Convenient Disposal

Chapter Sixteen

A brief stop at the high school confirmed that Mauro and Tony Acosta had enjoyed more than just an extended lunch. Both had been present in their morning classes; both walked out for lunch and hadn’t returned. The attendance records also provided an interesting portrait for the pair.

Margie Edwards, the principal’s secretary, beckoned Estelle around the end of her desk, and scooted her chair to one side so that the undersheriff could see the computer screen. The two student office aides had been sent on errands, the principal himself was somewhere out on campus, but Margie still talked as if the walls had ears.

“See here?” she said. “This is our ninth grader. What a pistol he is.”

Estelle scanned across the grid. “He’s been absent fourteen times since school started, if I’m reading this right.”

“That’s not counting today, by the way. Neither one of them are here today.”

“They’re up in Albuquerque with the family,” Estelle said. “I see that Mauro was absent yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m not surprised. Both of those boys are absent a lot. And this is only early November.” Margie shifted in her seat, glancing toward the office doorway. “Now mind you, there are some teachers who would say”-and she dropped her voice another notch-“that a day without Mauro is a day improved.” The smile was one of resignation. “I kind of like the kid, myself. I can’t imagine what’s going to become of him, but he can be a charmer.” She moved the mouse so that the cursor stopped in several places along the march of days. “Of those fourteen absences, though, nine are only afternoon skips. He comes in the morning and then adios, muchacho. So yesterday’s absence isn’t unusual.”

“And Tony?”

The screen winked and Margie highlighted Tony Acosta’s attendance record. “Here’s our good influence,” she said. “Mr. Tony has twenty-three absences since August Twenty-first.”

“Caramba.”

“And that includes thirteen that are afternoon absences only, including the one yesterday.” She looked up at Estelle. “You might wonder how he manages to have a three point four GPA, huh.”

“Yes, I would.”

“The rest of us, too. I guess he does all his thinking by correspondence.” She tapped the mouse. “You want copies of these two guys?”

“If you can. But I have another question.”

“Shoot.”

“I need to know if yesterday Mauro and Tony were in their-what, fifth-hour class? Am I reading that right?”

“Fifth is the one just before lunch. Let me check.” She pushed back her chair and hesitated. “How am I going to do this, now. See”-and she turned toward Estelle-“the teachers send in a slip each period…one of our office aides picks them all up. They’re supposed to send in a slip, and if a youngster who is absent isn’t already on the morning’s absentee list, they send his name in.”

She turned back to the computer. “Fifth period, Mauro has math with Mr. Hode, and Tony is a library aide. We’d have to ask the teachers to be sure the boys were there, but Hode and Kerner are both pretty good about attendance. Would you like me to do that?”

“Yes, I really would. If it’s possible to do it confidentially.”

“Well, quietly, anyway,” Margie said. “There’s nothing much confidential around this place. Let me print these while we’re here.” The printer near Estelle’s elbow came to life. “And I’m not even going to ask…,” she added, then hesitated just long enough to see if Estelle would volunteer information.

“Thanks,” Estelle said, knowing exactly what Margie wanted to ask.

Margie pulled the pages out of the printer and handed them to Estelle. “Both Hode and the library are just down the hall, so it’ll only take a minute. Do you want to wait here?”

“I should,” Estelle said.

Margie cleared the computer screen. “I’ll be just a minute.”

She grinned at Estelle. “If the phone rings, just beckon one of the slaves.” She nodded toward the two office aides who orbited the foyer, both wondering why they’d been quarantined from the office. “They can get it. Pick that thing up, and you never know what you’re going to get into.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In less than two minutes, Margie Edwards bustled back up the hallway. She closed the office door, and turned her back as if the two student aides might be able to read her lips through the glass partitions. “Both boys were here until the end of the period,” she said, and Estelle heard relief in her tone. “That means they left during lunch.” She nodded conspiratorially. “I think that’s what they usually do.”

“Thanks, Margie.”

“I’ll be here if you need anything else.” Her expression softened. “And we all hope that Carmen is going to be all right. That’s such a shame.” She beckoned to a disheveled youngster waiting to come into the office. The boy, certainly no older than ninth grade and smaller than many of the middle-school students across the parking lot, held an ice pack against his left wrist.

“Thanks again,” Estelle said.

“Come see us when you’re not so busy,” Margie said. As Estelle slipped past the youngster, his huge blue eyes, a little bloodshot from an earlier bout of tears, looked up at her. Flecks of perspiration dotted his pale forehead.

“Hi,” he said to Estelle, hoisting the wrist for better view, sounding pleased that he had a badge of honor to show for his collision with some immovable object. Moving close to Margie’s desk, he added, “Mr. Banks said that you need to take me to the emergency room. He says my wrist is broken.”

Estelle glanced at Margie, and the secretary looked heavenward. “Let me see it again,” Margie groaned.

“Have a great day,” Estelle said, stepping out of the way.

Back outside in the car, she perused her notes. Attendance records showed that the day before, the day of the attack on their sister, both Mauro and Tony had been in school until 12:40 PM It had been nearly an hour before that time when she’d talked with Kevin Zeigler. Freddy Acosta had called 911 at 2:38 PM, and if his memory was accurate, he had left his residence sometime around noon to check with his wife at the auto dealership.

Estelle frowned. When she had talked with Zeigler, it was just seconds before noon, straight up. Mauro and Tony were still in class, and Freddy had just left the house a few moments before in search of lunch. By his account, it would be nearly two and a half hours before he returned home.

A two-and-a-half-hour window of opportunity. That the amiable, ambling Freddy Acosta should take a two-and-a-half-hour stroll, talking to this person and that, was entirely reasonable. That he would hustle to the store and back without wasting a moment would have been unusual.

Zeigler would not have arrived home in time to see Freddy leave, but he might have driven by and seen Acosta walking into, or out of, the auto dealership on Bustos where his wife worked. He might have seen Freddy on Grande, ambling toward Tommy’s Handi-way where the chips, coffee, and conversation waited.

The window of opportunity was there for Kevin Zeigler. It yawned open for Mauro and Tony, too, but Estelle shook her head with impatience. There was nothing about the attack that was characteristic of the two boys, although clearly Mauro was lying when he had told Eddie Mitchell at the hospital in Albuquerque that he knew nothing of the hat pin. That was a typical “I didn’t do it” teenager, though. According to Deena Hurtado, Mauro was intimately familiar with the weapon, right down to its neatly filed tip.

Frustrated at no instant response from the state forensic lab to guide her thinking, Estelle drove out of the school parking lot and headed for the county complex. She was certain that Zeigler would not have attacked Carmen Acosta.

That left the possibility that Bobby Torrez was at least partially correct: What if Carmen Acosta had witnessed something next door that she shouldn’t have? The evidence fitted two versions of that scenario. If Zeigler had driven home, and had then been confronted by the attacker, Carmen might have been attracted to the back door by the ruckus and seen what she shouldn’t have seen.

The inside of Zeigler’s home appeared untouched; no struggle had taken place there. If there was an incident, it occurred outside, where it would attract the attention of neighbors. Carmen would have heard it. Farther up the street, five doors to the west, Doris Marens was home, but that was far enough away that all but the most violent sounds would have been indistinguishable.

Mrs. Marens had been standing on the front porch watching the light show as all the emergency equipment arrived, but she had told Officer Sisneros that she’d heard or seen nothing before that. Estelle made a mental note to talk to the woman again. In the flurry of trying to be a helpful witness, Doris Marens might have been searching her memory for the unusual. The answer might have been hiding instead among the usual sights and sounds of the day.

The county building complex was less than five blocks from the school, with the downtown blocks in between. Estelle parked in her own reserved spot and walked around the small brick patio. Just inside were the commission chambers and various county offices, with visitors greeted first by the clerk/treasurer’s and assessor’s offices. Beyond, just to one side of the doors to the commission chambers, was the county manager’s office.

Penny Barnes was on the phone when Estelle entered, elbow on the desk, using the phone as a cradle to hold her head. “I know,” she said, and waited a moment. She beckoned toward Estelle. “I know. Believe me, I’ll let you know the instant I hear anything. Okay?” She waited again, looked wearily at the undersheriff, and at the same time mimed biting the knuckles of her left hand in frustration.

“Right. I know. Okay, I’ll get back to you right away, then.” She straightened up, and dropped the phone back into its cradle. “Frank Dayan,” she said. “That’s the fourth time he’s called this morning, and it’s what, not quite nine o’clock? I’m surprised he isn’t hounding you.”

“I’ve made a point not to hold still long enough,” Estelle replied.

Penny’s pleasant face crinkled in misery. “What is going on?” she wailed, and turned to follow Estelle’s gaze. The door to Zeigler’s office was closed, with a large hasp now screwed on the door and an authoritative lock snapped in place. A short length of POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS yellow tape was stretched across the door at eye level. Bob Torrez hadn’t lost any time.

“I was so sure that when I walked into the office this morning, Kevin would be sitting in there, all hunched over his computer the way he always is. Instead, all I see is this ugly thing.” She waved at lock and ribbon with distaste.

“We don’t know any more than we knew yesterday, which is nothing.” Estelle drew a chair closer to Penny’s desk and nudged the outer office door shut at the same time. “I saw Kevin at the elementary school, right at noon yesterday. That’s it. His truck shows up at his house, maybe as much as two hours after that. And no Kevin.”

Penny let her hands drop into her lap. She turned and stared through the glass of Zeigler’s office door. “I just don’t know what to think. I look in there and tell myself, ‘Look, it’s just been a few hours. He got called away on some kind of emergency or something.’ I mean look at that.” She held out both hands helplessly. “His reading glasses are lying right there by his computer, like he just dropped them there for a minute, planning to be right back. When I left yesterday afternoon, his computer was still turned on the way it always is. Even that little radio over in the corner is on, just like it always is.” She waved her hands. “Everything is still on, as far as I know.”

“When you saw him yesterday before the commission meeting, was he upset about anything? Did he talk about anything?”

Penny shook her head. “Just nothing, ” she said. “I mean, he’s always talking to people, you know. Always. It seems like every single minute, he’s on that darn phone. That’s the job.”

“No particular arguments lately that you can pinpoint?”

“No. He was excited about the vote yesterday, and Estelle, that’s how I know something is just dreadfully wrong with all this. When the commission broke for lunch, they had some more presentations on the agenda-like you and Bobby and the chief. There were budget questions, a zillion details to discuss. With all that coming up, Kevin would never have willingly missed the afternoon session.”

“And he would have certainly called, in any case.”

Penny’s face crumpled in agony. “I’m scared, I guess. I heard about what happened next door with the Acostas, and it just gives me the willies.”

“Yesterday morning,” Estelle said. “Did anyone call here while the morning session was going on, asking to speak to Kevin?”

“A number of calls,” Penny said. “I know that Kevin had a whole list of things to do over lunch break. One of the things he wanted to do was touch bases with you, and make sure you’d come to the afternoon session.”

“He did that. But what else? Earlier, you mentioned an errand or two, including something at the county barns.”

“He had to see someone over at the maintenance yard about something. Some workman’s comp thing.” She paused and put her hand over her mouth, deep in thought. “He had to go to the bank. He asked me when he came in yesterday morning to help him remember.”

“His own personal banking?”

“Yes. Normal, so normal. Just day-in, day-out kind of stuff.”

“Was there anything in particular that Kevin asked you to do for him?”

Penny swept her hand over the avalanche on her desk. “Just this,” she said. “The county goes on.” She reached out and grasped a fistful of papers. “Bids. That’s always a popular one. We can’t buy a gosh darn pencil without an RFB. Now we have to figure out how to work the village PD financing into the sheriff’s budget. That will be just a wingding. You and I will be losing sleep over that.” She grimaced. “Bobby will just shrug and go hunting.”

“But nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing.” She picked up another paper. “Not unless you consider the September landfill records interesting and fascinating stuff, second only to October’s landfill records.”

“Yesterday,” Estelle persisted. “No phone calls out of the ordinary. No errands out of the ordinary. How about right out there?” She turned and nodded at the lobby outside the commission chambers. “You have a grandstand view from here. Did you see anyone that you don’t normally see at these things?”

This time, it was a long, slow shake of the head, as if the last straw had been broken. “Same old, same old,” Penny said. “But I have to admit, I don’t pay much attention. If I did, I wouldn’t get anything done.”

“You didn’t happen to see Kevin talking to anyone in particular? Or no one came in here before the meeting, hoping to have a few minutes alone with him?”

“No, no, and no. If they did, they all just passed me by, you know?” She reached out and rested her hand on the impressive pile that filled the “in” basket. “This is what drives my day, this little friend right here.” She fell silent, waiting for Estelle, who was gazing off across the lobby toward the commission chambers.

“You know, if you want to know who attended the meeting, that’s simple enough,” Penny said. “Stacey Roybal keeps notes. Most of the time, she jots down who-all attends. And then they always pass around that sign-in sheet.” She held up a finger in sudden inspiration. “And then, if you’re really desperate, you could ask Milton Crowley. If it moves, he films it.”

“Ah, Mr. Videotape.”

Penny nodded. “I’d like to see the inside of his house sometime.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The bizarre thing is imagining him sitting in his home in the evening, watching old tapes of County Commission meetings. That’s pretty kinky.”

“Milton Crowley,” Estelle repeated.

“You’re really going to talk to him? You’re nuts.”

“Probably.”

Penny looked genuinely alarmed. “You’re not going out there alone, are you? Have you ever seen that sign he has at the entrance to his driveway?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it. Maybe it’s time to see if he really means it.”

Chapter Seventeen

The county car thumped through the potholes and ruts, juddered across patches of loose blow-sand, and kicked gravel over the last steep rise in the two-track. The hill was so steep that for a moment Estelle couldn’t see the tracks ahead over the hood of the car. The narrow path leveled and within a few yards was blocked by a gate in the barbed-wire range fence.

She could not see Milton Crowley’s home. Beyond the gate, the two-track wound through runty pinon and juniper, twisted cacti and creosote bush, skirting the next rise in the prairie. Behind her to the southeast lay the village of Posadas, twelve miles away. She had turned off the state highway a few miles northwest of the airport, following Forest Road 26 around the western flank of Cat Mesa to Crowley’s gate.

He had a wonderful view from his property-the San Cristobals to the south and west, the great sweep of the prairie to the east, the imposing flat-crowned bulk of Cat Mesa at his back door. Estelle sat quietly for a moment with the windows open. A light breeze hissed through the fat junipers that crowded the lane.

It wasn’t likely that visitors to this spot first admired the view. Their attention would be attracted instead to a two-foot-square sign of painted plywood wired securely to the top and second strands of the fence immediately beside the gate. The lettering was simple block letters, painted in shiny black enamel on a weathered white background.

Trespassand die,fucker.

“PCS, three ten.” She palmed the mike and waited, examining the barbed-wire gate ahead of her. The left side, where the wire closure looped over the polished top of the post, was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.

“Go ahead, three ten.”

“PCS, I’m at Mr. Crowley’s gate.” As she spoke, she flipped open the small Posadas telephone directory. There was no listing for Milton Crowley. “Do you have a telephone number for this residence?”

A momentary pause followed as Gayle either pondered Estelle’s odd question or looked in the file. Estelle hoped that Milton Crowley was hunched over his scanner, forehead furrowed in suspicion. On her increasingly frequent visits to County Commission meetings, she had always known Crowley was in the back tending his video camera, but she had paid him little mind.

During those meetings, he sometimes posed questions to the commission, or made caustic comments heavily loaded with sarcasm and the not-too-subtle implication that anyone who was part of government was either out to trample his personal rights, or was on the take, or was simply stupid. Without fail, a version of the meeting was reported in the small newsletter that Crowley published and then distributed by mail to his list of like-thinking readers.

“Ah, three ten, that’s negative. We have no number on file for that residence.”

“Ten-four. The gate appears to be locked.”

“You be careful,” Gayle said with uncharacteristic informality.

“Three ten will be ten-six this location.”

“Three ten, three oh eight, negative that.” Sheriff Torrez’s voice was startlingly loud, sounding as if he was bending over his wife’s shoulder in dispatch.

“Go ahead, three oh eight,” Estelle said.

“Three ten, ten-twenty-one.” Characteristically, Torrez offered no explanation.

“Ten-four,” Estelle replied. Switching phone for mike, she dialed, knowing exactly what Bob Torrez wanted.

“Hey,” he said when he picked up the phone. “What’s with the visit to the Cat Mesa fruitcake?”

“Bobby, it occurred to me that he might have caught something on video from the meeting yesterday that could be of interest to us.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But if someone had an argument with Kevin, there’s a possibility that something might have been captured on tape during the commission meeting. I don’t know what, but maybe something.”

“Or not.”

“Fifty-fifty,” Estelle persisted. “Besides, I’d like to know who was present for the morning session of the meeting, but who didn’t return for the afternoon. Crowley should have all of that.”

“Maybe so. But you’re dreamin’ if you think he’s going to hand over his tapes.”

“That’s if he even has any in the first place. Maybe he chucks them after a little while. Or records over the same one all the time. But I’m not going to ask him to hand anything over, Bobby. I’d just want to look at them.”

Torrez sighed. “You’re lookin’ at his sign right now?”

“Yes. He doesn’t mince words, does he.”

“Nope. And that’s just how eager he’s gonna be to talk to you, let alone let you into his house, or give you custody of any tapes he might have.”

“How far up this road is his house? I can’t see it from here, and I don’t know if he’s home or not.”

“It’s about a quarter mile from the gate. Is his gate locked?”

“It appears to be.”

“Take a closer look. If the lock is just looped through the chain, he’s home. If it’s actually locked, then he’s off somewhere.”

“Just a second.” Estelle got out of the car and walked to the gate. The big padlock wasn’t snapped shut. “It’s open.”

“He’s probably home, then.”

“You sound like you’ve been out here a time or two.”

“Oh, yeah. A couple years ago, Crowley had some disagreements with the Forest Service over that fence you’re lookin’ at. They loved his signs, too. I guess he compromised and took a bunch of ’em down. Can you wait ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

“Then just sit tight. I’ll be right out.” He chuckled. “Crowley does have a scanner, so you might give your twenty as the gate. If he’s within earshot of his radio, he’ll be out before long, I’ll guarantee that. I’m on my way.”

Estelle keyed the radio. “PCS, three ten is on Forest Road Twenty-six, at the private-property gate. I’ll…” She paused as she saw the figure striding along the two-track toward her. “I’ll be talking with the property owner here. He’s on his way to this location.”

“Ten-four, three ten. Be advised that three oh eight is en route.”

Estelle opened the door, leaving the car idling. She slipped the phone into one jacket pocket and carried her handheld radio in her left hand.

Milton Crowley strode directly to the gate and stopped, one hand resting on the post at the cattle guard. He regarded Estelle quizzically as she stepped from the car. At first glance, Crowley looked like the sort of fellow who would be at home in a commercial for gardening products-homey flannel shirt, buff-colored quilted vest, neatly creased chinos, and waffle-soled boots worn as soft as moccasins. His shirtsleeves were rolled up two folds, revealing hairy, beefy forearms.

His face was broad, with a high, domed forehead crowned by a receding hairline, the same buzz cut that he’d probably first favored as a teenager half a century before.

But there was nothing home and garden about the heavy automatic holstered high on his right hip, butt angled well forward, hammer cocked and locked.

“Good morning, sir,” Estelle said.

“Yes, it is.” Crowley said carefully. He patted the top of the big juniper post.

“I’m Undersheriff Guzman,” Estelle said, even though Crowley would know exactly who she was-no doubt even had captured her on film on various occasions.

“Sure enough you are,” he said pleasantly. He hadn’t changed position an iota, even as Estelle approached the fence. She chose her footing carefully, not because of the rough two-track, but because she wanted the time to consider which approach might work best with Crowley.

At the county meetings, when she paid any attention to Crowley at all, she’d noticed that he wasn’t into small talk. He didn’t take the opportunity to join the various small groups of politicos hobnobbing between sessions. He didn’t appear to talk with Pam Gardiner or whoever was attending the meeting from the Register. He watched those groups, watched everyone, for only he knew what reason. He was an easy man to dismiss in a crowd, and most of the county bureaucrats and employees appeared to do just that.

Now, his body language was clear. He stood relaxed, confident, and armed behind his barbed-wire fence. He made no move to drop off the chain, lift off the closure loop, and drag the wire gate to one side so she could either walk or drive past. She realized that this was the first time she had actually talked to Milton Crowley. It would have been easy to stereotype the man as a furtive, anarchistic nutcase, living alone on his little homestead on the bleak flanks of Cat Mesa. But there was absolutely nothing furtive or shifty-eyed about him. Calm blue eyes regarded Estelle, never leaving her face. She decided to try the direct approach.

“Sir, I need your help.”

Crowley made no reply, but she saw his right eyebrow drift up a fraction of an inch. At that moment, stereo radios carried first the bark of squelch, and then Bob Torrez’s matter-of-fact voice.

“PCS, three oh eight is northbound on State Seventy-eight.”

“Ten-four, three oh eight.”

Estelle turned the volume up just a bit and keyed the radio’s transmit button. “Three ten copies.”

The corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkled, and he reached around with his left hand without looking and turned down the volume of his own portable radio.

“Looks like the big man himself is on the way,” he said.

“Sheriff Torrez knows this country a little better than I do,” Estelle said, and stepped up close to the fence. She reached out with her radio and touched the top wire with the stubby antenna. “Sir, I noticed that you were videotaping the county meeting yesterday afternoon. I was wondering if you were there for the morning session as well?”

“What difference does that make?” Crowley’s tone was businesslike, calmly neutral.

Estelle took a long, slow breath. She had hoped for a simple “yes,” but even though his reply hadn’t been contentious, Crowley gave the impression that he was practiced at living each moment with his guard held high, ready to scrutinize the most innocuous remark or question for hidden meaning. She glanced at the sign again, wondering what had prompted his mood the day he’d painted the message.

“The county manager attended the morning session, but didn’t return for the afternoon,” she said carefully. “I was hoping that maybe you had talked to him sometime during that first session.”

“You’re talking about Zeigler?”

“The county manager, yes, sir.”

Crowley smiled and patted the post again. “Can’t help you there.”

“Sir, did you film both sessions?”

“It’s a public meeting.”

“I know that, sir. Your right to film the meeting isn’t at issue.”

“Goddamn right.” Again, his tone was one of pleasant agreement. It reminded Estelle of talking to the old ex-Marine, former Sheriff Bill Gastner, in one of Gastner’s more recalcitrant moments, and because of that impression, Estelle found herself liking Milton Crowley. She hesitated, weighing how much to take this man into her confidence. As if he had read her hesitation correctly, Crowley withdrew his hand from the post for the first time and crossed both arms over his chest.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you want, young lady? I have things to do, and I’m sure you do, too.”

“All right. If you recorded the entire session, sir, I’d like to look at the tape.”

“The county clerk records every meeting. It’s public record.”

“I’m aware of that. But she doesn’t use video. You do, sir.”

“If you’re trying to find out who was there, the clerk has a sign-in sheet.”

Estelle smiled. “Yes, sir, she does. But not everyone signs it.”

“It’s an open, public meeting,” Crowley said. “People are free to come and go as they please. They aren’t required to sign some silly little attendance list for the county clerk…who has no need of that information in the first place.”

“That’s true, sir.” She heard the sound of a vehicle, and turned to see Torrez’s white Expedition nose over the rise and stop immediately behind her unit.

The handheld radios crackled. “PCS, three oh eight is ten-six, Crowley’s.”

“Your reinforcements are here,” Crowley chuckled, a good-natured grin deepening the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.

The sheriff took his time, apparently arranging a mountain of paperwork before getting out of his vehicle, no hint of urgency in his motions. When he did get out, Torrez strolled up the two-track toward them as if he had all morning just to soak up the sun.

“Howdy, howdy,” he greeted. He paused at one point and looked down at a small scattering of deer pellets beside the path. He toed them with his boot, then glanced up at Crowley. “I was up at Copperton Springs the other day. Pretty good herd hanging out there.” Crowley didn’t respond, but he unlocked his arms and his right hand drifted back to the comfort of the juniper post. “How you been, Milt?” Torrez stepped up close to the fence, at the same time taking off his Stetson and running fingers through his tousled hair. He wiped his forehead and resettled the hat. “Things going all right?”

“As good as they’re going to get, I suppose,” Crowley said.

“Sir,” Estelle said, “would you consider letting us view the videotape of the meeting yesterday?”

“Not goddamn likely,” Crowley said, and this time there was some bristle in his tone. Estelle wondered how much of it was for Bob Torrez’s benefit. “If you want surveillance films, you take ’em yourself.”

Torrez looked up from his examination of the ground near the fence and grinned. “How come it ain’t surveillance when you take ’em?” he asked. Estelle groaned inwardly, but Crowley didn’t rise to the bait. The sheriff rested his hand carefully between two of the barbs on the top strand of the gate. He bounced the wire thoughtfully.

“This is what we’re lookin’ for, Milt. The county manager went missing yesterday.” He looked across the gate at Crowley and grimaced in frustration. “We don’t know where he went, or with who, or what. Gone without a sign. And it don’t look good.” He bounced the wire again. “It don’t look good.”

“That’s none of my concern.”

“Nope, it isn’t. But in tryin’ to cover all the bases, your videotape was just something we thought about. Maybe someone came into the meeting, maybe talked with Zeigler. The commission covered a lot of ground in the morning session.” He shrugged in self-deprecation. “Hell, it isn’t something that I pay much attention to. Other than a few big things, I couldn’t tell you what the commission talked about, or what they decided, or who argued with who, about what.” He shrugged again. “But a video camera don’t miss much.”

“I don’t turn over my tapes to anybody,” Crowley said. “They’re not for the government’s use.”

“Would you consider letting us see the tape in your presence?” Estelle asked. “That way, the tape would never leave your custody. If you don’t want us on your property, we could view them at the sheriff’s office.”

Crowley shook his head deliberately from side to side. “I don’t work for the government,” he said. His expression had lost any trace of affability, the lines of his jaw set hard. Estelle could see clearly that she was wasting her time. “Get yourself a court order.” He drew himself up a bit, unable to resist tossing in the challenge. “And then see if you can serve it.”

Estelle looked at him curiously, but Bob Torrez just grunted a chuckle.

“Relax, Milt,” he said. He bounced the wire again, as if dismissing the entire conversation and finding the fence far more important. “I thought the Forest Service was going to put in a solid gate for you.”

“This one’s just fine.”

“I’d think messin’ with this wire every time you want to go in or out would be kind of a pain in the ass.” He gave the wire a final flex and then held up his hand. “We got to go. You have a good day, Milt.” Torrez stepped close to Estelle as he passed. “We got some interesting results back from the crime lab that you’re going to want to see,” he said, obviously not caring whether Crowley heard him or not.