A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  His eyes were closed, and he had stopped breathing.

  Behind her, she heard the chief order an ambulance. “Come on, hijo,” she whispered. She gently rested two fingers on the side of his neck as she holstered her automatic. His pulse was thready and weak, and then skipped several beats, to pick up again with a surge, miss again, and stop. A deep sigh bubbled up through his blood-choked windpipe.

  She heard Mitchell behind her, and off to the left, the back door of Portillo’s was yanked open. “He’s gone,” she said to the chief. She pulled Kenderman’s right shoulder away from the wall to make sure that his hands were empty. She could feel the grating of the shattered upper arm bone. The two rounds from the chief’s weapon had struck an inch apart, two inches below the juncture of sternum and clavicles.

  Mitchell knelt down and examined the revolver without touching it.

  “You guys all right?” Tom Pasquale was breathing hard, handgun held high.

  “It’s over,” Estelle said. She turned to glance up at the deputy. “Where’s the boy?”

  “He’s okay,” Pasquale said. His face was pale.

  “All right. Don’t leave him alone in your unit, Tomas. And while you’re at it, put the call in for Bobby and Dr. Perrone.”

  “And Schroeder,” Mitchell muttered. He stood up, the revolver still lying at his feet. “This kid wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. He had three rounds in the gun, none of ’em under the hammer.”

  “That’s not the first mistake Richard Kenderman ever made,” Estelle said. She stood up and reached out a hand to take Pasquale’s sleeve as he turned away. “And you might as well stay here, Tom. I’ll take the boy home.” Pasquale handed her the keys to his unit.

  “What was he up to inside?” Mitchell asked.

  “The clerk said Kenderman threatened him, took a swing at him, and then reached across the counter and riffled the cash register.”

  “Kenderman threatened the clerk with the gun?”

  “I don’t know,” Pasquale said. “I haven’t had time to ask.”

  Mitchell turned and gazed at Estelle for a moment, then turned and shook his head in disgust. “You didn’t see a weapon when you looked through the front window?” he asked the deputy.

  “No, sir.”

  “Where the hell did he think he was going to go?”

  “He wasn’t thinking at all,” Estelle said.

  “Three ten, Posadas. Ten four?”

  Estelle’s hand drifted down to the radio on her belt. The sheriff’s department was a handful of blocks east, and if Ernie Wheeler had a window cracked, he probably would have heard the gunshots.

  “Posadas, three ten is ten six. Ten sixty-three alley behind Portillo’s. One adult male. Contact Perrone and Sheriff Torrez.” She started to lower the small radio. “And cancel the BOLO.”

  The radio fell silent for the count of four, and then Wheeler’s subdued voice replied, “Ten four, three ten.”

  Estelle pulled the small cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed Barbara Parker’s number as she walked back toward the convenience-store parking lot. If he was very lucky, little Ryan Parker wouldn’t understand what the loud noises had meant as they echoed from the alley behind the convenience store.

  The phone rang nearly a dozen times before Barbara Parker answered it, her voice small and tremulous.

  “Mrs. Parker, this is Undersheriff Guzman. I have Ryan with me. I’ll be bringing him home in just a few minutes.”

  “Oh…” the woman sighed. “Thank you, Sheriff. Thank you so much.” She hesitated. “I hope that Richard understood.”

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t understand,” Estelle replied, and broke the connection. In the distance, she heard sirens, one of them from the direction of Sheriff Bobby Torrez’s home on McArthur, another from far to the west, where Sgt. Tom Mears had been working traffic on State Route 78. As she walked across the lot toward the Expedition, she saw that Ryan was standing on the back seat, peering through the side window. With the security screen between front and back seats, the child looked like a small, caged animal.

  As Estelle approached, he backed away from the window and sat down on the seat, both hands clasped tightly between his legs. She opened the door.

  She extended her hand toward the child. His eyes were wide and frightened. “Come on, Ryan. You don’t want to ride back there.”

  He didn’t move, but both hands came up and cupped under his chin, his tiny, thin arms tight against his chest as if warding off a ripping, cold wind. In that moment, Estelle knew that Ryan Parker realized exactly what had happened. She gathered him up off the seat and felt the shaking through his tiny frame.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Posadas, three ten.” Estelle made a notation in her log as she waited for dispatcher Ernie Wheeler to respond. Ryan Parker sat silently, a blanket wrapped around his tiny shoulders, shaking so hard that his teeth chattered.

  “Go ahead, three ten.”

  “Three ten will be ten six at seven oh nine Third Street. Ten five, one juvenile that location.”

  “Ten four, three ten,” Wheeler replied. “And three ten, ten twenty-one 4570 when you have the chance.” Estelle recognized Bill Gastner’s home phone number. She glanced at her passenger. The little boy had focused his attention first on the complexities of the child-restraint system that held him securely in the front passenger seat-the same device that drove five-year-old Francisco Guzman wild when he was forced to use it-and then had stared wide-eyed at the array of unimaginable things that filled the front-seat compartment of the patrol car.

  “You talk f-f-f-funny,” he stuttered soberly. Estelle could hear his teeth chattering.

  “Yes, we do,” she said, and tried to smile. The number jabber on a police radio had been the source of more than one stand-up comedian’s routine.

  “My daddy’s car is fast,” he said matter-of-factly, and squirmed against the straps of his seat. “Are we going back to grandma’s now?”

  “Yes, we are, Ryan.” She found the cell phone and selected the speed dial for former Sheriff Bill Gastner’s home. He answered on the second ring, and she could picture him standing in the kitchen while he watched a fresh pot of coffee brewing. “Gastner.”

  “Hey, there,” she said. “It’s me.”

  “Hey, you,” Gastner said. His gruff tone softened a little. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I’m taking a small passenger home right now. After that, it’s going to be a long night. Things didn’t go well.”

  “If you need me for anything, you holler, all right?”

  “Thanks, Padrino. ” She knew the former Posadas County sheriff hadn’t called to commiserate. “Is Francis still there?”

  “Oh, yes. He and I were up to no good, I’m happy to report. You got thirty seconds?”

  “Sir, I need to take Ryan home and then get back to the scene.” She lowered her voice. “I fired one of the shots, so there’s going to be a lot of questions.”

  “Shit,” Gastner said. “You shouldn’t be leaving there now, then. And this’ll give you something else to think about, sweetheart. This is what comes of leaving two delinquents to their own devices,” Gastner said. “Here’s Francis. Give him a couple of seconds to fill you in. You need to know about this.”

  Before she could protest, Dr. Francis Guzman came on the line. “Querida? Is the boy all right?”

  She glanced at Ryan again. “Yes. I’m taking him home.”

  “Thank God for that, at least. We heard all the sirens.”

  “It didn’t go well, Oso. I’m going to be a while.” Francis Guzman read the tone of her voice correctly.

  “You have Kenderman in custody, or…”

  “I’m afraid it was ‘or,’ Oso. ” She glanced at Ryan. He didn’t appear to be listening, but she lowered her voice a bit anyway and turned away. “He pointed a weapon at the chief.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Yes.” She slowed the large vehicle to a walk as
she turned left at the end of Pershing Park. “I’ll talk to you later about it. But it’s going to be late, Oso. The D.A. isn’t going to want to wait until morning.” After the boy was safely home, she would spend hours in the alley until every scrap of evidence involved in the shooting of Richard Kenderman was recorded, photographed, and collected. The rest of her night would be filled with the ceremonial paperwork that would make Richard Kenderman’s death an official statistic: reports, depositions, and not the least of all, answers to District Attorney Dan Schroeder’s questions. Francis Guzman knew the drill.

  She paused at the Stop sign at Third and Pershing. “What have you and Padrino been up to? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “And I almost wish I hadn’t looked,” Francis said.

  “Looked where?”

  “We were standing in Bill’s kitchen, and you can see the clinic parking lot from the window over the sink. That’s where I’m standing now. Anyway, about thirty minutes after you dropped me off here, I saw Louis’ Mustang pull in, along with another vehicle.”

  For a fraction of a second, Estelle almost asked, “Louis who,” before the mental gears meshed. Her taste testing on the flavor of counterfeit Daprodin seemed an episode during some other lifetime.

  “Start over,” she said.

  “Louis Herrera showed up at the pharmacy,” Francis repeated. “Not that that’s unusual. Then the other car arrived, and we got curious.”

  Estelle slowed the car in front of Barbara Parker’s home. “Oso, I’m just pulling into Parker’s now. I’m going to have to go.”

  “Sorry, querida. I’ll cut to the chase. It was Owen Frieberg. It was too far away for us to see who it was, but we got lucky with the license.”

  “Ay,” she sighed. “It’s not possible to see a license plate in the clinic parking lot from Bill’s house, either, Oso. ”

  “True. We kinda went on over there. Discreetly, so to speak.”

  “Uh huh. Los dos Osos. ” She could picture the two bears sneaking through the bushes.

  “And then after about fifteen minutes, Frieberg…I guess it was him, we couldn’t tell for sure…Frieberg came out carrying a bunch of stuff. Three guesses what it probably was.”

  She stopped the car. “Give me about ten minutes, Oso. Don’t go anywhere. And tell Padrino not to go anywhere, either.”

  “We’ll be here, querida.”

  “While you’re waiting, give Irma a call, okay? Make sure the kids haven’t…” She drifted off, realizing that Carlos and Francisco were no match for their nanny, Irma Sedillos, even on her worst day.

  “I did that,” Francis said. “Everything is fine.”

  “Ten minutes, then.” She saw Barbara Parker’s front door open. “Love you, Oso.” Ryan scrambled to climb out of the harness as his grandmother approached the car. “There you go, hijo,” Estelle said as she popped the last buckle restraining the youngster. She reached across and pulled the door handle to turn the small hurricane loose. His grandmother staggered backward at the rush of the little boy into her arms, and Estelle remained in the car to give Barbara Parker a few moments’ privacy with her grandson. She took the opportunity to finish her log notations and stowed the clipboard. Everything boiled down to numbers and notations, she thought wearily.

  Mrs. Parker untangled her hug with the boy and scooted him toward the house, and Estelle got out of the car. The woman turned toward her, and Estelle clearly read the anguish on her face.

  “What did Richard say?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, and she stepped close to the woman and lowered her voice, “Richard Kenderman was apprehended at Portillo’s, but we don’t have the full story about what happened there. He left Ryan in the car when he went inside. There is reason to believe we interrupted a robbery in progress. When we arrived, he fled out the back of the store.” She paused as she saw the tears welling up in Mrs. Parker’s eyes. “He didn’t want to talk with us, Mrs. Parker. When we attempted to take him into custody, he pulled a weapon and pointed it at Chief Mitchell.”

  “Those sirens I heard…”

  Estelle nodded. “Mrs. Parker, the district attorney will want to talk with you later tomorrow morning. Sergeant Tom Mears from our department will probably be over later tonight. He’ll need a deposition from you.”

  “And you’ll charge Richard?”

  Estelle frowned. She looked at Barbara Parker for a long moment, trying to imagine what the woman’s thought processes might be.

  “No ma’am. Richard Kenderman is dead.”

  Mrs. Parker’s hands drifted together palm to palm as if ready for prayer, and she pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. “Oh…”

  “I’m sorry,” Estelle said.

  Barbara Parker’s eyes remained tightly closed as she shook her head repeatedly. Finally the oscillation stopped, but her eyes remained closed. “And Perry?”

  “I don’t know yet how that will turn out. Perry is in custody. The district attorney is pressing charges against him. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “If I’d…” the woman started, and bit it off with another shake of her head.

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Estelle thought, but she remained silent. Mrs. Parker turned toward the house, hands still pressed to her lips. “I need to be with Ryan,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Estelle said. “You certainly do.” Mrs. Parker heard the clipped edge in the undersheriff’s tone and grimaced. “And Mrs. Parker, if establishing paternity for Ryan is important to you, then you need to contact Judge Hobart first thing in the morning for a court order. Once the body is buried or cremated, there isn’t much that can be done.”

  The woman looked as if she’d been stabbed with a fork. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Would it be possible for you…”

  Estelle shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t, ma’am. That’s something that you need to do, Mrs. Parker. Regardless of how we feel at the moment, someday it might be important to Ryan and Mindi to know. Right now, that’s your job.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Parker said. Her shoulders slumped.

  “We all are, ma’am,” Estelle said. She nodded toward the house. “Ryan’s going to need a lot of attention.”

  “Will you keep me posted about Perry?”

  Estelle took a deep breath, forcing herself to say exactly the right thing. “No, Mrs. Parker, I won’t. You know exactly where Perry Kenderman is. You’re free to visit him at the county lockup during regular visiting hours any time you wish. If you want a blood test to establish whether or not he’s Ryan’s father, feel free to ask him to comply. If he refuses, then your next avenue is Judge Hobart.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Barbara Parker hesitated as she glanced toward her house. “He could go to prison, couldn’t he.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He could.”

  Barbara Parker nodded and gazed off toward the house. “Okay,” she said, and turned to Estelle with a tight, painful smile. “Thank you.”

  “Expect either Sergeant Mears or one of the other officers later this evening,” Estelle said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  As soon as the car door slammed, she keyed the mike and cleared with Dispatch, her thoughts already back in the dark alley behind Portillo’s.

  “Three ten, ten twenty-one Sheriff Torrez,” Ernie Wheeler said.

  She acknowledged and switched from radio to telephone, pushing the car back into Park. The sheriff was difficult enough to hear under the best of circumstances, but this time his voice was soft and delivered one notch above a whisper.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Ryan’s home and safe. I just left there.”

  “Good enough. We’ve got a convention going on over here. Schroeder will be here in a few minutes,” the sheriff said. “You’re on your way back over?”

  “In a bit. Can you give me some time?”

  “Time for what? The place you need to be is right here.”

  “I know that, Bobby
, but I just talked to Francis,” she said. “I left him at Bill’s earlier when we went after Kenderman. He says that both Frieberg and Herrera are up to something at the pharmacy. We need to know what’s going on.”

  “Great timing.”

  “We need to move on that, Bobby. Tonight.”

  A long silence followed. “Look, Estelle…Schroeder’s going to have some questions. I got a few of my own. In the first place, any number of people could have taken the kid home. You shouldn’t have left here to do that. You’re one of the principals in this.”

  “I understand that, sir,” Estelle said, making an effort to keep her voice even. “But what’s going on at that pharmacy is somehow related to George Enriquez’s murder. There are a number of people who can give you an accurate version of what happened with Richard Kenderman. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get back to you. If there’s something urgent, you’ll be able to reach me.”

  “Just a second.” She heard the phone muffled and voices in the background. “You keep the phone handy,” Torrez said when he came back on the line. “Don’t be goin’ Lone Ranger on us. Taber’s comin’ in early to give us some coverage on the road, so you can use her. We’ll clean up the mess here. If Schroeder needs to talk with you right away, I’ll let you know. I don’t think there’s too much question about what happened. The store clerk looked out the back door just as the first of the shots was fired.” Torrez hesitated. “For once everyone agrees. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, sir.” All right was relative, of course, she thought.

  “Okay. Don’t be goin’ without the cavalry. And stay in touch.”

  The drive from Barbara Parker’s home on Third Street south to Bill Gastner’s rambling adobe on Escondido, where Francis Guzman waited, was no more than two miles. During those four minutes, Estelle tried to push the Parker family out of her mind. She knew that she could spend fruitless hours wondering and worrying about Ryan and Mindi’s care…about Barbara Parker’s various failings as a guardian, about what Perry Kenderman’s next move might be should he ever be able to post bond.