Steven Havill: Heartshot

Holman looked at me with a half-smile. “You and Estelle made us look real good, Bill. The feds are going to be talking about this for a long time.”

“Well, Sprague and Barrie weren’t exactly bringing in truckloads, Sheriff. They weren’t big time.”

“No. But the damage was being done, nevertheless. Anyway, I didn’t stop by to rehash the case. I knew you’d be out tomorrow, and my guess was that you’d stop by the office. I’ll be at the county meeting all morning. I wanted you to know what I was up to.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just good politics, Bill. Good politics.” He thumped the thin chrome arms of the chair with the heels of his hands and got up. “Well, got to go. Sergeant Reyes said she’d be up later this afternoon.”

“I’ll be here.”

“You planning to take a little vacation before getting back in the saddle for good?”

I shrugged casually. “Ah, maybe a little later. When things slow down a little.”

Holman grinned and opened the door. “Say, in about five or ten years, right?”

I laughed, more with relief than anything else, although I’m sure Martin Holman didn’t know that. “That’s what I was thinking,” I said. “Or fifteen.”

“Go for it,” Sheriff Holman said, and damned if he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He left, and I sat down to finish the paper, feeling good. The Travel section caught my eye. None of the vacation spots looked as welcome to me as Posadas County.