Steven Havill: Heartshot

He met with me, Estelle Reyes, and Bob Torrez around noon the next day, and he was serious. No veiled sex jokes to make Estelle blush, no cracks about my age, no ethnic jokes meant to rib Bob Torrez, who had a thin skin that way.

“Let’s have it in order, short and simple,” he said to me. I nodded at Estelle, who shifted in her chair, smoothed her khaki skirt, and flipped open one of the manila envelopes she carried.

“All right, this is what we’ve got. Four of the five kids in the car were eighteen. One, Hank Montano, was a minor. Ricky Fernandez was driving. I think Tommy Hardy was riding shotgun. Pretty sure. Jenny Barrie was sitting left rear. Hank Montano was sitting center rear. I’m pretty sure Isabel Gabaldon was sitting right rear.”

“Why do you say ‘pretty sure’?” Holman asked quietly. He held a pencil poised over a blank legal pad.

“I think what happened…” Estelle paused, searching for the right description. “I’ve heard that strange things happen sometimes in wrecks, Sheriff. In this case both Hardy and the Gabaldon girl were crushed up under the dash. Whichever one was riding in the back would have been forced past the front seat, between the seat and the collapsing door. I still need to get some details from the medical examiner. But I’m pretty sure. Both of his shoes were up front, for instance. Only one of hers was. Things like that.”

Holman shook his head slowly, looking as if he wanted either to say something or vomit. He settled for, “Go on.”

“There is evidence that Hardy may have turned off the ignition key.”

“He what?”

“Turned the key. The driver never would, I don’t think. Not at that kind of speed.”

“What did the speedometer say?”

“Zero,” Estelle said. “It didn’t break at speed. Maybe it wasn’t working. But trajectory and skid marks tell us that the car was doing well over a hundred. It had almost a quarter mile of straight road to wind out, and a big engine.”

“So the kid riding shotgun got scared?”

“Maybe,” Estelle said. “If Ricky Fernandez knew what was under the seat, he had good reason to panic when he saw the gum balls in his rearview mirror.”

“Maybe he just thought he could get away,” Holman said dubiously. “Hell, kids run from cops all the time. If they have a motorcycle, they usually succeed.”

“That’s true. But he must have known that the deputy got a good look at the car and knew who he was. And it should have become readily apparent that Bob wasn’t pressing the chase.”

“I stayed back,” Torrez offered.

“So Hardy gets scared and turns the key. Wouldn’t that lock the wheel?”

“No, not while the car is in drive. But it must have flustered Fernandez enough that he lost his concentration. It doesn’t take much at that speed.”

“And the cocaine was under the front passenger seat?”

“I think so. The way one corner of the package was wedged against the seat rail, it seems likely. The only other place is on the floor, between the Gabaldon girl’s feet. That’s unlikely.”

Holman thought for a long minute. “So what you’re saying is that it’s possible that Fernandez was worried about the coke, and Hardy was just scared about driving so fast. If the drugs had been Hardy’s, he would have been all for a clean, fast getaway.”

“Maybe,” Estelle said carefully. She reached a hand back and toyed with the bun of black hair at the back of her head, then frowned. “It’s possible they all knew it was there. Or maybe just one of them knew. It’s possible. We have no way of pinning the stuff on any of them, yet. When the medical examiner’s report comes back, it may shed some light.”

“What if they had it in their bloodstream?” Holman asked.

“Well, then obviously that ties them to it.”

“And if not? If they’re clean?”

“Then there’s another set of possibilities.”

“Including,” I said, after clearing my throat, “that none of the five kids knew the coke was in the car. Maybe they were just trying to outrun the cops.”

“If it isn’t theirs, then whose?” When no one answered the sheriff, he added, “I mean, is Benny Fernandez a dealer now? And one more thing. Is there any possibility, any at all, that the ignition key could be turned off by the crash? Bounce back, somehow?”

“I suppose anything is possible,” Estelle Reyes mused. “Especially in a crash that violent. I’ve never heard of it happening. Have you, sir?” She looked over at me. I shook my head.

Holman ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “So we wait until the medical examiner finishes. You found nothing else in the car?”

Estelle shook her head. “We tore things apart…what little wasn’t apart already. An old roach clip in the front ashtray. That’s all.”

“And nothing more up on the hill.”

“A couple of six packs they apparently ditched. Other than that, nothing.”

Holman sat back and played with a pencil. “Wow,” he said finally, like a preacher groping for a cuss word, “is there any reason why the discovery of the cocaine in the car should not be made public? The editor of the Register is waiting, believe me. He wants to know why we’re being so vague about things.”

Estelle Reyes looked over at me, and I said, “I see no reason not to make the report available. Simply say that nine hundred and fifty-three grams of a substance whose appearance is consistent with cocaine was found in the vehicle. Nothing else. Just ‘investigation continuing.’ That covers everything without hiding the facts.”

“I see no value in that,” Holman said.

“No value in what?” I shot back, not sure I understood him.

“No value in hiding anything.” I relaxed. “And I like the way you phrase things, Bill. The ‘appearance is consistent’ bit is nice.” He stood up. “What’s that worth, anyway? Street value?”

Estelle shrugged. “If it’s been stepped on, say ready for the street, that’s about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“God Almighty. Five kids one month after graduation…and one hundred fifty grand worth of hard-core drugs. Terrific.” He turned and stared out the window for a minute. “It’s a long way from the big time, but it’s enough for this little town. I’ll talk to the press, then. I’ll leave out the value until you’re sure. But believe me, this is sensitive. Estelle, make sure whatever you do goes through Undersheriff Gastner.” He pointed at me to underscore his serious formality. “Or myself,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You remember last year, when Dr. Sprague’s daughter died from a drug OD? It about turned the good doctor into a basket case for a few months. Darlene was his only child and all…There was all kinds of talk, because it was the first instance in a long time that a kid in Posadas died from drug abuse, as far as we know. This is going to be worse, far worse. Bet on it. Shit like this is supposed to happen in the cities. Not out here.”

It was obvious we were being dismissed, but Holman called me back when the others had left. “Bill, I want her full time on this thing, with you directly supervising.”

I looked at him steadily. “All right,” I said after a minute. That was the way we were organized anyway, but I said, “I’ve got more time than anybody else.”

“It’s not that,” Holman said. He looked down at his desk. “You’re also good at what you do.” That surprised me. “And Reyes probably is too. But she’s too goddamned young to…well, to have all the right perspectives. And I’ve got some ideas about this, too. Some directions that we can take if you don’t turn something quickly. And I want this resolved fast. We’re too close to the border for scum to get the idea they can just walk all over us. And if we don’t move, the feds will, believe it. We don’t need that kind of atmosphere in this town.”