Nightzone (16 page)

He corralled Estelle, and they conferred for a while. The smart thing for me to do was force a recharge, pry myself out of the truck, and look productive. I was in the process of prying when the two Posadas cops found me.

“You okay?” the sheriff asked as he and Estelle climbed into the SUV.

“Fine,” I lied. “I was about to look for a couple of toothpicks.” If he understood the lame joke, he didn't react, but I earned a sympathetic smile from Estelle.

“Mitchell has a list of names to work on,” Torrez said.

“I'm eager to hear about that,” I lied again. Raising a hand to include all the human shadows still drifting here and there, I added, “I'm not sure why you dragged my sorry carcass all the way down here. What can I tell you?”

“Any ideas are welcome,” Estelle said.

“If I had any. You have a clever, opportunistic son-of-a-bitch at work here. I have to wonder how he knew that this place was even here—unless he lived in Deming. If he didn't know the bike was inside, what was the attraction, other than a place to ditch the truck that
might
not be discovered for who knows how long? And when he sees the bike, he dumps the chain saw, the devious little bastard. What, he's planning to come back for it? And I have to wonder, now what? Where is he headed on that Harley? I assume that's what it was, since old gray beard over there doesn't look like he'd own anything else. And our man is an experienced rider, obviously, since a neophyte doesn't just hop a Harley and avoid killing himself in the first hundred yards. And that's if he can even get it started.” I took a deep breath, more of a sigh. Estelle and Bobby waited patiently. “I assume you have all the particulars on the bike from its owner.”

“Yep.”

“Stored with a full tank? Key in the ignition?”

“Damn near.” Torrez gazed at me thoughtfully. “He had a spare key in one of those little dealios stashed in the saddlebag.”

“Clever. I would always do that, myself.”

“Natural enough to look there,” the sheriff observed, not responding to my sarcasm.

“How did he pop the door? What's the owner say?”

“He forgot to lock it.”

“Forgot?
With a twenty thousand-dollar bike inside?” I shouldn't have been surprised—I'd forget my middle name if it weren't secured on my driver's license. And I'd misplaced that more than once, too.

“He says that if it isn't locked, the door will eventually drift up a bit. Wind buffets it.”

“So our man turns off the main drag, because why?”

Torrez shrugged. “Maybe he saw a cop car. Maybe he wanted a cup of coffee at the Miami.” From where I stood, I could see the coffee shop at the intersection with East Pine Street. Had the killer pulled in there, or swerved out of sight there, about the first thing he'd see was this storage facility just down the street.

“A quick thinker,” I said. “He's got to know that Kenderman would have radioed in
something.
I mean, a description of the vehicle is pretty basic. The killer feels exposed, and wants to get rid of it just as fast as possible. Things worked out for him.”

Torrez grunted something uncomplimentary.

“An APB is out for the Nissan,” Estelle regarded the storage unit skeptically. “Up to now, anyway, no one's going to give a Harley a second look, so a trade makes sense.” She turned and nodded at me. “He knew this was here, didn't he?” Seeing my raised eyebrow, she added, “Head straight for Deming after the shooting. That's what he did. He knows he needs another vehicle. He
can't
know that Kenderman called in such a vague description, so he assumes we're looking for him. He didn't find this place by accident.”

“Why not steal a car in Posadas?”

“Exactly so. He didn't run that risk. Maybe he didn't know how.”

“Not everyone does,” I said. “Hell, I couldn't. I'd scrunch down to look at the snarl of wires under the dash and get stuck there. It only works in the movies.”

“We got us a new direction to go,” Torrez announced abruptly, and he sounded more confident than I felt. “Smith is sweatin' it out.”

“Steal a man's Harley, and he's not going to be a happy camper.”

“Yeah, well, that's one story,” the sheriff said. “He had a little trouble finding the registration, but he finally came up with it. When he handed it to me, his hand was shakin'.”

“You make people nervous, Bobby,” I said, but I knew where he was headed with this. “You think the bike wasn't stolen?”

“Nope. I think our boy knew the bike was here.”

“The door unlocked just for him?”

Torrez nodded. A little tingle of progress does great things for the attitude, and I found myself jolted wide awake. “Now wait a minute,” I protested. “That means the killer
knew
there was a chance that he might need wheels—something beyond his friend's truck. Why something like this that might just as easily screw him up?”

“It might not have been planned this way,” Estelle said quietly. “He didn't plan to see Curt Boyd die at the scene. That was a freak accident. They had planned to cut, and run.” She held up a hand. “And Curt dies, and at that moment, that very moment, his whole game plan had to change. He's near to panic. If he can just get out of town, maybe he can cover his tracks. So that's what he does. He leaves the scene, concentrating on that. And what happen?.”

“Kenderman,” I said.

“That's right. And remember, here's a guy with a lot to hide. The killer can try and talk his way out. When Curt Boyd died, that
does
make him a killer…the simple route of death during a felony, which chopping poles certainly is.” I had rarely heard Estelle so adamant. “Our man has a gun, just in case. And that takes us right back to the whole issue of having nerves and triggers. He might not have
meant
to shoot Kenderman, but the gun went off one way or another.”

“I'd go for that,” Torrez agreed. “Like Baum shootin' Jackie…maybe.”

“Everything goes to hell, and now he's got a cop shooting on his hands,” I said. “What if that's the time that he uses his cell phone and calls his buddy, Mr. Smith. Cruces is too far, too much exposure on the highway. Deming is close. It's a good gamble he can make it before the net closes. The rest follows.” I looked across at the storage unit. “Better to hide it here than just park the damn thing on a side street, I suppose.”

Across the street, the group of observers were still enjoying the show. I could see Smith, his beard flopping as he no doubt recounted his conversation with the Posadas sheriff.

“Except numb nuts over there called the cops to report his bike stolen,” I said. “Why would Smith do that, except maybe a clever move to get himself off the hook?”

“He ain't too clever,” Torrez said. “But I think that's exactly what he did.”

“Especially when he comes to understand what the words ‘conspiracy' and ‘complicity' mean. You're going to pull him in?”

Torrez looked at his watch. “This is the lieutenant's turf, so he's going to organize a little party for us. We'll give Smith a couple of hours to sweat, and then Martinez will give him a back-seat ride down to the P.D. We'll see what we can get out of him.” He almost smiled. “We'll see if he understands those fancy words.”

I felt a weary, sinking sensation blossom. The sheriff and undersheriff would want to be in Deming when Brandon Smith took the hot seat and spilled the beans, and there didn't seem much point in a fast twenty-minute return trip back to Posadas, unless they were just extending the courtesy to me. That was a good idea, come to think of it.

“So,” I said. “What did you actually want from me? I wasn't much help to you.”

“Thought you might be interested,” the sheriff said lamely.

“Horseshit,” I scoffed. “You don't drag somebody out of bed in the middle of the night just because he might be
interested
.”

Bobby actually checked his watch, apparently to see if my “middle of the night” estimate was accurate. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Estelle.

“One of the nurses at Las Cruces told the cops that she talked to a guy who fitted George Baum's description just a few minutes before his father died,” Estelle said. “He wanted to get into the I.C. to talk to the old man. They wouldn't let him. There was a bit of an argument, apparently.”

“That's what Bobby told me over the phone. So we know where he is now.”

“No, sir, we don't. The nurse did say that in the heat of the moment, George Baum became verbally abusive and she was about to call hospital security when he left abruptly. Lots of threats, sir. He ranted about the shooter taking a walk away from charges. That would be you, sir.”

“Yep, I do that all the time,” I said. “Comes with the turf.”

“That's true. But he said something about not letting that happen this time. Until we know where
he
is, we'll feel better knowing where
you
are.”

“What, he was threatening me? Surely not,” I said in mock horror. If I had a dollar for every time I had been threatened in my long career, I'd have a hell of an IRA.

“This could be serious, sir. The nurse heard him mutter, ‘The man who did this.'”

“It never occurred to him that his dad earned what he got?”

“I'm sure the discussion with the nurse didn't go there, sir. And I'm considering George Baum's track record for bad decisions when it comes to relationships.”

Irked, I shifted in my seat. “What, I need babysitting now?” Somehow, hearing myself sound angry and petulant made me even more so, but Bobby Torrez, never a talker in the best of times, said just the right thing. He huffed what might have been a chuckle, and glanced my way.

“It's for his own safety,” he said. “If he does something stupid…”

“He'll cool off,” I said.

“We can hope so,” Estelle said. “In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to be careful.”

“We don't want him becomin' another notch on your six-gun,” the sheriff said.

Chapter Seventeen

Now that the possibility of a threat lingering in the shadows had been mentioned, I had no trouble staying wide awake for the rest of the ride to Posadas, brief as it was. I wasn't worried about George Baum—statistics said that nothing would come of his threats as time scabbed some of his emotional wounds. There wasn't much I could do about his threat anyway, other than stay vigilant.

I did stew about a killer on the loose. If the bearded idiot in Deming, Brandon Smith, was a fat-faced liar and indeed knew the killer, why didn't he just help him ditch the truck somewhere innocuous, and then give him a ride back to Las Cruces—or whereever it was that he wanted to go? Because a man on a motorcyle raised fewer suspicions? Perhaps. I had a hard time imagining a Harley owner loaning out his bike to anyone other than a cherished best friend, another veteran bike rider.

Decades in law enforcement had taught me that people often did really, really stupid things, especially when under duress. Unless Perry Kenderman's killer was a habitual assassin, then he certainly was under duress. He'd seen the blood and brains fly, he'd seen the officer stagger a step or two backward, already dead before he toppled to the ground. Plenty of duress. When the killer drove away into the night, it's a wonder that he was even capable of shifting the little Nisssan. His breathing would be coming in gasps, with heart pounding, blood pressure off the scale, his hands sweaty. All of that would work in our favor.

But…did one man willingly let another take his Harley? More likely to loan out his wife. He did have the presence of mind to remove the saw, puzzling though it was that at that moment, the saw loomed as so important to save. Maybe he had other poles to whack.

The dash clock announced 4:00 as we wheeled down the Interstate ramp into Posadas. Grande Boulevard, a four-lane artery designed and built in grander times, was empty. Torrez swung off and wound through the naked cottonwoods to Guadalupe, and pulled into my driveway.

“You're headed back to Deming right away?” I asked. Torrez had already opened his door even before I'd managed to release my shoulder harness. Maybe he was inviting himself in for coffee.

“Pretty quick,” he said, and shot the beam of his flashlight into the shadows beside the garage and through the grove of runt elms and brambles that formed my elegant landscaping and windbreak. He slipped through the gate to my courtyard and tried the front door.

“I have keys,” I called.

“Just hold your horses.”

I turned and looked at Estelle, who was busy listening. The sheriff slipped around behind the house, and reappeared from behind the garage.

“Okay,” he said, and halted at the front door.

“You really think so?” I smiled at him as I jingled the key ring. The front door opened with its usual loud wail of dry hinges. The sudden discharge of air from the quiet adobe told me only that I'd left the coffeemaker on.

“What were you planning to do today?” Estelle's voice was quiet at my shoulder, and she knew me well enough to know the answer to that question. I didn't schedule my days, instead welcoming the sometimes unexpected flow from one thing to another. “It might be good if you were to stick close to home.”

“So I'm easier to find, you mean?”

She touched my arm gently. “At least keep your radio handy.”

“That I can do.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“You bet. But first it's breakfast. And then I'm thinking I might cruise on out and have another talk with Miles Waddell. I have lots of questions, still.” I followed her into my house, and she did a quick circuit from room to room.

“I feel as if I'm enrolled in the Witness Protection Program,” I growled. “You can stop snooping for hidden contraband now. And Baum will never find me out on the mesa.”

“Did you know your coffeemaker is on and dry?”

“Yes.” I shucked my coat and slipped the holstered revolver off my belt. It hit the hallway bench with a heavy thud.

The sheriff appeared in the doorway. He glanced at his watch and then beckoned Estelle. And then he paused. “You going to take Waddell up on his offer?”

“Which offer is that?”

“Workin' security?”

I laughed. “No. I don't know what you heard, or from who, but that wasn't the offer. He wants me to just roam around the project, keeping my eyes open.”

“Security.”

“No. You know, he's already heard from one firm—some company up in Colorado that wants that job. And I told him that's the direction he ought to go, but,” and I shrugged, “he doesn't want a bunch of storm troopers.”

“Long as we don't have to run out to that mesa every ten minutes.” He started to close the door. “If you head out that way, watch your step.” He nodded at the holstered revolver snuggled into my wadded up jacket. “And don't leave that at home.”

As the heavy Expedition crunched out of my driveway, the old house fell deeply silent. Heavy lidded, I caved in to the decadence of doing it right. I even shucked my clothes and tossed them in the hamper for my housekeeper to find, relishing the cool sheets and soft pillow. Insomnia lost that round.

I awoke so hungry the pillow might have tasted good. And no wonder. The bedside clock announced that it was ten minutes after twelve, and the little amber am-pm light said afternoon. My bedroom was so dark, and on the northwest side of the house, that the sun didn't intrude through the single window with its heavy royal-blue curtains. I'd missed breakfast, and if I didn't stir soon, I'd miss lunch.

After shower, shave, and fresh clothes, I looked and felt ready to greet the day. The scorched coffee carafe went in the trash, a new one from the stash in the pantry, and I was in business. The mail had already arrived, and among the avalanche of catalogs and grocery store flyers was the
Posadas Register.

“Oh, come on,” I grumbled, because there I was below the fold, in a candid photo snapped who the hell knows when, talking with the sheriff, who towered over me by a foot, and State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams, who was wearing his grim state investigator's face as he looked over his left shoulder at something. Just visible to one side was the mammoth slab side of Baum's RV. The photo was all right—I looked more or less alert, posture pretty good. It had been taken long after both the shooter and Sergeant Taber had been removed from the scene. The headline had prompted the groan.

Shotgun blast Wounds Posadas Deputy,

Former Sheriff Shoots Armed Assailant

I flipped the paper over and there was the rest of the day's happy news, blared in a screamer headline and kicker that stretched across six columns.

Local Man Dies During Attack on Power Grid,

Long-Time Posadas Cop killed as Terrorist Flees

Reading as I returned to the kitchen, I saw that Frank Dayan had gathered his facts pretty damn accurately, and his chair-bound editor, Pam Gardner, had penned the thorough story with a minimum of editorial intrusion.

I skidded to a stop toward the end of the Baum story. “Well, shit,” I muttered.

County Commission Chairman Dr. Arnold Gray has announced that he will be seeking a commendation for Sheriff Gastner's quick response as a civilian.

“Although this is a tragic incident, it could have been far worse had Sheriff Gastner not responded as he did. To step into the line of danger is downright heroic, and Sheriff Gastner deserves our sincere thanks.”

“Well shit,” I muttered again. “Just leave it alone.” The lead story—it had been a great week for Dayan's little newspaper—was liberally laced with “allegedly,” “according to…” and “police said.” And small wonder, since the story was such a tangled web.

“Police said” that Curt Boyd was working with an accomplice, and “allegedly” whacked down three sets of power poles carrying 42,500 volts on six lines. The resulting damage, “police said,” had caused major power losses for all of western Posadas County, and much of southwestern New Mexico and portions of eastern Arizona.

“Investigation is continuing” into Boyd's death, although “Police said” that it appeared Boyd had been somehow struck by one of the toppling structures.

Two dramatic photos were featured, including one of the massive, jagged power pole balanced precariously over the fence post near the cattle guard. Another showed Estelle examining one of the stumps.

What was missing from the story was the “why.” Dayan and his editor had refused to speculate on the reason for the vandalism, but they hadn't missed the possible connection with Miles Waddell's mesa venture.

On the left side of the front page, a showy little story, boxed in a fancy border, announced that the power line vandalism would not slow Miles Waddell's
NightZone
project. The brief story ended with a little italicized squib directing the reader to “
see related story, page 3.”
Dayan was getting a metro paper complex.

I opened the paper and my eyebrows shot up in surprise. Miles Waddell had obviously come to some decisions, going on the offensive. A full page headline bellowed, “
NightZone Attracts Power Scope Project!”
An exclamation point, no less.

Settling at the little counter with a full cup, I scanned the article, which featured a canned photo of the California radio telescope, noted as being “identical to the historic dish in Lucerne, Switzerland.” With a dish spanning sixty-five meters, and with an on-line weight of 1,150 tons, the telescope would be the largest of its kind in the continental United States
.
Always the good news for strapped communities, as many as twenty-two people would be eventually employed at the radio telescope facility.

Several “Waddell said” paragraphs announced the proposed restaurant, the museum, the theater, the five linked observatories for tourists' viewing, the tramway to the mesa-top, the basic plans for coping with the combined challenge of tipsy tourists and darkness. The rancher had spilled his plans to Dayan, holding nothing back. There was so much detail in the story that I suspected Waddell must have talked with Dayan long before the rancher corralled me on the mesa-top. Why hadn't he just said so? That irked me a little, and I wondered what other details had been withheld from my confidence.

Whether such complete publicity would be a strategy that worked to Waddell's advantage, or gave his opponents plentiful ammunition to kill the project, only time would tell.

I noticed that no mention was made, in any of the stories, about a locomotive chugging across ranch land to the
NightZone
mesa. Miles Waddell was becoming adept as a politician.