“That’s what I would have thought, sir.”
“There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.”
“We don’t know yet what happened, Mr. Page. As far as the county manager is concerned, it may turn out to be nothing at all. If I need to reach you in the next couple of hours, will you have a phone in your car?”
“Of course.” He gave her the number. “I’ll be there by seven,” he said.
“Be careful on the highway, sir.” She switched off the phone and remained sitting on the small stoop, lost in thought. Finally, she dialed the county office again.
“Penny, any word from his nibs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
Penny Barnes didn’t buy it. “Not a thing, Estelle. What is going on? You know, this isn’t like him. Not like him at all. Did you find his friend?”
“No, it’s not like him,” Estelle said. “And yes, I talked with Mr. Page. Did you happen to think of anyone else to check with?”
“No. But I’ve called everyone, everywhere. He hasn’t been at the county barns, he’s not out at the landfill—I even called Jim Bergin out at the airport. Nothing. He isn’t answering his cell, or the radio. I’ve got everyone looking and calling. Like I said, he’s playing hooky somewhere.”
I hope so, Estelle thought. A still-warm truck with the keys in the ignition, parked next door to an attempted murder, wasn’t her definition of hooky.
Chapter Eight
The house key was where William Page had said it was, tucked in a slot in the belly of the small tin lizard on the windowsill. Not allowing her latex gloves to touch the brass doorknob, Estelle turned the key and nudged the door with her left elbow. She could hear Bob Torrez’s breathing behind her. Pausing at one side of the doorway, she inhaled deeply, scanning what she could see of the living room at the same time. Nothing appeared out of place, and the air carried the faint, clean aroma of a well-tended home.
“He ain’t here,” Torrez murmured.
“I don’t think so.” Estelle moved fully into the living room, and Torrez followed, shutting the front door and leaving Deputy Thomas Pasquale standing outside on the steps.
Loath to probe deeper into Kevin Zeigler’s home, Estelle waited. Apparently the sheriff felt the same awkwardness, because he made no move to press by her.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Estelle shook her head, jolted by the intrusion of Torrez’s voice. Her senses told her nothing except that the house was most likely as it had been when the county manager left for work that morning. She turned in place, inventorying the living room. Zeigler was a movie fan, and the room was arranged so that all seats, including the large, plush sofa, faced the enormous entertainment center on the east wall, with speakers surrounding the room.
On a small shelf to one side of the VCR, the tape-rewinding machine yawned open, a videotape visible inside.
The curtain was pulled securely over the west-facing window, and much of the remainder of that wall was taken up with a twelve-foot span of bookshelves. An old-fashioned wooden coat-rack stood between the window and the corner nearest the door, the hooks empty except for a single dark brown sweater. Estelle stepped to the window and examined the curtain. The pleats hung straight and true, the center seam overlapping precisely.
She slipped a finger between the two curtain halves and pushed one far enough out of place to see outside. The view was directly toward the Acostas’ kitchen door.
“There’s always the possibility that Freddy is a lying sack of shit,” Torrez said matter-of-factly. “He says Zeigler’s truck wasn’t parked there when he left for the store. He says it was in the driveway when he came home and found Carmen. Maybe that’s not the way it was at all.”
Estelle let the curtain slide back into place. “Freddy might have done a lot of things, but what happened to Carmen isn’t his style,” she said. “He might not have noticed the truck the first time. Things like that are easy to miss.”
She lifted one sleeve of the sweater. Made of lightweight wool, it smelled faintly of Kevin Zeigler’s musky cologne. No blood, no gunpowder aroma, no rips or tears. Leaving the sweater hanging on the rack, she turned and walked quickly past the shelves. This wasn’t the time for a full inventory, despite her curiosity. She scanned the books and videos as she passed. Zeigler was an organized soul, books alphabetically by author, videos alphabetically by title. By and large, both books and films were all new releases.
The living room fronted a hallway leading to bedrooms and bath on one side, and a large, well-appointed kitchen, utility, and laundry on the other. As Estelle moved through the house, it struck her as clean, neat, and entirely unremarkable, the sort of place where the frenetic county manager alighted for a few minutes out of each twenty-four hours to recharge.
The first bedroom on the right served as an office. The same make and model of computer terminal used in Zeigler’s office in the county building dominated the far wall. The metallic county inventory sticker was displayed prominently on the side of the computer’s beige tower. Filing cabinets, a map hanger on wheels, even a large copier had all been wedged into the small room—the county manager’s office-away-from-office.
The small window that faced the Acostas’ was shaded by a standard venetian blind. To open it, Zeigler would have to reach over the top of the copier.
“So much for not taking work home,” Estelle said. She turned in time to see Torrez nudge open the bathroom door across the hall. The glass shower door gaped open a couple of inches, and he slid it further, examining the tiled tub.
“Not used much,” he said.
With careful planning, the second smaller bedroom could have served as a guest bedroom, if the guest wasn’t either claustrophobic or a sleepwalker. In the far corner, a small bunk bed—the kind that would have fitted Estelle’s two small boys perfectly—served as a rack for two new-style stunt kayaks. One above and the other below, neither kayak was more than six feet long. They looked like two large fiberglass slippers upended on the beds.
“You got to be kidding,” Torrez said. He slipped past Estelle, stepped to the center of the room, and looked at the array of sporting gear with wonder. Near the end of the bunk beds, an aluminum stand held half a dozen kayak paddles. Just beyond, a wall rack engineered to balance itself on two slender legs held a pair of mountain bikes.
Most of the rest of the room was crowded with two exercising machines, one a popular, much-advertised model with integral bench. The exerciser’s various arms arched like a giant spider. Toward the door, another gadget rested on the floor, and Torrez eyed it critically.
“For the bikes,” Estelle said. “Snap a bike in, and you can pedal indoors when the weather’s bad.” Her husband had experimented with the idea during their brief stay in Minnesota, but hadn’t gotten beyond trying one out in a bike shop.
“Huh,” the sheriff replied. “Not this kid.” He frowned and turned his attention to what had once been a closet with sliding doors. The doors and door molding had been removed. The space formed an alcove that was home to two more bikes, sleek, razor-tired racing machines that bore the United States Postal Service racing team decal.
“I knew he rode a bike sometimes,” Torrez said. He knelt and examined the neatly paired cycling shoes. “This is him and somebody else,” he added. “Size nine and size ten and a half.”
Without rising, he reached out and spun one of the small skeleton pedals of the nearest bike. “Pasquale keeps sayin’ we should use something like this in the village,” he said.
“Good idea,” Estelle said, and she grinned at the thought of Torrez’s six-foot-four-inch frame in black spandex.
They moved quickly to the other side of the hall and the larger master bedroom suite. A king-sized bed filled that room, with just enough space for a small television stand and VCR, a single dresser, and a tiny desk that looked as if it would fit a fourth grader.
Estelle stood in the doorway of the large bathroom. Zeigler hadn’t been content wit
h the standard tub/shower combination that would have been so upscale in the ‘50s when the house was built. A huge, custom-tiled shower, nearly five feet square, filled one side of the bath. A smaller jet tub had been installed on the wall near the commode.
She stepped across and snapped on the light of the walk-in closet. Kevin Zeigler’s clothes marched in neat rows. She recognized shirts that the county manager favored, some still in the plastic bags from Keiley’s Kleaners.
“I don’t think he’s been here all day.”
“Huh,” Torrez mused. He was standing at the foot of the huge bed. “You said this Page guy stays here when he visits?”
“No. I didn’t say that.”
Torrez shot her a quick glance, and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Those bunk beds in the other room aren’t for no adults, unless they’re midgets,” he said. “Is this Page guy a midget? If he stays here, he ain’t going to be sleeping in one of those, unless he is.”
“He may stay at one of the motels,” Estelle said.
“Oh, sure.”
“Or, he might stay here. Maybe he sleeps on the sofa. I’m not concerned with that right now. And he’ll be here in a couple of hours if we have questions.”
“Yeah. I got questions,” Torrez said. “This place gives me the creeps.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m going to check out behind the kitchen.” His radio crackled, and as he pulled it off his belt, he added, “Make sure someone hasn’t stuffed old Kevin in the freezer or something.” He palmed the handheld. “Torrez.”
“Sheriff, there’s something kind of interesting out here. You got a minute?” Sergeant Mears asked.
“I’ll be right there,” Torrez said, and he was already striding down the hall. Estelle followed, and he waved toward the kitchen as he passed it. She detoured and checked the back storeroom, the screened porch, even the small closet that contained the hot-water heater. The freezer was too small to hold anything but a thoroughly processed corpse, but she pulled open the double doors anyway. The county manager was omnivorous, and liked a well-stocked larder.
Satisfied that the house was empty, she left by way of the front door, being careful to lock it behind her. She slipped the key back in the lizard’s belly.
As she turned away, she saw that Torrez was standing a pace back from the driver’s door of Zeigler’s county pickup. Sgt. Tom Mears was crouching low, peering underneath. On her side of the truck, Deputy Thomas Pasquale was head to head with Linda Real, the department photographer. Both were on their hands and knees.
Torrez beckoned to Estelle. “Wanna make bets?” he said as she stepped around the front of the truck. He knelt and pointed.
Estelle dropped to her hands and knees as Tom Mears moved a bit to one side. “A lug wrench,” she said. The wrench, one of the generic designs with one end pointed to remove hubcaps and the other with the socket angled off at forty-five degrees, lay in the gravel directly under the small truck’s transmission. It appeared new.
“I can reach it,” Pasquale said, and Estelle shook her head.
“No. Leave it for now.” She glanced at Linda, the photographer’s round face flushed from the awkward position.
“Just pictures for now,” Estelle said. “When we’ve documented the truck, we’ll roll it back a little bit. That way you can do some close-ups.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Good eyes,” she said to Mears. “Does it belong to the truck, do you think?”
Mears frowned at Bob Torrez. “I don’t remember if the Ranger has one of those kind, or one of the foldy-up things. But it won’t take long to find out.”
“It’s behind the seat, I think,” Torrez said. “On the passenger side.”
Pasquale opened the passenger door with a single, gloved finger, and stepped back to hold it out of Mears’ way. The sergeant knelt and examined the passenger seat. He was about to push the small lever that would slide the seat forward when he stopped abruptly.
“Whup,” he said. “The jack’s right here, on the floor. It kinda slid under the seat a little.” He looked up at Estelle. “No handle.”
“What’s behind the seat?” she asked.
He pulled the second release, leaning the seat back forward. “A spot where the jack and the handle clip into place. Nothing there.”
Torrez had walked behind the truck, and he rested one hand on the back bumper as he bent down. “Spare’s gone,” he said. He straightened up abruptly and continued around the rear of the truck. “It’s mounted on the left rear.”
Estelle felt a queasy lurch in the pit of her stomach. Torrez stepped around Linda Real and stood regarding the jack in front of the passenger seat. “He has a flat tire, and tosses the wrench and jack on the floor when he’s done. They’re a pain in the ass to put back just right, and he’s in a hurry.”
“Where’s the flat tire?” Pasquale asked. The bed of the county truck was empty.
“Beats the shit out of me,” Torrez said. “Figure out how the wrench ended up on the driveway under the truck while you’re at it.” He turned to Estelle. “I was thinkin’ about that tore-up Sheetrock in the dining room. Swing a lug wrench hard enough, and that gash wouldn’t be hard to do.”
“This is Kevin Zeigler’s truck, isn’t it?” Pasquale asked.
“Yeah,” Torrez said. “It’s Zeigler’s truck.” He glanced back at the county manager’s house. “It’s his wrench, too.”
Estelle opened the driver’s door. Turning sideways so that she could rest her feet on the driveway, she settled into the seat. Even with both doors open, she could smell Kevin Zeigler…the same cologne that marked the sweater in the house had left its imprint on the little truck’s fabric seats, the headliner, even the vinyl of the doors and dashboard.
On top of the cologne, she smelled the unmistakable odor of tobacco smoke.
She motioned at Tom Mears, and he gently shut the passenger door. Estelle swung her legs into the truck and pulled the driver’s door shut. With her eyes closed, she sat quietly for a moment. The cloying odor of cigarette smoke was faint but obvious, layered with something else. She sat quietly for a couple of minutes until a knuckle rapped on the window.
“You usin’ Zen or something in there?” Torrez said when she opened the door.
“Sit in here a minute,” she said.
“What?”
“Sit in the truck with the doors closed,” she said. “Tell me what you smell.”
Torrez looked skeptical, but he took off his cap and then folded himself into the small truck. He left one leg out, obviously loath to pull himself fully inside.
She reached down and slapped his knee with the back of her hand. “Go ahead. Fold yourself up inside. Close the door.” Torrez did so with evident distaste. She watched his face settle, though, and he remained motionless for a full minute. He lowered his head, and Estelle saw that he had closed his eyes in concentration.
He opened the door abruptly, looking up at Estelle. “Same perfume as in the house. And butts. And somebody’s had happy hour.”
“You smell booze?” Torrez didn’t reply immediately, but Estelle knew that there was more than a kernel of truth in the department joke that Robert Torrez could smell an open beer or whiskey bottle from across the county, upwind, with his head sealed in a plastic bag. The sheriff had no need to ask if a motorist had been drinking.
“I think so,” he said. “Butts, for sure.” He reached out and pulled the ashtray open. It was clean. “It’s going to be a long night,” he muttered.
Chapter Nine
The painstaking process of combing inside and outside the Acosta household continued until Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s eyes teared from concentration…a few grains of Sheetrock dust here, a hair there.
Although there was no road map, it became clear that the struggle had progressed from the kitchen door, through the house, to Carmen’s bedroom—and nowhere else. That in itself puzzled Estelle. Nowhere else on the Acostas’ property was there a single sign of something out of place, of something tampere
d with. The backyard was littered with the “stuff” of an active family that didn’t put picking up after itself high on the priority list.
Estelle stood beside the bed, trying to imagine how the battle had progressed. It wasn’t a fight between equals, that was clear. Despite her combative experience, youthful strength, and Acosta temper, Carmen had retreated, perhaps even bolted, toward what she had thought was sanctuary. Maybe at one point she had ducked behind the entertainment center and its television. A flailing lug wrench would make quick work of the wide screen. Carmen had tried for the telephone, too—to call her mother, to call the police—who knew.
A spatter of blood flecked the burlap shade from the shattered bedside lamp, and after Linda Real had photographed it from every conceivable angle, Estelle bagged the entire lamp. That went out to Deputy Jackie Taber’s vehicle, along with the comforter from the bed and the small throw rug from the floor, both soaked with the blood that had gushed from Carmen’s battered head.
The blood flow on the bed and rug had been profuse, most likely from the blow to the back of Carmen’s head that had laid open her scalp. The blood spatter on the side of the lamp shade away from the bed had been tiny, just a couple of drops. Maybe Carmen had gotten in a couple good licks of her own.
“What do you think?” Jackie said at one point. She had her broad back turned to Estelle and was examining the wall to one side of the door. Palm toward the wall, she swept her arm slowly along, covering an area nearly twenty-four inches long, as much as three inches wide, approximately five feet off the floor.
The wall was a pink-tinged white, latex paint over gypsum wallboard. Estelle stepped close, looking over Jackie’s shoulder. Soiling the otherwise clean wall was a swash of discoloration.
“It looks as if someone scrubbed something big and dirty against the wall,” Jackie said. She extended a tape measure. “Too big for a dirty hand.” She glanced down at the floor. “Too high off the ground for a kid to put his dirty feet on the wall.”
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