Nightzone (20 page)

“I'd like your thoughts.”

“About what?”

She took a deep breath. “Just a sec.” She rose and retrieved the attaché case from the living room. “We're in a bit of a pickle,” she said as she sorted papers. “This is what I mentioned when you and I talked.” She selected a sheet and slid it across to Estelle. Nosy as ever, I leaned against her elbow and read the letter of application. Dated in early November of the previous year, the letter was professional in appearance, nicely centered and free of blotches and strikeovers, although in this computer age, anyone could be a perfect typist.

What interested me most was the closing. Elliot Daniel's signature was neat and intelligent, devoid of any extraneous swirls or embellishments.

“Well, son-of-a-bitch,” I said. Teresa shifted a little at my unchecked language, but she'd heard it all before. The letter's return address was the apartment in Las Cruces. Daniel's list of previous experience was brief, limited to fourteen months in the Air Force, four months with the United States Forest Service, and three as a private contractor for security services to Benson Fort Resort in Benson Fort, Florida. No education beyond high school was mentioned.

“As you can see, we received that on November 11
th
. We took no action on it other than a short form letter that basically said USR wasn't hiring at the moment.” She handed us another letter. “This one arrived in mid-January of this year.”

In the same professional format, this letter promised something specific: Miles Waddell's
NightZone
.
“Although I am currently prepared to work anywhere in the world in security operations, should United Security Resources extend service to the new mesa project in Posadas County, New Mexico, I would be in position to offer my immediate expertise to your firm.”

“What was your response to that?”

“A polite e-mail of disinterest,” she said. “Nothing more. Now, as it turns out, we had already posted Mr. Waddell a preliminary correspondence to express our interest in his project. There are some really interesting challenges there. But we're not hiring yet, or assigning existing staff in anticipation of anything. We haven't reached any sort of agreement with Mr. Waddell. At this point, all he has is a nice roadway up to the mesa-top, and several hundred survey flags stuck in the ground.”

“By the end of summer, it'll be a different story,” I said.

“Indeed. We hope so. It has potential to be a great addition to the county. And that puts us in a conundrum. First of all, we're not in the habit of sharing personnel files with law enforcement. Now granted, we're not priests or lawyers.” She smiled. “The notion of confidentiality is a little more fuzzy with us. But more important, I don't want Mr. Waddell to think that we're a bunch of vultures, jumping at the chance to make a profit out of someone's misfortune. He may not want—may not even
need—
what we're offering…
if
we make an offer.”

I stretched back. “It's apparent that he'll need something. There are rumors aplenty floating around the county, Mrs. Browning. If this power line incident is not just an isolated prank carried out by a bunch of jerks…”

“It's our impression that the anti-government movement, if it's serious enough to call it that, includes more blow-hards than not. A few of 'em will pick up the editorial pen, but there aren't many people who will pick up a gun, or a chain saw, and do the dirty work. This is what I think: I think that Mr. Daniel decided that if his prank delivered Miles Waddell's account to us, Daniel would stand a good chance of being hired. He's obviously had troubles keeping a job, but he's a calculator.”

“I'm curious how Daniel found out about the project,” Estelle said. “It's been my impression that Mr. Waddell has been just about as private as he could be with all of this.”

“If he talked with Boyd, there's a connection,” I said. “Boyd would know, since Waddell had talked with him or his father, or both, on more than one occasion. And really, all he needs to do is type in ‘security' on his search engine, and there we'll be. We don't hide.” She smiled. “Sometimes, I wish we did. We hear from some
unusual
people.”

“What does United Security want from us?” Estelle asked. “We're not even sure what Miles Waddell is going to end up with. If anything beyond a fancy roadway.”

Lynn nodded at the folder. “First of all, that's yours to keep. It includes everything we have, or received, related to Elliot Daniel. If it does you some good, fine.” She regarded Estelle thoughtfully. “I want
you
to know…the sheriff's department to know…that after talking to Mr. Waddell at some length out at the site today, that
NightZone
is a project that we're keenly interested in. It appears to us that he's making every effort to appeal to a broad base—not just a few stargazers, and not just a university program that's limited in scope. If Mr. Waddell accomplishes only a small fraction of his entire dream, it will be an impressive installation.” She nodded. “It'll also take some time for the general public to accept it for what it is.”

Estelle nodded, but said nothing.

“When the project is up and running, it's going to put stress on your department,” Lynn continued. “We can help with that, but it'll work better, more efficiently, if it's a coordinated effort.”

“In your mind, what form will that coordination take? We're a government agency, after all. You're a private company.”

“I don't know. I just want you thinking about it. How we can help you, how you can help us.” She looked hard at me. “Mr. Waddell thinks very highly of you, Sheriff.”

“We've been friends a long time, and Miles still has a hard time remembering that I retired a long time ago.”

“I think he knows that,” Lynn laughed. “He doesn't
like
it, but he knows.” She slipped a business card out of her case, and printed two names on it before handing it to me.

“That first one is a state fair organization,” she said. “Piers Smith is the general manager. The second is one of our shipping contracts. You might want to chat with both them about United Security. I know that Mr. Waddell is going to ask for your opinion.”

“He already has,” I said. “Many times.”

“There you go.” She took a deep breath and stretched backward. “Beyond that,” and she indicated the folder that included Daniel's file, “is there anything we can do for you?”

“We have the address that's listed in here, and it's a dead end,” Estelle said. “Mr. Daniel could be anywhere. I think we're going to have to wait him out. Wait for him to make another mistake. He's not using his credit card, and there's been no bank activity. He's just,” and she spread her hands out, “disappeared.” She gazed thoughtfully at me. “In that, he's really remarkable. A friend dies, and he panics. He kills a cop, and at
that
point, he gets either clever or lucky. He manages to slip away. He could be in North Dakota by now. Or Mexico.”

“That's the wonderful thing about computers,” Lynn Browning said. “It's a small world. It's hard
not
to leave any traces.”

And yet,
I thought,
that's exactly what Elliot Daniel had done.

Chapter Twenty-two

Saturday dawned bright and cheerful. Lots of good food, lots of sleep, and I was a new man. On this momentous day, Francisco Guzman and his caravan would arrive from the Leister Music Conservatory. They'd spent the night in Socorro, and expected to roll into Posadas by mid-morning, giving them enough time to prepare their stage.

The concert had earned some big-league attention. I didn't care if they announced that an asteroid the size of Virginia was going to crash into the Earth. I was going to the concert. If no one else came, then I'd ask Francisco and his partner to play a concert just for me.

The Albuquerque paper had splashed the story down two columns on the back page of the Arts section, including one file photo of Francisco performing when he was so small that his feet didn't touch the floor under his piano stool. Posadas itself earned mention by the writer as ‘a tiny, dusty border town, sandwiched between Deming and Lordsburg.' Well, sort of. To my relief, the paper
didn't
mention our escalating crime rate.

Over coffee I read and re-read the article, wondering where Posadas High School would seat everyone if all of Albuquerque showed up. Two dozen at the concert would be more our style. The phone jangled, and I reached across and snared it.

“Gastner.”

“Sir, do you happen to have a copy of the Albuquerque paper?” Estelle Reyes-Guzman's voice was pleasant and without urgency, and I assumed that she was reading the same article I was.

“I'm looking at it, sweetheart,” I said. “I'm enjoying the spread on your number one son.”

“They'll be here in a couple of hours,” Estelle said. “Then they'll all be over at the high school if you have a yen for mayhem.”

“Ah…maybe a bit later. I'm meeting Mrs. Browning at the airport a little before eight. I wanted to talk with Miles Waddell too. I promised him I'd give him an opinion this one time, and I might as well get it over with. Who the hell knows? Maybe he'll buy breakfast…”

“You might want to take a glance at the Letters to the Editor section on B-3, sir. There's an interesting letter there from M.C. Todd.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“I was hoping you'd know, sir.”

“Well, I don't. Just a minute.” I fumbled pages and found B-3. M.C. Todd's letter was lengthy, and I skimmed it. According to Todd, the “Posadas Astronomy Project” was planning on drilling a series of six deep water wells around the base of the mesa, to “satisfy the potential needs of the project at the mesa-top.” Todd's concern was for the fragile cave system that supposedly underlay the mesa, a formation much like Carlsbad Caverns in southeastern New Mexico. Damage to underground formations that depend on a consistent water flow will be “incalculable,” the article said. I grunted something and read that part again.

“I always thought ‘incalculable' meant it couldn't be calculated, big or small, lesser or greater,” I said.

“Had Mr. Waddell spoken to you about drilling wells?” Estelle asked.

“No. He may have applied for permits, although why I don't know. He's got a gusher in that one well that he's always had, just east of the new parking lot.”

“If you see him, you might ask about it,” Estelle said.

“We can call this whole project
La Brea Junior
,” I muttered. “Every time I turn around, I hear this great sucking sound as I'm pulled into the goddamned tar pit.” When the undersheriff didn't respond to that, I added, “What's the department's interest in Waddell's wells? Or well, as the case may be? If he has permits from the state engineer's office, he can drill to China if he wants.”

“We have no interest in some rancher's wells,” Estelle said quietly. “My interest is in
anything
that appears in print that can be construed as a threat to any legitimate project. This whole mess is too big for coincidence, Padrino. I can't believe Mr. Todd's letter has nothing to do,
nothing
in common, with the complaints and rumors we've heard about the mesa project. This comes right on top of Daniel's stunt. Way too coincidental.”

“You think? Why not just a case of the public finally finding out about the project and venting their disapproval every which way they can?”

“I searched the state engineer's website for listings of drill permits issued. Miles Waddell isn't on the list. No one in that section of Posadas County is on the list. Not one. Nothing issued.”

“And requested?” I laughed. “Forget that one. That's what you want me to ask him. The state knows the answer to that one, too, though.”

“A non-official request, sir. I can't just barge onto his ranch and ask him his business.”

“I don't know why not. Everyone else will.”

“I hope you'll talk with him about it, Padrino. This is one instance where we really have to be proactive.”

“I'm Teflon today, sweetheart. I don't want to get involved in anything that's going to interfere with tonight. I agreed to this damn helicopter ride, but that's it. What time are Addy and Carlos coming over here, by the way?”

“Mid-afternoon or so. Francisco doesn't want any big fancy to-do, so they won't have a lot to prepare for the reception.”

“And there's nothing I need to do, other than leave town?”

Estelle laughed gently. “You'd have two devastated
niños
if you did that, Padrino. But no…there's nothing to do. What Carlos forgets in all his excitement, Addy will remember. She's the perfect hostess. The reception will be quiet and cozy.”

I looked across at the stove clock. “I'll be back at home no later than two,” I said. “If you need the house for anything before then, showers, stuff like that, you have the key.”

“Sir, thank you for doing this.”

“My pleasure, and I'm not just saying that.” Although how I was actually going to enjoy a mob scene in my dark, quiet home was still up for debate.

“You're going out to the airport now?” Estelle asked.

“Yep. Then to meet with Miles.”

“Be careful, sir.”

“You bet.” I hung up, ripped M.C. Todd's letter from the newspaper and folded it into my battered aluminum clipboard. What did I care if some nutcase was writing letters to the editor with fabricated information? For one thing, Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman, as either law officer or damn near adopted daughter, didn't ask for many favors. Sometimes I wished that she would. So I jumped at the chance to be of some small use.

Besides, we were in the same boat as knowing that more than a hundred years ago, some cattleman had tried to scratch out
his
dream somewhere along Bennett's Trail. It's just a compulsion to
know,
I had decided long ago. Sometimes the knowing brought me pleasure, sometimes I wish I'd never snooped.