Dead Weight

Chapter Twenty-one

The black New Mexico State Police cruiser crunched to a stop beside 310. Behind us loomed the enormous pile of crusher fines that the state highway department was accumulating in anticipation of rejuvenating State Road 56 from Posadas to Regal. I could see the single dim light that marked the parking lot of Victor Sanchez’s Broken Spur Saloon a quarter-mile to the northeast.

Rhodes rested his arm on the window sill. He regarded me soberly. “Nice night.”

And it was, the air softened and cooled by the storm earlier, the prairie fragrant. Rhodes lit a cigarette, and even the smoke from that smelled pretty good. A pair of headlights appeared to the south as a faint dot, and we sat and watched them bloom until the car, a light-colored Ford Taurus with out-of-state plates, flashed past, headed toward Posadas.

“I talked with Leona Spears a bit ago,” I said.

“Better you than me,” Rhodes said, and chuckled. He let his head sag back against the headrest. “I try to stay on the opposite side of the district from that woman. What’d she have to say for herself?”

“Among other things, she wanted to give me this.” I handed the photocopy of Leona’s letter across. “Actually,” I added as Rhodes took the letter, “she didn’t want to give it to me at all, since she’s sure it’ll conveniently get lost.”

The trooper snapped on a small flashlight and spread the letter out on his clipboard. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rhodes said as he read the brief message. “This is pretty dumb.” He snapped off the light and looked over at me. “Someone with too much free time, Sheriff.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“What’d Tom Pasquale have to say about it? Did you talk to him yet?”

“He’s pissed,” I said. “But this isn’t the first. Your esteemed brother-in-law got one just like it. So did Arnie Gray and Frank Dayan.”

Rhodes sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully. “And that’s it?”

“So far. Sam didn’t say anything about it to you?”

Mike Rhodes grinned. “No,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. “You didn’t receive one?”

“Nope.”

“Or Jaramillo either?”

I shook my head. “That I don’t know. I haven’t mentioned it to Jaramillo yet, or to anyone else in the DA’s office, or to Judge Hobart. And none of them has called me. And I think Don Jaramillo would have. Things like this make him nervous. I thought I’d wait a few hours and see what develops.”

Rhodes laughed. “Jaramillo is too stupid to get nervous, Bill. And if Leona Spears had this, then you can guarantee that something will develop.”

“She said she’d hold off.”

“Oh, sure. The word of most politicians, I’ve come to discover, is about equal to dog shit.” He blew smoke with a hiss of exasperation. “Did you come up with any prints?”

“The originals are being processed now. And just to make sure, to keep things out in the open, I asked the lab in Las Cruces to do the analysis. Not one of our own deputies.”

“Ohhh,” Rhodes said, “the big irons.” He ground out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray. “So what’s the deal with Jimmy Sisson? He cut the wrong person’s water line or what?”

“We don’t know yet. Something stinks, that’s for sure. Mama and the three kids went to Cruces, the oldest flew in from college, and then Mama and Jennifer skedaddled back here. I don’t know what’s going on. She had a row with her parents, that was pretty obvious.”

“What’d she say when you talked to her?”

“Not much…a lot like talking to a rattlesnake. I guess I thought that grief might temper her a little, and I even took Linda Real with me. She’s about the most upbeat person I know, and I guess I thought some of it might rub off on Grace. No such luck. Then her father, the good reverend, spilled the beans that Jennifer is pregnant, and that sent Mama into orbit again. I don’t know.”

“Jennifer’s pregnant?”

“That’s what Pastor Stevenson says. And Grace didn’t deny it. And that appears to be a more important issue to her right now than a dead husband.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

It was more than just casual amazement in Mike Rhodes’ tone, and I reached out and switched off 310. Rhodes did the same, and the silence sank down around us. The trooper reached across the seat, picked up his thermos of coffee, and thoughtfully unscrewed the steel top.

“Want some?”

“No, thanks.” I waited for him to finish his housekeeping.

“You know,” he said, and took a moment to light another cigarette. “You know who Jennifer Sisson hangs out a lot with, don’t you?”

“Who’s that?”

“My nephew. Nephew-in-law, that is, if there is such a thing.”

“Huh,” I said. “You’re talking about Kenneth Carter, Sam’s youngest?”

“The one and only. Actually, I shouldn’t say ‘hangs out with,’ because I don’t know how far it goes. But I’ve seen them together a time or two.” He sipped the coffee thoughtfully. “I know Sam’s had his hands full with Kenny, but my wife’s always been able to talk to him. The understanding aunt thing, you know.”

“Maybe things went a little too far, is how far they went,” I said, and Mike Rhodes laughed.

“That’s possible. I’ve seen Jennifer Sisson only a time or two, but the impression I got was that she’d be happier out of her clothes than in.”

I hesitated. “Mike, has Sam said anything to you about any of this?”

The trooper chuckled at some private joke. “Sheriff, you need to understand something. Old Sammy and I don’t talk much.” He looked across at me. “Or to be more exact, I don’t talk to him much. Now, I’ll be the first one to admit that he’s the one who talked me into running for sheriff, and the wife and I talked it over and agreed that Posadas might be a pretty comfortable place to live. MaryBeth would like to be a little closer to her sister, and I think that I can do a pretty fair job as sheriff. But that’s it.” He took a deep drag of the cigarette, then blew the smoke across the coffee cup before sipping.

“Sam Carter is one of those old-time politicians who’s into it for the sport of it, Sheriff. Everything he does is wheel-deal, you know what I mean? Hell, you have to work with him-you should know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not my style. My name’s on the ticket, I’ll put up some signs, I might talk to a Rotary Club meeting. But I won’t make any promises to my brother-in-law or to anyone else.”

“When’s your official date?”

He knew exactly what I meant and replied like a man who was counting the days, hours, and minutes. “September first.” He sighed. “Twenty years on September first.”

“And you’ll be ready,” I said.

“Bet your ass, I’ll be ready. There’s politics in this business, too, you know.”

“I’m sure there is.”

He leaned toward me and lowered his voice so the bunchgrass wouldn’t hear. “Just between you and me…” He paused and I nodded. “The first thing I’m going to do if I win is ask Bobby Torrez to be undersheriff. Two reasons. First is that he’s the best one for the job. Hell, he probably ought to be sheriff. Second is that it’ll tweak my old brother-in-law so bad that he won’t speak to me for a month.”

“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” I said, laughing.

“Nope, it wouldn’t. By the way, do you have someone checking the insurance angle?”

“Sisson’s, you mean?”

He nodded. “Life insurance policies are pretty handy things. It’s happened before.”

“Sure it has,” I agreed. “Anything like that is going to come out sooner or later.”

Rhodes nodded, screwed the cap back on his coffee, and started the patrol car. “Let me know what I can do for you, Bill. And be careful of Her Highness.”

“Leona, you mean?”

“Miss Spears, as my brother-in-law always calls her. He can’t ever get past the fact that the woman never married and refuses to stay home, barefoot and pregnant. But I don’t trust her, either. She lives in some sort of weird parallel universe, that’s for sure. Everything is an issue with that woman.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He reached up and pulled the transmission into drive. “And for what it’s worth,” he said as he let the patrol car inch forward, “I’ve seen Tom Pasquale working down here as often as anyone. I’ve backed him up on routine stops a couple dozen times over the years. He’s a straight arrow, Sheriff.”

I lifted a hand in salute and watched the black Crown Victoria idle out onto the asphalt of State 56 and then accelerate toward Regal. I started 310 and then just sat, listening to the burble of the exhausts.

The copy of Leona Spears’s letter was still lying on my lap, and I started to fold it up but then stopped and picked up my flashlight. The beam was harsh, but bright enough that my bifocals work. “Huh,” I muttered, and then twisted around to look off to the west. The taillights of Mike Rhodes’s car had disappeared around the twisting bends that snaked up to the pass outside Regal.

“Neatly done, Officer Rhodes,” I said. “You aren’t such a bad politician yourself.” I pulled 310 out onto the highway and headed back toward Posadas.