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    Less Than a Moment
    Less Than a Moment
    Less Than a Moment
    Ebook322 pages4 hours

    Less Than a Moment

    By Steven F. Havill

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    No crime is forgiven, and no mistake overlooked in this new addition to the critically acclaimed Posadas County Mystery series…

    When a developer shows up in Posadas County, the locals get nervous. The small town along the southern border of New Mexico has enjoyed a surge in visitors, jobs, and prosperity since rancher Miles Waddell opened an eco-friendly complex. But then the developer buys land just next door, with plans for a project that will threaten the county's newfound success.

    Tension is at an all-time high when someone shoots up the newsroom—and then the developer is found dead at the base of a cliff. Sheriff Bob Torrez and Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman know these events are all too convenient and bloody not to be connected.

    With support from Bill Gastner—an old Western sheriff straight out of the movies—the partners dive into a heated investigation. But as the case gets personal, the two will have to untangle a web of convoluted evidence before the community turns on itself.

    Readers of C. J. Box and Anne Hillerman will be riveted by this female protagonist thriller set in the rural, rugged Southwest. The newest of Steven F. Havill's Western mysteries and thrillers will lead you down trails of danger and deceit… But will one of these paths lead to justice?

    "The Posadas County that Havill has created is so tangible, you feel that if you walked down its streets, you would be greeted by old friends."—Bookreporter

    "Less Than A Moment reveals Posadas' sense of small-town life through the conversations of multiple characters and by rolling them into the narrative, whether they're related or unrelated to the crimes."—Albuquerque Journal

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateMar 17, 2020
    ISBN9781492699118
    Less Than a Moment

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    • 5/5
      Things seem quite tranquil in Posadas County as Estelle's pianist son and virtuoso cellist wife bring their son home to rest from their touring. Newcomers appearing to threaten the Dark Sky Resort coupled with a driveby shooting generate serious tensions between them and some locals. This suddenly escalates into death by a seemingly accidental fall that becomes a murder on forensic review. The usual excellent characters and a vibrant plot drive the investigation to a dangerous and fatal conclusion.

    Book preview

    Less Than a Moment - Steven F. Havill

    Front Cover

    Also by Steven F. Havill

    Heartshot

    Bitter Recoil

    Twice Buried

    Before She Dies

    Privileged to Kill

    Prolonged Exposure

    Out of Season

    Dead Weight

    Bag Limit

    Red, Green, or Murder

    Scavengers

    A Discount for Death

    Convenient Disposal

    Statute of Limitations

    Final Payment

    The Fourth Time is Murder

    Double Prey

    One Perfect Shot

    NightZone

    Blood Sweep

    Come Dark

    Easy Errors

    Lies Come Easy

    Title Page

    Copyright © 2020 by Steven F. Havill

    Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

    Cover design by The BookDesigners

    Cover images © Dana Ward/Shutterstock, rwkc/Shutterstock

    Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—­except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—­without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

    The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

    Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

    P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

    (630) 961-­3900

    sourcebooks.com

    Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data

    Names: Havill, Steven, author.

    Title: Less than a moment / Steven F. Havill

    Description: Naperville : Poisoned Pen Press, 2020.

    Identifiers: LCCN 2019043383 | (hardcover)

    Subjects: LCSH: Sheriffs—­Fiction. | Policewomen—­Fiction.

    Murder—­Investigation—­Fiction. | New Mexico—­Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

    Classification: LCC PS3558.A785 L47 2020 | DDC 813/.54—­dc23

    LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019043383

    Contents

    Front Cover

    Title Page

    Copyright

    Chapter One

    Chapter Two

    Chapter Three

    Chapter Four

    Chapter Five

    Chapter Six

    Chapter Seven

    Chapter Eight

    Chapter Nine

    Chapter Ten

    Chapter Eleven

    Chapter Twelve

    Chapter Thirteen

    Chapter Fourteen

    Chapter Fifteen

    Chapter Sixteen

    Chapter Seventeen

    Chapter Eighteen

    Chapter Nineteen

    Chapter Twenty

    Chapter Twenty-­One

    Chapter Twenty-­Two

    Chapter Twenty-­Three

    Chapter Twenty-­Four

    Chapter Twenty-­Five

    Chapter Twenty-­Six

    Chapter Twenty-­Seven

    Chapter Twenty-­Eight

    Chapter Twenty-­Nine

    Chapter Thirty

    Chapter Thirty-­One

    Chapter Thirty-­Two

    Chapter Thirty-­Three

    Chapter Thirty-­Four

    Chapter Thirty-­Five

    Chapter Thirty-­Six

    Acknowledgments

    About the Author

    Back Cover

    For Kathleen

    Map of Posadas County, New Mexico

    Chapter One

    You’re on my shit list, bud, Deputy Edwin Hennesey grumbled as he looked up from his console. The target of the dispatcher’s complaint, rookie news reporter Rik Chang, skirted the dispatcher’s island and headed for the antiquated out basket of police reports perched atop the first of four equally antiquated filing cabinets. Chang, twenty-­six years old and with a freshly minted bachelor’s degree in journalism from the University of New Mexico, glanced over at Hennesey.

    Yeah, you, the deputy added.

    Chang frowned, managing to look equal parts contrite and confused.

    Sir? The young reporter was likely the only person in Posadas County who referred to Hennesey by that courtesy title. Hennesey took his time closing the Field and Stream magazine, pushed it away from himself as if it were an empty dinner plate, and swiveled his chair. For a moment he watched the young man leaf through the report copies.

    It had been a quiet Thursday night and predawn Friday. The latest edition of the Posadas Register had been on the streets since earlier Thursday afternoon, and any tidbit of news that the rookie reporter might glean from the slender pile of reports would be old news by the next week’s edition.

    By an edict from the sheriff, routine paperwork generated by deputies was not posted on any department website where it would be available to talented hackers, curious gossips, or criminals seeking to improve their education. Sheriff Robert Torrez personally eschewed computers, preferring to read hard copy reports. He didn’t tweet, chat, blog, post, or link in to any of those other supposed necessities of modern life. The number of emails that he might send in any given month could be counted on one hand. He liked hard copy, and although he knew as well as anyone that the workings of the Sheriff’s Department were for the most part public record, his attitude was simple: if a public wanted to see the paperwork, let them come into the office and ask for it, face-­to-­face.

    What was routinely posted on the department’s little-­used website were nameless statistics reflecting the department’s work…the number of violent crimes compared with previous years, the number of clumsy souls arrested for shoplifting, and responses to fires, family disputes, and all the other aggravations of modern life that required a call to law enforcement. A curious web reader could find the number of people ticketed for running stop signs, for speeding, for failure to wear seat belts, for texting while rear-­ending another vehicle.

    But as far as Sheriff Torrez was concerned, the job of naming names, if that’s what the gossips wanted, was the turf of the local newspaper.

    Every morning, regular as clockwork, someone from the weekly Posadas Register, either publisher Frank Dayan or more often rookie reporter Rik Chang, stopped by the sheriff’s office in hopes of a scoop worthy of a stand-­alone story. Staff of the Register could have paid a visit to the out-­basket once a week, but one never knew. A simple arrest could lead to an interesting story that demanded further investigation.

    Most of the paperwork in the wire basket, if not ignored as un-­newsworthy, would deserve only a line or two in the standing newspaper column, Sheriff’s Report. As a newly hired cub reporter, Rik Chang had inherited the task of assembling the Report each week.

    Deputy Hennesey pushed himself to his feet, making an effort to suck in his gut. He always felt a little intimidated by someone as elegantly put together as Rik Chang. Just over six feet tall, with black hair, inscrutable eyes behind frameless glasses, square shoulders, and not the slightest hint of belly flab, Chang moved with assured grace.

    Hennesey jerked up his Sam Brown belt so the utility rig’s weight rode more easily above his hips. A short, narrow-­shouldered man with a pear-­shaped body and only a few wisps of graying hair mopped across his shiny skull, Hennesey had spent a long hitch as a security guard at one of the Albuquerque malls before seeking out small-­town peace and quiet. The shopping mall’s hard, polished tile floors had tortured his knees and inflamed his plantar fasciitis. As a dispatcher for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, he didn’t need to walk miles every night.

    Sheriff Robert Torrez was aware of Hennesey’s intellectual limitations, but appreciated his work ethic. The man hadn’t missed a shift in two years, had never been late, had never scooted for home a few minutes early at the end of the day, Friday or not. A longtime widower, Hennesey embraced the solitude of the graveyard hours. Not a lightning wit, the slow pace suited him perfectly.

    At 7:35 this particular Friday morning in late May when Rik Chang dropped by the Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Hennesey didn’t favor the young man with a smile of greeting. He didn’t particularly like the ambitious, athletic, computer-­savvy young man, even though Chang was not an immigrant like most of the other people Hennesey disliked.

    Instead, the deputy rose, leaned over the counter, and pulled the slender bundle of reports—­five days’ worth—­out of the tray. With stubby thumbs, he sorted through until he found the one he wanted, an arrest report now four days old with a large Post-­it note attached. He tossed the rest of the paperwork back in the wire basket.

    "When I mark something not for news," he said, brandishing the two-­page report in question, "that means just that. You just leave it in the basket. It don’t go in the newspaper."

    Chang pushed his rimless glasses up and regarded the report. Oh, that one?

    Ah, that one, Hennesey said, trying his best to mimic Jackie Chan. Yes, that one.

    The young man didn’t rise to the mild ethnic slur. Well, I saw that, sir, but I didn’t understand what was so special about it, Chang said. He smiled hopefully at Hennesey.

    "Ain’t nothing special about it, the deputy said. But now we got this. Hennesey reached across the desk and picked up the latest copy of the local newspaper, barely hours off the press, and folded the pages back to reveal the standing column, Sheriff’s Report," on page six. He jabbed a finger at a paragraph near the end of the column. This ain’t supposed to be here.

    Chang looked blank. He didn’t need to read the column, since he had written it. It’s just a DUI, the young man said. "It goes into the pot, along with everything else. I thought that’s what you wanted. I mean, I don’t know why you wanted to make sure that story got in, ’cause we’d run it anyway, but sure enough, there it is."

    Hey, wise guy, Hennesey barked. "When I mark something not for news, then it’s not for news. Ain’t nothing complicated about that."

    Chang lifted the Post-­it’s corner. This?

    Yeah, that.

    A slow smile grew across Chang’s smooth face. "Ah. My mistake. See, I read it as note for news. With the e, just the way it’s written. He pulled the note free and held it out to Hennesey. See, I saw this note, and I thought that maybe because the DUI was Quentin Torrez, that you wanted to make sure that he made the police blotter. The young man smiled. Maybe to make sure we weren’t playing favorites or something like that? So you marked it Note for news. Note, not not."

    Unsure whether or not he was being gently mocked, Hennesey’s eyes narrowed to slits, then opened wide enough to reflect some misgivings.

    I mean, I know—­everybody knows—­that Quentin Torrez is the sheriff’s what, nephew or something? Chang asked.

    Something. But it wasn’t Deputy Hennesey who spoke. A heavy arm reached past Rik Chang and gently relieved him of the note for news Post-­it and the report to which it was attached. Sheriff Robert Torrez could ghost his six-­foot four-­inch, two-­hundred-­forty-­pound frame into a room, more frightening than if he’d stomped in, arms flailing. He loomed over Chang, one hand resting lightly on the reporter’s shoulder.

    After a moment, he handed the report back without comment, but kept the Post-­it. He glanced first at the clock, then at Deputy Hennesey. Pasquale’s twenty? His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

    Taking a quick moment to mentally switch gears with the sudden non sequitur, Hennesey glanced at the desk log. He was headed out to 14, checkin’ up on that complaint from one of the surveyors up at the Thompsons’ place that somebody was jerkin’ up surveyor stakes.

    For a long moment, the sheriff stood silently, perhaps waiting for some amplification. When none was forthcoming, he repeated, What’s his twenty?

    Hennesey turned and keyed the old-­fashioned desk mike, eschewing the modern microphone headset that lay on the shelf in front of him. Three oh four, PCS, ten twenty? His delivery was crisply enunciated.

    The reply was prompt. PCS, three oh four is northbound on 56, just passing mile marker twenty-­one.

    Hennesey acknowledged and turned back to the sheriff, one eyebrow raised in question.

    Have him stop in my office when he comes in, the sheriff said. When he’s finished fueling and workin’ his log.

    You got it, Sheriff.

    Torrez lifted his hand off Chang’s shoulder. Anything in that basket is public record. Anything, any time. If something is an ongoing investigation that we don’t want made public, we don’t put it in the basket. He gave Hennesey one of his slow, expressionless looks.

    Yes, sir, I understand, Chang said. And I was wondering…

    The sheriff looked hard at the young man, as if actually seeing him for the first time.

    Frank has a series planned on county budget matters, and he suggested that I ask about the possibility of doing a ride-­along with some of the deputies.

    Any time, any deputy, Torrez said. Talk with the undersheriff. She’s the one who takes care of the waivers. Then talk to the deputies. It’s up to them.

    Yes, sir. I’ll do that. May I ask about the surveyor stake deal?

    Keep an eye on the basket.

    Maybe I could do a ride-­along with Sergeant Pasquale?

    Check with the undersheriff for the paperwork. Then check with Pasquale. He’s free to say yes or no.

    Yes, sir.

    Torrez almost smiled, his heavy-­lidded eyes relaxing just a bit. You spent some time in the military.

    Yes, sir. Four years in the Navy.

    Not a career?

    I never learned how to swim, sir.

    Torrez did smile at that. Not a whole lot of water in Posadas County. He pointed a finger-­pistol at Hennesey. Don’t let Pasquale slip away without seein’ me, Eddie.

    You got it, Sheriff.

    Sheriff Torrez turned away abruptly and strode down the hallway toward his office. Note for news, he muttered, and he said it just loud enough that both Hennesey and Chang heard him.

    Chapter Two

    Sheriff Torrez passed by his own office and leaned against the jamb of the undersheriff’s open door.

    Did you sit through the whole meeting yesterday?

    Estelle Reyes-­Guzman looked up from her computer keyboard, then leaned back in her chair. A light-­framed woman just turned fifty-­one but looking closer to thirty-­five, she favored tan, tailored pants suits with a pastel blouse—­the uniform that she’d adopted during twenty-­eight years with the Sheriff’s Department.

    The entire agonizing thing. She smiled and shook her head. They’re very good at making mountains out of even less than molehills. And by the way, Bobby, I overheard Rik’s conversation just now with Hennesey, but I didn’t want to interfere. She smiled again. It’s all part of the young man’s education. He was also at the county meeting, and it looked as if he’s mastered sleeping with his eyes open.

    Huh, Torrez grunted. Estelle knew that Robert Torrez would require a certified, notarized announcement of the earth’s imminent destruction before he would attend a county commission meeting.

    I need to work on that talent myself. Nothing came up that would affect us, though, and that’s always good news.

    The kids are still here?

    Estelle took the characteristically abrupt change of subject in stride. She knew that the sheriff was referring to her son and daughter-­in-­law, who, along with Estelle’s grandson, William Thomas, were enjoying a vacation from their hectic performance schedule. "They are, working hard on Padrino’s house. That’s the whole problem, for me, anyway. I’d be over there every minute, given half a chance, but they don’t need me breathing down their necks. But as you well know, make-­work is deadly boring as well." She swept a hand inches above the paperwork that was spread across her desk.

    Torrez’s dark face brightened a touch, just enough that a glimpse of his movie-­star dentition showed. I thought hanging out with family was what grandmothers were for, Grandma.

    She pointed a pistol finger at the sheriff. "I want my daughter-­in-­law to smile with some heartfelt greeting when she sees me, not recoil in resignation. ‘Oh, God, here she is again. What’s it been since the last visit, twelve minutes?’"

    Can’t see you doin’ that.

    Exactly. But waiting on the sidelines is also torture. And speaking of torture, are you getting family flack after your nephew’s arrest?

    Nope. Clearly that topic was not one that the sheriff wished to pursue. At the county meeting, did this guy Thompson make some presentation?

    As a matter of fact, he did not. It was on the agenda, but he didn’t show. He did pass along a message that he wanted to meet with Miles sometime today. Miles invited me to attend—­and Frank Dayan as well, I think. I’m driving out there about 9:00. In just a few minutes. She looked down at the budget papers again. Get some fresh air and soak up some sun. Miles Waddell’s astronomical mesa-­top development had made an international name for itself, despite all the naysayers.

    Never met him. This Thompson guy.

    Nor I, Estelle replied. All we know is that he bought up some of your favorite hunting turf, am I right?

    Yep. Got to talk to him about that.

    You’re welcome to ride out with me.

    Don’t think so.

    Estelle’s phone rang and she picked it up. After listening for a bit, she said, Sure. Now’s a good time. Send him back. She hung up. "Rik Chang wants to talk to me. Anyway, I think a few folks in the audience yesterday were disappointed that they didn’t get to argue with Thompson. There’s quite a bit of resistance to what he wants to do—­at least what everyone seems to think he wants to do, and not just from Waddell’s people. I haven’t actually heard from a reliable source—­like from Mr. Thompson himself—­what he’s planned."

    He bought a lot of acres, is all I heard.

    Yes. Some of Johnny Boyd’s property, and maybe some others. My best source is usually Bill, she said, referring to former sheriff Bill Gastner, but he’s in the dark too, which is surprising, since he’s spent a lot of hours out on that property. He knew Johnny Boyd as well as anyone in the county.

    Huh. Torrez shrugged. How’s Bill’s house project thing comin’? Is that going to work out?

    I’m sure it will. With an adjustment or two.

    Torrez grunted something incomprehensible and shook his head. Can’t imagine. He handed the Note for News Post-­it to Estelle. You heard all the ruckus about this. It’s a funny story. He turned to go, then stopped abruptly. It don’t matter to me personally one way or another, but I want to find out whose idea that was. He nodded at the note. If there’s somebody puttin’ pressure on Hennesey. Even if it’s just him brown-­nosin’, thinkin’ it’s something I’d want to do.

    With the sort of perfect timing that led Estelle to believe that the young reporter had been lurking in the hallway outside her office, Chang appeared behind the sheriff, whose bulk all but blocked the office doorway. The sheriff stepped to one side to let Chang pass.

    Good morning, Rik, Estelle greeted. She rose and offered a hand which Chang pumped eagerly, his smile wide and sincere.

    Catch ya later. Torrez glanced at the young reporter. Stay safe.

    So what’s driving your day? Estelle asked Chang after the sheriff had left. She gestured toward the chair beside her desk.

    He sat with easy grace, at the same time drawing his narrow reporter’s notebook from his hip pocket. A good-­looking kid, she thought. Maybe a little more slender in build than either of her sons, but close enough in his white polo shirt and new blue jeans to remind her that Francisco, her oldest son, was just a handful of blocks away, caught up in an exciting construction project.

    Frank…Mr. Dayan…was wondering about a ride-­along? He says no one from the paper has done that in a while, and with the budget coming up and all, that it might be a good idea. Some good feature material, maybe. Sheriff Torrez said any time, any deputy, but to check with you first for a waiver?

    Estelle pushed her wheeled office chair over and slid the second file drawer open. In a moment, she found the form she wanted, pushed the drawer closed, and slid the paper across the desk toward Chang. Read carefully and sign, she said. With amusement, she watched Chang scan the simple form—­looking at the bottom first, as many people did, then returning his attention to the top line.

    It’s worthless, but our county attorney requires it, Estelle said. As I’m sure you’re aware—­and I know the county attorney is aware—­there’s no way we can waive responsibility for you once you’re a captive audience in one of our patrol units.

    The young man scanned down the document, his heavy black eyebrows arching in amused surprise. Aw, gee. I don’t get to carry a gun?

    No. There is a shotgun in the vehicle that the deputy will show you how to unlock. At Estelle’s comment, Chang glanced up. For your own protection, she added. The most important thing is for you to pay attention to any instructions from the deputy. If he or she tells you to stay in the car during a stop, that’s what you do. Pay attention. Always pay attention.

    Chang nodded eagerly. After another moment reading the few paragraphs, he signed with a precise script that would impress an architectural draftsman. He handed the form back to the undersheriff.

    Did you have any particular time or deputy in mind?

    I’d like to ride with Sergeant Pasquale on swing, if that works.

    Estelle nodded. Sure. He’s volunteered to cover graveyard for Deputy Sutherland until Monday, then Brent will be back, and Pasquale will return to his regular swing shift. Just any time. Most of the deputies enjoy some company, and you’ll find that they’ll be eager to answer questions and share war stories.

    Chang’s deep frown etched lines in an otherwise faultless olive-­skinned complexion. Sergeant Pasquale’s wife was involved in an incident years ago, wasn’t she? I mean, not with him, but with another deputy, during a ride-­along. She was a reporter for the newspaper at the time, Frank says.

    Estelle lifted an eyebrow. That’s ancient history, Rik. But, yes, she was riding with one of the deputies. She grimaced. "Sad times. If you want, you can dig through the morgue of old newspapers in your office. The incident involving the shooting of Deputy Enciños and Ms. Real was well covered by the Register. Along with all the follow-­up."

    Chang jotted in his notebook, and when he looked up, Estelle held up the Post-­it. The sheriff tells me that I should ask you about this.

    A dark blush moved up the young man’s smooth cheeks. "The dispatcher stuck that on one of the reports, ma’am. Apparently, he meant for me not to take it. But when he wrote it, I guess an E kinda slipped in there somehow. I didn’t know why the note, since I would have picked up on the story anyway, without the dispatcher’s encouragement. I was going to check to see if this was a first-­time bust or if it’s a multiple. But I guess Deputy Hennesey didn’t want me going down that route."

    The arrest was Quentin Torrez’s third, Estelle said. It says that on the arrest report, down toward the bottom of the first page. She turned the Post-­it this way and that. "So Deputy Hennesey says that this was meant to read ‘not for news.’ That’s what you two were going on about."

    Apparently so, ma’am.

    The undersheriff sighed and slipped the note under a corner of her desk calendar. Just for future reference, Rik…we don’t decide what makes news and what doesn’t. That’s your turf.

    Yes, ma’am. Sheriff Torrez made that very clear.

    We still use the old-­fashioned method. If it’s in the basket, it’s fair game.

    That’s what Pam had told me—­how it all works. Pam Gardiner, longtime editor of the Posadas Register, was one of Estelle’s favorite people: fair, prompt, unfailingly friendly, a genuinely cozy person—­as long as she didn’t have to stray from her desk.

    While I’m here, Chang continued, "I wanted to ask…what’s the deal

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