Apache Country (14 page)

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 wrecked.”

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?”

“Tire tracks. Maybe even footprints.”

Cochrane’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward.
“What’s going on, Dave? You know something the rest of us
don’t?”

“No questions asked, remember?”

“That’s a big ask,” Cochrane said.
“Considering.”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I could do it
myself.”

“And if I find something?”

“Take photographs, make casts, whatever. But
listen, Tom – no report. If you find anything you come back and
tell me. Nobody else, understand? Not even Liz.”

Cochrane was silent, looking at him with
watchful eyes. If he couldn’t even tell his wife, this had to be
pretty damn serious.

“Does Joe know about this?” he asked.

“No.”

Cochrane took a few moments to think about
that.

“Something happened,” he said.

It wasn’t a question and Easton didn’t answer
it. Cochrane leaned back in the chair, delving into his pocket
again for his battered pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and put
it between his lips, his eyes never leaving Easton’s. He was a good
detective. It didn’t take him long to work it out.

“You talked to Ironheel.”

Easton said nothing.

“He told you something.”

Again Easton made no reply. Cochrane took the
cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it as if the answers to
his questions were printed on it.

“This is connected to what happened last
night, isn’t it?” he said. “That lawyer who got shot? That’s why
you want the phone numbers, right?”

Once again Easton remained silent, and the
detective made an exasperated sound.

“Damn it, Dave.”

Easton hesitated for a long moment. “It’s
something pretty bad,” he said.

Cochrane didn’t even blink.

“How bad is pretty bad?” he prompted, after a
while.

Easton was still trying to find the right
phrases and couldn’t. If Ironheel was telling the truth, whatever
Joe Apodaca was involved in had to be a lot more than what cops
called dirty. Dirty was taking a bribe, or looking the other way
while a drug deal went down, or putting a drop gun in a dead
suspect’s hand. Cold-blooded murder was a long way past all that.
He took a deep breath and plunged in.

“I had a long one-to-one with Ironheel last
night. He told me Joe killed Robert Casey.”

Cochrane just stared at him, then shook his
head side to side.

“Come on, Dave,” he said. “He says Joe
Apodaca killed Casey?”

Easton said nothing.

“He’s lyin’ in his teeth,” Cochrane said.
“He’d probably tell you his mother was Joan of Arc if he thought it
would get him off the hook.”

“Tom,” Easton said patiently. It wiped the
derision off Cochrane’s face.

“You mean … you believe him?”

“Yes, I do,” Easton said, and leaving nothing
out, told him why.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Cochrane breathed when he
came to the end of it. “What you going to do?”

“I’m going to dump the whole thing in Olin
McKittrick’s lap. That’s why I came in this morning. That, and to
talk to you.”

Cochrane remained silent. He took the pack of
Marlboro out of his jacket pocket again and put the cigarette back
in, staring at it as if he was trying to memorize its appearance.
The silence lengthened. Finally he put the cigarette on the desk in
front of him, then took a match out of his pocket, lit it with a
thumbnail, and blew it out.

“I could sure use a smoke,” he said.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Thought you two were real tight,” Cochrane
said. “You and Joe.”

“Used to be.”

Cochrane nodded. “Never occur to you Joe let
that happen on purpose?”

Easton frowned. “No, it never did. Why would
he?”

Cochrane’s put the cigarette back into the
pack and put the pack into his pocket and looked at the wall. It
was like he was trying to make up his mind what color to paint
it.

“Tom?” Easton persisted.

Cochrane looked at him and he saw uncertainty
in his eyes, as if he was wondering whether to proceed. And all at
once Easton felt out of his depth. There were undercurrents here of
which he was totally unaware.

“I’m lost, Tom,” Easton said.

Cochrane shook his head. “No, you’re not.
You’re just letting loyalty get in the way. Look around, Dave.
Don’t you see it, feel it?”

“Feel what? What are you saying?”

Cochrane shook his head. “Something happened
to Joe. We all knew it and we all sat here and let it happen.
Watched him fence himself off, quit talking to the troops, letting
anyone get near to him. Anyone except you. So we figured there had
to be a reason.”

“You thought, whatever it was, I was in it
with him?”

“Everyone figured you were Joe’s boy, Dave,”
Cochrane said, almost apologetically. “You practically lived at his
house, remember? Then later, when he started to slip, we watched
you fixing the fuck-ups, making him look good. So we, uh, adapted
accordingly.”

He heard Susan’s voice. He uses you. Can’t
you see it? You’re his Mister Nice Guy. You’re his front. No matter
what he does, you make him look good.

It was true, Easton thought. For quite a few
years now he had been fixing the fuck-ups, as Cochrane had so
incisively put it. It was something you did: one cop didn’t roll
over on another cop. Especially when the other cop was the one who
had taught you everything you knew.

“He was a great sheriff, Tom.”

“No argument.”

Easton drew in a long breath. “I better call
McKittrick,” he said.

Cochrane got up out of the chair. “I’m outta
here,” he said. “Think I’ll just go get started on those, uh…
projects.”

Easton put his hand on the detective’s
shoulder. “Thank you, Tom. For everything.”

“Thank me when it’s over,” Cochrane said. As
he reached the door he turned, made a sixgun of his hand, pointed
it at Easton and bent his thumb to fire it.

“Keep your head down, kid,” he said. “They’re
using real bullets.”

Might be good advice at that, Easton thought,
and watched Cochrane head for the exit. He would have given a lot
to know what was going on in the detective’s head. He waited
another ten minutes, then picked up the phone and punched in Olin
McKittrick’s home number.

On the third ring Karen McKittrick answered.
She recognized his voice and her reaction to it was sharp and
hostile. He had gone to school with her and she didn’t like him any
more now than she had then.

“Olin’s busy,” she said. “I can’t interrupt
him.” She sounded pleased about it.

“I’ll come over,” he said. “Tell him I’m on
my way.”

Like it or lump it, he added silently as she
banged the phone down.

The McKittrick house was on Sequoia Drive in
the money part of town. Six beds, three and a half baths, a
two-acre plot with some nice trees and a well-kept garden. A red
two-door Audi A8 was parked at the curb outside. The garage was
open; inside were McKittrick’s silver-gray BMW 540i, a couple of
trail bikes, an Outback barbecue, an extending ladder, and the
usual garage clutter. There was a basketball hoop above the garage
door, a horse trailer in the space between the houses. McKittrick’s
teenage daughters Kathie and Kirsty were mad about riding.

Easton parked across the street and walked
over to the house. The doorbell was the kind with Westminster
chimes; Karen McKittrick jerked the door open while it was in
mid-sequence. She was slim to the point of flat-chestedness, an
angular woman with a narrow face, high cheekbones, and gray eyes
that showed no trace of welcome. Her light brown hair was
permanent-waved into a cloud of tight ringlets. She was dressed for
cool in a short white Lacoste tennis dress with white socks and
brand new Nike tennis shoes with dark blue trim. Her makeup was
faultless, her manicure impeccable. Her lips were set in a pettish
line that completely spoiled the whole effect.

“This really is unforgivable, David,” she
said by way of greeting. “After all, it is Sunday.”

“If it wasn’t urgent I wouldn’t bother you,”
Easton said, making it brusque. “Tell Olin I’m here, please.”

She stepped aside to let him in and closed
the door with just enough of a thump to reinforce her disapproval.
He followed her into an airy sitting room with a big picture window
that opened on to a deck looking out over a spacious yard. The main
items of furniture in the sitting room were a recliner and two
sofas upholstered in cream leather, with wall-to-wall white Berber
carpets on the floor. Magazines were set out on glass-topped
occasional tables so the titles showed: Smithsonian, House &
Garden, Bon Appetit, The New Yorker. Half a dozen brand new books
that looked as if they had never been read and never would be were
stacked on an antique sofa table. Limited edition art prints in
silvered frames hung on the walls, which were natural brick painted
white. There was a real fireplace with an imitation log fire and a
suspended copper chimney. The place had about as much personality
as an auction room.

Karen McKittrick turned to face him,
deliberately close, one hand on her hip, her head cocked
combatively to one side. Her whole stance was aggressive, and he
remembered his sister saying Karen was a bully.

“You people could at least let Olin alone on
a Sunday,” she said, petulantly. “We were just leaving for the
Country Club.”

You people. It wasn’t the first time Karen
had let him know she thought cops were not members of the same
species as district attorneys.

“No choice, Karen,” he said
unrepentantly.

“What’s it about, anyway?”

“Sorry,” he told her bluntly.
“Confidential.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” she snapped. “What are
you now, the Secret Service?”

“Where’s Olin?” he asked her, ignoring the
jibe.

“Right here.”

Easton turned, surprised McKittrick could
move so quietly. Olin was standing in the doorway, dressed like his
wife: Lacoste shirt and shorts, the same Nike shoes. His and her
tennis gear. They probably had matching rackets, too, Easton
thought. Although he didn’t see it, McKittrick must have given his
wife some sort of husband-wife signal. Karen turned, giving Easton
the benefit of another freezing look. She paused in the doorway as
she went out.

“Don’t be long, Olin,” she said, pointedly.
“I reserved a table for lunch.”

“I won’t,” he said.

Yes, you will, Easton thought grimly, but
didn’t say it.

McKittrick clapped him on the shoulder, hail
fellow well met.