Apache Country (10 page)

“You expect me to answer that on the
record?”

The reporter grinned. “Okay, off the
record.”

“Then yes, it’s unusual. James Sánchez said
much the same thing – it’s more like a hit. But whether it’s
significant ...” He gave a shrug.

“Well, there goes my lead,” Thorne grinned
resignedly. “Thanks, anyway, Dave. I’ll check if James has anything
else after the Chief leaves.”

“Good plan,” Easton said, and left the
reporter looking ruefully across the parking lot to where Chief
Saunders stood in the harsh light of the police floods, mopping his
forehead with a bandanna. William Conrad, Easton remembered. That
was the name of the actor who played Cannon in the TV series.

He eased the Jeep through the scatter of
parked police vehicles and out of the parking lot. There was still
a knot of spectators outside the motel entrance; he felt the heat
of their eyes, the weight of their prurience. Most of them were
elderly, probably drawn here by news of the killing on late evening
TV. He wondered what their reaction would be if he wound down the
window and shouted “Get a life!” Probably just stare at him
uncomprehendingly, like, What’s his problem?

He headed south on Main. Traffic was heavier
now; people were going out to dinner or the movies or shopping or
bowling. The frozen yogurt shop was crowded with kids. The parking
lot outside the Red Lobster was full. The light breeze was still
warm, the street lights and the hoardings, the brightly lit
buildings, and the myriad stars in the huge night sky above were
the same as always. Nothing had changed, except that Jerry Weddle
had said the long goodbye.

As he drove downtown the same questions kept
repeating themselves over and over in Easton’s brain. Was it just
coincidence? Or could there be a connection between Weddle’s death
and the deaths of Robert Casey and his grandson? Who else had the
lawyer called from the motel? And why? How did James Ironheel fit
into all this? What could he have told Weddle that so electrified
him? The questions raced through his mind like minnows pursued by
pike.

But no answers came.

Joe Apodaca was sitting in his office with
his chair tilted back, feet on the window sill, staring gloomily
out at the dark parking lot. As Easton came in, he swung his feet
down and swiveled around in the chair. The frown that furrowed his
forehead made him look harassed and out of sorts.

“Confucius say, ‘The deeper the thoughts, the
tougher the swimming’,” Easton said.

Apodaca made a sour face. “Screw him,” he
said. “You want coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Apodaca got up, making that Uhhaahhh sound
older people do, and the moment took Easton slightly by surprise:
Somehow he never consciously thought of the sheriff as old. Yet the
evidence was there: the dark liver spots on the backs of the hands,
the larger one at the right temple, the faint tremor when he lifted
his coffee cup.

He sat down in the visitor chair as Apodaca
got two mugs and filled them, handed one to him, shook some Sweet
and Low into his own cup, then sat down and leaned back, his eyes
watchful. They always were.

“Thought you might like an update on Weddle,”
Easton said.

Joe nodded. “Just had a call from Ab
Saunders. He said you were up there.”

The question was implicit. “According to Hal
Sweeney, after Weddle talked to Ironheel he left like his ass was
on fire. I wanted to ask him why. But I got there too late.”

“Why didn’t you just call him?”

“Wish I had,” Easton said. “But I wanted to
be able to watch his face.”

Apodaca understood that. A lot of law
enforcement officers felt the same way.

“Ab says it’s looking like a walk-in,” he
said, again making the question implicit.

“They were still processing the scene when I
left,” Easton replied, but it was no use. The sheriff spotted the
evasion immediately. He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward,
his eyes narrowing.

“Something you don’t like about it?”

“There’s something doesn’t fit, but I just
can’t pin it down,” Easton said, letting the frustration show.
“Look, Weddle drives over here from Albuquerque, stranger in town,
doesn’t know a soul. He talks to Ironheel for ten, fifteen minutes
and next thing you know he’s burning rubber getting back to his
motel. First thing he does when he gets there is call Charlie
Goodwin, tell him he’s got to talk to him right away.”

“How do you know he called Goodwin?”

“Charlie was at the scene. He found the
body.”

“You questioned him?”

Easton grinned. “Ab Saunders hadn’t arrived
yet.”

“Obviously,” Joe said and smiled. “Did
Goodwin say what Weddle wanted to talk to him about?”

“Weddle wouldn’t tell him over the phone.
Just said it was very important.”

“And then?”

“According to Judy Ramirez, Weddle made
another call. Not from his room, mind, from a pay phone in the
lobby. That’s it. Half an hour later, he’s dead.”

“Judy know who the second call was to?”

“No. But she said it was real short, probably
local.”

Joe made an impatient sound. “Great,” he
growled. “That cuts it down to around thirty thousand possibles,
right?”

“Quit grinding your gears, Joe,” Easton said.
“It’s not our case. Not yet, anyway.”

“You think it will be?”

Easton nodded. “I reckon.”

Apodaca finished his coffee and put the cup
down. His face was pensive, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. He
ran a hand through his short cropped hair.

“So there’s no use getting our balls in an
uproar till we have to, that what you’re saying?”

“Right.”

“Ab Saunders assigned anyone to it?”

“Not while I was out there. I guess he
figured James Sánchez can handle whatever needs doing tonight.”

Neither of them spoke for about a minute.
Easton sipped his coffee and watched the sheriff’s face but he
couldn’t guess what he was thinking. so he waited, the way he had
learned to wait around Joe Apodaca. After a little while the
sheriff became conscious of his waiting regard and made an
irritable sound.

“What?” he said irritably. “What?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that ‘nothing’ routine. I’m
the one taught you this racket, remember? You and your goddam
hunches. It’s written all over your face, you think there’s a
connection here. You’re thinking, maybe Ironheel told Weddle
something, something he hasn’t told us. And that’s what set
Weddle’s pants on fire.”

Easton lifted a shoulder. “Tell me what else
it could have been.”

He could see the thoughts going around in
Joe’s head but still couldn’t guess what they were. Six, eight
years ago, he thought, I might have been able to. They had been
that close then. But somewhere along the way things had changed.
There was a distance between them now that hadn’t been there
before. And without a word ever having been said, both of them knew
it.

“Well,” Joe said, putting his cup down with a
bang. “There’s an easy way to find out. Let’s you and me go across
the street and ask him.”

Easton opened his mouth to point out that so
far nobody had gotten much information out of Ironheel, but the
angry expression on Joe’s face told him he would be wasting his
time. Outside, the traffic sounds over on Main were muted by the
soft evening warmth. They crossed the street to the jail. As the
sheriff banged through the door Easton saw Hal Sweeney hastily
stuffing the copy of Penthouse he had been reading into a desk
drawer.

“Jesus Criminy, Sheriff,” the deputy
complained. “You made me jump! Something wrong?”

“You heard about the lawyer getting killed?”
Joe said. “Weddle?”

“It was on the Channel Eight news,” Hal said.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. I mean, Jesus Criminy, the guy
was just in here a couple hours ago.”

“Where’d he talk to Ironheel?” Joe said. “In
the cell?”

“He did at first,” Hal said. “Then he asked
to use the interview room.”

“Interesting,” Apodaca said thoughtfully.

Interesting was the right word, Easton
thought. Weddle would have known the interview room was sanctum
sanctorum, guaranteed free of listening devices. His asking to use
it suggested whatever he and Ironheel had talked about, it had been
something he didn’t want anyone in SO to know.

“Okay, Hal,” he said, “open him up.”

Sweeney got up heavily out of his chair and
took the keycard out of its locked metal cabinet. As they followed
him down the corridor, hollow echoes of their footsteps bounced off
the walls. A drunk in the tank was snoring thunderously. The other
prisoner in there with him called out something as they passed but
they ignored him. The gate of Ironheel’s cell gave off a dull
metallic clang as Sweeney slid it back and they went in.

Ironheel was lying on his cot with his right
arm across his eyes. As the cell door noisily opened, he rolled
over on to his side and onto his feet in one fluid movement that
was not lost on Easton. He didn’t look like he might try to make
another break for it, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. He was
muscular, fit and hard, and as the State troopers had already found
out, if he chose to, he could be all the trouble you could use. He
stared at them unblinkingly, his face showing nothing.

“This is Sheriff Apodaca, Ironheel,” Easton
said. “Afraid we’ve got some bad news for you.”

Ironheel waited, saying nothing, his dark
eyes fixed intently on Joe Apodaca, as if he was trying to memorize
every feature of his face. Apodaca stared back. There was a
palpable tension in the air.

“The lawyer who came to see you earlier. He
was killed a couple of hours ago. Murdered.”

Ironheel’s expression remained impassive, but
Easton, who was watching his eyes, saw them register shock. He
remembered Grita saying Apache don’t let their emotions show a lot
at the best of times, and especially not around the pinda’ lick’
oye. Ironheel wasn’t giving anyone anything he didn’t have to.

“Murdered?” he asked gruffly. “How? Who
killed him?”

“We don’t know yet. Right after he left here,
somebody walked into his motel room, robbed him and shot him dead,”
Apodaca said.

Ironheel sat down slowly on the metal cot,
his eyes averted, brow furrowed. He raised his left hand, palm out,
as if to say, wait. But Joe Apodaca wasn’t in a waiting mood.

“The RO says after he talked to you, Weddle
went out of here like his ass was on fire,” he said. “You want to
tell us why?”

Ironheel remained silent, but Easton detected
a flicker of anger in his eyes. Apache courtesy was to respect the
other man’s silences, always give him time to add an afterthought,
a footnote, before responding. When Ironheel gave no indication
that he was going to reply, he saw the sheriff wrestling with his
impatience – and losing.

“I asked you a question, mister,” Apodaca
growled.

He wasn’t handling this well, Easton thought.
He stepped in quickly with what he hoped might be a softener.

“Did you maybe tell Weddle something you
haven’t told us?” he asked. “Did you ask him to call someone?”

For a moment Joe Apodaca looked away and as
he did Ironheel shook his head infinitesimally. Easton again
thought he saw a message in his eyes, a sort of warning, and felt
an odd shock of surprise. Was Ironheel trying to tell him
something? And if so, what?

“He said not to talk to anyone unless he was
present,” Ironheel said. “Doo k’a han. Nobody.”

“That was then,” Apodaca rasped. “This is
now. Whatever it was you talked about may well turn out to be
material evidence in a murder investigation. I want to know
everything that was said. So start talking.”

There was a rule every interrogator knew: if
you don’t have a sanction, don’t make a threat. Apodaca’s ultimatum
was unenforceable bluster. He knew it, but even worse, Ironheel
knew it, too. The Apache’s chin came up maybe an inch. There was no
apprehension whatsoever in his expression. They were like two
fighters sizing each other up, Easton thought. Then Ironheel shook
his head and looked away, and Apodaca lost it.

“Look at me when I talk to you, goddamnit!”
he snapped.

Ironheel’s head snapped around, his
expression twisted with anger.

“Or what?” he blazed. “You gonna lock me
up?”

There was something going on here Easton
could not account for. The sheriff’s aggressiveness was out of
character, the electricity he was generating entirely
counter-productive. Joe’s usual tactic was to meet intransigence,
even overt hostility, with guile. Yet here he was alienating
Ironheel so completely that if the situation wasn’t defused they
might never get another peep out of him. Better step in before the
door was shut for good, he thought. He put his hand on the
sheriff’s shoulder.

“Joe,” he said, very quietly.

Apodaca whirled to glare at him angrily, a
vein at the side of his forehead throbbing visibly. Then after what
seemed like a very long moment he let out his breath in a long
sigh, and his shoulders slumped as if he had suddenly realized he
was exhausted. He made a go-ahead gesture with his right hand.

“Yeah, right,” he whispered.

Easton stepped between the two men. “Nobody’s
going to strongarm you, Ironheel,” he said quietly. “Nobody, I
promise. Whatever you and your lawyer talked about was strictly
between the two of you and you’re under no obligation to tell
anybody what it was. But if anything he said, or anything you told
him, will help us catch the person who killed him, it’s in your own
interest to tell us.”

Ironheel turned his back on Joe Apodaca and
as he faced him, Easton again thought he detected some kind of
entreaty in his eyes. But what was he asking for, what was he
trying to say?

“We didn’t talk long.” Ironheel spoke slowly,
as if he was choosing each word carefully. “He just asked what
happened. About finding the billfold. About the arrest and what
happened with the State Police. He explained about the arraignment.
Said he’d ask for bail but he didn’t think he’d get it. Asked me if
there was anyone he should call.”