A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  “Where’s the source?”

  “It’s a small lab. Maybe an hour south of Acambaro. I don’t know how well you know the area…San Luca? I think it’s north of Chihuahua a little bit. And George said that the lab is connected somehow with a parent company in the United States.”

  “All right,” Estelle said. “And tonight? What was the purpose of the visit to the clinic?”

  “I thought it best to remove the pharmaceuticals from Herrera’s.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well,” and Frieberg hesitated. “We knew that you were investigating that avenue…that you’d discovered some connection between the drugs and George Enriquez.”

  “And the we is?”

  Frieberg bit his lip. “I meant…Listen, I did go see George on Monday morning. He called me the night before and said that he had talked to the district attorney and was going to cut some kind of deal to save his skin. He was almost incoherent. Maybe he’d been drinking, I don’t know. But the gist of it was that he thought he could manipulate things so that Herrera would be left holding the bag about the whole drug thing. George seemed to think that he could manipulate things so that it looked that way. He was willing to trade that information in exchange for lifting some of the pressure from him…all that grand jury mess. He figured he could make you think that he was just the poor, duped bag boy. They’d find some of the drugs at Herrera’s, and that’s where the blame would focus. Especially with your husband’s connections.”

  The torrent subsided, and Frieberg looked expectant, even hopeful. “If that’s the case,” Estelle said, “why would Enriquez bother to call you?”

  Frieberg shook his head. His eyes drifted closed. “I suppose so that I’d have a chance to take whatever precautions I could. To warn me about what was coming. I couldn’t talk him out of it, so that’s when I decided to take the drugs. If they…if you…searched and didn’t find anything, you’d just think George was conjuring up tall tales to save himself.”

  “And what precautions did you take, Mr. Frieberg?”

  “I didn’t do anything that night…what, was it Sunday, I think? When George first called me. I went to his office the next morning to try and talk some sense into him. He told me that he was meeting the D.A. sometime that Monday afternoon, so I felt I had time. What he wanted to do was so absurd. I mean, his insurance dealings were petty. He didn’t defraud anyone. He paid any claims he had out of his own pocket. At the most, it was a case of misrepresentation. There was no loss that anyone suffered. That’s what I tried to tell him.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He said that if his whole life was dragged through the grand jury, that it was over for him…that they’d make him out to be some kind of monster. He said that he couldn’t take the chance. He was ready to cut a deal. The grand jury business had spooked him. He just sat there the whole time, as dejected as I’ve ever seen him.”

  “So he wanted to buy his way out of it.”

  “That’s the gist of it. He’d look like a hero, blowing the whistle on the clinic. I told him it wouldn’t work, but he wouldn’t listen. In the course of our argument, he wrote me the check, reimbursing my premiums that I’d paid on the boat…just like I’ve already said.”

  “What was the point of his doing that?”

  Frieberg shook his head. “George wasn’t one for confrontations, Mrs. Guzman. I suppose maybe he thought that I’d go to the police, too. Just another count in the indictment, so to speak. But I really don’t know why he did it. I didn’t demand the refund.”

  “What time was it when you left his office on Monday morning?”

  Frieberg closed his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. “I would say that it was shortly before nine o’clock. In the morning.”

  “During the time you were in his office, did anyone else arrive?”

  “No.” His gaze shifted back to the handcuffs in Estelle’s hand, trying to judge if they’d made progress toward his wrists.

  “And so, when you knew what George was planning to do, you tried to cover yourself by removing the drugs from Herrera’s pharmacy.”

  “Well, no…I mean…I had…” He stopped and Estelle saw the muscles of his jaw set.

  “You had what?”

  Frieberg spoke slowly, as if choosing his words both carefully and with considerable discomfort, as if he were talking around the swelling of a recent root canal. “I had reason to believe that George wouldn’t talk to the district attorney.” He almost smiled. “And I know what that sounds like. But I had no idea…” The mortician abruptly turned away, walked three steps toward the hallway, stopped, and turned back. Estelle saw Deputy Abeyta tense and shift his weight, and she held up her hand.

  “I can’t do this,” he said, and looked at the floor. “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can, sir. Give me a name, Mr. Frieberg.”

  “I’ve lived here almost all my life,” he said, as if that somehow explained everything. “How can I just…”

  “Who killed George Enriquez, Mr. Frieberg?”

  “I…I can’t.”

  “That’s an interesting brand of loyalty,” Bill Gastner said casually. “You’re going to take the fall for the whole thing?” The former sheriff had been such a silent presence that his voice sounded unexpectedly loud in the foyer.

  “I don’t care what you think. But I just can’t…” Frieberg’s voice trailed off. “We’ve known each other too long.”

  “If you’re afraid for your safety, Mr. Frieberg, we’ll help you all we can,” Estelle said. He shook his head, lips pressed tight. Estelle nodded at Tony Abeyta, and an instant later Owen Frieberg found himself face first against the wall, hands cuffed behind his back. The deputy frisked him quickly and then turned him around, a hand on his right elbow. The mortician faced Estelle again, and the impersonal, cold steel of the handcuffs had worked their magic. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Mr. Frieberg,” Estelle said, “we are placing you under arrest. At this time, the charges include illegal possession of prescription drugs, illegal transportation of prescription drugs across international borders, conspiracy to commit prescription fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to an attorney.”

  She watched his face settle as she recited the litany of Miranda. When she was finished, he nodded, the picture of dejection. “The pharmaceuticals that I removed from Herrera’s are downstairs in one of the freezers,” he said. “There’s nothing else that would interest you or your investigation. I would appreciate it if you’d extend Mr. Salazar the courtesy of not turning his establishment inside out.”

  “Mr. Salazar will just have to deal with the inconvenience,” Estelle said.

  “May I have my jacket, please?” Frieberg nodded toward the small coatrack by the door. Abeyta reached for the windbreaker, checked the pockets, and then draped it over the undertaker’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said.

  “There’s no reason for you to take the blame for everything,” Estelle said.

  Frieberg grimaced and shifted against the vise of the handcuffs. “We should never have sold the drugs to Herrera in the first place,” he said. “I told Guy that at the time.”

  “You told Guy Trombley that?” And now that the name was out, spoken by a voice other than the echoes of her own nagging suspicions, Estelle felt her pulse slow as the finished puzzle fell into place.

  “Yes. He just laughed and called it insurance.” He managed a weak smile. “About as effective as some of the insurance George Enriquez sold. But Guy didn’t like Herrera much. Professional grudge, I suppose.”

  “Did Trombley kill George Enriquez, Mr. Frieberg?”

  For a long time, Owen Frieberg studied the floor. “You just ask yourself who had the most to gain from all this,” he said softly. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “I’ve already asked that question,” Estelle said.

  “Then you know what I’m talking about,” the mortician said. Estelle nodded at De
puty Abeyta and watched as he escorted Owen Frieberg outside.

  Estelle puffed out her cheeks in a long, slow exhalation of relief as the door closed.

  Gastner tipped his head back a bit so that he could focus on her face through the lower part of his glasses. “And now the fun really begins. Where do you go from here?”

  “Trombley’s pretty smooth,” she said.

  “Appears so.”

  “All the time he was talking to me the other day, he knew exactly what I was putting together. And he made sure I knew…” Estelle paused and looked at Gastner. “He made sure I knew that he didn’t think much of Louis Herrera. And he made sure I knew that Enriquez had been despondent. That’s when I got to thinking.”

  Gastner grinned. “Thinking is a good habit, sweetheart.”

  “With Enriquez out of the picture and no drugs in the store when we come snooping, they’re home clean,” Estelle said. “Or so they imagine.” She reached out and squeezed Gastner’s arm. “Just what old friends are for. It’s not rocket science to figure out who gains from all this.”

  “Sure. If George was supplying Trombley as well as Herrera, why not? Maybe the whole gig was Trombley’s idea in the first place.” Gastner frowned. “Trombley goes to Mexico all the time. I think he’s got relatives down there, somehow. He’s no stranger to south of the border.”

  “He told me that,” Estelle nodded.

  “Enriquez was smart enough to figure out what he thought was a sure thing: promise the district attorney that he could deliver Guzman, meaning Herrera’s pharmacy and the hanky-panky therein, and say nothing about Trombley. Old Guy’s a big name in town. Been in business since God invented rocks, damn near.”

  “I don’t think that Louis Herrera knew that Trombley was involved, sir. If Enriquez had handed over Herrera to the D.A., there’s a likelihood that that’s where it would have ended. Louis is a newcomer, working at the new clinic owned and built by the rich kids.” She sighed. “Just like you said. I can see Enriquez thinking that way. I can see the gossip mongers jumping on that bandwagon in a heartbeat. ‘Well, no wonder their prices are so low at that new place.’ ”

  “So why kill Enriquez, then? Why would Trombley do that?”

  “Because he knew that when George Enriquez sat down and was confronted by the district attorney, the odds of him spilling the beans were certain. George hadn’t thought the thing through…all the way to what he’d say when he was under the lights. And Trombley could figure that out, knowing George. He’d say anything to save his skin. He’d give Schroeder every name, including Trombley.”

  “You have a warrant to go through Trombley’s store?”

  “No.”

  “That’s the next step, isn’t it?”

  “If Judge Hobart will give me a warrant. All I’ve got on Trombley is Frieberg’s implication. That’s not enough.”

  “Put him in the vise, and he’ll talk.”

  “Frieberg? He’s going to sing like a canary. But while he’s singing, I don’t want to go to the D.A. with just one man’s word. Not yet. I need something else. Other than that, I have nothing…or at least almost nothing. If Trombley fired the shot that killed Enriquez, it’s been too long to pick up any residue off his hands.”

  “Assuming he was too dumb to wash,” Gastner said.

  “And we found nothing else at the scene. Nothing that points to Trombley. Those offices are the next thing to a public place, with people in and out all the time. There’s a gallery of fingerprints that would take the Bureau’s computers a month to wade through and wouldn’t prove anything anyway. We can’t prove that he actually pulled the trigger.”

  “You said almost nothing,” Gastner added.

  “You’re going to groan,” Estelle said. “I’ve got Leona Spears.”

  Gastner didn’t groan, but he looked skeptical. “Better you than me, kid,” he said. “What’s psycho lady have to do with anything?”

  “She cornered me at the hardware store earlier in the week, and she wanted to know about everything that was going on-about the Kenderman case, especially.”

  “Of course. Wonderful, bonehead Leona. And like I said, better you than me.”

  “In the course of our conversation, she said a few complimentary things about the new clinic and the pharmacy…and about how nice it was that some of the drug prices had come down. She said that since the new drugstore opened, Guy Trombley had been forced to lower his prices, too. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”

  “Huh. And now we know how he did that goddamn little trick. But lowered prices aren’t proof that he’s in cahoots with your buddy there.”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  “So how does Leona Spears fit into all of this?”

  “I’ve got something I want to try. She can help me with it.”

  Gastner looked dubious. “You be careful about opening Pandora’s box with that woman, sweetheart. She’s nuts. And we both know it. Hell, the whole goddamn town knows it.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on, sir. Want to ride along?”

  “Ah, no. Thanks. It’d be more fun to find a nice rock and drop it on my foot.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Despite her resolve, Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s finger hesitated a moment before dialing. Bill Gastner was right about Leona Spears. Whether Pandora’s box or the LaBrea tar pits was the more apt analogy, Estelle was loath to step too close. At two minutes after ten, the phone range twice, and when the receiver was lifted at the other end, Estelle could hear Placido Domingo’s cellolike voice in the background-a familiar operatic aria that was one of Francis Guzman’s favorites.

  “Helllloooo,” Leona Spears’ rich contralto greeted.

  “Leona? This is Undersheriff Guzman. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Oh! My goodness, no. Would you believe it, I’m just sitting here working on a set of bridge specs. Now that’s excitement for you.” She chuckled. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “I know this is an imposition, Leona, but I wonder if we could meet for a few minutes.”

  Leona Spears paused to think about that for a nanosecond or so. “Why of course, Estelle. Do you want me to come down to the office? Would that be convenient?”

  “Actually, I’m in the car at the moment, Leona. Could I just swing by? Would that be too much of an imposition?”

  “Well, certainly not. You come right ahead. I’ll put on some coffee.”

  “No…please don’t. Not on my account, anyway.”

  “How about some tea or something like that?”

  “Tea would be nice,” Estelle said, although her knotted stomach recoiled at the thought of anything, liquid or solid. “I’m on Bustos coming up on Pershing Park. As I remember you’re over on Alamo?”

  “Four sixteen Alamo Drive. That’s right. Right behind the high school. Third house on the right. I’ll turn on the porch light for you.”

  “It’ll be about three minutes,” Estelle said. As she clicked off the phone, she could still hear Placido Domingo in the background, heading for high C. She knew that at that moment, Leona’s pulse was kicking into triple digits with anticipation. The woman had run for several elective offices over the years, but her favorite target was the sheriff’s post, despite no working knowledge of law enforcement beyond what she might gain from the television. Her consistent landslide losses never deterred her from jumping into the next race. What prompted her fascination with law enforcement, Estelle couldn’t guess.

  In less than three minutes, Estelle turned onto Alamo Drive, the short spur running west from South Fourth Street. She saw the state truck parked in front of 416. Leona’s front yard was straight from the drafting board to reality. A perfectly manicured square of crushed stone sufficed for lawn, its boundaries marked with tight chain-linked fencing. Estelle pulled in beside the pickup, thinking that a double yellow line up the driveway wouldn’t be out of place. If the woman owned a car of her own, it was tucked away in the one-car garage.

&n
bsp; Even before Estelle stepped out of the car, she saw that Leona was standing at the front door of the house. The woman loomed enormous in a floor-length, frilly robe, her corn-yellow hair gathered in complex French braids to drape over her right shoulder. She peered out over half glasses with octagonal granny frames.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” she said as Estelle approached. She stood to one side and gestured for Estelle to enter the house. “And I confess to being a little worried, too. When the law arrives in the middle of the night, it’s not for tea and cookies, is it?”

  Estelle glanced back at her, surprised by the matter-of-fact tone. Leona was more apt to indulge in flights of fancy, imagining herself privy to all sorts of confidences that weren’t her business. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Leona. But I really need to talk to you.”

  The highway engineer waved a hand in easy dismissal. “Not a moment of it, Estelle. Let’s go into my office. The tea water’s on, too.” She beamed. “And I’ve got cookies, so we’re all set. Or maybe something stronger?” A hand fluttered. “But of course not. You’re on duty.”

  They passed the living room, the furniture a metal and plastic style of decades past, all of it looking unused. Leona had turned one of the two bedrooms of the tiny home into her office, complete with an enormous drafting table wedged between matching filing cabinets. With just enough room to turn around, Leona could slide from drafting stool to the plush leather office chair that faced her computer table.

  Estelle stood for a moment watching the image on the huge flat-screen monitor. The view was through the windshield of a vehicle, the black two-lane highway spooling through western prairie land, the mesa in the distance gradually growing in size.

  “That’s a little screen-saver program I worked up,” Leona said with satisfaction. “Recognize the spot?”

  “It looks like the area up by Newton,” Estelle said.