at me, and her eyebrows furrowed again. “She did a feature story on me before the election last year, and of course”—she shrugged—“she covered the election itself. She talked us into a family picture for that first story.”
“She took my picture,” Francis said.
“That’s right,” Estelle said, “she did, didn’t she? You and Papa and me. You didn’t have a baby brother yet.” It was a decent photo, too. I had a copy in my scrapbook. Estelle may have had a fetchingly photogenic family, but that hadn’t been enough for an election win. Progressive had never been an adjective I would have applied to Posadas County, and the electorate had declined the opportunity to elect New Mexico’s first female Mexican sheriff.
“No,” Camille said. “What I think he means is that she took a picture or two of him just a few minutes ago.”
“Why would she do that?” I asked. “How could she take a picture through the glass, anyway?”
Camille grimaced. “Bad timing, Dad. We were outside.” She gestured at two small junipers and a piñon that snuggled together. “Potty time. I promised I’d wait right here by the truck while he went over there.”
“All of fifteen feet,” I said.
“Yep,” Camille said. “We were just about to climb back in so I could beat him in round two when Miss Photog showed up. She snapped a picture of Francis climbing into the truck, with me standing by the door, looking stupid.”
“Ah, well,” I said.
“And maybe another one after that.” Camille released Francis so his mother could help him clamber his way into the seat belt shoulder harness that secured him in the small seat, looking like a miniature jet pilot ready for ejection.
“And she asked if you’d call her later,” Camille added.
Estelle nodded and turned to look at me. “How are you holding up, sir?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and leaned an arm on the Blazer’s door. “I’ve been watching you think, so you’re the one doing all the work. What’s next?”
I could have predicted the result of that question. Estelle Reyes-Guzman played her cards close, even with me.
“Sir,” she said, pulling the last of her son’s belt tight, “We’re going to have to talk with the Coles. In private, away from the rest of the audience.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’d like you to be there. And Sheriff Holman.”
That surprised me, and Estelle grinned when she saw my expression. “He actually has an astute streak, sir.”
“However narrow,” I said. “Just say when.”
She glanced at her watch. “About eight this evening would be just about right. It’ll be dark by then; they’ll be exhausted and willing to come off the mesa for a while.”
“At the office?” Camille’s face didn’t show a flicker of annoyance when I said that. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.
Estelle nodded. “I need to talk with my husband for a few minutes. And I’ve got some other odds and ends to wrap up this afternoon.” She walked around the truck and climbed in the driver’s seat. She put the key in the ignition and hesitated. “This morning I put out a bulletin for the child,” she said. “I probably should have done that last night.”
“There’s always a chance,” I said. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll find him today. Maybe they’re heading in the right direction now.”
“He’s not up here,” Camille said quietly. I cranked around to look at her, and Camille shook her head. Her right arm had drifted over so that her hand rested lightly on the nape of little Francis’s neck. “He’s not up here,” she repeated.
“No,” Estelle said. “He’s not.”
Chapter 13
MY office door was locked when I arrived that evening, and it took a moment to fumble for the right key before I pushed the door open. The interior of the Posadas County Public Safety Building—a grand name for an aging adobe—had been remodeled the previous year, making room for the updated computers, wiring conduit, massive files,
“She took my picture,” Francis said.
“That’s right,” Estelle said, “she did, didn’t she? You and Papa and me. You didn’t have a baby brother yet.” It was a decent photo, too. I had a copy in my scrapbook. Estelle may have had a fetchingly photogenic family, but that hadn’t been enough for an election win. Progressive had never been an adjective I would have applied to Posadas County, and the electorate had declined the opportunity to elect New Mexico’s first female Mexican sheriff.
“No,” Camille said. “What I think he means is that she took a picture or two of him just a few minutes ago.”
“Why would she do that?” I asked. “How could she take a picture through the glass, anyway?”
Camille grimaced. “Bad timing, Dad. We were outside.” She gestured at two small junipers and a piñon that snuggled together. “Potty time. I promised I’d wait right here by the truck while he went over there.”
“All of fifteen feet,” I said.
“Yep,” Camille said. “We were just about to climb back in so I could beat him in round two when Miss Photog showed up. She snapped a picture of Francis climbing into the truck, with me standing by the door, looking stupid.”
“Ah, well,” I said.
“And maybe another one after that.” Camille released Francis so his mother could help him clamber his way into the seat belt shoulder harness that secured him in the small seat, looking like a miniature jet pilot ready for ejection.
“And she asked if you’d call her later,” Camille added.
Estelle nodded and turned to look at me. “How are you holding up, sir?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and leaned an arm on the Blazer’s door. “I’ve been watching you think, so you’re the one doing all the work. What’s next?”
I could have predicted the result of that question. Estelle Reyes-Guzman played her cards close, even with me.
“Sir,” she said, pulling the last of her son’s belt tight, “We’re going to have to talk with the Coles. In private, away from the rest of the audience.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’d like you to be there. And Sheriff Holman.”
That surprised me, and Estelle grinned when she saw my expression. “He actually has an astute streak, sir.”
“However narrow,” I said. “Just say when.”
She glanced at her watch. “About eight this evening would be just about right. It’ll be dark by then; they’ll be exhausted and willing to come off the mesa for a while.”
“At the office?” Camille’s face didn’t show a flicker of annoyance when I said that. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.
Estelle nodded. “I need to talk with my husband for a few minutes. And I’ve got some other odds and ends to wrap up this afternoon.” She walked around the truck and climbed in the driver’s seat. She put the key in the ignition and hesitated. “This morning I put out a bulletin for the child,” she said. “I probably should have done that last night.”
“There’s always a chance,” I said. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll find him today. Maybe they’re heading in the right direction now.”
“He’s not up here,” Camille said quietly. I cranked around to look at her, and Camille shook her head. Her right arm had drifted over so that her hand rested lightly on the nape of little Francis’s neck. “He’s not up here,” she repeated.
“No,” Estelle said. “He’s not.”
Chapter 13
MY office door was locked when I arrived that evening, and it took a moment to fumble for the right key before I pushed the door open. The interior of the Posadas County Public Safety Building—a grand name for an aging adobe—had been remodeled the previous year, making room for the updated computers, wiring conduit, massive files,
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