17
Victor Celaya showed up at the Jonquil hours after their dinner at the Copper Queen Hotel. He leaned against the doorjamb, gamma-rayed by the fluorescent light above the door to her room, waggling a six-pack of Bohemia.
Well, almost a six-pack. One was missing.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure. Just let me wake up.”
“You were in bed already? I’m sorry.” He walked past her and put the six-pack on the table.
“Want one?”
She glanced dubiously at the sixpack.
“They’re cold. Just got it from Circle K. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I had to tell you my idea.”
Laura sat on the bed, trying to focus. She’d just made it into deep sleep when he pulled her out of it. “What idea is that?”
“Kind of stuffy in here. You want to go outside?”
“Sure.” Why not? She wasn’t going to go back to sleep now.
Laura went into the bathroom and changed out of the long shirt she wore to bed. Back into today’s clothes, wrinkled as they were. She could hear Victor whistling a familiar-sounding corrida, pure and sweet. Wondered what his idea was and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
Whatever he’d come up with, he was excited about it.
They crossed a bridge over the narrow channel that ran through Tombstone Canyon and sat down at one of the outdoor tables. Laura was almost glad he’d awakened her; it was a beautiful night. Cool compared to Tucson. The sky full of stars. Runoff from the rains tumbled through the canal, catching the glow of the streetlights.
He quickly spoiled the mood. “I thought of a way to get in Lehman’s house. We go through his probation officer.”
“We could do that,” she said slowly. As a probationer, Chuck Lehman did not have the rights regular citizens had. Probation was a substitute for prison, and there were a number of restrictions on him—what he could do and not do, who he could associate with. If his probation officer suspected he was violating his probation, his house could be searched. Usually it required concurrence by the chief of probation, but essentially, Lehman’s house could be searched without a warrant.
Laura didn’t like this for a couple of reasons. One, Chuck Lehman’s link to the crime scene was tenuous. He lived right near the vacant land. He had a dog and probably walked around in there often. The key tab could have come off any time. She’d bagged it because she was thorough, because if their investigation pointed to Lehman, she’d have other evidence to back it up.
And two, going through the probation officer could cause problems down the line. She could just hear the defense attorney: overeager cops, abusing the privilege—using a probation officer to gain access to a house when they couldn’t get a search warrant through regular channels.
That could cause problems if this ever went to trial.
Frank Entwistle had always taught her to think of police work as a pool game, always setting up the next shot and the shot after that. Thinking about the end game—the trial. The ultimate shot should land the bad guy in prison.
This strategy made her a lousy pool player, but a good investigator.
Victor was talking, excited about the case for the first time. She knew he had a pool game of his own in mind: Getting home to his wife and family.
This was not the first time Victor had cut corners. He saw everything in terms of exit strategy—close the case, boost the solve rate.
Laura said, “We can’t do that, Victor. We don’t have enough evidence.”
“That’s the beauty of it. We’ll get the evidence, once we’re inside.”
“You really think he’s the one?”
“Don’t you?” Suddenly his mouth flat-lined. “Shit! You don’t. You don’t think it’s him, do you? You’re still fooling around with that motor home idea. Nothing can be easy for you, can it?” He stood up and walked around in a circle. “I knew you were gonna do this.”
“Victor—“
“What, afraid you’ll lose your membership in the ACLU?”
She tried not to lose her cool. “It just won’t work.”
“Of course it’ll work. You just don’t want it to.”
Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Did Buddy Holland have anything to do with this?”
“Oh, that’s great. You never give me any credit, do you? What, I can’t think for myself?” He set the bottle down on the table so hard that beer sloshed up—a sharp yeasty smell.
“Victor, I don’t want to say this, but—“
“Then don’t.”
“It’s my case. Like it or not, I’m the lead. I say we’re not going to do this.”
He smiled at her sadly. “Too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a done deal. We’re meeting Sylvia Clegg over at Lehman’s tomorrow.”
It shocked her so much, for a minute she couldn’t speak.
He stood up. “Sorry you’re not happy about this. I came here as a courtesy. We’re meeting the probation officer over at Lehman’s at eight a.m. See you then—if you want to be there.”