Steven Havill - Heartshot

The more Martin Holman talked, the more he sounded like a man running after votes or a bigger county budget. Or both. But hell, I didn’t care just then. I agreed with him. I wanted to hang somebody, too.

No amount of wishful thinking helped, though. There was no evidence that leapt out of the wreckage and shouted, “This is the way it WAS!” The medical examiner found no trace of any drug in the blood samples. Ricky Fernandez, Jenny Barrie, and Tommy Hardy had each consumed one beer. Whoopie. I was surprised at that. A six-pack each would have been less surprising. Deputy Torrez must have interrupted them at the beginning of the party. There was nothing to connect any of the five with the bag of cocaine that had nestled down near Isabel Gabaldon’s once pretty feet.

Estelle Reyes found no fingerprints on the bag. Nothing. Even the cocaine was generic. Nothing special. A long way from pure, but still a pretty good deal for a hundred fifty bucks a gram. It wasn’t blended to kill anyone instantly and it wasn’t a cheap shot. Just garden-variety, stepped-on shit that a kid could depend on. Wonderful.

It was hard for any of us to accept that one or more of the five kids had been into peddling junk on that scale. The car was registered in Benny Fernandez’s name, and that was as good as any starting gate. I volunteered because I had known Benny for years, and maybe because of some lingering guilt. Benny had taken the time to corral me during the parade, fearful for his son’s safety. We hadn’t been much help. I desperately wanted to wait until after the mass funeral, but Holman gently but firmly nixed that idea.

“We need to move fast, Bill,” he said, and so I found myself ringing the doorbell of 907 Mesa Crest Drive. It was a posh neighborhood, newly landscaped and as neat as something out of a gardening magazine. I parked well down the street. As I walked toward the address, I looked hard at the cars parked along the curb. About the time the folks would want some peace and quiet to deal with their grief, all the friends and neighbors would be swarming, trying to be helpful. Just before the front step, I straightened my Stetson and sucked in my gut. I took off my sunglasses and slipped them in my pocket. The doorbell was one of those multi-chimed affairs that sound like a symphony. First voices, and then the door was pulled open. I didn’t know the lady who took one look at me and then squinted angry eyes.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said quietly. “I’m Undersheriff William Gastner of the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. I know it’s a bad time, but I need to speak with Mr. Fernandez.”

“Oh, now what?” she said, first annoyed, but then with a combination of curiosity and weariness.

“I just need to speak with him, ma’am.” Behind her, in the front hall of the house, I saw a couple of teenagers peeking around the corner. The woman was about to say something else when Della Fernandez strode to the door briskly, as if she were about to assault a door-to-door salesman.

“Now what do you want?” she snapped. Her eyes weren’t so much reddened from weeping that I couldn’t see the steel in them, even through the screen. She pushed past the woman and regarded me sharply. We knew each other enough that there was no need for more introductions.

“I need to speak with your husband, Mrs. Fernandez.”

“Now? Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“He’s with Father Vince Carey.” Her thin lips compressed even thinner into two bloodless white lines. “You’ll have to see him later.”

I normally don’t worry about tact, but this time, I actually took a second or two to weigh my options. I evaluated the stern face and said, “I need to speak with him now, Mrs. Fernandez.”

She regarded me silently for a minute, then said, “I certainly wish you people would put as much effort into prevention as you do investigation well after the fact.”

I took a deep, slow breath and let that zinger slide by, chalking it up to distraught emotions. “Mrs. Fernandez, before you slam that door in my face, I’ll remind you of something that’s common knowledge now around town. There was a kilo of cocaine found in that car. We have no idea who it belonged to. The car is registered in your husband’s name. That is sufficient cause for him to be interviewed, at the very least. And when we’re dealing with a felony of this magnitude, it is not something that waits, Mrs. Fernandez. In this case, it is Father Carey who will wait.” I saw the lips compress some more, and knew I was making an enemy. What the hell. “Mrs. Fernandez, either I talk with your husband for a few moments now, or I return with a warrant for his arrest, and we talk down at the sheriff’s office.”

She muttered something in Spanish that I didn’t catch, but turned away from the door. “Show him to the kitchen,” she said to the woman, who remained silently fascinated.

***

Benny Fernandez tried hard, but he couldn’t keep the reproach from his eyes or his voice. He walked into the kitchen followed closely by Father Vincent Carey. Carey, tall and angular, touched Fernandez protectively on the elbow and nodded at me. “I’ll stay, if that’s acceptable with you, Bill.”

“I really need to speak with Benny alone, Father. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t argue, just nodded and quietly left.

“I guess…” Benny began and stopped. He forced in a breath and looked away. “I guess it didn’t do much good, eh?”

“Benny, I know it’s hard, but give me five minutes, all right?” He nodded and locked his eyes on the highly polished bricks of the floor. “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. You know about the cocaine found in the car. We have no idea who it belonged to. No link. Nothing.” I paused to let that register. Benny Fernandez remained immobile, head down. “Do you have any reason to believe, any at all, that your son was involved with drugs in any way?”

Benny shook his head slowly, but looked up at me. He couldn’t keep back the tears, and didn’t bother to try. “Bill, you can’t…can’t imagine what it is like. It is bad enough to lose a child.” He stopped and looked off through the window. “I had hopes. Some hopes. For him, I mean. Any father does, eh? But now…” he shrugged and turned back to me. “But to think now that maybe he was somehow involved…” He waved a hand helplessly in the air and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen stools. “That thought, it tears at me, Bill. And how can I know? Eh? How can I know? Sure, I can say, ‘Not my boy. Ricky would never do something like that.’ But in this day and age?” He reached over and yanked a tissue out of the counter dispenser and dabbed his eyes. “The only thing I can tell you, Bill, is that I pray to God…I really do…I pray to God that Ricky died knowing nothing about that stuff in his car. To think that he might…” but Benny Fernandez couldn’t go on. He sat with his head down, hands feebly tearing at the tissue in his lap.

I patted him on the shoulder. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Benny. We’ll do everything we can.”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He dabbed his eyes again and said, “I will tell you this. If my son was involved in some fashion, I will spend any time, any money, to find the people who pushed him to it. And there will be justice done for them.”

“I think what happened is that Ricky just panicked, Benny. I checked the computer. He was not too many points shy of losing his license through speeding tickets. I figure he saw the lights come on and did what many kids would have done in the same situation. If he’d known the cocaine was under the seat, he would have played it cool. All the deputies knew him. They had no reason to suspect anything, except that he drove too fast too often. Benny, your son had to know that no deputy would bother to search his car.”