Apache Country Read Online Free Page A

No rain, nada. And this has been one of
the driest summers on record – ground’s as hard as rock. CSI
checked anyway – a quarter mile radius from the bodies, and every
inch of the track from where they were found to the highway. There
were some indentations that might or might not have been
footprints, but nothing meaningful. No tire tracks, either.”
    “What about inside the car?”
    “We got some latents,” Cochrane said. “It’ll
take a while to get elimination prints. Forensics are working on
that now.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Casey’s wallet was missing,” Irving said.
“Credit cards, driver license. His wife thought he had about two
hundred dollars cash on him.”
    “His watch was gone, too,” Cochrane added. “A
gold Omega Seamaster. It’s all on the hotline.”
    He took out a pack of cigarettes and put one
between his lips. He knew perfectly well SO had a no-smoking
policy, and everyone present knew he wasn’t going to light it
anyway. He was trying to quit. Once in a while the other deputies
would make bets on how many minutes before he went outside and lit
up.
    “So we’re saying what?” McKittrick asked, as
if it were an intelligent question.
    “We’re saying we’ve got diddlysquat, Olin,”
Joe Apodaca said harshly. “Excellent,” McKittrick said icily.
“Wonderful. And you want me to go down there and tell that to the
media, right?”
    Joe remained silent. But again, what he
wanted to say was written clearly on his face. For my money, you
and the media can take a flying fuck at the Goodyear blimp.
    “Tom?” McKittrick said, his voice almost
plaintive. “Jack? Can’t you guys give me something? Anything?”
    Cochrane took the cigarette out of his mouth,
put it carefully back into the pack, and put the pack in his pocket
before speaking. Keeping his temper under control, Easton
thought.
    “Here’s what we know, Olin,” Cochrane said
patiently. “Casey goes to the school, picks up his grandson a
little after three-thirty. Several people saw him there. And before
you ask, no, he didn’t give anyone a ride.”
    Jack Irving took over. “University Middle
School is over on Alameda at Parkview. From there to where the
Caseys live it’s what, sixteen blocks east to Main, twenty three
blocks north, then half a mile east on Country Club. He drove the
same route every day. Never varied. So we have to ask ourselves,
did he pick someone up, was he car-jacked, just how and why on this
particular day does Robert Casey wind up dead on Garcia Flat?”
    “And what do we answer?” McKittrick asked
sarcastically.
    Irving drew in a deep breath, let it out
slowly. “We’re working with the probability he picked someone
up.”
    “Someone he knew?”
    “Not necessarily. Maybe the guy just stepped
in at a traffic light, stuck a gun in his ribs.”
    “Why? What would be his motive?”
    “On the evidence, robbery.”
    “Pretty damned far-fetched,” McKittrick said,
not troubling to conceal his scorn. “He tells Casey to drive to
Garcia Flat, makes him get out of the car, hand over his wallet.
Then he kills him? Why?”
    “Dead men tell no tales?”
    “Then why doesn’t he shoot the kid too? Why
the knife?”
    McKittrick’s questions had too much gotcha in
them and Cochrane lost it.
    “Look, as soon as we find out, I’ll tell you,
okay?” he snapped.
    It was insubordination and McKittrick reacted
predictably. “Then the quicker you get your ass out on the street
the better, Lieutenant,” he snarled, emphasizing the last word.
“And that goes for everyone else here. Beat the bushes, you people,
get the word out, talk to your snitches. If you want help, ask,
I’ll assign extra manpower. But for Chrissake get me something
better than a bunch of goddamn maybes.”
    He snapped his briefcase shut to emphasize
his displeasure and stood up. “Joe, keep me posted, yes? Day or
night.”
    “Sure, Olin.”
    As McKittrick and Wally Paul hurried off to
their TV interview and the rest of the