Steven Havill: Out of Season

Estelle Reyes-Guzman had announced several months earlier that she and her husband were moving to Minnesota-to a wonderful opportunity for Dr. Guzman and a major loss for us. Estelle carried the title “Chief of Detectives,” but that was laughable. She was the only detective, the only person working in plainclothes except for the sheriff and myself.

Sergeant Robert Torrez was marrying our head dispatcher, Gayle Sedillos, and who knew what their future plans were. We all had expected them to live in Posadas until they were old and gray-but that was wishful thinking, and we knew it.

On top of that, September first was approaching-the date I’d set as my official retirement. I’d been undersheriff for the better part of twenty years, but my leaving was the least of Martin Holman’s problems. The department had three sergeants-Eddie Mitchell, Howard Bishop, and Robert Torrez. Any one of them could fill the position in a heartbeat, and any of the three could accomplish more in their sleep than I did in a day’s work.

I was sure that Linda Real didn’t consider herself a problem, but her application was in my folder, awaiting action. And Martin Holman’s Post-it note was still lying on my desk blotter back at the office-perhaps the last thing he ever wrote before deciding to take an air tour of Posadas.

“Hell of a mess,” I said, and patted Johnny Boyd on the shoulder. I walked back toward one of the department vehicles, deep in thought. If Martin Holman had wanted an air tour of his county, he could have asked Jim Bergin any day. He could have picked a nice, cool morning, when the air was silk.

I reached the Bronco and saw Tom Pasquale sitting on the back, the tailgate down and the spare tire swung wide, out of the way. His shoulders slumped, and he started to get up when he saw me. I waved a hand and shook my head. “Relax, son. There’s coffee over in Boyd’s truck, if you want it.”

“No, sir,” he said quickly. “Coffee and I don’t agree.” He wiped his mouth and looked off into the distance.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir.” The light wasn’t really good yet and I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes. But I knew that if Tom Pasquale had been “all right,” he’d have been in motion, his natural state of affairs. “I guess I need to hook a ride back to the office before too long and do something about my unit, sir.”

“Your unit?”

“The other Bronco. It’s still out in the arroyo.”

I chuckled and leaned against the vehicle. “That’s the least of our problems, that’s for sure. Forget it. I’ll have one of the county wreckers go out and haul its sorry carcass out of the sand. Don’t worry about it.”

Tom Pasquale nodded, relieved that he didn’t have to move just then. Another pair of vehicles had arrived, sending up dust plumes from the new road that had been cut across the Boyd property. Most of our department was accounted for. Estelle was back at the office, and if someone robbed a bank, she and Gayle Sedillos would have to handle it, with Linda Real lending some unofficial help.

“Do you know what he was doing out here?” Pasquale asked. He pushed himself to his feet. He was a head taller than I am, forty years younger, and he outweighted me by forty pounds. As bad as he felt just then, I could see he was hungry for answers, and that was a good sign.

“No idea, Thomas.”

“I don’t understand why he and his brother-in-law would be flying over this place, anyway. There’s nothing here.”

“Just sightseeing, maybe.”

Pasquale shook his head in disbelief. “What’s there to see? The sheriff hated to fly almost as much as you do.”

I looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

He ducked his head. “Well, that’s what everybody always says. If he wanted to tour, I can’t imagine him choosing to do it in the weather we had yesterday.”

“So what else comes to mind, son?”

“His brother-in-law just got done flying all the way down here from Canada. And Sergeant Mitchell said that Camp had been flying planes for twenty-five years. I can’t imagine he’d be so eager to jump in a plane and tour Posadas County just before dinner. He’d be tired. The weather was bad.” He shook his head doggedly. “It just doesn’t make sense, is all.”

“So Camp was a veteran pilot?”

“Sergeant Mitchell said the two wives were talking about that. That’s why they couldn’t believe that anything bad could have happened.”

“Well,” I said, “something did happen. It’s that simple.”

Pasquale nodded and looked off toward the horizon. He took a deep breath and hitched up his Sam Brown belt. “Sir, when the feds get here, may I ask to be assigned to them?”

“I’ll mention it to Sergeant Torrez, Tom.”

He turned and looked at me. “I screwed up a lot over the years, and it was Sheriff Holman who finally gave me a chance and hired me on. I’d like to be a part of finding out what happened out here.”

“I’ll talk with Torrez,” I repeated, and didn’t bother mentioning that the single biggest roadblock to Pasquale’s hiring had been myself. When the kid finally had proved to us that he had a head on his shoulders, I’d approved his application.

Sheriff Martin Holman had been willing to give Tom Pasquale a chance; he’d sounded willing to do the same for Linda Real. He’d had good reasons for both, I was sure, since no man that I knew hated the thought of making an incorrect decision more than Marty Holman.

There were dozens of reasons that should have kept Martin Holman from sliding into that Bonanza on that choppy, blustery afternoon at Posadas Municipal Airport. Tom Pasquale was right. We needed to know the one compelling reason that had pushed Martin Holman and his brother-in-law into the air.

Janice Holman hugged me, wordlessly, for a long time. I looked over her shoulder at her two daughters, Ellie and Tracie. They were trying their hardest to be brave and thoughtful and considerate for the sake of the two dozen or so people who cluttered the Holman living room just then. Except for the long faces and tears, it could have been a gathering for a political brunch.

Despite Sheriff Holman’s continual fight with them over nickels and dimes during the rest of the year, two of the county legislators-Tobe Ulibarri and Sammy Carter-stood now by the sofa, each uncomfortable and stiff, each balancing a coffee cup for want of anything better to do.

Janice shifted position with a loud sigh and half turned so that she could put an arm around Estelle Reyes-Guzman. The three of us remained motionless for another thirty seconds or so, and everyone else in the large living room left us alone.

“Janice,” I said finally, “we need to talk with you and Vivian, if you can manage a few minutes.” Estelle turned to intercept one of the Holmans’ neighbors who couldn’t help but press in at the wrong moment. The detective engaged the woman in quiet conversation while we pulled away.

Martin Holman’s wife nodded and leaned close. “Let’s try the back porch,” she said. She almost managed a smile. “I think Vi is out in the kitchen.”

The mid-morning sun hadn’t touched the redwood arbor over the back porch, but the air was warm and soft. In a moment, Estelle and the two women stepped out. Janice Holman immediately walked over and took my hand in hers, as if afraid I might stray away more than a step or two.

Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, nevertheless bored directly into mine. “We won’t know what caused this for some time, will we?”

“No,” I said. “We’re expecting investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board this morning. If there are answers, they’ll find them.”