“George was good friends with half the town,” Mitchell said and smirked. “And that’s in addition to all the people he fleeced over the years, good friend that he was.”
“And speaking of small towns, Salazar and Sons is where the body is headed when the medical examiner releases it,” Torrez said. “Anyway, Frieberg heard the news, heard the rumor that George had shot himself with a large-caliber handgun, and put two and two together. He decided it might be wise to check with Chief Mitchell.”
Mitchell shrugged philosophically. “It would have been embarrassing if he decided to stay quiet and then had to explain himself when we knocked on the door. If a print showed up, we’d trace the thing.”
“Maybe that,” Torrez said. “Or someone might know about Frieberg borrowing the gun and mention it. All kinds of ways for the rumor mill to work. Frieberg just decided to get a jump on it all.”
She felt the sheriff’s unblinking gaze as if he were inventorying the movement of every fine muscle in her face, inventorying every expression. If she were a contender for Boone and Crockett points, he’d be waiting for her to step out from behind the tree.
“What did George tell the district attorney when he telephoned him on Sunday?” Torrez asked.
The question caught Estelle by surprise. She felt a quick swelling of anger at the district attorney and as quickly dismissed it. That was replaced with a twinge of irritation at the sheriff, but she knew it was only natural that he would compare the D.A.’s version of the story with her own.
“Schroeder says that George told him that he could, quote, Give you Guzman, unquote.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Mitchell asked, “What’s that mean?”
“George was trying to weasel his way out of facing a grand jury,” Estelle said. “The implication, at least in Schroeder’s mind, was that Enriquez knew something incriminating about ‘Guzman’ that he could somehow trade for immunity from the grand jury-partial or entire, who knows.”
“Huh,” Mitchell said. “That’s interesting. What else did he say?”
“Nothing, according to Schroeder. They were going to meet and talk about it sometime Monday.”
Mitchell’s round face broke into a grin that didn’t include his eyes. “So what did you do that’s so incriminating it would get Georgie off the hook if it went public?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Estelle said.
“Wrong Guzman, maybe,” Torrez said quietly, and the words wrenched Estelle’s stomach into the same knot she’d felt when she’d discussed that very possibility with Bill Gastner the previous evening. She would have thought less of Bob Torrez had he not voiced the realization, but that didn’t make it hurt any the less. A dawning of comprehension pulled Mitchell’s mouth open in a soundless “Oh.”
“Doctor Guzman,” he said.
Estelle took a moment and sat down, carefully moving the briefcase so it wouldn’t tip over. Her mind spun, refusing to focus on the obvious, the chaos in her mind fueled by the single, terrible possibility that George Enriquez somehow had been trying to save his own skin at the expense of her husband’s new clinic.
“Look,” Torrez said, leaning forward with his beefy forearms resting on the desk. “If George is willing to work his little insurance scam…”
“Not so little, either,” Mitchell observed.
“Right. But if he’s willing to work that, what’s to keep him from dabbling in something else? He’ll do one thing, he’ll do another.”
“A crook’s a crook,” Mitchell said. “What’s he got going then, some kind of health insurance deal?”
“I don’t know.” Torrez relaxed back as if the conversation was over, with the others left to make their own connections.
“You’re saying Enriquez was into something else,” Mitchell said when Estelle made no response. “Well, of course he was. Why else would somebody shoot him? For fake insurance? I don’t think so.” He grinned. “Of course, if old Denton Pope hadn’t blown himself up and managed to kill his mother in that fire the way he intended, he sure as hell would have been torqued to find out his home-owner’s insurance was fake. But it wouldn’t do much good to shoot Georgie.”
“Look at the timing,” Estelle said, feeling as if her words were spoken through wads of cotton. “The grand jury that would investigate George Enriquez convened on Tuesday morning. Who’s the leadoff witness?”
“Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” Mitchell said.
“Exactly. George’s object might have been to prevent me from testifying. It had nothing to do with my husband. So he tries to frame me for something, whether he had anything concrete or not.”
“A couple of minutes ago, I brought up the possibility that Enriquez meant your husband, not you,” the sheriff said. “We still don’t know about that.”
“And that doesn’t make any sense,” Estelle said. “I was the main grand jury witness. If Enriquez could throw a hammer into my testimony, he’d gain a little time.”
“So you think he was just talking.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s a simple fact remaining in all this,” Mitchell said. “Someone obviously wanted George Enriquez dead. Now, it may be coincidence that it happened the day before the grand jury convened. And maybe not. It may be coincidence that the revolver that killed him was in someone else’s possession for a few days prior to his death. And maybe not.”
“Somebody didn’t want George’s story to go public,” Torrez said.
“That’s right. Lots of dirty laundry comes out after a grand jury indictment. And maybe his wife just got sick and tired of the whole circus,” Mitchell said. “Maybe she waddled down there and popped him a good one.”
Torrez rapped the desk gently. “The other possibility is that George really did have something to tell the district attorney. Something to trade. Something big enough, valuable enough, that even Schroeder would sit up and take notice…that he’d be willing to deal.”
“I don’t like coincidences,” Estelle said, her voice almost a whisper. Both men looked at her, waiting. “I want to know more about the revolver. I told Frieberg that I’d stop by this afternoon. Now I’m thinking that it might be better if I left him hanging for a little bit. He already told you about the revolver, Bobby. I don’t understand why he feels the need to tell me, too.”
“Maybe he wants to talk about something else,” Torrez said.
She reached for the briefcase. “Maybe. In the meantime, let me tell you about George Enriquez and Mexico.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The receptionist looked up to see the sheriff and undersheriff of Posadas County step through the inner door. The central office of Posadas Municipal Schools was the hushed silence of carpet and paperwork. The woman turned her pencil just so and laid it down on the blotter as if afraid the thud of its landing would be offensively loud.
“Well, good afternoon,” she said, favoring them both with a broad smile.
“How you doin’, Minnie,” Torrez said.
“Just fine.” The smile faded a watt. “You two look awfully official today.”
“We need to talk to Glen,” Torrez said.
Minnie’s hand reached for the telephone. “Let me see if he’s in.” She pushed the appropriate button and waited, then actually smiled at the telephone as she said, “Nancy, Sheriff Torrez is here to see the superintendent. Has he come back yet from the middle school?” She nodded. “Uh huh. Sure.” The smile widened. “Sure. Okay. Thanks, Nancy.” She hung up the phone, and her face took on that professional I’m-so — sorry expression. “He’s still over at the middle school, Sheriff. Do you want me to tell him to give you a call? Is there something I can help you with?”
Torrez rapped the counter once with his knuckle. “No, that’s all right. We’ll go on over and find him.”
“Well, I think he’s speaking at an assembly,” she said, and the hint of worry in her tone amused Estelle. Perhaps the woman had visions of Sheriff Torrez striding into the assembly and ta
pping the superintendent on the shoulder just as Archer was about to introduce the Football Mom of the Year.
“That’ll be interesting to hear,” Torrez muttered. “Thanks, Minnie.” Outside in the sun, he stopped halfway up the sidewalk. It appeared that he was examining one of the lawn sprinkler heads as it jetted pulses out across the putting green approach to the school superintendent’s office. “Glen Archer and Owen Frieberg drove the buses to Mexico,” he said, still watching the water. “George Enriquez and Joe Tones went along. Somebody from the school as well.”
“Barry Vasquez, the student-council sponsor,” Estelle said.
“Vasquez,” Torrez repeated. “I know him. He’s one of the varsity’s offensive coordinators.”
“That could be.”
“Tones didn’t mention any other teachers?”
“No. The five adults and a couple dozen kids.”
Torrez nodded. “Okay.” He turned and Estelle watched the muscle twitch on his cheek as he squinted at the grill of the county’s Expedition.
“That’s what I mean about coincidence,” Estelle said. “As far as I can determine, the only three unusual things in George Enriquez’s life recently have been this school deal in Mexico, the hunting trip that he was planning, and the grand jury staring him in the face.”
“Un huh.”
“And two of the three have the same players.”
“Okay,” Torrez said. He turned abruptly and strode to the truck. They drove across the broad macadam parking lot the hundred yards to the front door of the middle school. The moment Estelle got out, she heard the volley of screams from the gymnasium, off behind the flat-roofed classroom wing.
“Mayhem,” she said. “Brings back memories.”
“All of them bad,” Torrez replied. “This place hasn’t changed much.” Estelle tried without success to imagine Robert Torrez as an eighth-grader in the middle of a public speaking unit. They entered through the door whose sign admonished all visitors to check in with the principal’s office-Glen Archer’s domain at one time before he’d taken on first the high school and then the superintendency.
A grandmotherly-looking woman with a telephone glued to her ear beckoned at the same time as she quickly concluded her conversation on the phone. She arose, frowning. “Is that Bobby Torrez?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff replied.
“I don’t think I’ve had a chance to talk to you since the wedding,” she said, referring to Torrez’s marriage to Gayle Sedillos. “How’s my favorite gal?”
“She’s doing fine.” Torrez glanced at a dour-faced youngster who walked by, bulging knapsack pulling one shoulder low, then turned back to the principal’s secretary. “This is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” he said. “Iona Urioste.”
“Hi,” Iona said, and offered Estelle her hand. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“Central Office tells us that Glen Archer is over here today,” Estelle said.
“They’re all down in the gym,” Iona replied. “Did you need to speak with the superintendent?”
“Yes.”
Iona turned and looked at the clock on the back wall of her office. “They should be out of there in another ten minutes or so.”
“We’ll just go on down,” Torrez said.
“You know the way,” she said with a smile. “Good to see you again.”
They walked down the empty polished hallway toward the intersection where the battered school seal adorned the wall, then turned toward the swelling cacophony of voices. Thirty yards ahead, a sea of students appeared through the double doors.
“It’s like swimmin’ upstream,” Torrez observed as they made their way along the right-hand wall while the flow of chattering middle-schoolers flowed past, for the most part oblivious to their presence. One gaggle of five girls, lost in conversation, cruised down the wrong side of the hall. Torrez stopped and waited, forcing the girls to change course or collide. The bottleneck of oncoming traffic reached critical proportions at the double doors, and Torrez slowed, letting the tide of youngsters figure out for themselves how to either maneuver around or bounce off him.
School Superintendent Glen Archer was standing near the gymnasium doorway, beaming at the flow of children and talking with a short, chubby woman with close-cropped hair and enormous dangling earrings. Archer was the first to see the officers. A quick frown touched his open, kindly face.
Archer reached out to touch the woman on the elbow, mouthed “Excuse me,” and walked across the foyer to meet the two officers.
“You missed all the excitement,” he said, stretching out his hand. “They sure get wound up, don’t they? Like to break my eardrums.”
“What’s the occasion?” Estelle asked.
“End of the first marking period,” Archer said. “We gave away four bikes for perfect attendance.” He nodded at a straggling gaggle of students as they filed out of the gym. “Good group of kids.” He turned back to the officers. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk with you for a few minutes.”
“Sure.” He turned and caught the eye of the pudgy woman with the earrings, raising his voice just high enough to carry across the foyer. “Use your office for a minute, Mrs. Dooley?” The woman nodded and made a you-go-right-ahead shooing motion with her hand at the same time that she reached out with the other hand and stopped a harried-looking student who was trying to stuff papers back into a rumpled manila folder and walk at the same time.
“Follow me,” Archer said. He grinned at the two officers. “Been a while since you guys wandered the halls, eh?”
“Not long enough,” Torrez said.
Archer laughed. “Robert, all we ever had to do to find you was figure out which hunting season it was.” He led them up the hall, through the crowd of kids, each of whom seemed to be slam-testing locker doors. In the front office, Iona Urioste was back on the phone, and Archer paused at the corner of her desk until she put a hand over the receiver. “We’ll be using Mrs. Dooley’s office for a few minutes,” he said, and Iona nodded. He pushed the inner door open, and Estelle glanced at the large spot marked on the wall, labeled STRESS RELIEF: BANG HEAD HERE.
The superintendent closed the door securely behind them, blocking out the hubbub. “Let’s use this,” he said, indicating the long conference table. “Now…which of our kids do you have in jail?” He managed to make it sound like a joke. “And by the way, when do your kiddos start school?” he asked Estelle.
“Francisco starts kindergarten next year.” she said.
“Wow.” He shook his head. “How the years go by.”
“Glen,” Bob Torrez said, eager to halt the reminiscing, “we need to know some details about the trips down to Acambaro.” His heavy-featured face was impassive, eyes heavy-lidded.
“You mean last year?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” and Archer drew a circle on the polished table. “We go twice a year, as I’m sure you’re aware. Once in early December, once on the Cinco de Mayo. And I gotta tell you, it’s a really big deal for the kids.”
“On both sides of the border, I would imagine,” Estelle said.
“Oh, sure. You wouldn’t believe…well, I guess maybe you would, eh? What exactly did you need to know?”
Estelle slipped the small recorder out of her pocket and slid it across the table so that it faced Archer. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” His forehead furrowed. “This is about George Enriquez, isn’t it.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wow.”
“Mr. Archer, what adults went on the trip in December?”
“Well, it was the same crew both times, actually.” He drew another circle that linked with the first. “I’ve been going now for eighteen years. I wouldn’t miss it. Usually, the middle-school principal goes. At least in the past. This is Mrs. Dooley’s first year. She didn’t feel that she could take an entire day, so she didn’t go along. I told her to plan for next year, thou
gh. It’d be good for her.”
“Who else?”
“Let’s see. Barry Vasquez went, of course. He’s the student-council sponsor, and the program is his baby, so to speak. Do you need to talk with him?”
“Not just now.”
“Okay. Let’s see. Me, Barry, George Enriquez from the chamber of commerce. You wouldn’t believe the load of stuff that group got together to take on down. George and our other buddy, there. Owen Frieberg. Both with the chamber. We couldn’t do it without them, let me tell you.” He grinned. “For one thing, we were really short of bus drivers last year. I ended up driving one, and Frieberg the other. He got his bus driver’s license a couple of years ago, when he was helping out with the track team.”
“That’s four,” Torrez observed dryly.
“Let me think. Am I missing someone?” He regarded the ceiling tiles for an instant. “Well, sure. Joe Tones. He’s with the chamber, too. In fact, I think he’s president this year. Can’t leave him out.” He nodded vigorously. “That was the crew. Me, Barry, Joe, Owen, and George.”
“Two buses?”
“That’s right. We took the two new activity buses. Two buses and the van.”
“Which van is that?”
“George Enriquez borrowed the van from the senior citizen’s center. That big twelve-passenger thing. We had a whole bunch of computers, and he suggested using the van. A whole lot easier to load and unload from that than trying to lug all those components up into a bus. Plus we had about a hundred sacks of food, clothes, and toys, so we needed the room.”
“You drove one bus, Owen Frieberg drove the other, and George Enriquez drove the van.”
“That’s correct.”
“Joe Tones rode with the van, or in one of the buses?”
“He rode down and back with me,” Archer said. “That way Barry covered the other bus with Frieberg. Not that there was going to be any kind of problem. Not with the twenty-two best kids in school.”
“They were all on one bus?”
“We had most of them with us. There were three, I think, on the other bus. It was kind of crowded, with all the groceries, gifts, stuff like that. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff went down there. We even had an older-model copier shoved in the back of my bus. I wasn’t sure we’d clear the border checkpoint there at Regal, but we had no trouble. If you looked in the van or the bus, either one, it looked like we had a used-electronics ring going. But we’ve been doing these trips long enough that we’ve got some friends on both sides of the border.”
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