Easton felt his mouth go dry. It was as if he was the director of a movie behind a camera high up on a crane looking down at himself and the Apache sitting at the table, the truth a hammer pounding in his brain. He knew exactly what Ironheel was going to say next. He knew, he knew, and there was agony in the knowing.
“Aasinilí binan’ta’,” Ironheel said, confirming it. “The sheriff.”
Chapter Eleven
Sleep was out of the question. Although it was now well after two a.m., Easton knew if he went to bed he would just lie there, tossing and turning, the same unanswerable questions coming at him like drones. The decision he had to make loomed in front of him, the way the shining mountains must have loomed ahead of the emigrants crossing the plains a hundred and fifty years earlier, waiting, implacable. No way to ride around them then; no way to ride around this now.
Which came first, his duty to the commonwealth or his deep-seated loyalty to Joe Apodaca? No contest. But before he condemned him, wasn’t it only fair to first give Joe a chance to state his side of the case? In principle, yes. But did he – did anyone – have the right to put Ironheel’s life on the line – and that was what he would be doing – in order to give Joe that chance? The answer was no, he did not.
He got himself a glass, sloshed some Glenkinchie into it, and sat in his armchair staring into the empty fireplace, reviewing over and over again in his mind the implications of the extraordinary accusation James Ironheel had made and the utterly convincing picture he had painted of the killings at Garcia Flat. And trying to figure out why they had happened.
Murder concludes arguments, pre-empts rivalry, quells jealousy, removes obstacles, prevents revelations. What could Joe Apodaca have needed – or feared – badly enough to make him kill Robert Casey in cold blood? Servos fideles habeo probos / Que sex in numero / Qui me docent quad id scio / Quis, quo modo, cur, ubi, quas et quando. Who, how, why, where, what and when? Start with who.
Could Joe Apodaca be a murderer? This wasn’t just some civilian, this was the man who had been his role model since the very first day he joined the Sheriff’s Office. Tough, decisive and fair, all the things Easton wanted to be, he had been first a mentor, and then a friend. Even though that closeness had eroded in recent years, Easton still found it almost impossible to imagine any scenario featuring Joe cold-bloodedly slaying Robert Casey then standing by while an accomplice butchered Adam. Yet how could he not believe it?
Okay, if it happened, why?
Joe Apodaca was first and foremost a cop. He had always been a cop. It was his life, his identity, everything he believed in, everything every cop believed in. If you lived by the law, to break it was a kind of treason. You didn’t just betray yourself: you betrayed everyone. Easton was just not able yet to properly accept the possibility that Joe Apodaca had done that. The man he knew could not, would not be a killer. Because if he was indeed the killer, then what had happened to the man he knew?
He looked out the window. A spectral moon lit the trees around the house and the yard looked like a movie set for a ghost story. An immobile layer of mist the color of sorrow hung over the cornfields, exactly matching his somber mood. As he got up and poured another whisky he found himself looking at the photograph of Susan on top of the bookcase, a head-and-shoulders shot taken by a friend one evening at a barbecue. He wondered what she would say if she were here now. Like Ellen Casey, she had never cared for Joe.
I can’t generate any real affection for him, David. I know he’s your friend, but I can’t. I’ve tried, but there’s nothing there to warm to.
Susan, Suze, Suzalita, but never Sue. She hated that diminutive. They had been together seven years, a lifetime, an instant. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night, still smelling the scent of her skin, still hearing her voice, as though it had been only an hour ago she was there. Suze, Suze, tell me what to do.
Can’t you see what I mean? You give him one hundred percent of yourself one hundred percent of the time. But no matter how much you give, he never opens up to you. To anyone. It’s almost as if he can’t. Like there’s something dark, something mean inside him that he can’t let anyone see.
Her dislike was immovable. And Easton would find himself defending Joe, pointing out how Joe had nursed him along when he first joined SO. “Oh, don’t give me that ‘Where would I be today if it weren’t for Joe?’ ” speech, she would snap. God, he thought, she used to get mad.
Can’t you see what a manipulator he is? Don’t you see how he uses you? Why do you go on letting him do it?
She had wanted him to run for sheriff, but he always balked. Upfront, he gave as his reasons the fact he hated the whole idea of doing lunch, making speeches, pressing the flesh. Susan said the real reason was because he didn’t want to have Joe think he was in competition. Maybe there was something in that. Maybe if Susan had lived he might have done it. If she’d lived there were a whole lot of things he might have done ... well, no point thinking about that.
Concentrate, concentrate.
In any other circumstances, he would never have even given the idea Joe was a killer serious consideration, much less contemplated rolling over on him. But it was no longer just a matter of what Ironheel had told him. He simply could not disregard the other, chilling recollection that had come to him as he drove home, the scene that kept running over and over inside his head like a video loop.
They were at Garcia Flat standing beside the body of Robert Casey, watching the criminalists at work. The sun was broiling hot. There were flies everywhere. The flat copper tang of death hung in the air.
“Come on,” Joe said, starting up the gully on foot. “The kid’s body’s up there by those big rocks.”
Easton could see him as distinctly as if it were a movie, hear his voice as clearly as if he had taped it, pointing up the arroyo with his chin.
Up there by those big rocks.
By those big rocks.
Those big rocks.
And hammering away in his brain, over and over, the same question: how did he know? No matter how often he reran the tape of their conversation in the Jeep, he knew absolutely and for certain that never at any time had he told Joe the location of the bodies. There had been nothing on the radio. After they reached Garcia Flat, no one apart from the cop keeping the log had spoken to either of them. The CSI team up the arroyo working on Adam’s body had been invisible from where he and Joe had been standing. So there was only one way Joe could have known where Adam Casey’s body was.
“What am I supposed to do, Suze?” he said aloud to his wife’s photograph, but in his heart he already knew. The decision had been made for him the moment Ironheel opened his mouth. Knowing that didn’t make him look forward any more eagerly to the morrow. Too, the extent of the responsibility awed him. Blowing the whistle on Apodaca would effectively condemn the sheriff to death. But not at the hands of the State: a convicted law enforcement officer who wound up in the penitentiary didn’t last very long.
He found himself wishing Grita was around, but she’d gone to bed long before he even got home. Not that it mattered; although perhaps talking it over with her might have eased his immediate disquiet, morning would still come and he would still have to deal with the problem.
He got up and poured himself another whisky, just a small one this time, drank it, then sprawled in the armchair until the alcohol emptied his mind. The next thing he knew he was cold and he awoke shivering. He looked at the clock and swore softly: it was after three. He locked up the house and climbed the stairs quietly, avoiding the one that creaked, peeked into the nursery to check on Jessye, and then fell into his own bed.
He was asleep in an instant.
Chapter Twelve
He awoke feeling sleep-deprived and bleary, the weight of what he knew still lying on his mind like wet cement. Untypical self-doubt assailed him. In the bright Sunday morning sunshine, with Jessye prattling away at the kitchen table, the proposition that Joe Apodaca was a killer seemed even closer to impossible than it
had the night before. Yet there was no way he could ignore what Ironheel had told him. He tried to take some interest in what his daughter was saying, but he could see from Grita’s frown that he wasn’t making much of a job of it.
“You up late last night?” she asked.
“Had a couple of drinks,” he said. “Fell asleep in the chair.”
She h’mphed. Splains it.
Because of the unpredictable priorities of his job, Easton always tried hard to at least keep Sundays uncluttered for Jessye. So when he broke the news that he had to go into town, he got a priority ticket to Grita’s doghouse. The fact he couldn’t tell her why made it worse.
“How long you goan be down there?” she growled, like ‘down there’ was a department of Hell.
“Hour or so,” he said. It must have come out unconvincing because she her scowl got even scowlier. Heard that one before, it said. Feeling the chill, he poured himself another cup of coffee, went into the den, and sat down at the piano.
He was no Paderewski, but if he heard a tune a few times, he could play it pretty well by ear. He always thought maybe he had inherited some of his mother’s talent – she had studied at the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. It was her walnut Challen baby grand he was sitting at. He liked to play show tunes, Rodgers and Hart, the Gershwins, Cole Porter. It was also a kind of therapy. Whenever he had a case that wouldn’t come unstuck, or a problem he could not figure out, he would wander into the study and sit and play a musical game he had invented.
Begin with something like “I Get A Kick Out Of You,” then when you get to where the word “do” occurs in “my idea of nothing to do,” you switch to a different song, “Do It Again,” for instance. So it might go Flying too high with some guy in the sky is my idea of nothing to ... Do, do it again, I may say no, no, no, but oh, please do it… Again, it couldn’t happen again, this is that once in a lifetime, this is a … Dream, that’s the thing to do, Just watch the smoke-rings climb in the … air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze, His actions so graceful all girls he could .. Please, say you’re not intending to tease, speed that happy ending and please, tell me that you … Love, is a many-splendored thing, It’s the April rose that only grows in the early … Spring is here, why doesn’t my heart go dancing …
Often he would play for an hour, maybe even more, until a solution or a new way he could approach the problem surfaced. Right now, though, the idea of playing musical games held no appeal at all. He closed the lid of the piano gently and turned to see Jessye framed in the doorway. She was wearing a tee shirt, multicolored leggings from T.J. Maxx, and white Nikes with purple check marks. Her hair was tied in bunches with ribbons. Cute as a wagonload of pandas, but clearly not happy.
“Grita said you’re going to the office?”
“’fraid so, honey.”
“But it’s Sunday, Daddy,” she protested, the exaggerated slump of her shoulders and childish exasperation making it near-tragic. “And you promised about Sundays.”
“I won’t be long,” he said. “We can still go out later.”
Jessye shrugged, and in her childish gesture he saw her mother shrugging the same way, and for the same reason. They had both learned from bitter experience what ‘later’ meant.
“You go to church with Grita, okay? I’ll be back by the time you get home.”
“Promise to play Duets,” Jessye demanded. “Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Now come on and give your old Daddy a big squidge, huh?”
She ran in and hugged him and he smiled because it was a fierce hug and that meant I love you and he hoped by the time he got home he would be able to make up for disappointing her. Their Sundays had become almost ritualized. First breakfast, then church. After they got home he would get coffee and look through the newspaper while Jessye read the funnies or drew beards and mustaches and eyeglasses on the photographs of people in the parts of the paper he’d finished with. Then, because he hardly ever got to listen to her piano practice, it would be time for “Duets.” Jessye would sit next to him on the piano bench and take the one-fingered melody line, while he did the harmony, “Aura Lee,” maybe, or “Camptown Races.” Her favorite was “Heart and Soul” because she loved the vamp.
It was hot again. The sky was enormous, a vault of bright brazen blue with just a few wisps of herringbone cloud. He passed no more than a dozen cars on his way downtown. Anyone who was going swimming or fishing was already heading west toward the mountains, or maybe south to Brantley Lake. As he drove he could still hear Jessye’s voice following him to the car. Don’t be lo-o-ong. He pushed the thought aside, reflecting as he did that one of these days, he was really going to have to stop thinking fleetingly of Jessye and then pushing the thought aside.
Diana Krall was on “Let’s Fall in Love” as he pulled into the SO parking lot and switched off the stereo. There were only a few squad cars parked around. It was always pretty quiet on a Sunday, although that didn’t mean crime observed the Sabbath any more respectfully in Riverside than it did anyplace else. During the course of the day, apart from the usual slew of traffic citations, RPD might also have to deal with anything from drive-by shootings to DWIs, burglaries to domestic violence. The duty officers responsible for County law enforcement – one sergeant and three deputies on each shift – would be processing current cases and updating paperwork on earlier ones. In a typical month, that would involve raising paper on maybe fifty or sixty cases ranging from shoplifting to rape.
Before going to his office, Easton checked in at the jail, breathing a small sigh of relief when he saw the deputy on duty in the receiving office was Jim Carmody. At least he didn’t have to deal with a surly Jack Basso this morning.
“How’s our star prisoner?” he asked Carmody.
“Fine,” Jim said sourly. “Now.”
Easton grinned. “He wake you early, Jim?”
“Someone shoulda warn’ me,” Carmody grumbled. “Hollerin’ and carryin’ on lahk that. Soun’ like two hawgs tryin’a sing Gospel.”
“He probably feels the same way about the Creed,” Easton said. “Listen, when you change shift, tell whoever takes over that anyone wanting to see Ironheel– and I mean anyone and any reason – they have to clear it with me first. Okay?”
Carmody nodded his understanding. Another deputy might have pointed out that in SO’s chain of command, several people could veto or simply ignore Easton’s order – Joe Apodaca, Wally Paul, and Olin McKittrick for openers. But initiative wasn’t Jim Carmody’s forte. Give him an order and he carried it out.
The welcome chill of the office air-conditioning embraced Easton as he came in through the door and said hello to Martina, the relief dispatcher. He saw Tom Cochrane at his desk and crooked a finger. Cochrane got up and followed him into his office. Today, he was wearing a dark gray lightweight suit, a crisp white shirt and striped tie.
“Hot,” he said, sprawling into one of Easton’s beaten-up armchairs. He looked like he didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Weatherman says it’s going to hit a hundred again.”
“Ginger peachy,” Easton said, so sourly that Cochrane looked up sharply.
“S’up?”
Easton made a forget-it gesture. “Anything new on the Casey murder?” he asked.
Cochrane made a face. “Nada,” he said.
“You talk to Kit?”
He nodded. “Ralph, too.”
Ralph Twitchell was the high flying scion of a New Mexico First Family. His father had been one of the State’s most famous artists, his mother the daughter of a signer of the Bill that gave New Mexico Statehood in 1912. As well as being on the board of Casey’s Mescalero Corporation and chairman of the Rotary, Ralph presently held the position of Director of Parks and Recreations in Riverside, second highest-paid officer on the city payroll. He was being groomed for higher things. Senatorial things, they said.
“They must be w
recked.”
Tom shook his head sadly. “Absolutely. I hated to even bring the subject up. Kit looked god-awful.”
I ought to go see her, Easton thought. The problem was he and Ralph Twitchell loathed each other, had done ever since Robert Casey consigned Easton’s romance with Kit Casey to history. What followed was no contest: Ralph had the pedigree Casey wanted, and he photoshopped Easton out of the picture without a second thought. Their mutual dislike still got in the way once in a while socially, but not enough to bother anyone.
“Were they able to help at all?”
Cochrane took a deep breath and let it out as a resigned sigh.
“Na. Hell, it was hurting Kit just to talk about it. So I didn’t push too hard.”
“So, nothing.”
Cochrane nodded. “And nothing anyplace else, either. I got to tell you, Dave, spite of what McKittrick says, we got to get some kind of a break on this case or Ironheel could walk free.”
“Maybe he will,” Easton said. It must have been the way he said it, because Tom Cochrane’s eyes narrowed.
“You made that sound like, ‘maybe he should,’” he observed.
Easton met his eyes and held them. Right now he desperately needed someone he could trust, and Tom Cochrane was a rock. You couldn’t shock him, you couldn’t impress him, you couldn’t anger him.
“I need a favor, Tom,” Easton told him. “Two favors. No questions asked.”
Cochrane didn’t hesitate. “Go ahead.”
“Number one, there’s a payphone up at the Frontier motel. Jerry Weddle used it to make a couple of calls just before he was killed. RPD may have already done it but if not, get on to Ma Bell and see if they can give us the numbers. It would have been around seven, seven thirty.”
“And number two?”
“I want you to get a camera and an evidence kit. Go out to Garcia Flat. Way up the gully, past where the bodies were, say a mile, anyway as far as you can.”
Cochrane frowned. “Looking for what?”
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