Dead Weight

Chapter Thirteen

After a few minutes, even the steady hum of the computer became a nuisance. The damn thing squatted on the corner of my desk, its screen-saver program presenting an endless series of twisting geometric patterns. Either the machine didn’t have any of the answers that I wanted or I didn’t know how to ask the right questions. The noise got on my nerves, and I shut the thing off and sat back, letting my head sag back against my chair’s leather rest.

I leaned back and let my eyes wander around the room, wondering what the hell my next step should be. I didn’t like not knowing. And I felt, with those damn anonymous notes piled on top of a messy homicide, as if someone was playing games with us.

With a start, I realized that there was one small mystery I could clear up. I leaned forward and picked up the phone book, rummaged for a moment, then dialed the number of Payson Realty. Maggie Payson picked it up on the third ring.

“Maggie, this is Bill Gastner,” I said.

Her tone went up an octave with a pleasure that sounded genuine. “Well now, Sheriff, how are you? You know, I was just thinking about you.”

I didn’t pursue that, since with the way my luck had been running I was sure that, one way or another, her thoughts would end up as a complaint against someone in my department. Instead I asked, “How’s your father?” George Payson had owned and operated a sporting goods store until a couple of months before, when a stroke had knocked him out of his chair while he was tying a difficult bass fly.

“Oh,” Maggie said, “not good. It’s so sad to see him slipping.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” George and I had had a standing bet for almost two decades over which one of us would keel over first. We’d both almost taken the trophy a couple of times, but at the moment I didn’t feel like winning. “He’s at home still, though, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said quickly. “I tried to talk to him about a managed care place over in Deming, but that conversation lasted about ten seconds.”

“He’s stubborn,” I said. “Maybe that will keep him going.”

“We can only hope so.”

I hesitated. “Look, the reason I called. It’s none of my business, but I was wondering who bought the Guzmans’ place over on Twelfth Street. I happened to be driving by there last night, and the sign was down.”

Posadas wasn’t the center of the world’s real estate market, and Maggie Payson didn’t have to consult a huge cross-referenced database to answer my question. She didn’t even hesitate to shift mental gears.

“No, that didn’t sell, Bill. Francis and Estelle took their place off the market.”

“Off the market?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be damned. It’s been a couple of weeks since I talked to her. She didn’t mention anything about that.”

“Well, this is a more recent thing. She called me Friday, I believe it was.”

“Son of a gun. I guess I’ll have to get on the ball and find out what’s going on. We’ve been busy, and time slips away.”

“Yes, you have,” Maggie said, artfully dodging the opportunity to tell me what was on Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s mind, if she knew in the first place. “That was awful about Jim Sisson, wasn’t it? Such a tragic thing. I can’t imagine what Grace’s going to do now. Three kids still at home. I just can’t imagine.”

I heard murmuring voices out in the hall and glanced at my watch. “I’ll leave you in peace, Maggie. Thanks for the information.”

“My pleasure. And say, did you ever get those horses you were thinking about? Those wonderful draft horses?”

“I chickened out,” I chuckled. “I came to the realization that my schedule would never fit theirs…at least not until I retire. Maybe then I’ll rethink the whole idea.”

“We’ve got a really good deal on a nice parcel of irrigated pasturage over west of town, if you need it. Just under eleven acres.”

“I’m sure you do, Maggie. I’ll keep it in mind. And give my regards to your dad.”

We rang off, and the instant the light blinked out on my telephone, a set of knuckles rapped on my door.

“Come on in,” I said, and Deputy Tom Pasquale appeared, one hand gripping the outside knob, the other drifting to the jamb, as if prepared to slam the door shut at an instant’s notice.

“Gayle said you were off the phone,” he began. “Did you want to see me, sir?”

“Yes. Come in. Close the door. Have a seat.” I gathered up the photos that Chief Martinez and I had been examining, shoved them in the folder, and tossed it on the stack of papers to my right.

Pasquale sat down and carefully placed his straw Bailey on the floor and then shifted sideways a little so that the butt of his holstered automatic wouldn’t dig the arm of the chair.

“There are about three things that I need to run by you,” I said. “Chief Martinez said that you had the opportunity to talk with Jennifer Sisson a couple of nights ago.”

Pasquale frowned and visibly seemed to relax. An intelligent kid, he was keenly aware of his past performance, and I knew that no one in the department tried more diligently to do the right thing-at least as long as I was watching.

He thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, sir. I did. I think it was Monday night, as a matter of fact. She was one of several kids messing around.”

“Where was that?”

“Portillo’s parking lot. It was pushing ten o’clock, and I thought it would be a good idea if I could sort of…move ’em on a little.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Jennifer was the oldest in that group, sir. The others were just middle schoolers. And there were a couple of cars with older kids cruising around town, and I knew that the younger kids were waiting to be picked up.” He shrugged. “I figured that if I hung around, that might not happen. It was a quiet night, not much else to do.”

“And the PD?”

“Beuler was on, and he was tied up with a minor fender bender over at the Posadas Inn, sir.”

“Ah.” I leaned my head back again and watched the fan idle in circles. Tom Pasquale waited. “Did Jennifer Sisson happen to say anything to you at the time? Anything that, in retrospect, might fit in with the incident last night? Or with the fight between her parents?”

Pasquale frowned again and ran fingers through his sandy brown hair. “No, sir. She didn’t. But I really didn’t get into it with them, either. The kids, I mean. I just figured that if I parked there for a few minutes, they’d move on.”

“And they did?”

“Yes, sir. We chatted for a bit, and then they headed toward the pizza place.”

“And this was all about ten o’clock, or thereabouts?”

“Yes, sir.”

I rested my chin in my left hand, elbow propped on the padded arm of the chair. “Who were the older kids that were cruising around, do you know?”

Pasquale shook his head. “No, sir. I caught a glimpse of one car that came out of the parking lot of the grocery store. There were a couple of kids in it, but they were behaving themselves, so I didn’t check ’em out.”

“That was while you were parked at Portillo’s?”

“Yes, sir. Kitty-corner across the street.”

“When you talked with Beuler last night, did he happen to mention anything? Anything at all that might tie into this mess? Any arguments that Jim Sisson had with anybody?”

“No, sir.” Pasquale sighed. “We haven’t turned up a thing. Bob is convinced that someone else was there, and that Sisson’s death wasn’t an accident, and that maybe Grace knows more than she’s ready to admit to. But that’s it.” He held up his hands. “We haven’t found a thing yet. No prints, no nothing.”

I grimaced. “Maybe we’re imagining things.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“You agree with the undersheriff?” I knew that was a silly question, and Pasquale’s answer was prompt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it’s footwork time, Thomas. We need to know who was on Jim’s list of recent accounts-maybe some customer got bent out of shape. Who he’s got debts with.” I held out both hands. “Who his kids are seeing. Who Grace is having tea with, or who she’s having an affair with. Whatever.”

Deputy Pasquale nodded and started to reach for his hat.

“A couple other things,” I said, and he relaxed back in the chair. “It’s not my intent to pry into your personal life, Thomas, but…” I stopped. It would have helped if he’d just said, “Well, then don’t,” but he sat there quietly, looking uncertain and apprehensive.

“I talked to Carla Champlin yesterday.”

“Sir?”

“And Miss Champlin wants you evicted.”

“Say what?”

I nodded. “She contends that the house you’re renting has been damaged to a point where she’s losing her investment.”

“Sir, that’s-”

I held up a hand to cut him off. “That’s what Miss Champlin said. I pass it on to you for what it’s worth. If there’s a problem, it’s between you and her.”

“Why didn’t she just come and talk with me?” Pasquale said. “I wouldn’t think that’s so hard.”

“She said that she’s tried, on several occasions.” Pasquale looked puzzled, and I spread my hands. “That’s what she says. I’ve known Carla Champlin for a good many years, Thomas. She’s an…interesting…person. You happen to be her target of the month.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“I wouldn’t presume to tell you, Thomas. Maybe plant some petunias. I don’t know.”

“It’s the motorcycle,” he said flatly.

“The Harley in the front yard?”

He nodded. “I’m trying to buy it from Mears. The other day I had it inside the house. It’s got something wrong with one of the carbs, and I didn’t want to get sand in it, so I rolled it inside and put it in the back bedroom. I put papers down and stuff.”

“And…”

“She happened to drive by when Linda and I were rolling it back outside.”

“I see,” I said, and grinned. “Were you wearing your leather motorcycle gang jacket at the time?”

“Maybe I should have been,” he muttered. “If I owned one.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I told Carla Champlin I’d mention it to you, and I have, so…”

Pasquale nodded and reached for his hat again.

“One more thing before you go,” I said.

“Sir?”

I hesitated again. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I knew I wasn’t good at dissembling. Tom Pasquale would find out sooner or later, and I wanted it to be from me, not from an article in the newspaper or from someone on the street who couldn’t wait to pass on juicy gossip. I opened the top drawer of my desk and took out the photocopies I’d made of the three letters received by the county commissioners and Frank Dayan.

I reached across and handed them to Pasquale. He read them one at a time with his lips forming the words silently. By the second one, his face had drained of color.