puzzled expression and quickly added, “Deputy Pasquale.”
“What do you mean, what did he tell me? What
should
he have told me?” Even before the question was out, I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise.
“A couple days ago—maybe it was Monday, I’m not sure—his unit was parked at Portillo’s and he was talking to a group of kids. I stopped there just to pick up some things, you know. It was kinda late.”
Portillo’s Handy-Way, the convenience store a dusty field and one street east of the high school, was a popular hangout for youngsters—or at least the store’s parking lot was. From there they could watch traffic cruising up and down Grande, an excitement that I somehow failed to appreciate.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “When Pasquale worked for you, Portillo’s was one of his favorite haunts, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, it was. And one of the kids he was talking to the other night was Jennifer Sisson. I happened to notice her. The long blond hair, you know.”
“Huh,” I muttered, then took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sure that if she’d told him anything of significance, he would have mentioned it to me.”
The chief reached out and tidied up the stack of photos, then pushed himself out of the chair. “At least you got one thing,” he said. “Whoever done this is pretty good with a backhoe. To do that…that would never occur to just anyone, you know. They’d have to have some experience…They’d have to know how.”
“So it would appear,” I said. “I’ll check with Pasquale about the Sisson girl. And I’ll keep you posted. If you hear anything else, holler at me.”
As soon as the chief left, I stepped into the dispatch room. Gayle Sedillos turned and raised an eyebrow at my expression.
“Find Deputy Pasquale for me,” I said.
“I think he’s at home,” Gayle replied, and then, having correctly interpreted both the expression on my face and the tone of my voice, she added, “I’ll call him in right away, sir.”
“Send him to my office when he gets here,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
After a few minutes, even the steady hum of the computer became a nuisance. The damn thing squatted on the corner of my desk, its screen-saver program presenting an endless series of twisting geometric patterns. Either the machine didn’t have any of the answers that I wanted or I didn’t know how to ask the right questions. The noise got on my nerves, and I shut the thing off and sat back, letting my head sag back against my chair’s leather rest.
I leaned back and let my eyes wander around the room, wondering what the hell my next step should be. I didn’t like not knowing. And I felt, with those damn anonymous notes piled on top of a messy homicide, as if someone was playing games with us.
With a start, I realized that there was one small mystery I could clear up. I leaned forward and picked up the phone book, rummaged for a moment, then dialed the number of Payson Realty. Maggie Payson picked it up on the third ring.
“Maggie, this is Bill Gastner,” I said.
Her tone went up an octave with a pleasure that sounded genuine. “Well now, Sheriff, how are you? You know, I was just thinking about you.”
I didn’t pursue that, since with the way my luck had been running I was sure that, one way or another, her thoughts would end up as a complaint against someone in my department. Instead I asked, “How’s your father?” George Payson had owned and operated a sporting goods store until a couple of months before, when a stroke had knocked him out of his chair while he was tying a difficult bass fly.
“Oh,” Maggie said, “not good. It’s so sad to see him slipping.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” George and I had had a standing bet for almost two decades over which one of us would keel over first. We’d both almost taken the trophy a couple of times, but at the moment I didn’t feel like winning. “He’s at home still, though,
“What do you mean, what did he tell me? What
should
he have told me?” Even before the question was out, I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise.
“A couple days ago—maybe it was Monday, I’m not sure—his unit was parked at Portillo’s and he was talking to a group of kids. I stopped there just to pick up some things, you know. It was kinda late.”
Portillo’s Handy-Way, the convenience store a dusty field and one street east of the high school, was a popular hangout for youngsters—or at least the store’s parking lot was. From there they could watch traffic cruising up and down Grande, an excitement that I somehow failed to appreciate.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “When Pasquale worked for you, Portillo’s was one of his favorite haunts, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, it was. And one of the kids he was talking to the other night was Jennifer Sisson. I happened to notice her. The long blond hair, you know.”
“Huh,” I muttered, then took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sure that if she’d told him anything of significance, he would have mentioned it to me.”
The chief reached out and tidied up the stack of photos, then pushed himself out of the chair. “At least you got one thing,” he said. “Whoever done this is pretty good with a backhoe. To do that…that would never occur to just anyone, you know. They’d have to have some experience…They’d have to know how.”
“So it would appear,” I said. “I’ll check with Pasquale about the Sisson girl. And I’ll keep you posted. If you hear anything else, holler at me.”
As soon as the chief left, I stepped into the dispatch room. Gayle Sedillos turned and raised an eyebrow at my expression.
“Find Deputy Pasquale for me,” I said.
“I think he’s at home,” Gayle replied, and then, having correctly interpreted both the expression on my face and the tone of my voice, she added, “I’ll call him in right away, sir.”
“Send him to my office when he gets here,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
After a few minutes, even the steady hum of the computer became a nuisance. The damn thing squatted on the corner of my desk, its screen-saver program presenting an endless series of twisting geometric patterns. Either the machine didn’t have any of the answers that I wanted or I didn’t know how to ask the right questions. The noise got on my nerves, and I shut the thing off and sat back, letting my head sag back against my chair’s leather rest.
I leaned back and let my eyes wander around the room, wondering what the hell my next step should be. I didn’t like not knowing. And I felt, with those damn anonymous notes piled on top of a messy homicide, as if someone was playing games with us.
With a start, I realized that there was one small mystery I could clear up. I leaned forward and picked up the phone book, rummaged for a moment, then dialed the number of Payson Realty. Maggie Payson picked it up on the third ring.
“Maggie, this is Bill Gastner,” I said.
Her tone went up an octave with a pleasure that sounded genuine. “Well now, Sheriff, how are you? You know, I was just thinking about you.”
I didn’t pursue that, since with the way my luck had been running I was sure that, one way or another, her thoughts would end up as a complaint against someone in my department. Instead I asked, “How’s your father?” George Payson had owned and operated a sporting goods store until a couple of months before, when a stroke had knocked him out of his chair while he was tying a difficult bass fly.
“Oh,” Maggie said, “not good. It’s so sad to see him slipping.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” George and I had had a standing bet for almost two decades over which one of us would keel over first. We’d both almost taken the trophy a couple of times, but at the moment I didn’t feel like winning. “He’s at home still, though,
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