Heartshot by Steven F. Havill Page B

part-timer were working the other eyewitnesses. I left Sprague and joined them. In the next few minutes, Estelle Reyes arrived, as did Howard Bishop. “I want statements from every living soul within a block of this park,” I snapped at Reyes. I could see, even in the vague light of the park’s sodium vapors, that her face was pale.
    “How is he?” she asked, and I shrugged helplessly.
    “I’m going on down to the hospital. I’ll call Holman and tell him to get his ass out of bed.”
    “He’s already on his way down,” Estelle Reyes said, almost in a whisper.
    “Fine,” I said. “Take this place apart. I mean it. I’ll be back to help just as soon as I can.”
    I strode across the grass toward my car. But what I’d told Estelle Reyes wasn’t true. It wasn’t fine. I had the goddamned feeling that absolutely nothing was under control.

Chapter 10
    Martin Holman walked stolidly toward me. The hard heels of his finely polished boots clicked on the polished hall tiles of Posadas General Hospital. His hands were thrust in his pockets, and he stared at the floor as he walked, ignoring others, letting the few nurses dodge him. I didn’t bother to get up. He stopped a pace in front of my chair and surveyed me with tired, bagged eyes.
    “You look like shit,” he said finally.
    “Thanks.”
    “So what the hell happened?”
    “I don’t know yet. Art says Benny Fernandez ran at him. ‘Jumped him’ is how he put it.”
    “You got a chance to talk with him, then?” Holman said, relieved.
    “Briefly. I didn’t get the whole story. There were at least five witnesses, it looks like. Estelle and Bob Torrez are taking their statements now.”
    “Benny Fernandez was killed instantly?”
    “Yes.”
    “And how does it look for Art Hewitt?”
    “I think he’ll be all right.” I glanced at my watch. “He’s in surgery now.”
    “Where was he hit?”
    I jabbed my right index finger into my side under the ribs. “He was hurting bad, but it’s just about impossible to tell anything, you know. I don’t have any information whatever.”
    “We’ll just have to wait,” Holman said. “I called Gallup, by the way. Chief White says the boy’s parents live in Tucson. He said he’d take care of contacts there.”
    “That’s good.”
    We both fell silent, and after a long moment Holman said, “Hell of a thing.”
    “Yes.” A nurse walked by pushing a jingling tray cart. She looked at us and smiled helpfully.
    “Hell of a note,” Holman said. I just looked at him. “So Benny Fernandez was killed outright?” he asked.
    “Yes. It looked like he’d been shot once in the face.”
    Holman winced. “You talked to the widow?” The blank look that settled over my face told Holman all he needed to know. “Christ, Bill, how long’s it been?”
    I glanced at the wall clock. “Twenty-five minutes.”
    Holman was already on his feet. “I’ll take care of it. You stay here.” I watched him hustle off, and shook my head. I must have figured the dead could wait attendance. I didn’t worry about explaining my preoccupation to Holman. What was going to be tough was explaining why I hadn’t taken the Beretta when it was offered to me.
    ***
    After a while, the hospital didn’t even smell anymore. I didn’t notice the polish on the floor. Holman had returned, and for an hour or more we talked. Now he sat with his hands clasped between his knees, head twisted, slightly to one side, eyes staring without registration at the old issue of
Sports Illustrated
on the table beside him.
    Estelle Reyes and Bob Torrez had shifted their operations from the park to the sheriff’s office, and every twenty minutes one or another of them called us and got the same negative answer. At a quarter to five, when there still wasn’t the faintest hint of dawn behind the curtains, Estelle Reyes walked into the waiting room. She looked so goddamned prim, like a grade school teacher ready to lecture the troops…except there was a little