Prolonged Exposure (9 page)

“We’ll talk with him,” I said. “Is there anyone else in your life who might have a grudge against you for any reason?”

“No,” Tiffany Cole said, and stood up abruptly. “And I don’t think anyone took Cody.”

“Mrs. Cole,” Sheriff Holman said, “we need that list. We really do.”

She lifted black-circled, bloodshot eyes and gazed at Martin Holman, her lips pressed into hard, thin lines. “My child is somewhere up on that mesa, and this will be his third night alone,” she said, and pushed past him.

Andy Browers followed her, and as he passed the nonplussed Holman, he said hoarsely, “We’ll get the list for you, Sheriff.”

The door closed on soundless hinges, and Holman shook his head. “I don’t think she heard a word we said.”

“That’s not surprising,” I said. “The woman is distraught. More than distraught. She’s panicked sick. I would be, too.”

“If that were true, then she’d be willing to grasp at any straws we held out to her,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said quietly, and I turned, surprised.

“No one is going to welcome the news that their child’s been abducted by some creep,” I said.

“No,” Estelle said, “but even Tiffany Cole should be able to understand that the odds of an injured child still being alive after three November nights, with off-and-on rain, are slim to none.”

“We don’t know if he was injured,” I said.

“If he wasn’t, then he’d have been found,” Estelle said. “It’s that simple. If he’s up on that mesa, he’s dead. It’s that simple. If he was abducted, then there’s a chance he’s still alive. That’s what Mrs. Cole needs to understand.” She stood up and snapped her notebook shut. I glanced at the wall clock and saw that I was fifteen minutes overdue on my promise to Camille to be home in time to gulp down another handful of medications.

“Do you have time to stop by the house for a few minutes?” I asked.

“Let me swing by the hospital first and check on Mama,” she replied, and then turned to Martin Holman. “Sir, if nothing turns up by this time tomorrow, I think that you can pull the primary search teams.”

“Mrs. Cole is going to go ballistic,” Holman said. “But you’re right. What are you going to do now? If the child was taken just because some wacko child molester saw an opportunity, it’s going to be tough following the trail.”

Estelle grimaced. “That doesn’t fit,” she said. “Child molesters don’t drive around the wilderness at night. Shopping malls, schools, neighborhoods—yes. Not mesas. What we need is a list of names. A list of the people who would stand to gain something by taking a three-year-old child.”

I grunted to my feet as she continued. “Common sense would say that after a divorce, the noncustodial parent is the most likely to abduct. It happens all the time.”

“Paul Cole?”

Estelle nodded. “That’s a good place to start.”

Chapter 15

Estelle was relieved when Sheriff Martin Holman agreed to follow up on Paul Cole that evening.

“This is what I think we ought to do,” he said, standing behind his desk, pen in hand, looking down at the yellow legal pad filled with circles, doodles, and random jottings. “I’ll call the Bernalillo Sheriff’s office and have them make contact with Paul Cole. See if they can round him up for a few questions. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Holman frowned and regarded me. “I can’t help wondering why he isn’t down here already. I mean, we’re not exactly working in secret down here. This search has been all over television and the city newspapers. Maybe what his ex-wife said is true. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit. What do you think?”

“I just walked into the middle of this mess,” I said. “I don’t think anything.” I didn’t say that whenever Marty Holman started acting like a cop, I got nervous. “Just be careful that he doesn’t get spooked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Make sure that the Bernalillo deputies don’t give him any information that he doesn’t need to know. None of the circumstances of what’s going on up on the mesa. Nothing about what we might suspect, or don’t suspect. Just have them tell Cole that his son has gone missing while on an outing with his mother.”

“I would think he’s heard about the search already anyway, from the television reports.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but they might not have used the youngster’s name yet. One lost kid isn’t statewide news until something unusual happens. It’s entirely possible that he simply doesn’t know.”

“We’ll play it by ear, then,” Holman said, and that should have made me really nervous. But I was as tired as everyone else, perhaps with less reason, and Martin Holman needed to dive into his job headfirst, without me holding his hand. I had other concerns.

Estelle hadn’t left the hospital by the time I arrived home, and even though it was nearly nine o’clock, I was restless. I suppose I should have chugged a handful of medications and gone to bed, but that was a repulsive notion on both counts. Camille knew my habits, and she knew better than to nag.

Still, it surprised me when she agreed to accompany me on a visit to Florencio Apodaca’s. The old man might not care one way or another what his stepson thought, or what Stanley Willit planned to do, but I had a feeling that whatever was about to happen between the two parties, I was going to be caught smack in the middle.

“Why don’t we walk?” Camille said, and I stared at her.

“Walk?”

She grinned. “It’s one block, Dad. The fresh air will do you good. Maybe it’ll make you sleepy.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would,” I lied. “But the suggestion has been made that this is more than a friendly neighborhood burial. I’d feel better having a radio and transportation close at hand.”

She held up a hand in surrender. “Are Estelle and Francis coming over? Have you had a chance to talk with them both?”

“I told her to stop by. We’ll just have to see. I don’t know what their schedule is. But we’ll be gone just a few minutes. I’ll leave a note for them.”

We drove around the loop and I parked in front of Apodaca’s house—a small settling adobe. At one time in the late sixties, a peaked roof had been added to the structure. The loft had created a home for pigeons, bats, squirrels, and the previous tenant’s grandchildren.

When I knocked on the door, the only light I could see was the blue cast from a television. I knocked again, then heard a chair scrape against the wood floor.

Florencio Apodaca’s face and figure showed every one of his eighty-plus years. He opened the door and stood behind the dilapidated screen, squinting out at me.

“Mr. Apodaca, I’m Bill Gastner, from across the way,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes,” he said, pulling the word out long and heavily accented.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“Well, I guess that’s all right.” He turned and shuffled back inside without opening the door. The hinges squawked, and after I stepped inside, I was careful not to let it slam. I glanced back at the Blazer and could imagine Camille sitting in the dark, holding up her left wrist and tapping her watch at me.

Florencio Apodaca had made his way back to the blue light, and he was already seated in the remains of a recliner when I entered the room. He looked away from the television and nodded at a rocking chair. “Sit down. You want some wine?”

“No thanks,” I said. The chair groaned under my weight, and I balanced gingerly, trying not to capsize backward. “What are you watching?”

He pointed at the set with his chin. “They got this show here,” he said, as if that just about covered it.

I took a deep breath, made sure the rocker wouldn’t collapse, and said, “Stanley Willit called me today.”

Florencio regarded me with rheumy eyes. “What did he say?”

“He’s worried about his mother.”

The old man frowned and looked back at the television. “You know,” he said finally, “I don’t understand most of these programs that they have now. It’s getting so I don’t understand most of them.”

“They’re pretty bizarre,” I said. I looked at the screen and saw that he was watching a sitcom featuring a brassy fat woman who had a perfectly timed slice-to-the-bone retort for every comment that came her way. She was enough to make even the most hardened traffic cop cringe.

“He lives out in California now,” Florencio said.

“Willit, you mean?”

“Yes.” He pronounced it
gess
.

“I told him I had no objection to the burial on my property.”

He turned and regarded me again. “You own that land across the street?”

I nodded.

“I thought I owned that.” His eyes went back to the screen.

“That’s not really the problem, Mr. Apodaca. Mr. Willit is concerned with the circumstances of your wife’s death—with how she died.”

“That’s what he said.”

“He called you?”

Florencio Apodaca raised a hand in limp dismissal, then pushed himself out of the chair with surprising speed. “Let’s have some wine.” He left the television blaring, then returned in a few minutes with two small juice glasses filled to the brim with red wine. He handed one to me, his hands steadier than mine.

“He’d like to know how his mother died,” I said.

“She’s not his mother,” Florencio muttered, and he sat down with a loud cracking of knee joints. “But that’s a long story. You know my oldest son?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s a cabinetmaker down in Cruces.” Florencio sipped his wine. I wet my lips, just enough to discover that the stuff tasted just as rank as it smelled. I held the glass carefully in both hands, resting my forearms on my knees. “He makes all kinds of things.”

“I see.” I didn’t, and added, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Willit?”

“The last time I saw him was…” He paused and looked up at the ceiling, examining the tin sheets with the pressed floral pattern. “I don’t know. It was some time ago.”

“When exactly did your wife pass away, Mr. Apodaca?” Chief Eduardo Martinez’s incident report might include one version of that information, but I hadn’t read the paperwork yet. The chief had interviewed the old man shortly after the grave was discovered, but I doubted that his report would tell me much more than I was learning from the old man’s wandering memory.

He concentrated on the television, now featuring a commercial for a fancy pickup truck that leapt dunes, sand cascading from the undercarriage.

When the advertisement ended, he said, “You know, my oldest son has himself a nice shop.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Was it just this past week or so that she died?”

“You could ask the police,” he said. “They were here.”

“I suppose.” I set the glass of wine on a small table. “Mr. Willit said he was coming to try to straighten all this out. We’ll have to wait and see what he wants to do.”

Florencio frowned and gazed at me appraisingly. I didn’t know what he could actually see through the crusted spectacles, but he took his time.

“There’s nothing for him here.”

“He just wants to know about his mother, that’s all. You can understand how he might want to do that.”

“She’s gone.”

“True enough,” I said.

“Where do you work?”

“For the county,” I said.

“They’re the ones who want to put a water line along the road over there?”

“That’s the village.”

“What do you mean, ‘the village’?”

“Village, county—they’re two different things. It’s the village that wants to put in the line.”

“Do I have to let them?”

“It’s my property, Mr. Apodaca. And no, I don’t have to let them.”

“How much you want for it?”

“It’s not for sale. If you want me to deed you a small plot of land that includes your wife’s grave, I’ll be happy to consider doing that.”

He nodded and took a sip of wine. “I thought I owned that.”

“I’m afraid not. But the village can put a kink in the water line, for all I care. The only thing I ask is that you clear up the circumstances of your wife’s passing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to know how she died, and when. The circumstances.”

“The circumstances.” He said every syllable as if it were a separate word.

“Yes. And I think that Stanley Willit has the right to know, too. It’s only a courtesy.”

Florencio Apodaca set his half-empty glass down beside mine. “He only wants the money,” he said with surprising venom. “If he causes any trouble, I know a good lawyer.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said.

The old man waved a hand. “That’s how these things go.” He turned back to the television. “She passed on. That’s all he needs to know. That’s all anyone needs to know. It’s none of their business.”

I sighed. I could see, highlighted by the pulsing light from the television, the muscles in his cheeks flexing. He was digging in, ready to play the mule. I stood up carefully, making sure I didn’t topple the old rocker.

“I’m going to run along,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You want some more wine, you come over. Anytime you like.” He got up and hobbled to the television and stood there, one hand on the corner of the cabinet. He extended his hand and his grasp was surprisingly strong. “You tell Stanley Willit not to waste his time bothering me.”

“I’ll do that.”

As I moved toward the door, he said, “Who did you say you worked for?”

“The county.”

He nodded as if it were all crystal-clear. “The county.”

I made my way back to the Blazer, careful not to trip over the uneven bricks of his walk.

“Success?” Camille asked as I slid behind the wheel.

I grinned. “His oldest son owns a shop in Las Cruces.”

Camille looked blank. “And…”

I shrugged. “That part was free. The rest of it, he’s going to ignore until it goes away.”

“And is it?”

“I don’t think so. By the time it’s all over, my guess is that Stanley Willit is going to wish he’d stayed in peaceful, logical California.”

Chapter 16

When we returned home, I inspected the temporary plywood replacement for my bathroom window and decided to call Andy Sanchez the next morning to have a new frame installed. That took ten minutes. I was tired but not the least bit sleepy, and I finally settled in my leather chair in the living room.

Camille settled on the sofa next to the television, the prime minister’s life near at hand.

“I was thinking of going back on Saturday,” she said.

I nodded. “That gives us four more days.” I grinned. “I’m going to miss having you around.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m guessing that Mark will have reached his limit of endurance.” I tried to picture Camille’s husband, the quiet, sober Mark Stratton, arriving home from his dental office each day to a home managed by three teenagers. “Did you have a chance to call Sam Preston this afternoon?”

“No. Well, that’s not true. I had the chance, but I didn’t do it. You never want a real estate agent to think that you’re too eager, you know.”

“Your mind’s still made up, though?”

I nodded. “This old hacienda is too big for me. And I don’t see any of you guys moving back to Posadas anytime soon to take it off my hands.” Camille kept her expression politely blank, but I added, “Or ever, for that matter. And I really like the Gonzales place. So…” I shrugged. “You want some coffee?”

“No thanks. Will you take me over there tomorrow? I don’t remember it at all. I can’t picture it.”

“Sure,” I said. I started to push myself out of the chair, then stopped. “In fact, there are a couple of photos of the house right on that table by your elbow.”

“I saw those earlier,” she said. “It’s neat.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but the two Polaroid photos were typical real estate efforts, making the house look tiny, flat, and unattractive. “You want me to get that?”

“Get what?”

“The door.” She was up and halfway down the front hallway before I had gotten to my feet.

I saw the look on Sheriff Martin Holman’s face from twenty paces away, despite the harsh shadows from the light over the door and the single high bulb in the foyer. He would have made a lousy poker player.

“Good news?” I asked, and waved him inside. He advanced a few paces into the foyer and took off his tan Stetson while he exchanged pleasantries with Camille—altogether too pleasant on his part, I thought. And for a fleeting moment, I found myself wondering what Martin Holman would look like in faded, torn blue jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt, with his hair cut in a burdock buzz. Or even just without a tie.

“Would you drink some coffee if I made it?” I asked, and apparently Holman was more astute than I gave him credit for.

“Sure,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Camille grinned and shook her head in resignation. “I’ll make it, Dad,” she said.

“So what’s up?” I lead the sheriff into the kitchen.

“This is a nice place,” he said, repeating the same line he had uttered every one of the dozen or so times he had been in my home.

“Thanks. Any news on the youngster?”

He shook his head. “But what’s interesting is that the deputies couldn’t find Paul Cole.”

“What do you mean, couldn’t find him?”

“Just that. First, a detective went to his home. He lives in one of those new developments down by the bosque.” Holman pulled a small notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit coat and thumbed pages. “Neither he nor his wife were home.”

“He’s married again?”

“Less than a year ago. One of the neighbors said that she thought the wife went to Santa Fe with a girlfriend for a couple of days of shopping.”

“A couple of days? Wow. And Cole?”

“Well, that’s the interesting part,” Holman said. “Paul Cole has two vehicles registered to him. One is a 1996 Pontiac Grand Am, custom tag that says
BEAT ’EM
. Is he a coach, or what?” Holman grinned. “The other vehicle is a 1972 GMC four-by-four pickup that’s missing an engine.”

“And both were parked in his driveway,” I said. Holman looked up sharply, and I added, “Just a guess.”

“They were. So the detectives figured he was out for an evening run or something. They checked again an hour later, and still no sign of him.”

“There could be a thousand explanations for that,” Camille said.

“Sure could be,” Holman agreed. “But.” He held up the notebook for emphasis. “The Bernalillo detectives contacted the principal of the school where Paul Cole works, figuring that, with the way coaches hang out at school all the time, she might have some information. You know what she said?”

“I have no idea,” I murmured, watching the coffee beginning its rapid drip. Camille had cleaned the pot so that it actually looked like glass instead of crusted concrete.

“Paul Cole took five days’ professional leave to attend a coaching clinic and conference in Anaheim, California.”

“This past week, you mean?”

“From Monday through Friday. The principal said that she thought he was scheduled to fly out last Sunday, and that he was planning to return yesterday or the day before.”

“Football must be even more important than I thought,” I said. “But let me guess again. He hasn’t returned yet.” I shrugged. “What did the airline have to say?”

Holman grinned, and I got the impression that he was distinctly proud of himself. “He was never booked out of Albuquerque—on any airline that goes anywhere close to Anaheim.”

“Or booked back to Albuquerque, either?”

Holman shook his head. “They have no record of him flying anywhere.”

“Maybe he drove out with friends,” Camille said. “It’s only a twenty-hour drive nonstop.”

“If he rode with someone else, that would explain both his vehicles being left at home,” Holman said, “but no one else from the school was scheduled to attend the conference. The principal said that as far as she knew, no one else went.”

“Other schools going?” I said. “Did he ride out with coaches from other schools?”

Holman leaned forward across the kitchen table, his voice lowered conspiratorially. “There was no conference in Anaheim.”

“Why did I think that might be coming?” I muttered.

“But it gets even more interesting,” Holman said. “The detective—his name’s Richard Steinberg, by the way—he chatted with a couple of neighbors. One of them, and she’s an elementary school teacher in the same district, said that Cole was excited because he’d been able to get an elk permit in Wyoming.”

“A what?”

“He drew an elk permit for a hunt in Wyoming. She thought that he was planning to go but that he was worried about taking that kind of leave from school. She said there was a stink a couple of years ago when a teacher took a week off to go deer hunting. And she said that Cole’s wife was petrified that he’d get in trouble.”

I leaned back and watched Camille pour the brew into first Holman’s cup and then mine. The coffee looked a few shades weaker than I would have liked, but what the hell. There it was.

“So he either flew up to Wyoming or drove up with a friend,” I said.

“He didn’t fly up.”

I sipped the coffee and couldn’t resist a grimace at the wan bouquet of decaf. “You’ve been busy,” I said, and set the cup down.

Holman grinned his best used-car salesman’s grin. “What I figure is that he either skipped out from school to go elk hunting or he skipped out to do something else.”

I was tempted to say, “Well, duh,” but instead I asked, “What was his football team’s record this year?”

Holman looked puzzled. “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“In any event, the season should have been over. I don’t know when the state championship was, but if his team wasn’t a contender, then that’s a complication out of the way. I don’t care what he’s up to, but no football coach is going to miss a play-off, elk or no elk.”

“Do you think he might have taken his own son?” Camille said, and I realized it was the first time anyone had come right out and said it.

“I don’t know. My first guess would be that he didn’t,” and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, Martin Holman looked disappointed. “For a couple of reasons. For one thing, if he just wanted his son, he could have driven down almost anytime, picked the kid up, and gone back home, all in a single day. Making a week-long conspiracy out of it would just attract attention. I know the kid’s only three years old, but there must be a thousand opportunities during the course of an average day when the father could slip in, grab the youngster, and be gone. And there’s always this: The boy’s mother said that Cole isn’t interested in the kid. He won’t even take him for visits when there’s the opportunity.”

“So it doesn’t really make sense that he would do the bit up on the mesa, at night,” Holman said.

“No, it doesn’t. What makes sense is that Paul Cole went hunting with buddies on school time, and made up the conference nonsense to cover his ass. Did you happen to check with the Wyoming Department of Fish and Game to find out if there was an elk season in progress?”

Holman nodded vigorously. “I checked the net. There is an elk hunt in several parts of the state. Stretches to the end of the month.”

“Checked the net?” I said. “Meaning what?”

“Computer, Bill. They have a Web site. You need to join the twenty-first century.”

“No, I don’t. And the next step is to call Wyoming and find out if he actually has a license issued in that state. Cole’s principal is a woman, you said?”

Holman consulted his notes. “Dorothy Nusburger.”

“Then Dorothy Nusburger needs to get a little tighter grip on her staff,” Camille muttered.

“If she’s like any other principal in this state, there’s some pressure to have a winning team,” I said. “It’s the American way of life, let’s face it. So if her head coach says he wants to go to an important conference, then she’ll send him. Athletics might be an area that isn’t her field of expertise. If she trusted Cole, maybe she didn’t look too closely or ask too many questions.”

“Then that fits,” Holman said quietly.

“What fits?”

“Nusburger told the detectives that the school couldn’t afford to pay for Cole’s travel, and that he then agreed to pay his own way. He told her that the school board would probably think the conference was a luxury but that it was important enough that he was willing to pay his own way.”

“And that makes it simple,” Camille said. She sat down at the table opposite Holman. “He doesn’t have the problem of turning in receipts, or per diem, or any of those other things schools would require for bookkeeping.” She looked at me. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Nusburger knew where he was going all along.”

Holman smiled broadly. “You ought to come work for us.”

Camille looked heavenward. “I don’t think so, Marty. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Mr. Cole thinks he’s pretty slick. And I can image his wife being furious with him, especially when he doesn’t come home on time. So she takes a day or two for expensive shopping out of town with her girlfriends. Payback time.”

Holman glanced at me, maybe a little hurt knowing that he hadn’t been elected to genius rank yet. He took a deep breath. “Lieutenant Steinberg said that he was going to nose around a little more and find out where Cole went, for sure. One way or another, he needs to know about his son.”

“And if he went hunting, then he was due back in school today,” I said. “Maybe he’ll show up in the next few hours. No message sent to his school today?”

“Apparently not.”

“That’s interesting. Thanksgiving break doesn’t start for another week or more in most schools. So it’s not like he’s just taking another couple of days to nose into the vacation time.”

“In the meantime,” Holman said, “I think it’s a good idea to keep the search teams up on the mesa. You know, we’ve got all these theories, but the whole thing is really”—he made swirling motions with both hands—“pretty nebulous. We don’t have a damn thing to go on, other than the youngster’s jacket. I’d hate to pull the search off and have the bones found next spring by some turkey hunter. What do you think?”

I shrugged. “It was interesting watching Estelle today. I don’t think there’s any doubt in her mind that Cody Cole was abducted. And after watching the way her own youngster behaved up there, I’m ready to agree with her.”

“Yeah,” Holman said, and sighed. “But she’s got a lot on her mind right now, with her mother and all. I’m not so sure she’s thinking straight.”

“There’s that possibility, but I wouldn’t count on it,” I said. “And think of it this way. By leaving the search teams on-site, all you risk is the budget. If he’s up there and alive, all Cody has going for him is that no one gives up. So it’s worth it until we know for sure.”

Holman showed signs of rising, and I added, “By the way, we need to ask Judge Hobart for an exhumation order.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Holman said.

“No. I went over a bit ago and talked to the old man. There’s some kind of grudge he’s got against his stepson. And the stepson—”

“That’s this Willit guy who called from California?”

I nodded. “He’s coming in a day or two. It’s a mess. And it’s just going to be simpler to move the old lady off my property and plant her in a proper cemetery. That way, everyone will be happy.”

“Except Mr. Apodaca,” Holman said.

“He’ll come around,” I said. “He said he’d file a lawsuit to prevent having the grave disturbed, but he’s got no legal recourse. And any lawyer will tell him so.”

“And you don’t think this Willit person will give in, either? Maybe just drop the issue?”

I shook my head. “No. He thinks his mother was murdered.”

“Well, shit,” Holman said, and stared at me. “Murdered?”

Holding up a hand to reign in Holman’s active imagination, I added, “That’s just what the stepson thinks. He’s dreaming, but you know how it is once somebody like that gets an idea in his head.”

“Dad, is what Mr. Apodaca did actually legal? I mean, can you just bury someone in this state without any formal procedures?”

“Well”—I ducked my head—“that’s the way it used to be, anyway. The state’s dotted with thousands of little family plots, some consecrated, most not. Technically, I suppose that Florencio should have contacted some authority when his wife died, but he didn’t, and Chief Martinez didn’t press the issue. And technically, the old man can’t just dig graves on his neighbor’s property, either. But in this case,
I
didn’t press the issue, and there wasn’t anything surreptitious about what he did. He dug the grave, even marked it in his own fashion. And he told me that he thought he owned the property. So”—I shrugged again—“it’s no big deal.”