Read Online Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian - Free Book Online Page B

talking to Ironheel he would want to
see the dossier DeAnn had put together containing copies of the
arrest reports and the crime scene photographs and protocols. It
wasn’t like the guy had three weeks to put his case together.
    “He say anything before he left?” he
asked.
    “Something about having to make some urgent
calls,” Sweeney said. “I told him he was welcome to use the office
phone, but he nixed that, said it was confidential.”
    “He talk to anyone else down there?”
    “No, sir.”
    That being the case, there could only be one
possible explanation for the lawyer’s abrupt departure. Ironheel
had told him something that had put a very large hair up his ass.
Something Weddle didn’t want a deputy to overhear. But what?
    He picked up the phone to call the Frontier
Motel, then hung up without dialing. If his hunch was correct, he
would need to talk to Weddle face to face. It was so much more
difficult to lie one to one than it was on the phone.
    He signed out, got into his Jeep and headed
north on Main. Although it was still short of full dark, the lights
were on everywhere. The evening air was balmy and there was only a
little traffic. About a quarter of a mile from the motel he saw
flashing lights up ahead on the left side of the divided highway
and foreknowledge swept over him like surf. He put on the dome
light, touched the siren to stop the traffic as he made a U-turn
over to the west side. A uniformed cop waved him into the motel’s
parking area, where three patrol vehicles were parked askew with
their radios squawking. Security arcs had been brought in and
turned on full, bathing the narrow parking area in front of the
motel units in hard white light.
    Off to the right he saw an RPD deputy talking
to Charlie Goodwin. Even at this distance Easton could see the
lawyer’s face was pasty white, like he was in shock. Clipping his
badge on to his shirt pocket, he got out of the vehicle and crossed
to talk to the deputy, a tall, rangy-looking guy with a long chin
and gingery hair. His nameplate said CUMMINGS.
    “What have we got, Billy Charles?” he
asked.
    “Homicide,” Cummings said grimly. “Looks like
a robbery. Victim’s a guy named Weddle, an attorney.”
    No point acting surprised, Easton decided.
The minute he had seen the police lights he had known who the
victim would be.
    “Any details yet?”
    Cummings shrugged. “Shot twice, probably a
handgun,” he said. “You can check with the boys. They’re in
there.”
    He pointed with his chin at the open door of
one of the motel units where two deputies were unreeling yellow
tape to set up a crime scene cordon.
    “Who called it in?” Easton asked. Before
Cummings could answer Charlie Goodwin stepped forward, tugging at
his sleeve.
    “It was me, Dave,” he said. His voice was
fluty, like he couldn’t quite get it under control. “Walked in,
there he was, dead.”
    “How long ago was this?”
    “Twenty minutes, half an hour ago. I couldn’t
believe it, the guy just lying there dead, the blood. I nearly
puked.”
    “What were you doing here?”
    “I was just telling the deputy here. Weddle
called me, said he had to see me right away, he had something
extremely important to discuss. When I got here he was … all that
blood, Jeez, I was, you know, it took my breath away. Then I ran
over to the office and called the cops.”
    Easton looked at Cummings, who nodded. “RPD
logged the call at nine oh-nine,” he confirmed.
    “Who responded?”
    “Petersen and Gale.”
    “They still here?”
    “Over in the unit. And before you ask, yeah,
Petersen already called CSI, and yeah, we notified Ab Saunders. Doc
Horrell, too.”
    As if on cue, Easton heard the rise and fall
of a siren. CSI, he though, there’d be no rush for an ambulance.
Leaving Charlie Goodwin with Cummings, he walked over toward the
motel unit. The deputy guarding the door was in his mid-forties,
stolid, unexcitable, an old-fashioned cop. His name was Hank
Gale.
    “Hank,