now,” I said, “let’s see if we can find out what Martin Holman was up to.”
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
No one had been in Martin Holman’s office since he’d left it sometime after three o’clock the day before. I didn’t know that for a fact, of course—it was just the immediate feeling I got when I opened the door and stepped inside.
I felt as if I were intruding. I stopped and took a deep breath, then felt Estelle’s hand on my shoulder.
“It’s always easier if it’s a stranger, isn’t it?” she said. She reached over and turned on the lights.
I grunted and shut the door. “I wish to hell I knew what to look for.” I walked across to Holman’s desk. He could have stacked a few more papers on it, but it would have been a trick.
“Maybe one thing we have going for us is the sheriff himself,” Estelle said, and I glanced across the desk at her. She had walked around and was standing by the empty chair.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, as far as I know, Martin Holman didn’t work on cases by himself. I don’t recall him ever mentioning a case to me where he had initiated the file. He routinely turned things over to deputies when he got calls personally.”
“True. Half the time he didn’t know what to do, anyway.” I waved a hand. “Yeah, I know, that’s unkind. But it’s true. It seems to me that a good place to start is to inventory every scrap of paper on this desk…his telephone logs, whatever is on that thing.” I nodded at the computer. Toasters were floating across the screen, patiently waiting for their owner to return.
Estelle tapped a key, and the toasters disappeared, replaced by a page of finances. She leaned close and read for a few seconds. “This is that federal grant he was working on to hire two full-time civilian employees.”
I scanned the desk. “An orderly avalanche,” I mused. I settled on three initial piles. The first included routine county documents like budget transfers, time sheets, and purchase orders, along with the myriad catalogs that vendors liked to send to law-enforcement agencies. One was for photography equipment, and I tossed it to one side on the remote chance that I would remember to give it to Linda Real.
In a second pile, I put the small messages that Holman routinely scribbled to himself. He had been an avid fan of Post-it notes. The little yellow things were ubiquitous throughout the county building.
A third pile was reserved for documents and papers that weren’t immediately obvious in nature—and there weren’t many of those.
I sat down in Holman’s chair and pulled myself close to the desk. Estelle still leaned over the computer, cruising down through the various file names. I picked up one of the pink “While You Were Out” slips.
“He had a call from Doug Posey at one-thirty.” I peered at the slip. “Apparently Marty was still out to lunch. Gayle has checked here that Posey was returning a call.” I put that slip down by my elbow. “Are you aware of any complaints we’ve had that might include the Department of Fish and Game?” Posey didn’t spend much time in Posadas. The village—even the county—wasn’t the center of a sportsman’s paradise, and the state critter cops had more productive hunting grounds elsewhere.
“The last time I can recall was when Posey asked our department for backup when he was busting those Mexican big shots who were hunting turkey down by Regal Springs. That doesn’t mean there hasn’t been other activity.”
I picked up another slip of paper, also with Gayle Sedillos’ writing. “And a note to call Sam Carter,” I said. “Politics, politics.” I paused, resting my forearms on the desk. “You know what’s wrong with all this, don’t you?” I shuffled the remaining slips and laid them out on the desk like playing cards, and my eyebrows furrowed. I picked up a slip dated the previous day and read the message again.
I almost didn’t hear Estelle say, in response to my question,
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
No one had been in Martin Holman’s office since he’d left it sometime after three o’clock the day before. I didn’t know that for a fact, of course—it was just the immediate feeling I got when I opened the door and stepped inside.
I felt as if I were intruding. I stopped and took a deep breath, then felt Estelle’s hand on my shoulder.
“It’s always easier if it’s a stranger, isn’t it?” she said. She reached over and turned on the lights.
I grunted and shut the door. “I wish to hell I knew what to look for.” I walked across to Holman’s desk. He could have stacked a few more papers on it, but it would have been a trick.
“Maybe one thing we have going for us is the sheriff himself,” Estelle said, and I glanced across the desk at her. She had walked around and was standing by the empty chair.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, as far as I know, Martin Holman didn’t work on cases by himself. I don’t recall him ever mentioning a case to me where he had initiated the file. He routinely turned things over to deputies when he got calls personally.”
“True. Half the time he didn’t know what to do, anyway.” I waved a hand. “Yeah, I know, that’s unkind. But it’s true. It seems to me that a good place to start is to inventory every scrap of paper on this desk…his telephone logs, whatever is on that thing.” I nodded at the computer. Toasters were floating across the screen, patiently waiting for their owner to return.
Estelle tapped a key, and the toasters disappeared, replaced by a page of finances. She leaned close and read for a few seconds. “This is that federal grant he was working on to hire two full-time civilian employees.”
I scanned the desk. “An orderly avalanche,” I mused. I settled on three initial piles. The first included routine county documents like budget transfers, time sheets, and purchase orders, along with the myriad catalogs that vendors liked to send to law-enforcement agencies. One was for photography equipment, and I tossed it to one side on the remote chance that I would remember to give it to Linda Real.
In a second pile, I put the small messages that Holman routinely scribbled to himself. He had been an avid fan of Post-it notes. The little yellow things were ubiquitous throughout the county building.
A third pile was reserved for documents and papers that weren’t immediately obvious in nature—and there weren’t many of those.
I sat down in Holman’s chair and pulled myself close to the desk. Estelle still leaned over the computer, cruising down through the various file names. I picked up one of the pink “While You Were Out” slips.
“He had a call from Doug Posey at one-thirty.” I peered at the slip. “Apparently Marty was still out to lunch. Gayle has checked here that Posey was returning a call.” I put that slip down by my elbow. “Are you aware of any complaints we’ve had that might include the Department of Fish and Game?” Posey didn’t spend much time in Posadas. The village—even the county—wasn’t the center of a sportsman’s paradise, and the state critter cops had more productive hunting grounds elsewhere.
“The last time I can recall was when Posey asked our department for backup when he was busting those Mexican big shots who were hunting turkey down by Regal Springs. That doesn’t mean there hasn’t been other activity.”
I picked up another slip of paper, also with Gayle Sedillos’ writing. “And a note to call Sam Carter,” I said. “Politics, politics.” I paused, resting my forearms on the desk. “You know what’s wrong with all this, don’t you?” I shuffled the remaining slips and laid them out on the desk like playing cards, and my eyebrows furrowed. I picked up a slip dated the previous day and read the message again.
I almost didn’t hear Estelle say, in response to my question,
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