Less Than a Moment Read online

  “Never met him. This Thompson guy.”

  “Nor I,” Estelle replied. “All we know is that he bought up some of your favorite hunting turf, am I right?”

  “Yep. Got to talk to him about that.”

  “You’re welcome to ride out with me.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Estelle’s phone rang and she picked it up. After listening for a bit, she said, “Sure. Now’s a good time. Send him back.” She hung up. “Rik Chang wants to talk to me. Anyway, I think a few folks in the audience yesterday were disappointed that they didn’t get to argue with Thompson. There’s quite a bit of resistance to what he wants to do—­at least what everyone seems to think he wants to do, and not just from Waddell’s people. I haven’t actually heard from a reliable source—­like from Mr. Thompson himself—­what he’s planned.”

  “He bought a lot of acres, is all I heard.”

  “Yes. Some of Johnny Boyd’s property, and maybe some others. My best source is usually Bill,” she said, referring to former sheriff Bill Gastner, “but he’s in the dark too, which is surprising, since he’s spent a lot of hours out on that property. He knew Johnny Boyd as well as anyone in the county.”

  “Huh.” Torrez shrugged. “How’s Bill’s house project thing comin’? Is that going to work out?”

  “I’m sure it will. With an adjustment or two.”

  Torrez grunted something incomprehensible and shook his head. “Can’t imagine.” He handed the Note for News Post-­it to Estelle. “You heard all the ruckus about this. It’s a funny story.” He turned to go, then stopped abruptly. “It don’t matter to me personally one way or another, but I want to find out whose idea that was.” He nodded at the note. “If there’s somebody puttin’ pressure on Hennesey. Even if it’s just him brown-­nosin’, thinkin’ it’s something I’d want to do.”

  With the sort of perfect timing that led Estelle to believe that the young reporter had been lurking in the hallway outside her office, Chang appeared behind the sheriff, whose bulk all but blocked the office doorway. The sheriff stepped to one side to let Chang pass.

  “Good morning, Rik,” Estelle greeted. She rose and offered a hand which Chang pumped eagerly, his smile wide and sincere.

  “Catch ya later.” Torrez glanced at the young reporter. “Stay safe.”

  “So what’s driving your day?” Estelle asked Chang after the sheriff had left. She gestured toward the chair beside her desk.

  He sat with easy grace, at the same time drawing his narrow reporter’s notebook from his hip pocket. A good-­looking kid, she thought. Maybe a little more slender in build than either of her sons, but close enough in his white polo shirt and new blue jeans to remind her that Francisco, her oldest son, was just a handful of blocks away, caught up in an exciting construction project.

  “Frank…Mr. Dayan…was wondering about a ride-­along? He says no one from the paper has done that in a while, and with the budget coming up and all, that it might be a good idea. Some good feature material, maybe. Sheriff Torrez said any time, any deputy, but to check with you first for a waiver?”

  Estelle pushed her wheeled office chair over and slid the second file drawer open. In a moment, she found the form she wanted, pushed the drawer closed, and slid the paper across the desk toward Chang. “Read carefully and sign,” she said. With amusement, she watched Chang scan the simple form—­looking at the bottom first, as many people did, then returning his attention to the top line.

  “It’s worthless, but our county attorney requires it,” Estelle said. “As I’m sure you’re aware—­and I know the county attorney is aware—­there’s no way we can waive responsibility for you once you’re a captive audience in one of our patrol units.”

  The young man scanned down the document, his heavy black eyebrows arching in amused surprise. “Aw, gee. I don’t get to carry a gun?”

  “No. There is a shotgun in the vehicle that the deputy will show you how to unlock.” At Estelle’s comment, Chang glanced up. “For your own protection,” she added. “The most important thing is for you to pay attention to any instructions from the deputy. If he or she tells you to stay in the car during a stop, that’s what you do. Pay attention. Always pay attention.”

  Chang nodded eagerly. After another moment reading the few paragraphs, he signed with a precise script that would impress an architectural draftsman. He handed the form back to the undersheriff.

  “Did you have any particular time or deputy in mind?”

  “I’d like to ride with Sergeant Pasquale on swing, if that works.”

  Estelle nodded. “Sure. He’s volunteered to cover graveyard for Deputy Sutherland until Monday, then Brent will be back, and Pasquale will return to his regular swing shift. Just any time. Most of the deputies enjoy some company, and you’ll find that they’ll be eager to answer questions and share war stories.”

  Chang’s deep frown etched lines in an otherwise faultless olive-­skinned complexion. “Sergeant Pasquale’s wife was involved in an incident years ago, wasn’t she? I mean, not with him, but with another deputy, during a ride-­along. She was a reporter for the newspaper at the time, Frank says.”

  Estelle lifted an eyebrow. “That’s ancient history, Rik. But, yes, she was riding with one of the deputies.” She grimaced. “Sad times. If you want, you can dig through the morgue of old newspapers in your office. The incident involving the shooting of Deputy Enciños and Ms. Real was well covered by the Register. Along with all the follow-­up.”

  Chang jotted in his notebook, and when he looked up, Estelle held up the Post-­it. “The sheriff tells me that I should ask you about this.”

  A dark blush moved up the young man’s smooth cheeks. “The dispatcher stuck that on one of the reports, ma’am. Apparently, he meant for me not to take it. But when he wrote it, I guess an E kinda slipped in there somehow. I didn’t know why the note, since I would have picked up on the story anyway, without the dispatcher’s encouragement. I was going to check to see if this was a first-­time bust or if it’s a multiple. But I guess Deputy Hennesey didn’t want me going down that route.”

  “The arrest was Quentin Torrez’s third,” Estelle said. “It says that on the arrest report, down toward the bottom of the first page.” She turned the Post-­it this way and that. “So Deputy Hennesey says that this was meant to read ‘not for news.’ That’s what you two were going on about.”

  “Apparently so, ma’am.”

  The undersheriff sighed and slipped the note under a corner of her desk calendar. “Just for future reference, Rik…we don’t decide what makes news and what doesn’t. That’s your turf.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sheriff Torrez made that very clear.”

  “We still use the old-­fashioned method. If it’s in the basket, it’s fair game.”

  “That’s what Pam had told me—­how it all works.” Pam Gardiner, longtime editor of the Posadas Register, was one of Estelle’s favorite people: fair, prompt, unfailingly friendly, a genuinely cozy person—­as long as she didn’t have to stray from her desk.

  “While I’m here,” Chang continued, “I wanted to ask…what’s the deal with the vandalized surveyor’s stakes out off County Road 14? Can you tell me about that? The initial complaint that Deputy Miller filed doesn’t say much.”

  “That’s because there isn’t much, Rik. It appears at this time that several dozen flagged stakes were pulled out of the ground and tossed into an arroyo. As far as I know, that’s the extent of it.”

  “On Thompson Development property?”

  “Kyle Thompson and Associates. Yes.”

  “And he was scheduled to present at the county commission meeting yesterday, right? I know that the clerk received word that he couldn’t make it.”

  “That’s correct. Several people are eager to meet him. To hear what he has to say. Myself included. The original land sale went through
without much fanfare, and since then, it’s been pretty quiet out there.”

  “The S.O. is investigating the vandalism?”

  “Yes.”

  Chang waited expectantly for explanation or amplification. Estelle smiled pleasantly and said nothing.

  “Is there some theory behind all this?” he persisted. “Why would someone bother to pull out a bunch of stakes? I mean, they’re pretty easily replaced, I would think.”

  “A nuisance, for sure. Who knows what goes through somebody’s little pea brain when they decide to pull vandalism pranks like that?” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll make sure that dispatch has this ride-­along waiver posted on active file, so you’re all set. Any deputy, any time, as long as the deputy agrees. That’s the rule. I don’t tell the deputies that they have to take riders. That’s entirely up to them. As I said, most of them will be delighted for the company.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She tapped her desk for emphasis. “There are some inherent risks, as I’m sure you realize. A civilian will assume, if he doesn’t know you, that if you’re in company with a deputy, that you’re also an officer. The deputy will make every effort to keep you on the periphery, which is why most of the time he’ll instruct you to stay in the car during a stop. But circumstances can change in a heartbeat, and you have to be aware of that.” She smiled as she pushed her chair back and stood up.

  “You pay attention, even in the dullest of moments. You’re cleared to ride until you get bored with it, unless for some obscure reason the county attorney objects. I have a meeting in just a few minutes, so if there’s nothing else?”

  She reached out and shook Chang’s hand again, but this time she held on to it in a tight grip. “Be careful out there. Especially during the ride-­alongs. And I’ll say it again…in most cases, the public won’t know who you are, and you’ll be identified with the officers. If someone gets mad at an officer—­and they always do, especially during domestic disputes—­they’ll also be mad at you. So when the deputy instructs you to remain in the unit, do exactly as the officer says.

  “If the officer is in conversation with a subject, you do not participate. You do not record or photograph, you do not discuss the conversation later with anyone except the deputy. As the late Tony Hillerman wrote years ago, you remain a fly on the wall.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Chang nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you, ma’am. I need to cover the slo-­pitch tourney this evening, but maybe I’ll see about a ride-­along tomorrow night.”

  “Whenever suits your schedule, Rik. Fridays and Saturdays are usually the more productive nights.” She turned and looked at the duty board on her east wall. “Captain Taber and Deputy Obregón are on tomorrow swing. Both interesting folks. And Tom Pasquale is on at midnight, if you want to ride the dark side.”

  “Maybe I’ll start mid shift with Captain Taber, and then catch Sergeant Pasquale for a while after that. That way I’ll hit two of ’em to interview. Maybe it’ll be an interesting ride.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.” She smiled. “Give my regards to both Pam and Frank.”

  “Oh…” Chang said as he started to turn toward the door. “I don’t know if I should ask you, or contact your son in person. Do you think that the maestro and/or his wife might give us an interview? Pam told me that he and his wife are in town for a few days, and they say that the two of them might be planning to live here?”

  “Ah, they. What would we do without they?” She laughed and shook her head. “At the moment, he wants to stay under the radar, Rik. But if I get the chance, I’ll tell him that you asked.”

  “I’d appreciate that. It’s kinda the talk of the town right now.”

  “That’s just what he and Angie need. But that’s between Francisco and you. I try very hard not to stick my nose in their business.”

  Chang ducked his head in appreciation as he started to back out of the office. “Thanks for the waiver, ma’am.”

  Estelle watched Chang skirt the dispatch island and then pause out in the foyer, his attention drawn to the Wall of Honor, a small section of polished marble, where the framed photo of Deputy Paul Enciños hung in company with several other law enforcement officers who had given their lives in the line of duty.

  Her cell phone chimed, and she recognized Miles Waddell’s number.

  “Good morning, Miles.”

  “What a gorgeous day,” Waddell greeted. “Are you still going to be able to visit with me this morning for a little bit? Or should I check with you when I come into town?”

  “I was just heading your way, Miles.”

  “Oh, good. There were a few things I’d like to run by you. I invited Thompson to stop by as well. He said he had some sort of accident yesterday or the day before, and that maybe his wife would run out instead.”

  “I have not met her.”

  “Me neither. Super. I don’t know when we’re going to see the whites of this Thompson guy’s eyes, but I’ll keep workin’ at it. But we’ll see you topside in what…half an hour or so?”

  “Más o menos.”

  “Good. I’ll make sure the snack tray is well stocked. And you’re a tea drinker, if I remember correctly.”

  “You do.”

  “Good. I invited Frank Dayan as well, so everything is going to be public record, on the up-­and-­up. My director of security is here as well. I’ll leave word that you’re coming and they’ll have the gate open down below. See you in a bit.”

  Estelle Reyes-­Guzman had a minute and a half before her phone rang again; this time the landline console on her desk blinked that it was an internal call.

  “Guzman.”

  Sheriff Torrez’s near-­whisper gave no hint about whether he was ten steps away in his cubbyhole of an office or out in traffic. “If you get a chance, go ahead and talk to Hennesey and find out what the deal was with the note. I want to know who talked to him.”

  “His own brainstorm, maybe.”

  “Could be. If my ‘nephew or something’ threatened him, I want to know. If Hennesey just thought to head off some gossip, I want to know that, too.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  “With Hennesey? Nope. He always gets so damn ‘yes sir, no sir’ with me. Maybe you’ll have better luck. Mother him a little.”

  Estelle laughed. “Yeah, sure. That’s going to happen. He’s gone for the day now. I’ll catch him tonight. Will that work?”

  “Yeah, there ain’t no urgency. Thanks.”

  She hung up and then sat quietly, her gaze drifting across the large map of Posadas County on the west wall of her office. Miles Waddell’s NightZone development on top of Torrance Mesa included a large chunk of the western side of the county, and had gained renown largely because of Waddell’s vision and daring. Estelle had come to appreciate Waddell’s efforts, and held a deep affection for the man. She’d never known him to lie, or to take the easy way out.

  Kyle Thompson was at the moment just a name on a piece of paper. Estelle had never met him, but knew from county records only that Thompson had started work to develop a large tract of land a half mile north of Waddell’s mesa. She had heard the name Stella Vista rumored.

  What was Thompson’s group after? It was a genuine puzzle, since County Road 14 wasn’t on the way to anywhere. A couple of ranchers driving by each day, their stock trailers banging and clattering, wouldn’t support a business. A subdivision? Maybe a mall? Truck stop? Not likely. But who knew?

  Miles Waddell was well on his way to spending a third of a billion dollars on NightZone. It was hard to imagine that Thompson had those kinds of resources.

  County Road 14 had once been just a dusty two-­track running north and south through the western side of the county. A few ranches, lots of hunters, but not many others pounded along its rough tracks. In time, the county had bladed the road to make it a more comfortable
thoroughfare, but it remained a dusty, rural byway, without much tourist traffic other than those who might be lost.

  Waddell’s enormous investment had proven that a venture could succeed with little natural drive-­by traffic by becoming an important attraction on its own. NightZone was heavily advertised, even internationally, in all the best magazines, along with consistent television coverage that reached out to a wide variety of interests.

  For Thompson’s venture, no paperwork had been filed, no legal notices had appeared in the county newspaper. And to the undersheriff’s knowledge, Thompson had yet to meet with his immediate neighbors. The rumor mill was working hard.

  No matter what was planned, Estelle could appreciate Miles Waddell’s anxiety. He’d spent more than two hundred million dollars so far, much of that to guarantee that NightZone would remain just that…dark as pitch after sunset, with no light pollution to tint the sky or obscure distant nebulae. As little as a single porch light would be visible from the mesa-­top astronomy facility.

  Although a single porch light a mile or more away would make no difference to the huge telescopes, the urge to put out that light would be monumental. Lights were like cancer cells. Once there was one, there would be others, with the halo of light pollution blooming.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty-­seven miles of winding State Highway 56 brought Estelle to the Broken Spur Saloon, off-­duty haven to the few cattle ranchers who were still able to make a living in Posadas County. As was her habit, she slowed and crunched into the gravel parking lot, checking license plates against the short list of BOLO tabs that she kept posted on the computer screen in the center console. All local, all clean.

  One of the cattle trailers behind a well-­worn Dodge one-­ton carried a license with an expired tag, and the undersheriff made a note of it. She knew the truck, knew the rancher, and would remind him when next she saw him.

  She pulled back out onto the highway and continued the quarter mile to the intersection with County Road 14 and headed north. A few miles ahead rose the buttress of the NightZone mesa, and from one point near the overgrown two-­track that led to her Great-­uncle Reuben’s homestead, she could look up toward the top of the mesa and see a sliver of white rim, just the tiniest sliver, of the huge radio telescope that shared the mesa top with the other observatory attractions. That was the only hint. Miles Waddell eschewed signs, particularly the huge billboards that touted attractions even as they blocked scenery.