Prolonged Exposure

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.”