She fell silent for a moment, then added, “Now tell me how that happens over the years. A family drifts apart so much that when the father dies, children don’t care enough to take time off from work to come to a funeral. That tells you something, doesn’t it.”
“I’m sorry, Connie.”
“You’re sorry.” She shook with one jolt that could have been a laugh or a sob. “Anyway, you didn’t want to hear me blather on about all that.” Her wide face softened. “You’re easy to talk to, my dear. I’m not just sure why that is. I suppose that’s what makes you good at what you do.” She heaved a huge sigh. “Now, what did you need?”
Estelle hesitated. “I’d like to take a couple of items with me, Mrs. Enriquez. I’ll write a receipt for them, and you’ll have them back fairly promptly.”
“Take anything you like.”
“I’d like to take this book,” she said, placing her hand on the prescription drug guide. “Do you happen to know why your husband had it?”
“I have no idea. But nothing would surprise me at this point.”
“Was he taking medication for anything?”
“I know that he had a prescription for Somdex. I saw the bottle in the bathroom. He had a bad back for a while. I don’t know if that’s what it was for or not.”
“That’s all?”
“He could have been taking the entire drugstore, for all I know.”
“Had you noticed any changes in his behavior recently?”
“No.” Connie managed a tight smile, a thinning of the lips. “Undersheriff-that really does sound silly, doesn’t it? Estelle,” and she paused, looking down at the floor’s polished parquet. “Let me put it this way. George and I shared this house. We slept in separate bedrooms. We went our own way. On rare occasions, we managed to eat a meal at the same time, at the same table. Our relationship was like two strangers who give each other a pleasant nod when they pass on the street.” She cocked her head expectantly. When Estelle didn’t respond, she added, “Make of that what you will.” She pushed herself out of the chair.
“The obvious question that you’re too polite to ask,” she said, “is why in holy hell we didn’t just go our separate ways. Get a separation, a divorce…something.” She smiled, showing her fine teeth once more. “And if you asked, I wouldn’t know how to answer. Hell, even murdering each other would have taken more initiative than both of us had put together. That’s an awful thing to say, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Enriquez…”
The woman interrupted her. “You obviously think that someone killed George, am I right? I mean, otherwise you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.”
“Whenever there are unanswered questions, Mrs. Enriquez.”
“I’m not sure I’m even curious enough anymore to hear the answers, my dear.”
Estelle reached across the desk and picked up the walnut box. “This was in your husband’s desk.” She turned the box toward Connie and opened the lid. She saw the woman’s head jerk back a fraction.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she said with disgust, as if the empty case still carried the effluvium of the weapon that normally lay on the velvet.
“That and a single cartridge,” Estelle said, holding up the plastic evidence bag containing the shell.
“You’re kidding.” Connie leaned forward a bit, like someone fascinated by a snake. “Do you suppose someone gave this to him?”
“There’s a receipt inside indicating that George purchased the revolver four years ago from a dealer here in town. Maybe it just struck his fancy at the time.”
Connie’s eyes shifted to the bagged cartridge. “Is this the old ‘save the last bullet for yourself’ story?” she said, and Estelle was surprised at the venom in her voice. She didn’t give the undersheriff time to answer. “And it was in his desk?”
“In the center drawer, rolled to the back.”
“And the gun that was in the case? That’s down at his office?”
“I think so.”
“Secrets, secrets,” Connie said. She waved a hand in regal dismissal. “Take the damn thing, please. And don’t return it. Add it to the sheriff department’s museum. Or, hell, bury it with George.” She rose and straightened the enormous salmon-colored muumuu that tented over her vast body. For just a moment, her shoulders slumped, and she reached out for the comer of the desk.
“I sound terrible, I know, Estelle.” She turned and looked at the undersheriff, and Estelle could see the misery in the woman’s eyes. “I would like to know what happened to George. Will you keep me posted?”
“Yes, I will.” Estelle extended the receipt toward her, with her business card on top.
“Maybe when all the circus is over, you’d like to come over and we could have a chat. You’re from Mexico?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How old were you when you came to this country?”
“Sixteen.”
“For heaven’s sakes. Is Dr. Guzman an import, too?”
Estelle smiled. “Actually, he was born in Flagstaff. But he has family in Mexico.”
“Well, then, maybe you can give me the inside scoop on where to go and who to see.”
“I’ll mention it to Francis,” Estelle said.
“Be kind,” Connie Enriquez said, and when she saw the puzzled look cross Estelle’s face, she added hastily, “I didn’t need to say that. I’m sorry.” She extended her hand for the receipt and the card, then took Estelle’s hand in hers. “Thanks.” She smiled, and this time Estelle saw tears well up. “I’m glad it was you that came over to talk to me.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Estelle said.
“And you will be, too, won’t you. You’re not the kind who makes promises that she doesn’t keep,” Connie said. She held the office door for Estelle and then waved a hand at one of the faces in the kitchen. “Get the front door for the undersheriff, please,” she called.
With briefcase in one hand and the tome and revolver case tucked under the other arm, Estelle nodded her thanks as Father Bertrand Anselmo scuttled to open the front door for her.
“Why don’t you let me take some of that,” he said.
“Thanks, Father. I’ve got it all.”
“Don’t be such a stranger,” he said, and she knew exactly what he meant.
Chapter Sixteen
“The paperwork is the easy part,” Estelle said. She looked again at the arrest warrant for Perry Lawrence Kenderman before tucking it into her briefcase.
Sheriff Robert Torrez shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said. As she expected, he didn’t ask her to elaborate. That was fine with Estelle, since her own mind was a mish-mash of mixed emotions.
Two minutes took them from the county building to Perry Kenderman’s apartment on Sylvester Street, behind the high school’s football field and track complex. Posadas HomeStyle Apartments included eight units, nothing more than rooms in what had once been a ’50s-era cinder-block motel before the interstate had eclipsed the business and the rooms were lumped together with minimal remodeling.
“Nice place,” Torrez said.
“Oh, yes,” Estelle said. No response followed their knock on the door to unit three, and when Estelle glanced through the window of the first apartment, the one with MANAGER written in black marker on the turquoise door, she saw that the room was vacant. “Absentee landlord, I guess,” she said. “And I don’t see Perry’s truck.”
“At the Parker’s, maybe?” Torrez asked, already heading back toward the county car.
Estelle nodded.
“He might be halfway to Wichita Falls by now,” Torrez said and slammed the door of the Expedition so hard the vehicle rocked.
“Or Mexico City,” Estelle said.
“His relatives are in Wichita Falls,” the sheriff said. “Mother, an aunt and uncle, one sister.”
“And brother Richard in Las Cruces,” Estelle said. Torrez turned the vehicle onto
Bustos and then headed one block west to loop around Pershing Park. A quarter block later, they turned onto Third Street. Parked directly in front of 709 was an older-model Ford Mustang, jacked up on enormous back tires so wide that part of the fender wells had been hacked away for clearance. As they coasted up behind it, they both saw the Dona Ana County sticker on the license plate.
“Except Brother Richard is now in Posadas,” Estelle said. “This could be really interesting.” She picked up the cell phone, pressed two buttons, and waited. “Gayle,” she said when the sheriff’s wife answered the phone in Dispatch, “have Collins swing around to seven oh nine Third Street.”
“He’s serving a set of papers in Regal at the moment,” Gayle said. “He just left about ten minutes ago, so he’s a fair ways out. Jackie’s sitting here doing some paperwork. Can I ask her to go?”
“Even better,” Estelle said. “Bobby and I will be at that address. And run a plate for me, please. Ida Mike Baker Alpha Delta.”
“That’s cute.”
“Uh huh. I can’t wait.”
“Just a sec.”
Estelle let the phone drop against her shoulder and looked across at Torrez. “What do you think?”
“No bets.” He unlatched the door and stepped down.
She nodded at the two vehicles parked in the driveway. “The little truck is Richard’s. The car belongs to Barbara Parker. That means the kids are home. I don’t want them caught in the middle of something.” Despite a deep respect for Robert Torrez, she was also keenly aware of his preference for direct frontal assaults.
“Huh,” Torrez said. He closed the door, turned, and leaned both forearms on the Expedition’s roof, regarded the house. The front door stirred, opened partially, and then closed again. In another moment, a young man stepped outside, frowning at them.
Although Estelle had never met Richard Kenderman, she saw the family resemblance with all the bumps and blemishes smoothed out. Rick Kenderman was a couple of inches under six feet, buff where his older brother was gangly, sure-footed and catlike where Perry tended to shuffle. The young man wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt. He was barefoot.
Gayle Torrez came back on the line. “Estelle, I’M BAD is registered to Richard Kenderman, Las Cruces. It should appear on a ’68 Mustang, no outstanding.”
“Thanks, Gayle.” She switched off the phone and slid it back on her belt. Kenderman walked down the sidewalk and stopped when he reached the back bumper of his car. He looked Torrez up and down with casual bravado as if to dismiss someone of the sheriff’s size. He glanced in Estelle’s direction as she slipped out of the county vehicle.
“Where’s Perry?” he said to Torrez without preamble.
“We don’t know,” Estelle replied quickly. “I thought maybe you could tell us.”
Rick Kenderman sat down on the back fender of his car and ran a hand through his carefully mussed hair-the style favored by a generation of movie stars for the “slept in” look. He then folded his arms across his chest and regarded Estelle with amusement, eyes lingering here and there.
“I don’t know where he is, lady. If I knew, I’d serve him up to the sheriff here in a fucking garbage bag.” He picked something off his lower lip and then wiped his hands on his jeans. “Maybe he’s still driving around in his squad car, chasing people.”
“I can guarantee he’s not doing that.”
“I can guarantee,” the young man mimicked and then shook his head in disgust. He pushed himself away from the Mustang and turned toward the house.
He glanced up the street and saw Jackie Taber’s Bronco just as she turned onto Third. “What do you guys want, anyway?” he snapped.
“We’re looking for your brother,” Estelle said.
“Well, good luck. I got things to do.” He walked quickly back toward the front door. Estelle caught sight of Barbara Parker inside, and she followed Kenderman up the walk. He stopped half in the doorway and held out a hand. “I didn’t invite you in here, lady.”
“No, but this isn’t your house, either, Mr. Kenderman.” As Estelle moved forward, the young man had the choice of retreating inside or hugging her. He quickly stepped away.
“Don’t be such an idiot, Rick,” Barbara Parker said. “These people are here to help.”
“Oh, absolutely that,” he said. Little Ryan appeared in the hallway, and Rick Kenderman scooted him back with a gentle push on the back of the head. “Come on, guys. We got packin’ to do.”
“What’s going on?” Torrez asked, turning to the children’s grandmother.
“Rick was going to take the kids down to Las Cruces until things settled down,” Mrs. Parker said, and Estelle’s stomach clenched at the hopeless tone in the woman’s voice.
“You were just going to let him do that?” Torrez said in wonder.
Estelle stepped close to Barbara Parker and lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “I told you to call me.”
“Well,” the woman said, and her explanation drifted off into nothing.
“Mrs. Parker,” Estelle snapped, and lowered her voice another notch, “we had two choices after Colette’s death. We could have placed both children with protective services for forty-eight hours without a court order. But at the time, it made more sense to leave them with their grandmother. In your care. You led me to believe that’s what you wanted.”
“I do, but…”
“There are no buts here, Mrs. Parker.” She glared at the woman. “Richard Kenderman is not taking those children to Las Cruces. It’s that simple.”
Something that might have been hope sprang into Barbara Parker’s eyes. “Well, you better tell him that, then,” she said.
“With pleasure,” Estelle muttered. Rick Kenderman had disappeared down the narrow hall, and Estelle followed, aware of the heavy footsteps of Robert Torrez behind her. The young man con fronted her at the door of Ryan’s room, a tiny bedroom with toys covering every flat surface. Franklin the cat lay on the pillow, undisturbed.
“Mr. Kenderman, we have placed the children in their grandmother’s custody until a determination for permanent custody has been made.”
Rick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure.”
“That’s the way it’s going to be.”
The young man grinned and shook his head. “You guys are something else. Who appointed you God? They’re my kids, and they’re going with me. End of story.”
“I don’t think so,” Torrez said, and Estelle saw his weight shift. She stepped forward quickly to buy some time.
“The last thing these two children need is to be yanked up by the roots, Richard. They just lost their mother. They belong here until all this can be sorted out.”
“There’s nothing to sort out,” he said.
“Paternity, for one thing,” Estelle said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. There’s a question of paternity. Right now, it’s your word that one or both of these children might be yours. Maybe, maybe not.”
“Who’s been feeding you this horseshit?”
Estelle smiled. Richard Kenderman’s eyes were a shade darker than Perry’s, without the amber flecks. He held her gaze, waiting.
“It’s this simple, Richard. The law says that the children will stay here. Not that they might stay here if it’s okay with you. They will stay here. And if you can’t cooperate with that, then that’s something we’ll have to deal with.”
“Oh, yeah?” He regarded Estelle calmly, assessing.
“You’re a bright young man, Richard. You think on it.” She looked across the room at Ryan, who’d taken up a position near the head of the bed, one hand clawed into the soft fur of Franklin’s hip. A flicker of something crossed his face, whether relief or hope, Estelle wasn’t sure. “You’re going to stay with Grandma for a while, Ryan. Okay?”
He nodded. Heavy footfalls thumped in the hallway, and Jackie Taber’s stout figure appeared behind the sheriff. Rick Kenderman saw the deputy, and Estelle watched the c
alculation registering in his eyes. After a couple of heartbeats spent weighing the odds, he muttered an obscenity and pushed past Estelle. Robert Torrez was standing squarely in the doorway, and Kenderman came to an abrupt halt. “What the hell do you want, Igor?” he snapped.
Estelle turned to see the explosion. But a slow grin broke the sheriff’s face. “What I want is for you to slow down, buddy.”
“I’m not…” Kenderman started to say, then bit it off.
“You take some time to think, and odds are we’ll all get through this in one piece,” Torrez added.
Kenderman turned toward Estelle. “You want to tell your retard deputy to move?”
“I don’t tell the sheriff what to do,” Estelle said. “And by the way, Kenderman,” she added, and her voice took on an edge. “We’ll be processing that little truck that’s sitting out in the yard. There’s enough odor of marijuana in that cab to justify a strip search. And since you’re the owner, maybe that search should move on to that nifty bad Mustang parked out there.”
He started to snap back but settled for a disgusted shake of the head. “Can I go now, missy?”
“You bet.”
Sheriff Torrez stepped to one side and allowed Kenderman to pass.
“I’ll be talkin’ to you later,” the young man said to Barbara Parker as he passed.
“Actually, you won’t,” Estelle said as she followed Kenderman outside. “If Mrs. Parker needs to talk to you, she’ll call you. Otherwise, relax and have a good time in Las Cruces. When it’s time for the court-ordered paternity tests, you’ll hear from the Las Cruces P.D. And then on the basis of that, the courts will decide who pays child support and how much.”
Kenderman’s eyes narrowed. “This is a bunch of bullshit, and you know it. You think you can just…” he finished the thought with a disgusted shrug.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking, Mr. Kenderman,” Estelle said. “And there’s a good possibility you don’t want to know. I’m telling you the way things are going to be. So there’s no misunderstanding.”
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