One Perfect Shot

Chapter Sixteen

My brain was a whirl of disconnected thoughts on the short ride back into town. A tractor-trailer rode up on our back bumper for a while, and I realized that I was putting along, not much more than thirty-five miles an hour in a sixty-five zone. After a few seconds of that, the trucker grew impatient and thundered by, cop car or not. His plates were Texan, his mud flaps big, waving promos for Tyler Trucking in Kansas, his trailer hauling something under the banner of Merlin Foods out of Denver, the cab door bearing the logo for Dutchess Trucking headquartered in Phoenix. That potpourri of places might have made me curious if I hadn’t been distracted with other issues.

He blew through the first speed zone on the outskirts of Posadas, then braked hard to catch the westbound ramp for the Interstate, where he’d be someone else’s problem.

I was about to comment that with all the curious geography displayed on his truck, the driver might have been more careful about basic things like signaling his turns so he didn’t attract undue attention. Had I just been cruising, I would have stopped him for a chat.

My radio chirped even as other concerns rumbled through my brain. Larry Zipoli’s personnel records remained untouched. I needed a quiet corner to settle in and catch up on my reading. I didn’t need another interruption.

Without being told, Estelle Reyes palmed the mike like a veteran. “PCS, three ten.”

“Three ten, contact Dr. Perrone at Posadas General reference your previous stop,” the dispatcher said. Estelle glanced at me and I nodded.

“Ten four, PCS,” she said and hung up the mike.

“We’ll swing by the hospital on the way,” I said. “We need to do that anyway.”

I saw one of her shapely black eyebrows drift upward and knew what she must be thinking…on the way where?

“I want to chat with Marilyn Zipoli again. A couple of things keep nagging me. Something doesn’t quite fit, and I don’t know what it is.” I paid attention to traffic for a moment-elderly Theodora Baca’s huge sedan pulling across my lane to enter the Posadas Inn’s parking lot. Perhaps it was their iced tea that beckoned her-the only recipe on their little restaurant’s menu that wasn’t close to poisonous.

“And before we do that, I need to spend some time with Zipoli’s records. It’ll be interesting to see what Marilyn has to say about all that. I mean, how could she not know that Larry had a drinking problem. No way she wouldn’t know. Not someone as sharp as she is.”

We passed through the intersection with Bustos, then turned east on the little spur of North Pershing to the Posadas General Hospital parking lot. I parked in one of the slots marked Emergency Vehicles Only, and saw the white Dodge van with the Posadas Auto Parts logo on its broad flank. The keys to old man Newton’s Caddy were still in my pocket.

“Unfinished business,” I said. “When young Nick went to work this morning, he thought this was going to be a normal day. And then it went to shit.”

Despite its interesting collision of aromas, the hospital could be a comfortable spot on a hot summer’s day, and my pace slowed a little to enjoy the ambiance. The sign requested that all visitors report to the receptionist out by the lobby, but she didn’t need to deal with us. The emergency room was empty, and I headed down past radiology toward the new ICU wing-“wing” a grand term for two new rooms and an exterior doorway that led to a tiny sun-dappled courtyard.

Nick Newton sat outside on one of the courtyard’s concrete benches in a shady corner dominated by a fountain based on the Zia symbol. The water pump wasn’t quite up to the task, and the creation managed to look more like a bad leak than an arty fountain. Smoke wafted up from Newton’s cigarette. His forearms rested on his knees, his head hanging as if he wasn’t sure about his stomach’s ability to hold down lunch.

He looked up as we entered the courtyard.

“Sheriff.” He shook my hand without much enthusiasm.

“This is Estelle Reyes,” I said, and Nick Newton’s gaze flickered to the young lady with little interest. “How is your father?”

“Not so good. He’s across the hall in the ICU. What the hell happened anyway? You stopped him out on 61?”

“Actually, Nick, I didn’t stop him. He was parked with the ass end of his car hanging out in the traffic lane. He was semi-conscious in the back seat.”

He muttered an oath. “He probably would just sleep it off if you left him alone.”

“Maybe he would have. Or a semi might have rear-ended him, or he might have come to and fumbled and stumbled his way into an accident. What’s Dr. Perrone say?” I glanced back through the double doors, but couldn’t see beyond the tinted glass across the hall.

Nick waved a hand impatiently. “Some mumbo-jumbo about his heart and liver. Hell, there’s never been anything wrong with him that a little common sense wouldn’t cure.” It sounded more like a father talking about a wayward son than vice versa. “So what’s the deal? I mean when he gets out of here. Is he in trouble with you guys? You charge him with DWI, or what?”

“I haven’t charged him with anything yet, Jack.”

“Yet,” he snorted. “You know, all he’s got is Medicare, sheriff. You have any idea how much this is going to cost?”

He’s got you, I wanted to mention, but that wasn’t any of my business. I managed to look suitably sympathetic.

Nick lit another cigarette. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Take his car keys, I guess. And then what.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, and dug out the key ring. “The car is pulled well off the highway and locked. You can pick it up any time. The sooner the better. It’s a tempting target out there.”

He looked at the collection of keys, leafing them one by one around the ring.

“So what’s the deal, then?”

“The deal is that right now, you take care of your dad,” I said. “When he’s clear-headed enough that we can talk with him, then we’ll see.” I knew damn well what the District Attorney’s attitude would be. “Make sure he doesn’t get behind the wheel, Nick. Keep those keys out of his reach until we straighten all this out.”

“’Preciate it, sheriff.” He nodded first at me and then at Estelle Reyes. “You’re with the department now?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And what’s this deal about Larry Zipoli?” Nick asked me. “I’m hearing all these weird stories. Like he got shot somehow and fell right out of the county grader he was driving?”

“That’s one version I hadn’t heard,” I replied. “We’re investigating, Nick.”

“Christ, ain’t that a kick. You think suicide maybe?“

“As I said, we’re checking out everything. Did you have the chance to talk with Larry recently?”

Nick took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I saw him yesterday, as a matter of fact. He come into the store to pick up an ignition switch.” He frowned at the memory. “He was pretty steamed about the latest county snafu. You probably run into it. About no open purchase orders? You need somethin’ simple-hell even a new double-A battery or a new screwdriver-you got to have it approved by the department supervisor? In writing?”

“I think that order is one of the things that the sheriff threw in the trash,” I laughed. “But it’ll catch up with us, I’m sure. So all in all, Larry seemed all right to you?”

“Well, sure. I mean, how’s a guy to know, after all,” Nick said. “I don’t think he felt all that hot, if you ask me. His back was giving him hell.” He was tactful enough not to say any more about that-I was fully aware that my own ample gut, although not in the same class as Larry Zipoli’s gigantic, pendulous belly, put plenty of strain on my spine. “How’s Marilyn takin’ it all?”

I shrugged noncommittally and Nick seemed satisfied with that. He nodded toward the door, and I turned to see Dr. Alan Perrone. The physician held the door open for us. Nick Newton took the opportunity to light up again, in no hurry to go back inside to the atmosphere of chemicals, clicking machines, and hushed voices.

“How are you doing, Bill?” the physician asked as we stepped inside. I suppose he had reason to ask, since he’d been in charge of my innards for quite a while and knew where all the leaks, creaks, and odd noises lurked.

“I’m dandy,” I replied. “This is Estelle Reyes.”

Perrone grinned at her. “We’re acquainted.” He didn’t elaborate but shook her hand, adding a genteel bow of the head at the same time, then turned back to me. “I left a message for you with dispatch. Look, it’s highly unlikely that Jack Newton is going to pull through. I mean, miracles do occasionally happen, but I would be surprised this time.”

“You told Nick?”

“Yes. I don’t think he was in the mood to hear it. I understand that you were the one who stopped the old man?”

“No. He was pulled off the road, passed out on the back seat. Ms. Reyes and I happened by.”

“Ah. Well lucky for him. The back seat, you say. That’s interesting.” Perrone heaved a deep sigh. “Look, his liver is shot, he has an enlarged spleen, and fluid is collecting in his lungs. The old heart just can’t manage it all. Half a bottle of alcohol wasn’t just what he needed, although at this stage of the game, I don’t suppose it matters much. Anyway, I wanted to touch bases with you, since the whole thing entered the system as a complaint from your department.”

And who the hell knew how the “system” that Perrone referred to would have reacted had we cuffed and transferred Jack Newton to the back of J.J. Murton’s patrol car, and then had the old man expire hours later in the drunk tank. His son could have had a field day at our expense.

“Keep me posted, doctor. I do need to know when he’s out of your custody.”

Perrone’s smile was pained. “I don’t often think of my relationship with patients as ‘custody’, Sheriff.” He nodded again to Estelle. “My best wishes to your fiancé, young lady.”

Now, how the hell did he know Estelle Reyes’ boyfriend who wasn’t even out of school yet? Perrone’s web of informants was damn near as effective as mine-maybe better.

I stood in the sun outside the cool chemical world of the hospital for a moment, leaning against the comfortable fender of the county car. Off to the north, the buttress of Cat Mesa heaved up against a scattering of boiling cumulus, and at that moment I would have welcomed an hour or so sitting in the shade of a piñon, listening to the jays discuss the quality of the current pine nut crop.

“I’m ready for great thoughts.” I looked over at Estelle.

“If I had them, I’d share them with you, sir.”

“The first thing I want is an endless pot of fresh coffee,” I said. “Then we’ll see what the personnel files have to say.”