Dead Weight pc-8

by Steven F Havill

  I might as well have struck her between the eyes with a hammer. She paused with her thumb on the closure of the leather case, not wanting to take her eyes off me.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s exactly what I brought. You’ve already heard about it?”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” I said, and she reluctantly opened the case and withdrew the now-familiar piece of folded white typing paper. Without a word, she handed it across to me. With the exception of the Dear Miss Spears at the top, it was identical to those received by Sam Carter and Dr. Arnold Gray.

  I let the letter fall on the desk blotter, and I sat with one forearm resting on each side of it, regarding the damn thing.

  “Blah, blah, blah,” I said as I finished reading it. “Yes, I’ve seen this before.” I looked up at Leona Spears. “How was it delivered?”

  “Stuck in the screen door of my house.”

  “Huh. When you got home from work? What, about five, five-thirty?”

  “About then.”

  “May I have this?”

  “No,” she said instantly. “It was written to me.”

  Trying my best to keep the exasperation out of my voice, I said, “I’m sure you can appreciate that this could be evidentiary material.” I don’t know why I didn’t simply take the note as evidence, regardless of what this woman thought or wanted, but I suppose I was still trying, however ineffectually, to remain civil.

  “Yes, I know that. That’s why I don’t want it to go missing.”

  “Missing? Now that’s interesting. Why would it go missing?”

  “Really, Sheriff,” she said, favoring me with one of those skeptical sideways looks that’s supposed to say it all.

  “Really what? I’m going to steal this? And do what with it?” I took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I make a copy of it?”

  She nodded. “You can go ahead and do that.”

  “Excuse me for a minute, then,” I said.

  Ernie Wheeler cheerfully took the letter and went to sweet-talk the aging copier.

  I returned to my office and Leona Spears. “It’ll be just a minute. Deputy Wheeler has to wait for the stupid copier to warm up. About three minutes.” I sat down again. “So…”

  “So? What is the department doing about this? I assume that this Pasquale person-I don’t think I’ve ever met him-I assume he’s been placed on administrative leave?”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Choosing my words carefully, I said, “There is no reason to place Deputy Pasquale on administrative leave, Ms. Spears. The only intimations of any wrongdoing come in these anonymous letters.” I hesitated, glaring at Leona Spears without blinking. “That’s not reason enough to ruin a young man’s reputation, or his career.”

  “But you’re going to look into it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why would anyone do this sort of thing if it weren’t true?”

  “Oh, please, ma’am. I don’t mean to be evasive, Ms. Spears, but why would someone write those letters if the allegations were true? You express considerable interest in law enforcement procedures. If you had concrete evidence of wrongdoing on the part of an officer, would it make sense to write these cute little letters to various politicians?” I could see Leona rolling that one around in her thick skull, and I felt a surge of optimism. “Remember that it’s an election year,” I added.

  Ernie Wheeler rapped on the door, then stepped in and handed me the papers. I started to hand the original back to Leona, but she waved it off.

  “Oh, keep it,” she said.

  “Thanks. I look at it this way: Somebody knows you pretty well. You receive this letter, and you then write a scathing letter to the editor, making it public. The publicity doesn’t do us any good, that’s for sure. Undersheriff Torrez will pay the price, that’s for double sure. Unless, of course, it becomes clear that the letters are a sham and that you were taken for a ride. Then it’s you who will be made to look foolish.” I shrugged and held up my hands helplessly. “Either way, someone gains.”

  “Mike Rhodes.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It has to be him.”

  “No, Leona, it doesn’t. Sam Carter, Mike’s brother-in-law and a longtime Republican, also got the letter.” I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’d appreciate it if you’d just let it ride for the time being and let us sort it out. I’ll give you a receipt for this, and Deputy Wheeler witnessed the fact that you turned it over to our department. It’s not going to go missing or be ignored, I assure you.”

  “All right,” Leona said, and patted her attache case as if it still contained more good stuff. She stood up and looked at her watch. “God,” she muttered. “And I have to get up in the morning and go to El Paso.”

  “Drive carefully,” I said. “And thanks for stopping by.”

  As the two of us left my office, Ernie Wheeler rose, waited for Leona Spears to walk out of earshot, and then said, “Sir, Grace Sisson just pulled into her driveway.”

  “Good. Who’s on tonight?”

  “Pasquale and Abeyta. Bob’s on, too, but he asked not to be called unless there was an emergency. He was going to track something down…he didn’t say what.”

  “Ah,” I said. Bob Torrez would pad around his curiosities like a big, methodical cat until the variables were sorted out to his satisfaction. “Did he already arrange to have someone stay in the Sissons’ neighborhood for a while to make sure we know about it if either Grace goes somewhere or someone drops by to see her?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s got Tony Abeyta parked over there.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Maybe they’ll get some rest for a bit.”

  It would be better, in the last few hours of her privacy, for Grace Sisson to think that the world was going to leave her alone.

  I walked back into my office and closed the door. Leona Spears’ fragrance lingered in the room, and I walked to the desk, flipping through the Rolodex pages until I found the entry for Officer Michael Rhodes.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The black New Mexico State Police cruiser crunched to a stop beside 310. Behind us loomed the enormous pile of crusher fines that the state highway department was accumulating in anticipation of rejuvenating State Road 56 from Posadas to Regal. I could see the single dim light that marked the parking lot of Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon a quarter-mile to the northeast.

  Rhodes rested his arm on the window sill. He regarded me soberly. “Nice night.”

  And it was, the air softened and cooled by the storm earlier, the prairie fragrant. Rhodes lit a cigarette, and even the smoke from that smelled pretty good. A pair of headlights appeared to the south as a faint dot, and we sat and watched them bloom until the car, a light-colored Ford Taurus with out-of-state plates, flashed past, headed toward Posadas.

  “I talked with Leona Spears a bit ago,” I said.

  “Better you than me,” Rhodes said, and chuckled. He let his head sag back against the headrest. “I try to stay on the opposite side of the district from that woman. What’d she have to say for herself?”

  “Among other things, she wanted to give me this.” I handed the photocopy of Leona’s letter across. “Actually,” I added as Rhodes took the letter, “she didn’t want to give it to me at all, since she’s sure it’ll conveniently get lost.”

  The trooper snapped on a small flashlight and spread the letter out on his clipboard. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rhodes said as he read the brief message. “This is pretty dumb.” He snapped off the light and looked over at me. “Someone with too much free time, Sheriff.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “What’d Tom Pasquale have to say about it? Did you talk to him yet?”

  “He’s pissed,” I said. “But this isn’t the first. Your esteemed brother-in-law got one just like it. So did Arnie Gray and Frank Dayan.”

  Rhodes sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully. “And
that’s it?”

  “So far. Sam didn’t say anything about it to you?”

  Mike Rhodes grinned. “No,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. “You didn’t receive one?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or Jaramillo either?”

  I shook my head. “That I don’t know. I haven’t mentioned it to Jaramillo yet, or to anyone else in the DA’s office, or to Judge Hobart. And none of them has called me. And I think Don Jaramillo would have. Things like this make him nervous. I thought I’d wait a few hours and see what develops.”

  Rhodes laughed. “Jaramillo is too stupid to get nervous, Bill. And if Leona Spears had this, then you can guarantee that something will develop.”

  “She said she’d hold off.”

  “Oh, sure. The word of most politicians, I’ve come to discover, is about equal to dog shit.” He blew smoke with a hiss of exasperation. “Did you come up with any prints?”

  “The originals are being processed now. And just to make sure, to keep things out in the open, I asked the lab in Las Cruces to do the analysis. Not one of our own deputies.”

  “Ohhh,” Rhodes said, “the big irons.” He ground out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray. “So what’s the deal with Jimmy Sisson? He cut the wrong person’s water line or what?”

  “We don’t know yet. Something stinks, that’s for sure. Mama and the three kids went to Cruces, the oldest flew in from college, and then Mama and Jennifer skedaddled back here. I don’t know what’s going on. She had a row with her parents, that was pretty obvious.”

  “What’d she say when you talked to her?”

  “Not much…a lot like talking to a rattlesnake. I guess I thought that grief might temper her a little, and I even took Linda Real with me. She’s about the most upbeat person I know, and I guess I thought some of it might rub off on Grace. No such luck. Then her father, the good reverend, spilled the beans that Jennifer is pregnant, and that sent Mama into orbit again. I don’t know.”

  “Jennifer’s pregnant?”

  “That’s what Pastor Stevenson says. And Grace didn’t deny it. And that appears to be a more important issue to her right now than a dead husband.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  It was more than just casual amazement in Mike Rhodes’ tone, and I reached out and switched off 310. Rhodes did the same, and the silence sank down around us. The trooper reached across the seat, picked up his thermos of coffee, and thoughtfully unscrewed the steel top.

  “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” I waited for him to finish his housekeeping.

  “You know,” he said, and took a moment to light another cigarette. “You know who Jennifer Sisson hangs out a lot with, don’t you?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My nephew. Nephew-in-law, that is, if there is such a thing.”

  “Huh,” I said. “You’re talking about Kenneth Carter, Sam’s youngest?”

  “The one and only. Actually, I shouldn’t say ‘hangs out with,’ because I don’t know how far it goes. But I’ve seen them together a time or two.” He sipped the coffee thoughtfully. “I know Sam’s had his hands full with Kenny, but my wife’s always been able to talk to him. The understanding aunt thing, you know.”

  “Maybe things went a little too far, is how far they went,” I said, and Mike Rhodes laughed.

  “That’s possible. I’ve seen Jennifer Sisson only a time or two, but the impression I got was that she’d be happier out of her clothes than in.”

  I hesitated. “Mike, has Sam said anything to you about any of this?”

  The trooper chuckled at some private joke. “Sheriff, you need to understand something. Old Sammy and I don’t talk much.” He looked across at me. “Or to be more exact, I don’t talk to him much. Now, I’ll be the first one to admit that he’s the one who talked me into running for sheriff, and the wife and I talked it over and agreed that Posadas might be a pretty comfortable place to live. MaryBeth would like to be a little closer to her sister, and I think that I can do a pretty fair job as sheriff. But that’s it.” He took a deep drag of the cigarette, then blew the smoke across the coffee cup before sipping.

  “Sam Carter is one of those old-time politicians who’s into it for the sport of it, Sheriff. Everything he does is wheel-deal, you know what I mean? Hell, you have to work with him-you should know what I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s not my style. My name’s on the ticket, I’ll put up some signs, I might talk to a Rotary Club meeting. But I won’t make any promises to my brother-in-law or to anyone else.”

  “When’s your official date?”

  He knew exactly what I meant and replied like a man who was counting the days, hours, and minutes. “September first.” He sighed. “Twenty years on September first.”

  “And you’ll be ready,” I said.

  “Bet your ass, I’ll be ready. There’s politics in this business, too, you know.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  He leaned toward me and lowered his voice so the bunchgrass wouldn’t hear. “Just between you and me…” He paused and I nodded. “The first thing I’m going to do if I win is ask Bobby Torrez to be undersheriff. Two reasons. First is that he’s the best one for the job. Hell, he probably ought to be sheriff. Second is that it’ll tweak my old brother-in-law so bad that he won’t speak to me for a month.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” I said, laughing.

  “Nope, it wouldn’t. By the way, do you have someone checking the insurance angle?”

  “Sisson’s, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Life insurance policies are pretty handy things. It’s happened before.”

  “Sure it has,” I agreed. “Anything like that is going to come out sooner or later.”

  Rhodes nodded, screwed the cap back on his coffee, and started the patrol car. “Let me know what I can do for you, Bill. And be careful of Her Highness.”

  “Leona, you mean?”

  “Miss Spears, as my brother-in-law always calls her. He can’t ever get past the fact that the woman never married and refuses to stay home, barefoot and pregnant. But I don’t trust her, either. She lives in some sort of weird parallel universe, that’s for sure. Everything is an issue with that woman.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He reached up and pulled the transmission into drive. “And for what it’s worth,” he said as he let the patrol car inch forward, “I’ve seen Tom Pasquale working down here as often as anyone. I’ve backed him up on routine stops a couple dozen times over the years. He’s a straight arrow, Sheriff.”

  I lifted a hand in salute and watched the black Crown Victoria idle out onto the asphalt of State 56 and then accelerate toward Regal. I started 310 and then just sat, listening to the burble of the exhausts.

  The copy of Leona Spears’s letter was still lying on my lap, and I started to fold it up but then stopped and picked up my flashlight. The beam was harsh, but bright enough that my bifocals work. “Huh,” I muttered, and then twisted around to look off to the west. The taillights of Mike Rhodes’s car had disappeared around the twisting bends that snaked up to the pass outside Regal.

  “Neatly done, Officer Rhodes,” I said. “You aren’t such a bad politician yourself.” I pulled 310 out onto the highway and headed back toward Posadas.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By the time I pulled into my driveway, it was 1:15 in the morning. The thermometer that hung by the garage door read sixty-one degrees, the air cooled as it swept down from the rumbling thunderheads over the San Cristobals. That was the only benefit we were going to get, other than an occasional display of pyrotechnics as lightning lit the tops of the clouds.

  I went inside, and it was only as I was shouldering the massive carved front door closed that the wave of exhaustion rolled over me. I sat down on the Mexican banco and leaned my back against the cool adobe wall, hat held in both hands in my lap, both feet flat on the Saltillo tile of the foyer. I closed my ey
es.

  The comfort of a pot of fresh coffee was out in the kitchen, a mere two dozen paces away. Perhaps better yet, my tomb-quiet bedroom was just around a couple of rounded adobe corners. That presented a choice, though, and choices took energy. So I just sat, letting the peace and quiet of the night and my home seep into my tired joints.

  That was the worst decision of all, since I promptly dozed off. I started awake and would have sat bolt upright on the bench if I could, but every joint felt as if some sadist were tapping the bone with a sharp-pointed hammer.

  I pushed myself away from the wall and squinted at my watch, too tired even to curse my string of bad habits. The watch said 2:55. “The hell with it,” I said to the house, and struggled upright. My feet knew every wrinkle and hump in the tile, and without turning on any lights, I let them shuffle me to the bedroom. As I entered, I could smell the fresh linen. That meant that the day previous had been Wednesday, sure enough, and Jamie, my patient housekeeper, had been hard at work.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, tossed my hat toward the large wingback chair that I knew waited in the corner, swung my feet up and lay back, and prepared to let the cool fragrance play its magic.

  That’s all it took to complete the wake-up process. The weights slid off my eyelids and I lay staring at the spot in the darkness where the ceiling should be. As a last effort, I took off my glasses and laid them on the nightstand. All that accomplished was to turn the crisp three-inch numerals of the digital clock into an amorphous red fuzz.

  I knew exactly what was going to happen. I’d lie there, wide awake, initially taking some comfort in just stretching out. Eventually, some bone or muscle would twinge, and I’d shift position, beginning the endless flip-flopping that would finish with me rearing out of bed in disgust.

  That cycle hadn’t started yet, and I lay still, enjoying the silence. The longer I lay there, the more alert I became. In the narrow confines overhead, between the original dirt roof and the new composition structure added years later, some small animal scuttled back and forth. The beast didn’t have the nimble, delicate toe dance of a mouse but was more determined and draggy. I imagined it to be a skink, and every time the small lizard stopped, I tried to predict his course for the next move. I was wrong half the time.