“He had other family?”
Lydia nodded. “A beloved grandmother, for one. She’s in Philadelphia now, in an assisted living home. This is going to kill her. His mom and dad are divorced, but they both live in Jamestown, New York. He has a younger brother in the Oswego County Sheriff’s Department, and an older brother who’s a prosecutor in Buffalo.” She stifled a groan. “I’ll call them in a few minutes, after I pull myself together. I don’t know what they’re going to want to do.”
“What do you want to do, Lydia?”
She clasped her hands tightly and pumped her arms up and down like a little kid trying to ward off a tantrum.
“I just don’t know. I just…don’t…know.” She slammed the truck’s liftgate closed. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
Plunge from holding the world by the tail to not sure the sun was going to ever rise again, Estelle thought. She watched the dust trail of Lydia Thompson’s Explorer as the woman drove away, just a faint ghost in the night.
“We’re finished with the victim’s car, ma’am,” Deputy Luke Miller said.
Estelle turned away from her thoughts. “Good. We need to make arrangements to have it taken to the county yard. We may not be done with it just yet. Will you do that?”
“You bet.”
She watched him turn and walk away, his every step driven by confidence. “Ay.” She breathed out a sigh and turned toward her own car. If everything else were as simple as towing away a parked car.
Chapter Nineteen
Her greeting at the NightZone gate was not as effusively welcoming this time. Rafael Gonzales had gone off shift, but Estelle was pleased to recognize Rolando Ortega manning the gate. As she pulled to a stop, he appeared in the guard house doorway, managing to appear like a large shadow in the glow of the single solar-charged light.
He looked like a guard—certainly not fat, but burly and powerful, well over six feet tall, wearing the same style of natty quasi-uniform that Rafael Gonzales had been sporting earlier. The dim light enhanced his guard-like appearance, since it was impossible to tell exactly how old he was—maybe sixteen, maybe forty.
Well aware of how anathema unnecessary lights were, Estelle had switched off the county car’s lights as soon as she had swung into the park’s entrance.
“I need to go topside to meet with Mr. Waddell,” Estelle said. “Open the gate for me, and then if you want, call Mr. Waddell and let him know that I’m on my way up. I won’t use my headlights.” She smiled, all the time watching the young man’s range of expressions.
He started to turn toward the guard’s office—it was too elegant to be a shack—and on impulse, and in no mood to wait for permission, Estelle said, “Hey?” He turned around and at the same time, she flicked all the switches on the console. The Charger lit up like a frantic Christmas tree, headlights oscillating back and forth from low to high beams, the grill wiggle-waggles dancing wildly, the row of lights in the back window shelf producing their own kaleidoscope above the blinding taillights. She immediately doused them all. “Or I can go up quietly.” Estelle grinned at the flustered young man. “Quietly and dark.”
He tapped the remote for the gate. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks, Rolando. I’ll be quiet.” The Charger muttered up the hill, the star and moonlight offering just enough bounce on the black asphalt’s striping to make the drive pleasant. She brought the car to a full stop twice, once for two deer browsing half on the pavement and half off, and once for a skunk family, mother and five tiny stinkpups trailing behind.
By the time she stopped in front of the administration building, Miles Waddell was standing out front, hands thrust in his jeans’ pockets. He reached out and took the Charger’s driver’s side door handle, offering a gallant hint of a bow as he opened it.
“Rolando said you were on your way up. Welcome back. By the way, I saw Lydia a few moments ago,” he said.
“Miserable day for her. Thanks for offering them a room. She will be more comfortable here.” Then again, Estelle thought, how can she be comfortable anywhere?
“I don’t know. If they’d stayed at the motel in Posadas, this might never have happened.”
“We have no crystal ball, Miles.” It was hard to see his face in the dark. “Do you have a few minutes for me?”
“Of course I do. Glass of iced tea or something?” He started to turn toward the building.
“No, thanks. Actually, this is just fine out here.” The night air was deeply silent, with no breeze to awaken the prairie fragrance.
“Well, sure.”
“I have to admit that I played games with Rolando down at the gate.” She smiled at Waddell. “I didn’t want him to think that he had a choice about whether or not I was coming up.”
“Oh, he should know that. He’s just learning the ropes, though. He’s rotating through all the various jobs we do, including something as dull as manning the gate. A couple weeks there, and he’ll transfer somewhere else for a bit. And so it goes.”
“I missed Rafael—he’s a real jewel.”
“Isn’t he something? And right now, he’s riding the rails, turning his charm on all the passengers.” He grinned, clearly enjoying his role as mentor and director of personnel. “But don’t worry. Rolando has his skills, too. He’ll work out all right. Anyway, you’re here, and I’m delighted.”
“Where were the Thompsons staying? This place is so large, I’m lost.” She pivoted at the waist. With no exterior lights, it was easy to be lost, she thought. The tiny solar buds barely outlined the black walkways.
“Ah. They’re…I mean she, is in Sagittarius, one of our suites just beyond the dining room. Just go past the main dining room doorway, then in a little bit, bear right when the hallway forks. Sagittarius is the first room on the left.”
“When did they actually move in here?”
She saw Waddell’s shoulders shrug, and an expression that might have said, what does it matter, but instead he explained, “Well, let’s see. I left a note with Divon at reception—that’s just inside and to the left? I left a carte blanche note that said if the Thompsons arrived, just to go ahead and check them into Sagittarius.”
“When did you actually do that?”
“It was right after our abortive meeting that morning…what seems like a week ago, now. I wanted to make sure that the desk had it on file…I guess so that the Thompsons didn’t think that my invitation was just an empty promise.”
“Did you actually see them check in?”
His dark form shifted, and one hand reached out to make contact with Estelle’s right shoulder. In the darkness, she couldn’t see his face, but his tone was concerned. “Estelle, are you on the track of something here? What’s up? What does it matter whether or not I saw them?”
“I’m trying to put things in perspective, Miles. That’s all. We’ve had an unattended death, and that always prompts questions. So…”
“Call me a little bit stupid, then. Now, did I see them check in? No, I did not. But I did happen to walk by the desk shortly after noon or so, and Maddy said that they’d checked in, and were having lunch. I told her to be sure that the waitstaff knew they were my guests, and she said she’d double-check about that. You’ve met Maddy, right?”
“Indeed. A delightful young lady, and a real treasure to have on your staff, Miles.” If she’d be a little more careful about picking her boyfriends, that would help, she thought.
“Oh, she is. Anyway, then I ducked into the dining room for just a minute, saw the Thompsons at one of the two-tops over by the windows, and went over to chat with them for just a moment or two. They seemed content, happy with things, and so I left them to enjoy their lunch.” He shrugged. “Because they obviously were, and I didn’t want to intrude. I didn’t want to appear to hover, you know. And that was it.”
“You didn’t see t
hem after that?”
Waddell shook his head. “I had a long session over at SunDance…that’s the solar telescope? My plan was to invite the Thompsons to have dinner with me. That obviously wasn’t to be.”
She reached out and squeezed his arm in sympathy. “During your brief talk with them, did either of them mention plans for the afternoon?”
“Nothing that I took seriously, Estelle. Mr. Thompson said that he’d probably try to take a walk to work off some of the calories, and the missus said she was going to take a nap. You know, the sort of things we say whether or not they’re totally true.”
“And you didn’t see them after that.”
“No, I did not. I don’t know how far Mr. Thompson could have walked, with that bum ankle of his. He was wearing this gigunda boot thing.” He shrugged. “Later on, a little bit ago this evening, I heard what had happened, and just before you drove up, I’m told that Mrs. Thompson rode the tram up and went straight to her room. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb her.”
“So her vehicle is down in the parking lot?”
“I would assume so. You’re impounding Mr. Thompson’s vehicle? I was told it was towed away.”
“We have.”
“Oh, my.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a mess for them. And all this on top of that shooting in the village? My God, what’s next? I mean, are you making any progress on that at all?”
“Some long hours ahead, Miles.”
He reached out and offered a half hug. “When things calm down, grab your hubby and whatever boys are home, and Bill, too, and come on up for a good dinner. My treat. How about that? A great planetarium show on black holes coming up next Saturday night. Show starts at eight. How about then? Come for dinner at six thirty, show after. Get our minds off all of this.”
“I’d love that.”
“Then let’s plan on it.” He held up a hand. “And I promise—I will not pester Francisco about playing.”
“He’ll make that easy. He and Angie are flying to Hawaii for the weekend. She has a concert out there.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry to miss them. But the offer stands for you, Francis, and Bill.” He pushed a button on his watch, illuminating the dial. “And Estelle, I’m ready and willing to help you folks in any way that I can. You know that. If something comes up, any appointments I might have, I can break. All right?”
“I appreciate that, Miles.” He offered a warm, firm handshake that, busy or not, he seemed reluctant to break. She had time to reach her car and settle inside when her cell phone vibrated as if the great cell tower in the sky had been monitoring her activities and reported to the caller that she was now free. The phone identified the number as the sheriff’s.
“Guzman.”
“Hey. You inbound?”
“Yes. I just finished talking with Lydia and Miles.”
“Got somethin’ to show you. Stop at the office on your way.”
“ETA about thirty.”
“Yup. Then we’ll have time to head on over to the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Yup. See you in a bit,” and he disconnected.
Estelle couldn’t tell the sheriff’s mood from the cryptic conversation, but he hadn’t offered any options.
Chapter Twenty
Both the sheriff and Linda Pasquale met Estelle in the darkroom down in the basement, and Torrez couldn’t keep the trace of smile off his face. He pointed at the binocular microscope, one objective of which had been replaced with a camera, a jerry-rigged affair that had given new life and purpose to the aging microscope that still showed the PPS decal on the side, acknowledging its Posadas Public Schools origin. Torrez reached across and took an eight-by-ten enlargement off the pile of photos.
“Look at that,” he said. “You couldn’t get any clearer’n that.”
“I sense a well-deserved compliment,” Linda Pasquale stage-whispered. The image was clear, but almost abstract, with only one limited plane in focus. A glance at the microscope stage showed two twenty-two caliber shell casings standing side by side, headstamps oriented upward. Every rill, scratch, and dent in the brass of the cartridge casings’ base stood out clearly, as did the manufacturer’s cartouche, or headstamp—in this case the single word “Super” framed in a small rectangular shield, overlaid on a large X.
“The one on the left is from the ammo that was in the magazine of Quentin’s rifle,” Torrez explained. “The one on the right was found in Glenn Archer’s Navigator..”
“Winchester Super-X,” Estelle said. “Quentin told us that the last time he went shooting, he was using Remington bulk ammo, no?”
“Yep.”
“But that’s not what interests us, is it?”
“Nope.”
She reached out her hand, and Linda, always the mind-reader, handed her another photo, this one a comparison enlargement of the two casings, but only the area that had been struck by the rifle’s firing pin. “A is Quentin’s, the one on the left,” Linda said. “B is the one from the vehicle.”
The images had been enlarged as far as the margins of the paper allowed, and Estelle sat on one of the darkroom stools to study the photo.
“They ain’t nothin’ alike,” Torrez said, growing impatient with the silence. “Not a match.”
“You fired this one today?”
“Yep.” He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and used it as a pointer, touring around the firing pin strike area. “This little flat spot here, and that kinda like a little dig right there? You don’t have that on the others.”
“I’ve done five of the twenty-five found in the truck,” Linda offered. “Same results.” She tapped a short stack into order and handed them to Estelle. In each photo, the results were identical and obvious. The nose of the firing pin had left a clear, individual identifying mark in the soft brass of the shell casing.
“I’ll do ’em all,” Linda said, “but I don’t think the story’s going to change.”
“It don’t matter that we can’t match the slugs,” Torrez said. “That gun,” and he nodded at the rifle that stood in the floor rack, the partially customized gun that they’d picked up from Quentin earlier, “didn’t fire any of those slugs.”
“Unless he got busy with a little file and did a quick touch-up job on the face of the firing pin,” Estelle said.
“Yeah, well, he ain’t that smart.”
“But it’s possible.” Estelle knew that Quentin was smart, although whether or not he had the machinist’s skills to hide altering file marks was a fair question. When Torrez remained silent, Estelle added, “Possible, but not probable.”
“That’s right.”
“And just to cover our butts,” Linda said, “the sheriff fired five rounds from Quentin’s rifle.” She found the comparison photo and pulled it from the pile. Five twenty-two casings, headstamps oriented identically, posed side by side. The firing pin’s imprint was clear, the various scuff marks repeated from casing to casing…the differences between those and the casings recovered from Archer’s Navigator clearly visible.
“Well done, Linda,” Estelle said. She turned and regarded the sheriff. “You’re feeling a little better about this?”
“That gun didn’t shoot up the newspaper office,” Torrez said. “But that don’t mean he didn’t use some other rifle…just not this one. It’s a common make.”
“And what do we have that leads us to think that your nephew might have done all this? We’re back to square one, Bobby. Just that Quentin might have had a grudge against the newspaper for printing his DUI story?”
“That’s enough, ain’t it? I mean, that’s a start.”
“And we certainly need a place to start.” Estelle paused. “I think you need to cut your nephew some slack, Bobby. Let’s go with what’s simple, and likely.” She stood up and handed th
e stack of photos to Linda. “Excellent work. Just excellent.” The young woman waved an “aw, shucks” hand. Estelle turned back to Torrez. As a master of not showing emotional expression, the sheriff still managed to look relieved.
“The hairs they collected? Mears sent ’em off along with samples collected from Quentin’s truck seat. Long shot, and any lab work is gonna take forever. But we got a start.” Torrez said.
“That’s good. It seems likely to me that whoever did this assault was pretty serious. Thought it through. And that puzzles me, because taking a joyride in Glenn Archer’s SUV has kid written all over it. Unless that’s what they want us to think.” She glanced at the clock. Midnight was already twenty minutes old. “You mentioned the hospital, Bobby. Is Pam doing okay?”
“Ain’t that. Perrone’s here, and he’s workin’ with your husband. They want to talk with us.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Like this.” Dr. Alan Perrone made a diving motion with his hand. “Francis tells me that the victim’s feet ended up nearly ten feet from the rocks where he took his dive. That’s what got us both thinking. No way he’s going to do that without some help. And now I hear that you have reservations about how the fall happened as well.”
He drew the sheet back, exposing the corpse down to the waist. “Not a scratch, right?” The body lay facedown. “And I agree, the head injury was massive, probably instantly fatal. No scuffle marks on the ground around him, so his legs didn’t twitch. Exsanguination made a sizeable pool around his face but nowhere else. So I agree with Francis.” He smiled at Estelle. “Who, by the way, had the good sense to head for home when he had the chance. I told him I’d shoo you that way if I could after we’re done here, but I wanted to share this with you as soon as I could.”
“We appreciate that, Alan. So tell us what you think.”
“He took a hell of a header, and landed facedown on the rocks. That’s what I think.” Perrone turned and sorted through photos until he found the one he wanted, a portrait of the impact zone where Linda Pasquale had taken special pains to focus on the wedge of rock that had cleaved Kyle Thompson’s skull. “Looks like a dull axe, doesn’t it?”
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