Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian Page B

home and take a shower, but knowing he must first
stop off at the office.
    As he started the engine, a tall,
athletically built young man ambled over and tapped on the window.
He was wearing a blue denim shirt, chino pants, and Reebok shoes
with blue trim. It was Pete Thorne, a reporter for The Riverside
Star.
    “Anything you can tell me, Dave?” he
asked.
    Easton shook his head. “Not my case, Pete.
You’ll have to talk to the Chief or James Sánchez,” he said.
    “Waste of time,” Pete said. “I’m on the
Chief’s shit list for some reason or other. Listen, let me run what
I’ve got by you, okay? The victim is Jerry Weddle, age twenty-six,
unmarried, works for Goodwin Massie. Lives in Albuquerque. Checked
into the motel around eight. Sometime in the next hour he was shot.
The thinking is a walk-in killing.”
    “Very good,” Easton said, impressed. “They’re
estimating time of death as sometime between eight and eight
thirty, but don’t quote me on that till the coroner’s report is in.
There’ll be a full statement from RPD later.”
    “Any connection between this and the fact
Weddle was representing the Apache you guys have got locked up for
the Casey killings?”
    “Can’t answer that.”
    “Can’t? Or won’t?”
    Easton just waited. The younger man held up
his hands.
    “Okay, okay, just one more question. I heard
Weddle was shot twice. Once in the body, once in the head. Wouldn’t
you say that was unusual?”
    “You expect me to answer that on the
record?”
    The reporter grinned. “Okay, off the
record.”
    “Then yes, it’s unusual. James Sánchez said
much the same thing – it’s more like a hit. But whether it’s
significant ...” He gave a shrug.
    “Well, there goes my lead,” Thorne grinned
resignedly. “Thanks, anyway, Dave. I’ll check if James has anything
else after the Chief leaves.”
    “Good plan,” Easton said, and left the
reporter looking ruefully across the parking lot to where Chief
Saunders stood in the harsh light of the police floods, mopping his
forehead with a bandanna. William Conrad, Easton remembered. That
was the name of the actor who played Cannon in the TV series.
    He eased the Jeep through the scatter of
parked police vehicles and out of the parking lot. There was still
a knot of spectators outside the motel entrance; he felt the heat
of their eyes, the weight of their prurience. Most of them were
elderly, probably drawn here by news of the killing on late evening
TV. He wondered what their reaction would be if he wound down the
window and shouted “Get a life!” Probably just stare at him
uncomprehendingly, like, What’s his problem?
    He headed south on Main. Traffic was heavier
now; people were going out to dinner or the movies or shopping or
bowling. The frozen yogurt shop was crowded with kids. The parking
lot outside the Red Lobster was full. The light breeze was still
warm, the street lights and the hoardings, the brightly lit
buildings, and the myriad stars in the huge night sky above were
the same as always. Nothing had changed, except that Jerry Weddle
had said the long goodbye.
    As he drove downtown the same questions kept
repeating themselves over and over in Easton’s brain. Was it just
coincidence? Or could there be a connection between Weddle’s death
and the deaths of Robert Casey and his grandson? Who else had the
lawyer called from the motel? And why? How did James Ironheel fit
into all this? What could he have told Weddle that so electrified
him? The questions raced through his mind like minnows pursued by
pike.
    But no answers came.

Chapter Nine
    Joe Apodaca was sitting in his office with
his chair tilted back, feet on the window sill, staring gloomily
out at the dark parking lot. As Easton came in, he swung his feet
down and swiveled around in the chair. The frown that furrowed his
forehead made him look harassed and out of sorts.
    “Confucius say, ‘The deeper the thoughts, the
tougher the swimming’,” Easton