Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 28

At 5:00 P.M. that Wednesday, Sheriff Martin Holman officially announced the end of the mesa search for little Cody Cole. Four days and thousands of man-hours had produced nothing other than the torn jacket.

The event even attracted a live-news crew from one of the major television stations, and we watched the announcement on television while Camille put the finishing touches on enough food to feed an army.

“At this time, I regretfully announce that search efforts for three-year-old Cody Cole have been terminated,” Holman said. I could see the front door of the Public Safety Building directly behind him. He was frowning, and he looked directly at the reporter, rather than into the camera. “In the absence of further leads, the risk to search teams both on the ground and in the air makes continued operations unacceptable.”

The reporter tipped the microphone back and asked, “Sheriff, what does your department intend to do now that the search has been halted?” The cameraman was alert, and he panned to show the wind blowing the young woman’s hair, giving her that tousled, on-the-scene look. Martin Holman was perfectly coifed and neatly pressed, as usual.

“The Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, in cooperation with the United States Forest Service, the New Mexico Department of Fish and Game, the New Mexico State Police, and other agencies, will continue to monitor developments from a central command post in Posadas.” He took a breath. “Limited search activities will continue on Cat Mesa until further notice, although without the involvement of National Guard aircraft.”

“What do you think happened to the child?”

Sheriff Holman wasn’t ready for that question, and he hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “I don’t think that speculation is productive,” he said.

“Do you think that Cody Cole is still on Cat Mesa?”

“As I said, speculation isn’t going to find the missing youngster,” Holman said, and nodded to end the interview.

The reporter persisted. “Sheriff, if you felt there was any chance at all that the child was still alive on the mesa, would you cancel the search?”

“History is being made,” I said. “Martin Holman gets to field a question so stupid, even he should be puzzled.”

Holman managed a pained expression for the camera, then said, “Thank you.” He stepped out of camera range.

The television reporter signed off, and a final pan of the camera established that her channel had the scoop. “It’s quite a day when live-news cameras come to Posadas,” I said.

Camille laughed and clattered dishes. “They should have been out at the grave site earlier. That would have been photogenic. Marty could have refused to speculate on how the old lady’s skull got bashed in, too.”

“We don’t know that’s what happened yet,” I said.

“Bet you twenty bucks.”

“No.” The telephone rang and Camille glanced around at me. “You want to get that? My hands are full.”

“Even money says it’s Martin Holman, wanting a review.”

“No bet.” Camille chuckled.

I picked up the phone. “You did really well, Sheriff,” I said, and was greeted by silence at the other end.

After a few seconds, Holman said, “Did you catch the news?”

“Yes. Like I said, you did really well. You sounded like one of those people who work for the Pentagon.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but I’ll pretend it is. Listen, two things. First of all, is Estelle there yet?”

“No. She and Francis are going to come over in a few minutes, though. We were going to see if we could actually squeeze in a dinner. Do you and Meg want to come, too?”

“No thanks. Let us take a rain check. But I wanted to pass along some preliminary comments from the medical examiner.”

“That was fast.”

“Express service. First of all, as far as the ME is concerned, it’s a definite homicide. It appears that Gloria Apodaca was killed by a single blow to the base of the skull. A really hard blow, the ME said.”

“What was the weapon?”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Holman said, ignoring my question.

“I’m not easily surprised anymore, Martin-except by the notion that Florencio Apodaca has enough gumption to swing any tool hard enough to crush in a skull.”

“The ME thinks that the murder weapon was something like a shovel.”

“Well, that makes sense, if Florencio did it. A shovel handle makes for a lot of speed at the blade.”

“You’re saying ‘if Florencio did it.’ Do you have doubts?”

Camille left the kitchen, and I switched ears so I could turn and look toward the front door. Estelle and Francis Guzman appeared in the foyer. “We need to talk with the old man now, Sheriff. But of course I have doubts, until we see some evidence. Who knows. Maybe Stanley Willit was here last week and killed her, then planned this performance.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Of course it is. But it’s possible. Maybe one of Florencio’s children. Maybe the son who owns the wood shop.”

“What wood shop is that?”

“It’s a long story. All I’m saying is that we need to be very sure of ourselves. There’s no doubt in my mind that Florencio knows what happened, and who swung the shovel, or whatever it is. But whether he did it is another question.” Estelle and her husband stepped down into the living room, and I could see Camille making hand signals about appetizers. “We need to move on this, though. Estelle and I can go over there this evening. Talk to the old man, see what he says. He may loosen up and spill the whole story.”

“I’d like to make another suggestion, Bill,” Holman said. The tone of his voice sank a notch into his administrative mode, the tone he used when he was feeling self-confident and forceful.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s let Sergeant Torrez and Deputy Pasquale go over there this evening. They both speak Spanish, if that’s a help, and Bob is about as steady as they come. He’s not going to do anything rash, and he sure isn’t going to let Tommy Pasquale out of his sight.”

I started to say something, then thought better of it. “All right,” I said instead.

There must have been some hesitation in my tone, because Holman added, “I think sometimes we underuse Torrez. Certainly underestimate him, anyway. And Pasquale needs the experience.”

“Fine.”

As Holman began to speak again, I caught Estelle’s eye and looked heavenward. She grinned. She and Francis were relaxed on the couch, stretched out, with their feet up on the ancient slabwood coffee table. “And you know, eventually you and I are going to have to sit down and discuss how we’re going to reorganize things around here with Estelle leaving in May.”

“She told you, eh?”

“Yes. I can’t say I’m very happy about it. She’s going to be difficult to replace.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Maybe they’ll get sick of the north country and be back. I give them one winter up there.”

“Yep,” I said, and shifted my weight to the other foot. “What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Another reason I wanted Torrez to visit the old man this evening. Stanley Willit was showing me some papers a few minutes ago. Interesting stuff. Bank records, mostly. It appears that his stepmother was in the process of transferring funds out of her and her husband’s joint account. She had established a separate account, and what’s more, Willit has a signed power of attorney for all of Gloria Apodaca’s affairs should she become indisposed.”

“Or dead,” I said.

“Or dead. Convenient, isn’t it? That would block Florencio from accessing those funds under joint tenancy. At least for a while, anyway.”

“Did you explain all this to Torrez? So he doesn’t walk into this mess without some prior knowledge?”

“No, but I plan to.”

“And make sure that Willit does not accompany the officers to Apodaca’s,” I said.

“He seems content next door,” Holman said.

“In the district attorney’s office?”

Holman chuckled. “He asked if he could use the county’s law library. I think he’s trying to figure out who to sue next.”

Normally, all one had to do was suggest the idea of litigation involving the Sheriff’s Department to Martin Holman and his forehead began to sweat. He evidently thought Stanley Willit was as much of a fruitcake as I did.

“Well, it was my land that provided the burial site, so no doubt he’ll sue me. And Florencio did the burying, or says he did, so he’s on the list, too. And you’re the one who said ‘Oops’ when we exhumed the body, so you’re on there, too.”

“Did I really say that?”

“Yes, you really did. Perhaps it would be prudent to tell Mr. Willit that the county offices are now closed, including the DA’s law library. Let him go stew in his motel room.”

“I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him,” Holman said.

“Tell Bob to call me if he gets in a bind,” I said. Camille was holding up a bowl of guacamole dip.

“One last thing,” Holman said. “I put Tom Mears on the Cole situation. He said he wanted to keep somebody up on the mesa anyway, just in case. I told him that was a good idea. He’ll be following up leads from here. We’re spread pretty thin, but the Forest Service is going to help out, I think.”

“Good idea. Keep me posted.”

I hung up, my ear hot from the receiver.

“That was the sheriff?” Camille asked, and she handed me a small glass of red wine.

“His nibs,” I said. “The changing of the guard.”

“The changing of the guard?” Camille asked, and then she saw the expression on my face. “Oh,” she said.

“He’s sending someone over to talk with Mr. Apodaca?” Estelle asked.

“Torrez and Pasquale,” I said, and took a long swallow of the wine.

“They’ll do fine,” she said. It would have been nice, I thought, if she had hesitated just a bit before saying that. Francis Guzman, who over the years had grown as perceptive of my various moods as anyone, pushed himself to his feet.

“Let’s see what meds they’ve got you taking,” he said. I know how he meant it-as a helpful diversion-but checking prescription labels wasn’t my idea of recreation. It was too damn close to what old men in nursing homes did.