A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  “In part. Daprodin is a quinolone, one of a fairly large family of drugs that’s derived from quinine.”

  “Ay. Four dollars a pill for powdered bark.”

  Francis laughed gently. “Almost. Rare powdered bark, though.” He frowned as Estelle took one of the pills from the first bottle and touched it to her tongue. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

  She made a face. “Oh, si.” She regarded the damp pill for a moment, then dropped it into a small plastic evidence bag. After jotting a note on the label, closing the top, and tucking the bag into her jacket pocket, she pushed one of the pills from the second bottle to the side of the tray and picked it up.

  “The scientific tasting test,” Francis said.

  “You bet. Sophisticated laboratory analysis, as Guy Trombley would say. Let’s hope it’s not rat poison.”

  “I don’t think so,” Francis said.

  She let the capsule rest on her tongue, eyes closed. After a moment, without moving the pill or closing her mouth, she opened her eyes and looked at her husband.

  “Well?”

  She dropped the capsule into her hand and nodded at the tray. “Try one.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Oh, si.”

  Francis Guzman picked up the remaining pill and popped it into his mouth. Almost instantly, his eyebrows crumpled together, meeting over the bridge of his nose. “Talc,” he said. “That’s what it tastes like. That kind of musty, sweetish…” he waved a hand and then spat out the pill. He turned it this way and that, inspecting it. “Ain’t Daprodin, querida.”

  “Most definitely not.” Estelle fell silent for a moment.

  “Now what?” he asked, sagging his weight against the edge of the counter. “Christ, Louis,” he whispered. He hefted the second jar and turned it slowly, reading the label. “I can’t believe he’d do this. I mean, this means we’ve got patients out there who might as well be taking sawdust, as much good as this crap will do them.”

  Estelle started to reach toward the second jar of capsules with the spatula when her cell phone rang, a shrill warbling. She looked heavenward. “Guzman.”

  The phone remained silent long enough that Estelle repeated herself. The voice was tentative. “Is this…Undersheriff Guzman?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She recognized Barbara Parker’s light alto, complete with the woman’s characteristic waver of indecision. “How can I help you?” She glanced at her watch.

  “Well, I…” the line fell silent, and Estelle waited, able to hear the woman’s breathing. “I probably shouldn’t have called,” Mrs. Parker said. “But I…well, I just don’t know.”

  “Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, “what is it?”

  “You said to call, and then I wasn’t going to, and now I think I should say something,” Barbara Parker said. “Rick was here not too long ago. He wanted to talk, and I didn’t see any harm in that.”

  Estelle felt her stomach tighten. The hand with the plastic spatula sank to the counter. The woman continued quickly now that she’d breached the dam. “We talked for nearly an hour, Undersheriff. Now it turns out that there’s a really good day-care center in Las Cruces that’s just a few blocks from Richard’s apartment, and he thought he’d be able to place Ryan there right away.”

  “Mrs. Parker…”

  “I knew that you wouldn’t approve, but…”

  Estelle tossed the plastic spatula on the counter in disgust. “Mrs. Parker, it’s not whether I approve or not. You’re the guardian of your daughter’s children at the moment. We placed them in your custody because we believed they’d be safe there. That would be the best place for them. Richard Kenderman has no legal claim until a paternity test establishes that he’s the father. For both children. He hasn’t been living in the household. He hasn’t been contributing in any way toward child support.”

  “I know,” the woman said, sounding as if she clearly didn’t know.

  “Do you believe that Richard Kenderman is Ryan’s father, Mrs. Parker?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “And I don’t think he does either, ma’am. Perry Kenderman is also claiming that honor.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes, he is. And I think we’ve had this conversation before.”

  “Well…”

  “And when Ryan isn’t in that wonderful day-care center down in Las Cruces, when he’s stuck in Richard Kenderman’s apartment the rest of the day, during the evening, at night, what then, Mrs. Parker? You trust Richard with Ryan?”

  “No,” Barbara Parker said, and for the first time she sounded positive of something.

  “That’s why it seemed reasonable to leave the children with you, Mrs. Parker. I’m as sorry as I can be about your daughter, but the fact remains that you’re Ryan and Mindi’s grandmother. They’ve been living in your home all along, and there’s no reason to change that now. Richard Kenderman might be the father of one or both of the children, and he might not be. If he wants custody, then he’s going to have to agree to a paternity test to establish his claim. Then, the courts will decide. Otherwise…”

  “That’s why I called. Rick can be so persuasive, you know. Everything he said made sense, and he sounded so earnest. And he loves Ryan so, I think that’s clear. But now I think I made a mistake. In fact, I had decided that before he left. I told Rick that I’d consider it…what he was talking about, I mean. And apparently he didn’t like that very much. You know that temper of his.”

  “Well, no I don’t, Mrs. Parker. I’ve met the young man once, and that wasn’t under the best circumstances. What happened?”

  “I told him that I didn’t want Ryan going to the city, especially at such a late hour, and that we should talk about it more later. That I wanted to talk with you.”

  “Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, and glanced at her husband. “What happened?”

  “Well, Rick took my grandson, Undersheriff. I told him that he shouldn’t, but he didn’t want to listen. He’s such a strong-headed young man. And I could smell alcohol on his breath, and I know what he can be like when he’s drinking.”

  “He took Ryan, Mrs. Parker? He took the boy from your home?”

  “Yes.” The woman choked on the single word.

  “How long ago did he leave, Mrs. Parker?”

  The woman hesitated. “I think no more than ten minutes. But it could have been longer.”

  “He was going to Las Cruces?”

  “I think so. I don’t know anywhere else that he’d go. I mean, that’s where he lives, after all.”

  “Mrs. Parker, if you voluntarily relinquished custody to Richard Kenderman, then that’s your business. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “But I haven’t done that. I mean…”

  Estelle leaned heavily against the counter and rested her head in her free hand. “Let me ask you a yes or no question, Mrs. Parker. Did Richard Kenderman take your grandson after you specifically told him not to?”

  “Well…it’s more complicated than that.”

  “I’m sure.” Estelle took a long, slow breath. “Mrs. Parker, let’s see if we can make it un complicated. Did Richard Kenderman take your grandson from your home against your will?”

  “Well…”

  “Mrs. Parker, please.” The phone fell silent. “Did you try and restrain him in any way?” The silence continued. “Mrs. Parker, if you allowed Richard Kenderman to take Ryan, that’s one thing. If Richard Kenderman kidnapped your grandson, that’s another story.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “That’s what it’s called, Mrs. Parker. If Kenderman came to your home and took your grandson against your will, then it’s kidnapping.”

  “If he contends that he’s the boy’s father…”

  “It doesn’t matter what he contends, Mrs. Parker.”

  After another long silence, Barbara Parker sounded both irked and resigned. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, it’s not kidnapping in this case.”

  “All right. I’
ll take your word for it.” Estelle turned and looked at her husband. He shrugged helplessly.

  “What do you think I should do?” Mrs. Parker asked.

  “What I think is not at issue,” Estelle said. “If you say that Richard was drinking, that’s enough probable cause for us to stop him.”

  “I want Ryan back, that’s all,” Barbara Parker said. “I made a mistake. All right, now I want to correct that.”

  “Mrs. Parker, if you swear out a criminal complaint that your grandson was kidnapped, we’ll go find him and bring him home. And we’ll put the person responsible in jail. And then the courts will sort out who’s who.”

  “A complaint?”

  “Mrs. Parker, much as there are a dozen things we’d like to be able to do, there’s nothing we can do if you willingly gave custody of Ryan to Mr. Kenderman. If we stop him on the highway, and then it ends up that he doesn’t blow at least impaired, then we have to let him go. It’s that simple. And then the whole mess starts over again. If Mr. Kenderman took Ryan from your home, against your will, then yes, there’s something we can do about that. If he threatened you in any way. Make up your mind, Mrs. Parker. And I wish you’d do it quickly.”

  “I want Ryan back,” Barbara Parker said.

  “I’ll ask you again.” Estelle pulled the microcassette recorder from her pocket and deftly punched the tiny controls. “And Mrs. Parker, my tape recorder is turned on now. Think before you answer.” She hesitated, letting the phone fall silent. “Did Richard Kenderman take Ryan Parker from your home against your will?”

  After the barest hesitation, Barbara Parker replied, “Yes, Undersheriff, he did.”

  “Did you try to restrain him in any way?”

  “I don’t see how I could. The more we talked, I could see that he was getting angrier.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Well, not in so many words, but his meaning was clear. He was determined to take Ryan.”

  “Was he driving the old red Mustang?”

  “Yes, I believe that he was.”

  “I’ll be back to you,” Estelle said, and flicked off the phone and then the tape recorder. She stood silently for a long time. “What a mess.”

  “What’s this character want with the boy?” Francis asked. “I gather that paternity is an issue?”

  Estelle nodded. “And I don’t know what Kenderman wants. I don’t know what’s wrong with Barbara Parker that she can’t seem to stand up to this kid. All I know is that the whole thing scares me to death. All I see is lose-lose.”

  “You can put Ryan with the state’s protective services division for forty-eight hours,” Francis said.

  “I know that. And that’s exactly what I would do if I was holding his hot little hand in mine right now. But that’s not the case.” She flipped the drug I.D. book closed. “Right now, we’ve got a four-year-old riding on the interstate in an old hot rod driven by a drunk. And it goes downhill from there.”

  “What do you want to do about all this?” He watched as she folded the small plastic evidence bags and slipped them into her pocket.

  With the heavy book under one arm, she turned toward the door. “They’re going to have to wait,” she said. “Can I drop you off at Padrino ’s?”

  “I’ll walk over,” Francis said. “Don’t worry about me. But you be careful with this guy.”

  “Right now, it’s Richard Kenderman who needs to hear that. And what I know about him scares me, Oso. Listening isn’t his strong suit.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The county car nosed down against the hard pull of its brakes, then swung right onto Grande, followed by an almost immediate sweeping turn onto the eastbound entrance ramp of the interstate. If Barbara Parker’s “ten minutes” was accurate, Kenderman would have a substantial lead, even if he wasn’t pressing the speed limit.

  “Posadas, three ten.” Estelle waited for dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s foot to find the transmit remote.

  “Three ten, Posadas.”

  “I need a BOLO on a 1968 Mustang, color red, license Ida Mary Boy Adam David. Operator is Richard Kenderman. One passenger, a four-year-old male. Ten eighty-five. Make sure the state police out of Deming understand the situation.”

  “Ten four.”

  A second voice broke in. “Three ten, three oh six.”

  “Go ahead, three oh six.”

  “Three ten, I’m parked on Alamo Drive, looking across Grande at the parking lot of Portillo’s. The vehicle in question is parked there. The driver is out of the car and inside the store.”

  Estelle glanced in the mirror, stabbed the brakes, and dove the car across the rough center median of the interstate. With a howl of tires, the Ford leaped back up onto the pavement and headed back toward Posadas. “Three oh six, can you tell if the little boy is still in the vehicle?”

  “Affirmative. I can see the kid. He’s standing on the front seat.”

  “Box the car in and take the child into custody. Keep the subject away from him and don’t leave him unattended. ETA one minute.”

  “Ten four.”

  The unmarked car swept down the exit ramp from the interstate, and Estelle looked far ahead down Grande Avenue. The wide, four-lane street that formed the north-south arterial through Posadas was deserted. A mile ahead, Alamo Street, a tiny alleyway behind the hardware store, provided a diagonal view of the Portillo’s convenience-store parking lot, a popular hangout that was one of Deputy Thomas Pasquale’s favorite hunting grounds.

  As she passed the intersection of Grande and McArthur, Estelle saw Pasquale’s unit far in the distance, the glint of streetlights off its broad, white roof as he eased across Grande and into Portillo’s parking lot.

  “Posadas, three oh six is ten six Portillo’s.”

  Estelle’s radio barked again, this time the voice of Chief Eddie Mitchell. “Three, ten, P.D. 1 copies. I’m north of the hospital. ETA about a minute.”

  “Posadas, three oh six, ten seventy, ten twenty-six.” Deputy Pasquale’s voice was calm despite the code for crime in progress and the request that responding officers not use lights and siren. Estelle’s pulse leaped. “He’s after more than Twinkies,” Pasquale added.

  Estelle leaned forward, trying to will the last half mile away. “Tom, I want the boy out of that car.”

  “Ten four. I’ve got him. Kenderman saw me. He’s going out the back of the store.”

  Estelle stood on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, lunging the county car into Rincon Avenue, the narrow lane south of Portillo’s. She had a brief glimpse of Deputy Pasquale bundling little Ryan Parker out of the Mustang. “Don’t leave the boy alone, Tom,” she snapped, and then tossed the mike on the seat.

  Traveling too fast when it hit the gravel of the lane between Portillo’s and the Posadas Register building, the unmarked car slid sideways and smacked into the concrete-block wall hard enough to thump Estelle’s head against the driver’s side window. She mashed the accelerator, and the car shot forward toward the intersection of Rincon and the alley behind the buildings.

  Richard Kenderman had dodged out of the store’s back door and turned right. He appeared at a full sprint just as Estelle’s car slid into the alley. Unable to stop, he crashed into the front fender of her car. He catapulted across the hood, arms flailing, white T-shirt bright in the glare of headlights.

  Estelle jammed the gearshift into Park and threw her weight against the crumpled door. It groaned open enough that she could slide out. With flashlight in one hand and Beretta in the other, she darted to the front fender.

  Richard Kenderman had managed to land face first on the broken asphalt of the alley, and he staggered to his feet. Blood ran into his right eye, and when he raised his right hand to wipe the blood away, Estelle saw the gouge in the muscle of his forearm. He backed up awkwardly until he could lean on the concrete-block wall. He turned at the sound of Chief Mitchell’s patrol car as it nosed into the other end of the alley, then looked up the alley in
the opposite direction, beyond Estelle.

  “Don’t make things worse for yourself, Richard,” Estelle said as she advanced around the mangled fender of her car. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”

  Kenderman slumped a little lower against the wall, arms against his sides. He blinked hard. “What?” he panted. “You’re going to shoot me, or what?” His eyes flicked to Eddie Mitchell. The chief was using his own squad car for cover, advancing along the wall. Mitchell’s left hand rested on his holstered service automatic.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” Estelle repeated, but even as she said it, she saw the motion of Kenderman’s right hand, a slight curling of the wrist toward the tail of his T-shirt. Kenderman’s body blocked the movement from Mitchell’s view.

  As soon as she saw the hand move, Estelle flicked off the Beretta’s safety, and her right index finger curled into the trigger guard. Her wrist locked.

  “Don’t,” she barked, but somewhere deep in his mind, Richard Kenderman had made all of his decisions. Drunk as he was and shaken from his fall, he still managed to slide the heavy revolver out of the waistband at the small of his back, out from under his T-shirt. The weapon swept up and out, the threat directed toward Mitchell. As Estelle’s index finger began the long zip of the Beretta’s heavy double-action trigger stroke, the chief’s figure to her right moved in a blur. The Beretta bucked back and Kenderman twisted right as the 9-mm slug smacked into his upper arm three inches below the shoulder, yanking the gun to the side. An instant later, two shatteringly loud explosions came as one, and Kenderman spun back against the wall. The handgun skittered away. Estelle froze, the Beretta’s trigger a twitch from release.

  The young man’s hands flexed against the cold blocks as he settled down on his knees, face against the wall. One of the two.45 rounds from Mitchell’s automatic had exited high on his back to the left of his spine. In seconds, bright arterial blood soaked his T-shirt to the waist. One hand drew back as if the wall were hot to the touch at the same time as a long, rattling gurgle escaped his throat. He coughed hard, and as she moved cautiously toward him, Estelle saw bright blood splatter the wall. His body sagged even as Estelle kicked the revolver further out of his reach, and knelt beside him.