set,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
I craned my neck and looked overhead, squinting against the sodium vapor lights. And just as suddenly, I knew what was bothering Estelle.
“How can you see any stars at all with these lights?” I asked, and Estelle stood up.
“I’ve been thinking that same thing,” she said. “Wesley Crocker said he had a view ‘all the way to Peru.’ Do you remember him saying that?”
“Something to that effect.”
“And then he said he was looking at Orion when the kids arrived.”
“And you’re wondering how he could have been seeing any stars at all with all this light.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up again, frowning at those two sodium vapors. Their hum was steady, like a distant truck that never made progress. They were spaced ten or twenty yards on each side of the goalposts, far enough back so that someone booting a field goal wouldn’t be kicking right into the glare.
Estelle turned and looked off toward the east and the wash of light that rose from downtown Posadas—about the same amount of light as would be cast by a poorly decorated Christmas tree. The eastern horizon was just beginning to show signs of life behind the grove of bare trees.
“This field lies east to west,” she said and thrust her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “If Wesley Crocker arrived here some time around nine P.M., which fits with Pasquale’s version of things, then Orion would be low in the eastern horizon—depending on what time he got here, it might not even have risen above the lights of downtown.”
We both stood in silence, staring off into space.
“So Wesley Crocker is lying,” I said finally. “Or mistaken.”
Estelle didn’t answer, but out of the corner of my eye I caught the slightest of shrugs.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She folded her arms and leaned against the goalpost, gazing off toward the bleachers. “I think it’s almost certain that he knows more than he’s telling us. And I think it’s almost certain he wasn’t counting stars through the glare of two sodium vapor lights.”
“Do you want to talk with him again?”
“Yes, sir. I do. Before he eats. Before he gets too comfortable.”
Her pace back to the car was brisk—almost predatory. If Wesley Crocker was in the middle of an entertaining dream, he had about five minutes to wrap it up.
7
Sergeant Robert Torrez pulled his patrol car in beside mine just as I shoved the gear lever into “park.” His face didn’t show any excitement, and he methodically gathered his paperwork before uncoiling his large frame from the front seat.
The air was the crisp of predawn with the sun just beginning to highlight the tops of the San Cristobal mountains to the west. If Orion had ever been in the sky, it was long gone then. It would have been a nice morning to sit on the back steps, enjoying a cup of fresh brewed coffee and a cigarette. Out of habit, my fingers began to grope in my shirt pocket and settled for a perfunctory pat of the pocket flap.
Torrez held up a manila folder.
“Archer let me borrow his guidance department’s file on the girl.”
I stopped short and frowned. “She’s local then. How come none of us knew her? And who are her parents? Has someone contacted them yet?”
Torrez held open the back door of the old red adobe building that had housed the sheriff’s department since the structure was built in 1934, and then followed Estelle and me inside. “You’ll get a pretty good idea about that when you look at the file, sir.”
“Who’s talking with her parents?” I repeated. “Did you assign someone to that?”
Torrez took a deep breath. “Eddie Mitchell said he’d work on it.”
“Work on it?” I frowned again. “Let’s see this thing.”
And at 5:15 A.M., the paperwork that had accumulated to mark a brief life was spread out on my desk.
I tipped my head back so I could see the small typing. “Maria Ibarra,” I read. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She was
I craned my neck and looked overhead, squinting against the sodium vapor lights. And just as suddenly, I knew what was bothering Estelle.
“How can you see any stars at all with these lights?” I asked, and Estelle stood up.
“I’ve been thinking that same thing,” she said. “Wesley Crocker said he had a view ‘all the way to Peru.’ Do you remember him saying that?”
“Something to that effect.”
“And then he said he was looking at Orion when the kids arrived.”
“And you’re wondering how he could have been seeing any stars at all with all this light.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up again, frowning at those two sodium vapors. Their hum was steady, like a distant truck that never made progress. They were spaced ten or twenty yards on each side of the goalposts, far enough back so that someone booting a field goal wouldn’t be kicking right into the glare.
Estelle turned and looked off toward the east and the wash of light that rose from downtown Posadas—about the same amount of light as would be cast by a poorly decorated Christmas tree. The eastern horizon was just beginning to show signs of life behind the grove of bare trees.
“This field lies east to west,” she said and thrust her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “If Wesley Crocker arrived here some time around nine P.M., which fits with Pasquale’s version of things, then Orion would be low in the eastern horizon—depending on what time he got here, it might not even have risen above the lights of downtown.”
We both stood in silence, staring off into space.
“So Wesley Crocker is lying,” I said finally. “Or mistaken.”
Estelle didn’t answer, but out of the corner of my eye I caught the slightest of shrugs.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She folded her arms and leaned against the goalpost, gazing off toward the bleachers. “I think it’s almost certain that he knows more than he’s telling us. And I think it’s almost certain he wasn’t counting stars through the glare of two sodium vapor lights.”
“Do you want to talk with him again?”
“Yes, sir. I do. Before he eats. Before he gets too comfortable.”
Her pace back to the car was brisk—almost predatory. If Wesley Crocker was in the middle of an entertaining dream, he had about five minutes to wrap it up.
7
Sergeant Robert Torrez pulled his patrol car in beside mine just as I shoved the gear lever into “park.” His face didn’t show any excitement, and he methodically gathered his paperwork before uncoiling his large frame from the front seat.
The air was the crisp of predawn with the sun just beginning to highlight the tops of the San Cristobal mountains to the west. If Orion had ever been in the sky, it was long gone then. It would have been a nice morning to sit on the back steps, enjoying a cup of fresh brewed coffee and a cigarette. Out of habit, my fingers began to grope in my shirt pocket and settled for a perfunctory pat of the pocket flap.
Torrez held up a manila folder.
“Archer let me borrow his guidance department’s file on the girl.”
I stopped short and frowned. “She’s local then. How come none of us knew her? And who are her parents? Has someone contacted them yet?”
Torrez held open the back door of the old red adobe building that had housed the sheriff’s department since the structure was built in 1934, and then followed Estelle and me inside. “You’ll get a pretty good idea about that when you look at the file, sir.”
“Who’s talking with her parents?” I repeated. “Did you assign someone to that?”
Torrez took a deep breath. “Eddie Mitchell said he’d work on it.”
“Work on it?” I frowned again. “Let’s see this thing.”
And at 5:15 A.M., the paperwork that had accumulated to mark a brief life was spread out on my desk.
I tipped my head back so I could see the small typing. “Maria Ibarra,” I read. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She was
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