Steven Havill - Heartshot

“I can imagine,” Sprague said gently. “Anyhow, I saw you here and thought you probably wouldn’t be asleep too long.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “I have about an hour, if there’s anything else you need. I’m impressed, by the way, with how thorough your Detective Reyes was, however.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” I said, trying to marshal my thoughts. What I wanted was a chance to clean up. I was still in uniform and acutely aware of how scruffy I must have looked.

“I wish I could be of more help,” Sprague continued quietly. “Apparently the young officer saw Mr. Fernandez with someone just before the incident. On the sidewalk near the town houses.” He shook his head ruefully. “Had I only looked outside. But, at that hour…” He shrugged.

“I never had much of a chance to talk with Hewitt,” I said. “We’re anxious to do that.”

“How long has he been in surgery now?”

I looked long and hard at my watch, numbed by the passage of time. “God. Would you believe almost six hours?”

Sprague grimaced. “And almost that long down in Posadas?” I nodded. “Well,” the doctor said, “if they finish up right now, it’ll still be a number of hours before there’s any chance of coherent consciousness. I would guess that it’s wishful thinking to expect anything before late this evening. Better tomorrow, even.”

“I’ll wait,” I said. Hell, it was getting to be a habit, waiting. Easier that than anything else. No news was good news, goes the clichE. Sprague nodded in sympathy and glanced at the tape recorder that I had with me.

“Why don’t I go find out what’s happening for you?” he asked. “I suspect I’ll have an easier time of it than you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Harlan Sprague was gone for perhaps twenty minutes, and when he returned he smiled some reassurance. “You can relax a little. The officer has been out of surgery for nearly twenty minutes. I’m sure they would have told you, but there’s been no opportunity. Apparently a messy traffic accident. Anyway, the officer is in ICU recovery. The nurse there says it will be at least six hours before they’ll even think of letting you in the room.”

“Six hours?”

Sprague nodded. “And the chance of him being awake and coherent is just about nil, I can tell you that.”

“But he’s doing all right?”

“The nurse said the surgery went ‘fair’. That was her term. There are always so many complications in this sort of thing that that’s about the best you can hope for.” He stepped up closer to me and frowned. “Now listen. I know a man who’s dead on his feet when I see one. And I also know a mild coronary when I see it…or at least an acute warning of one. And that’s what you had in the park down in Posadas. Sheriff Gastner, you’re a basket case. Go get some rest before you end up in ICU yourself. You’re not doing yourself, or anyone else, any favors.” He looked down at the table. “And for God’s sakes, stop smoking those damn cigarettes.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t amused. “I need to go. If you’re still alive tomorrow-at four P. M., I’ll be flying back to Posadas. Unless you’ve already made arrangements, I’d appreciate the company.”

“I’ll have to see what happens. But thanks again.”

He tipped his head and looked at me for a long moment, then slowly shook his head and sighed. “Leave a message for me at the desk at the Hilton. I’ll check there just before I leave for the airport.”

I watched him walk off down the hall, slightly stooped, briefcase swinging rhythmically. I went to the restroom and tried to freshen up. The grizzled face that stared at me from the mirror wouldn’t freshen much. Neither would the rumpled clothes. I tossed the paper towel in the bin. “Who the hell cares what you look like,” I muttered to myself. I turned to leave. The swinging door almost caught me in the head as Chief White walked in.

“Christ, you look awful,” he said.

“I think the next person who tells me that is going to get punched,” I said. I pushed past his bulk and patted him on the arm at the same time. “Hewitt’s out of surgery. The nurse says it will be at least six hours before we can see him.”

“The best we could hope for,” Chief White said slowly. “His parents are on their way from Tucson.”

I nodded. “I’m going to go across the street to the motel and spend some of the county’s money for a bed,” I said. “Give me a call if anything changes. Otherwise I’ll be back around suppertime.”

***

The walk revived me a little…just long enough to attend to chores. Half a block down the main drag I bought a pack of underwear and a pair of socks at an Army-Navy store. At the motel, I talked the taciturn desk clerk into having the maid run my uniform across to the one-hour dry cleaner’s. I called Posadas and filled Holman in.

“Bill, hang on a minute,” Holman said at one point. “Estelle wants to talk to you.”

Her voice was soft on the phone, and I had to concentrate to hear. “If you fly down with Sprague tomorrow, talk with him about his daughter,” Estelle suggested. “She overdosed in January of last year. His wife apparently left him a couple months after that. The interesting thing is that according to a couple of people I talked to, one of Darlene Sprague’s best friends was Jenny Barrie.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “It’s a small community. Everybody knows everybody.”

“I just think it’s interesting that Doc Sprague’s daughter OD’d, and then one of her good friends dies, involved with drugs as well.”

“You’re saying Barrie is our connection?”

“No, I’m not. It’s just something, that’s all. It might be interesting to lead the doctor that way, and see what he says.”

“I’ll see,” I said.

“The sheriff wants to talk to you again. Hang on.”

The connections clicked and then Sheriff Holman said, “Bill, I’m making a request of some of the other people that we set up an interagency task force here. We thought we could take the simple, limited approach, but it didn’t work. I think a mass undercover operation might flush something out.”

“It might.”

“You don’t sound overwhelmed with enthusiasm.”

“Not right now, I’m not. I’m too damn tired to think straight.”

“Well, when you get back here, we’ll talk about it.”

“Fine. Tomorrow, probably.” We rang off and I headed for bed. With all its heavy curtains, the motel room was dark as night, and I burrowed in. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes later that the phone rang.

I had been sleeping so hard that I jerked almost upright. Four rings later I managed to find the damn thing.

“Uh?”

“Sheriff Gastner? Chief White.”

I rolled on my back and stared up into the darkness. “Yes.”

“Art Hewitt died a couple minutes ago.”

For several seconds I didn’t say anything. Finally I shifted the phone and mumbled, “Did his parents ever make it up from Tucson?”

“They were with him.”

“Okay. I’ll be over in a minute.” I hung up and rolled my legs off the bed until I was sitting. I dialed the front desk and asked that someone check on my uniform. The puzzled desk attendant replied that it had been placed at my door some time ago. I retrieved the bundle and tossed it on the bed. Then I went to the heavily curtained window, pushed the draperies aside a little and looked outside. I was stunned to find the street lights on and the sky inky.

I let the draperies fall and found the light switch. My watch said nine thirty-seven. I stared at it and then muttered something profane. A few minutes later I was dressed. I buckled on my Sam Browne belt and glanced in the mirror. I saw an aging cop with bags under his eyes. That didn’t concern me. I was thinking about the son of a bitch who had brought that kilo of cocaine into Posadas. The death of five kids I blamed on him. And Benny Fernandez. Now Art Hewitt. “You got seven, you bastard. No more.”