow?”
“Sure.”
“Then I’ll get out of your hair.” He gave me a long look, then said, “Thanks for the wake-up.” As soon as I heard his car spitting gravel out of the driveway, I picked up the phone. It rang once.
“Sheriff’s Department. Deputy Mitchel.”
“Eddie, this is Gastner. I need to talk to Estelle Reyes. Where is she?”
“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.”
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