Statute of Limitations pc-13

by Steven F Havill

  “Now this is interesting,” she said, and Dayan’s smile widened, lighting up his narrow, swarthy face.

  “That’s an understatement,” he said. “Did you have any heads-up about this?”

  “I hadn’t heard that this guy from Oklahoma City had applied.”

  Dayan laughed at Estelle’s joke. “Oh, gosh. We’re concerned about him, all right.”

  Estelle regarded the newspaper publisher with amusement and saw the expression that meant Dayan was sniffing for good front-page stuff. “I knew that Leona had applied,” she said. She again read the short statement about the candidate who had drawn Frank Dayan’s interest.

  Leona Spears, B.S., M.S., Stanford University; Ph.D., California Institute of Technology; 28-year employment with New Mexico State Department of Transportation’s Highway Department. Currently planning engineer, DOT District 19.

  “She told me a month or so ago that she was going to apply,” the undersheriff added.

  “We’d be interested in what the sheriff has to say,” Dayan said.

  “Ay,” Estelle sighed. “Well, ya veremos.”

  “Is he going to be coming in later?” He waved a hand defensively. “I know this is Christmas and all.” Or maybe he didn’t, Estelle thought. Dayan was divorced, and seemed to spend every waking hour hovering over his newspaper…a dedication that was seldom rewarded by the newspaper chain’s corporate owners a thousand miles away. She glanced out the office door toward the dispatch island where Brent Sutherland presently commanded telecommunications. The young deputy had said nothing to Frank Dayan about the sheriff’s condition, and Estelle jotted a mental note to compliment Sutherland on his discretion…and to compliment him for not grumbling about swinging a double shift.

  “The sheriff is on his way to University Hospital in Albuquerque, Frank.”

  Dayan grimaced. “They’re transferring Chief Martinez up there?”

  “No. It’s the sheriff who’s being transferred.”

  Dayan’s face went blank. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “For what?”

  “The possibility of a blood clot in his lung. We’ll know more later today.” She was almost ready to add, That’s not for publication, but didn’t. The Posadas Register came out on Thursday…five days away. The entire world could change by then-and at the rate things were going, probably would.

  “You’re kidding,” Dayan said again. “He was with you down in Regál last night. That’s what I heard.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Dayan settled back in his chair. “Huh.” He grinned sheepishly and nodded at the list. “This is going to cause a relapse, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Estelle said. True enough, Leona Spears was a special case. A talented engineer and skillful planner when it came to asphalt, bridges, and drainage culverts, she still managed to tweak the sheriff the wrong way with her eccentric ways, right down to the bright, floral muumuus that she preferred when not in khaki and hard-hat at work.

  More than that, during one memorable election year she had run against Bob Torrez for sheriff, a position for which she wasn’t remotely qualified. In years previous, she had run for county commission, for school board, for village trustee, losing every election in spectacular fashion.

  The other names on the commission’s short list for county manager included two applicants from Las Cruces, one from Oklahoma City, and the current acting manager, a nice enough older man who had worked in the village planning and zoning office, but who Estelle knew had significant problems with both basic arithmetic and alcohol.

  “The list of finalists is also the entire list of everyone who applied,” Dayan observed. “Posadas County is not everyone’s top choice.”

  Estelle nodded, but didn’t volunteer the information that Dr. Arnold Gray, a local chiropractor and chairman of the county commission, had told her the week before-both that Leona had applied for the county manager’s job and that he and at least two other commissioners supported her choice. As Gray had succinctly put it, “When you look beyond Leona’s eccentricities, she’s a good fit. She’s not going to work for us for a couple of months and then go somewhere else.” With their support, Leona was a shoe-in.

  Evidently, Dr. Gray hadn’t seen the necessity of tipping off either Frank Dayan or the sheriff himself. Perhaps the commission chairman was trusting Estelle to build some defenses for their decision…not that it mattered to them what the sheriff thought.

  “Any comment?” the newspaper publisher asked hopefully. He fished a ballpoint pen and small notebook out of his jacket pocket.

  Estelle handed the list back to Dayan. “They’ll do what they do,” she said. “I’m sure the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department will offer full cooperation with whoever is selected.”

  Dayan grinned. “That’s nice. You don’t have any concerns?”

  “Concerns? Lots of concerns, Frank. I don’t even want to start counting them. But no. None about Leona. Not at this point.”

  “Ms. Spears has something of a history, you know. ‘Colorful’ might be a kind way to put it.”

  “Yes, it would.” Estelle relaxed back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. “I’ve had occasion to talk with her a number of times in the past several years about one thing or another. But at the moment, we have two men in jail for grand larceny, auto theft, and assault, we have a former chief of police who is desperately ill, and Sheriff Torrez has had better days, I’m sure. And as you know from your own well-written front-page story last week, we’ve just started a mammoth records project to consolidate the village records with our own. That all by itself takes time and lots of manpower.”

  “How’s that going, by the way?” Dayan asked. “We need to follow up on that.”

  “We’ve just started.”

  “Bill Gastner?”

  Estelle nodded. “He’s fine.”

  “No…I meant to ask if he’s still heading up the project.”

  “Yes, he is. Thank heavens, too.”

  “There’s a good story there,” Dayan said. “I talked to Bill a little bit last week. I don’t think that when the village and county voted to consolidate services, they thought about all the work involved. I’ve never seen so much paperwork.” Dayan’s short article had included a front-page photo that featured the five huge, old filing cabinets that held most of the records, the photo nicely out of focus in typical Dayan fashion. Standing in front of the trove of records were Gastner and his two helpers, department photographer Linda Real and Deputy Mike Sisneros.

  “The village was incorporated in 1931,” Estelle said, and held up both hands. “And the Sheriff’s Department has records going back to 1914. Even for a little wide spot in the road, that’s a lot of paperwork that has accumulated over the years.”

  “So what do you do with it all?”

  “Consolidate it with our own,” Estelle said. “Someone has to decide what is passed along to the state and to the NCIC computerized systems. If John Doe has a file with the county,” and she shifted in her chair, “and also a record with the village, then all of that has to be consolidated in one comprehensive data base.”

  “He’s going to be able to do all that?”

  “He?”

  “Bill.”

  “Frank, he’s not working by himself. Mike Sisneros is full-time on the project with him. So is Linda Real…at least as much of the time as we can spare her.”

  “What kind of timetable are you looking at?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “We’ve never done this before, Frank. We’re sort of feeling our way. What we don’t want to do is end up with some enormous mess on our hands. We want all the files comprehensible and electronically accessible as a useful database. Otherwise, there’s no point in any of it. I’ve made that a priority this year.”

  “But you haven’t actually started sifting yet?”

  Estelle shook her head. “We’ve done a lot of preliminary work, Frank
. For one thing, we moved all the files to this building so that there’s some security. We’ve set up shop in the conference room. It’s a good place to work.” Estelle watched impassively as Frank jotted for a moment.

  “I guess I’m going to need to talk with the sheriff, huh?”

  “Eventually. That would be a good idea.”

  “What’s he think of this consolidation thing?”

  “You’d have to ask him, Frank.”

  Dayan grimaced. “I mean, does he think it’s a good idea, generally? He didn’t have much to say during the commission meetings.”

  “It’s what the county commission and the village trustees want to do,” Estelle said. “It’s really as simple as that. Naturally, from an administrative standpoint, there are some advantages for us by putting everything under one roof. That makes some things easier.”

  “Some things?”

  “Sure. Some. Not all. Nothing’s perfect. And remember that it isn’t really consolidation, Frank. That’s what we all call it, but it’s not really that. The village dissolved its police department, and contracted the county for services. That’s a little different than consolidation.”

  “You’re a good politician, you know that?” Dayan laughed, and pushed himself out of the straight-backed chair. “There’s a bunch of things I need to do. I’ll get out of here and let you enjoy your Christmas morning,” he said. “Where are we at with the two morons from Indiana?”

  “We’re going to fit in a prelim with Judge Hobart this morning sometime. Just as soon as we can. I think that Tom Pasquale is going to handle that chore.”

  “What’s next, then?”

  “We’ll be meeting with the district attorney…probably tomorrow or Monday. We’ll just have to see. There are some communications that are necessary with the folks in Indiana, too.”

  “You think he’s going to set bail pretty high? Interstate flight risk and all that?”

  “You’d have to ask the judge about that, Frank.”

  “Oh, sure.” He took a deep breath. “That’s like petting a rattlesnake. How about if I check with you tomorrow. How about that?”

  “That would be good.” She rose and offered a warm smile to Dayan. “I know I’m not terribly forthcoming, Frank. But we have a lot that’s pending, and until some basic decisions are made…”

  “I know how it works,” Dayan said. “I’ll be in touch. Would you holler if something major erupts?”

  She nodded and stood behind her desk for a moment, well past the time when his footsteps had faded down the hall. Eventually she realized that Deputy Brent Sutherland was standing in the doorway of her office. He leaned against the doorframe as if content to see how long Estelle was planning to remain lost in her thoughts.

  “Hola, Señor Brent,” she said, and shook her head to bring the present time and place back into focus. “Thanks for staying on. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” the young deputy said, although the resigned expression on his face said that wasn’t quite true. “How’s the sheriff?”

  “Not so good, I think,” Estelle replied. “They’re going to fly him up to Albuquerque in a few minutes.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, ouch.” She moved out from behind her desk. “I saw on the duty board that Tommy Pasquale has switched with Dennis for the day?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Mears okayed that. Dennis wanted to go to Phoenix to spend Christmas with his mom and dad, and Pasquale didn’t have any problems about working today. Linda was coming in this afternoon anyway. She and Bill Gastner were going to figure out where to start. With her working, Tom thought he might as well do the same.”

  “Ah,” Estelle said. “Padrino is a bad influence, I can see that.” She speculated that holidays meant little more to Bill Gastner than just another irritating day when his favorite restaurant might be closed. A long-time widower, he didn’t take the opportunity of the holidays to visit any of his own four adult children and their families.

  Looking as if dispensing more good news might win him a reprieve, Sutherland said, “Sergeant Mears wired up three computer terminals in the conference room that all tie into the main server. They’re all set to go. Linda was going to check everything out this afternoon when Gastner got here.”

  “What about Mike?”

  Sutherland smiled. “He said he might duck in for a few minutes before he and Janet headed to Lordsburg to see his folks.”

  Former sheriff Bill Gastner had agreed to head up the records project if Deputy Mike Sisneros, a former village patrolman, worked with Linda Real and himself as a team. Estelle had agreed, even though she was loath to tie up Linda with the job, since Linda was the department’s most talented photographer and Gayle Torrez’s assistant office manager.

  She pulled the cell phone from her belt as it chirped.

  “Guzman.” She could hear the thunderous roar in the background and knew instantly that it was the twin turboprops of the air ambulance.

  “Querida, we’re on the way,” her husband said, his voice unnaturally loud. “I’ll give you a buzz from the hospital a little later, all right?”

  “Sure. And I was serious about taking Sofía to Albuquerque, oso. Let me know if you get yourself stuck up there. We’ll come rescue you.”

  “We’ll just have to see,” Francis said. “I think they’re dead-heading the plane back to Cruces after they drop us off, and if they do that, I’m going to lose my ride.”

  “Then let me know. How’s Bobby?”

  “Riding comfortably, and cranky as ever. I’m optimistic, but we’ll just see how this all goes.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You got it. Love you, querida.”

  “Y yo a ti,” she said, and rang off. Brent Sutherland had retreated back to his world of radios, phones, and computers, and Estelle stepped out of her office in time to see Deputy Jackie Taber heading toward the staff workroom.

  “All quiet?” she called, and Taber stopped short.

  “I think so,” the deputy said, and looked heavenward. “I escorted the ambulance over to the airport. They got off all right. I was thinkin’ that a good rap upside the head might make the sheriff a little easier to manage.” She patted the telescoping baton on her belt. “He’s a real trip.”

  “He just prefers to be the one carrying the stretcher, rather than riding on it,” Estelle said.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Jackie said. “Being pampered ruins his Mr. Indestructible image.”

  Estelle laughed. “You’re going to do up a sympathy card?”

  “You bet,” Jackie said with relish. An artist of considerable talent, the deputy enjoyed turning her pen and ink to caricatures of the department when the need arose. “Real sympathy. I started on it as soon as I heard.” She propped her briefcase on one knee and opened it, pulling out a drawing tablet. She swept the tablet cover back and offered it to Estelle.

  The rough pencil sketch showed the sheriff in a hospital gown that was far too short, lying in bed amid an enormous tangle of hospital paraphernalia, with various roughed-out figures gathered around the bed. Estelle recognized Perrone’s slicked-back hair and large nose, as well as Gayle Torrez’s trademark ponytail. The figure on the bed was recoiling in horror from the apparition who was approaching the foot of the bed…a figure who was unmistakably Leona Spears. The large woman, her muumuu flowing, carried a hospital cafeteria tray. you just need some mothering, was printed in neat architectural block letters above Leona’s head. Her name tag included the tiny legend, county manager.

  “You’re cruel,” Estelle said. “What a way to find out.”

  “He doesn’t know about Leona yet? The rest of the world does.”

  Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. He would have said something to me if he did.”

  “You want me to hold off?”

  Estelle thought for only a second. “Nah,” she said, and nodded at the artwork. “That’s delightful. He’ll treasure it, I’m sure.”

/>   Jackie laughed as she slipped the drawing pad back in her briefcase. “Treasure it all the way to reassigning me to Siberia,” she said.

  “To the day shift, more likely.”

  The deputy looked up in mock horror. “Spare me, please.”

  Chapter Ten

  After the turmoil of Christmas Eve and the tense moments of early morning, Estelle savored the peace and quiet of Christmas afternoon. The skies were clear and the sun almost hot, toasting the dormant sage and yarrow underfoot as she sauntered along the narrow trail that ran along the rim of Escudero Arroyo west of Twelfth Street. She strolled with her arm linked through Sofía Tournál’s. They had no particular destination, no particular agenda. Every moment that the telephone in her jacket pocket didn’t ring, or the pager didn’t chirp, or the hand-held two-way radio clipped to her belt at the small of her back didn’t squawk, Estelle counted as a victory.

  Dr. Francis Guzman had called to report that the sheriff was resting comfortably, although practicing a charming combination of groggy and cranky. The air ambulance was scheduled to return to Las Cruces that evening, and would swing by Posadas to bring Dr. Guzman home.

  Word was less promising from Posadas General Hospital, where Eduardo Martinez still remained in a coma.

  As Estelle and Sofía strolled and talked, the two children scampered here and there in general orbit around them, chattering like squirrels.

  Teresa Reyes had suggested the walk, and Estelle knew why. Not only would the fresh, cool air be a balm for Estelle’s own nerves, but it would leave the house quiet and peaceful for a while…her mother’s nap time.

  For a brief season, the desert was relatively safe for the two boys, the risks limited to being spiked occasionally by a withered cactus or snagged by the amazing thorns of the stunted acacia. Nights were cold enough that the various fanged creatures, or even the scuttling stinging ones, were holed up, well out of reach of curious little fingers until spring. Estelle found herself watching the children, comparing their mannerisms and interests.