Read Online Dead Weight by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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Posadas, to live with her mother in Las Cruces.
Earlier in the spring, I’d hired Linda, despite her left eye blindness and left ear deafness. She could work wonders with a camera, was bright and quick, and had the potential to be the best dispatcher we had, next to Gayle Torrez.
In her complaint, Carla Champlin hadn’t mentioned that 221 Third Street was no longer bachelor’s quarters. I remembered her remark about the happily married McClaines and their one child and wondered if that had been a left-field way of voicing her disapproval of Linda and Tom’s cohabitation, if that’s, in fact, what was going on.
Parked to the right of the front door was a large motorcycle. I almost snapped on the spotlight but thought better of it. It was a Harley, but how new I couldn’t tell.
“Huh,” I said again. I hadn’t known that Pasquale fancied motorcycles—and didn’t know that he could afford a big, expensive road bike. If he was still making payments on the Jeep, that, coupled with his rent, would leave him just about enough from his meager county paycheck for one meal a week. No wonder he was prompt at the doughnut box when some kind soul brought them into the office.
I chuckled at myself. I was making the same kinds of assumptions for which I chided the deputies. The motorcycle might even belong to Linda. Who knew. Maybe she’d taken up black leather and small cigars during her off-hours. Tom might have inherited the Jeep from a rich uncle who had bought it to go hunting and then promptly dropped dead from a heart attack.
I idled 310 out of the neighborhood, leaving the kids to some short moments of peace and quiet.
Back on Bustos, I drove west. As I approached the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant, still two hours from opening, my stomach twinged with conditioned reflex. Turning southbound, I slowed as I approached 410 South 12th, a neat brick-and-stucco place on a double lot. I felt a silly twinge of loss when I noticed that the “for sale” sign was missing. Somehow, as long as that sign had been up, the last connection hadn’t been cut. Estelle Reyes-Guzman and her family had moved to the land of snow and
lutefisk
, but as long as they still owned 410 South 12th it seemed to me that there was a chance that Minnesota winters and summertime mosquitoes might chase them back to Posadas, where their home awaited.
A block south the pavement turned to dirt, and my car rumbled along toward the T intersection with State 17, the old highway that paralleled the interstate. Though it was once a major arterial across the country and even across the southern part of the state, only ranchers used it now, to reach their irrigation ditches on those rare occasions when there was enough water to bother.
“Three ten, Posadas.”
The voice was so faint I almost didn’t hear it over the crunching gravel. I turned up the volume and keyed the mike.
“Posadas, three ten.”
“Three ten, ten-thirty-nine.”
“I’m wandering,” I said without keying the mike. “I’m without status.” I pushed the button and said, “Three ten is ten-eight.”
“Ten-four, three ten. Can you…”
There was a pause, and I could picture young Sutherland leaning forward, looking at the worn copy of the ten code taped to the cabinet beside the radio. Normal conversations over the new cell phone units, despite their limitations and other drawbacks, made the old-fashioned ten-code system seem pretty silly.
“…ten-nineteen.”
“Ten-four,” I said. “ETA about six minutes.”
I reached a wide spot at Kenny Gallegos’s driveway and turned around, and in less than five minutes I pulled into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. Frank Dayan, the publisher of the
Register,
stood by the back door, smoking.
I glanced at the dashboard clock. Four twenty-six a.m. If Frank wanted to talk to me without interruptions, he’d picked a good time.
I swung around to the curb and stopped, leaving the engine idling. Frank crushed out his
Earlier in the spring, I’d hired Linda, despite her left eye blindness and left ear deafness. She could work wonders with a camera, was bright and quick, and had the potential to be the best dispatcher we had, next to Gayle Torrez.
In her complaint, Carla Champlin hadn’t mentioned that 221 Third Street was no longer bachelor’s quarters. I remembered her remark about the happily married McClaines and their one child and wondered if that had been a left-field way of voicing her disapproval of Linda and Tom’s cohabitation, if that’s, in fact, what was going on.
Parked to the right of the front door was a large motorcycle. I almost snapped on the spotlight but thought better of it. It was a Harley, but how new I couldn’t tell.
“Huh,” I said again. I hadn’t known that Pasquale fancied motorcycles—and didn’t know that he could afford a big, expensive road bike. If he was still making payments on the Jeep, that, coupled with his rent, would leave him just about enough from his meager county paycheck for one meal a week. No wonder he was prompt at the doughnut box when some kind soul brought them into the office.
I chuckled at myself. I was making the same kinds of assumptions for which I chided the deputies. The motorcycle might even belong to Linda. Who knew. Maybe she’d taken up black leather and small cigars during her off-hours. Tom might have inherited the Jeep from a rich uncle who had bought it to go hunting and then promptly dropped dead from a heart attack.
I idled 310 out of the neighborhood, leaving the kids to some short moments of peace and quiet.
Back on Bustos, I drove west. As I approached the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant, still two hours from opening, my stomach twinged with conditioned reflex. Turning southbound, I slowed as I approached 410 South 12th, a neat brick-and-stucco place on a double lot. I felt a silly twinge of loss when I noticed that the “for sale” sign was missing. Somehow, as long as that sign had been up, the last connection hadn’t been cut. Estelle Reyes-Guzman and her family had moved to the land of snow and
lutefisk
, but as long as they still owned 410 South 12th it seemed to me that there was a chance that Minnesota winters and summertime mosquitoes might chase them back to Posadas, where their home awaited.
A block south the pavement turned to dirt, and my car rumbled along toward the T intersection with State 17, the old highway that paralleled the interstate. Though it was once a major arterial across the country and even across the southern part of the state, only ranchers used it now, to reach their irrigation ditches on those rare occasions when there was enough water to bother.
“Three ten, Posadas.”
The voice was so faint I almost didn’t hear it over the crunching gravel. I turned up the volume and keyed the mike.
“Posadas, three ten.”
“Three ten, ten-thirty-nine.”
“I’m wandering,” I said without keying the mike. “I’m without status.” I pushed the button and said, “Three ten is ten-eight.”
“Ten-four, three ten. Can you…”
There was a pause, and I could picture young Sutherland leaning forward, looking at the worn copy of the ten code taped to the cabinet beside the radio. Normal conversations over the new cell phone units, despite their limitations and other drawbacks, made the old-fashioned ten-code system seem pretty silly.
“…ten-nineteen.”
“Ten-four,” I said. “ETA about six minutes.”
I reached a wide spot at Kenny Gallegos’s driveway and turned around, and in less than five minutes I pulled into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. Frank Dayan, the publisher of the
Register,
stood by the back door, smoking.
I glanced at the dashboard clock. Four twenty-six a.m. If Frank wanted to talk to me without interruptions, he’d picked a good time.
I swung around to the curb and stopped, leaving the engine idling. Frank crushed out his
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