Free Heartshot by Steven F. Havill Page A

done this before. I don’t think you have. We don’t want to see you hurt, or anyone else.”
    He nodded and offered the Beretta to me, butt first. I shook my head. “That’s not necessary, Benny. Take it back to wherever you bought it tomorrow. For now, just unload it and shove it under the seat. Go home and get some rest. Let us work. Hell, I may be fat and old, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do. The deputies are better still. We’ve got some leads. The sheriff told me today that he’s planning to bring in a specially trained dog. The beast sniffs drugs, believe it or not. Even if you just smoked a single joint as much as forty-eight hours ago, this critter will nail you. We’re going to publicize that, and some people are bound to get nervous. The Drug Enforcement Agency is working with us.” That was a lie, but Fernandez didn’t need to know. “Something’s going to break, believe me. Soon.”
    He nodded and sighed heavily. “You just feel so helpless sometimes,” he said.
    “Sure.” I groped for something to lighten his spirits a little before sending him down the hill. “And my bet is that when this is all over, it’ll be obvious that Ricky wasn’t involved as anything other than maybe an innocent bystander. You’ll be proud of him.”
    “You really believe that?”
    “Yup. I know what kind of a home he came from.” Even if I didn’t buy that one, Benny Fernandez did. He looked grateful. I pressed the advantage. “I’ll pull back so you can get out of here, Benny. There’s other things I need to check up here. You go on ahead. Go down and get some rest. Being the midnight vigilante isn’t your style.” He laughed and sounded a little relieved.
    “Thanks, Bill. I’ll get rid of this thing tomorrow, first item of business. Sell it back to George Payton.”
    “I’m sure he’ll give you back every nickel,” I said.
    “A man can be stupid sometimes,” Fernandez said.
    It was only in retrospect that Benny’s last line really haunted me. If I had been able to replay that scene, I would have grabbed that Beretta at the first offer. But when I next saw the weapon, it was in a plastic evidence bag.

Chapter 9
    Meeting Fernandez had set me on edge. I was as wide-eyed as one of those lemurs you see in picture books about the jungle. Any notion that this night might be one with six or eight hours of sleep was just that…a notion. The road down the hill was empty. The night neckers had gone elsewhere. About five miles north of town, I jogged west on State 78. A housing development of new ranch styles sprawled up the side of the mesa. Most of them had “For Sale” signs in front, and a few looked pretty ragged. The mine and mill closing had caught many developers overbuilding. Maybe drug trafficking was the new industry, I thought as I followed the road up the mesa until it topped out by the airport. With headlights off, I drove along a hundred yards of fencing and passed the airport parking area and an apron access gate for pedestrians. The main gate that led to the hangars was wide open. That was normally the case during the daytime when the airport manager, Jim Bergin, was on the premises. But at midnight or after, it was a little unusual unless some charter flight had just come in.
    I drove through the gate and saw that the big padlock was hooked loosely through the chain link above the gate latch. Farther on, one arc light blazed, casting hard shadows around the hangars. Light streamed out from one, and I drove over. Bathed in the harsh fluorescent wash from overhead was a pretty tan-and-white Cessna. Its cowl was off, and from an open door on the passenger side a leg and foot projected. As I stopped the car, Jim Bergin pulled himself up far enough so he could see my car, and then he untangled his long frame from the innards of the airplane. I got out and walked over. My left hand groped automatically at the cigarette pack in my shirt pocket.
    “Don’t smoke in here,” Jim said