Convenient Disposal

by Steven F Havill

  “Mrs. Marens, you said that yesterday he didn’t appear to be in a hurry?” Estelle asked.

  “Well, relatively not. Not by his usual standards.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “I think so. But”—and she held up a hand—“now we’re really stretching it. I just didn’t notice. I did notice that he was going slower than usual. I saw his brake lights come on. And then I wasn’t looking anymore. I was in the kitchen.”

  Estelle rose from her spot on the sofa. “Please show me.”

  “Show you what, dear?”

  “You said that you saw his brake lights come on. Would you stand where you were yesterday and show me…as near as you can remember?”

  Doris shook her head, a hand on each side of her skull. “Oh, the things you’re asking this old brain to recall.”

  “You’re telling me,” Cal said. He leaned against the kitchen’s center island, munching half of a sandwich.

  His wife ignored him. “Okay. Here I am in the hallway,” she said, turning to face the kitchen, chubby arms outstretched as if she needed them for balance. “I walked out here, and I hear the truck. I suppose I hear the truck, because otherwise, why would I bother looking out?” She pointed at the living room window.

  “The blinds were just the way they are now?” Estelle asked.

  “Yes. I saw the truck go by. I’m sure I didn’t stop walking. Why would I do that? The brake lights flashed.” She stopped and looked at Estelle. “Now, if I take another step, I’m in the kitchen, and I can’t see the window past this partition here.”

  Estelle stood beside Doris. “The lights came on when the truck was about opposite the Beulers’, then.”

  “Good grief,” Doris said good-naturedly. “I’m not going to be that exact.”

  “But standing here, I can’t see the little field between the Beulers’ and the Acostas’,” Estelle said. “I can’t see that unless I step out into the living room.”

  “I didn’t do that.” She looked quizzically at Estelle. “Why is all this so important? Kevin drove home for lunch, that’s all.” Sudden comprehension lit her features. “But listen…his truck was down there when all you people were flying around, wasn’t it? It seems to me I remember seeing that…and at one point there was quite a crowd of officers looking at it, too. I wondered about that.”

  “Old nosey,” Cal muttered.

  “We’ll straighten everything out,” Estelle said. “It’s important to determine who was where and when.”

  “Well, of course it is,” Doris agreed. “I only wish I could be of more help.”

  “Mrs. Marens, it may be necessary to obtain a formal deposition from you at some point.” Estelle withdrew one of her cards from her pocket and handed it to the woman. “I’ll be in touch with you if that’s necessary.”

  “You want me to haul her downtown for you?” Cal asked. “I’d enjoy that.”

  Estelle laughed. “No, sir. If I need anything, I’ll be back.” She held out her hand, and Doris Marens’ grip reminded her of her son Francisco’s: tiny bird bones. Back outside, she looked down the street, seeing the white Ford Ranger in Zeigler’s driveway. It was possible that the county manager hadn’t driven the truck home for lunch…that someone else had. She felt a surge of relief, tempered by a deep wave of apprehension.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Leaning against the edge of her desk, alone for a moment, Estelle Reyes-Guzman stared at the whiteboard long enough that the printing blurred into an amorphous mass. She had left the Marenses’ with what she considered a key piece to the puzzle—and then the door had slammed shut. For the last two hours, she had scrutinized her notes, her memory, the stack of photographs, the slim folder of lab evidence. Nothing made sense to her, and her intuition refused to make even the most unathletic leap.

  “Let me guess.” Estelle startled at the sound of Bill Gastner’s gruff voice. The retired sheriff leaned against the doorjamb of her office, hands thrust in his pockets, boots crossed as if he’d been lounging there for an hour. His keen gray eyes twinkled. “You haven’t had lunch yet, have you.”

  “Lunch?”

  “That’s what I thought.” He straightened and beckoned with a nod. “Come on. Have lunch with me. Turn loose for a little bit.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He stopped short, bushy eyebrows arched in surprise. “You never agree to lunch, sweetheart. Things are that bad?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re that bad.”

  He laid a hand over his heart. “I’m flattered, then.”

  She glanced at the clock. “It’s after two, Padrino. You haven’t eaten yet? I’m surprised.”

  “As a point of fact, I did not miss lunch. It was early, though. I got myself cornered by Frank Dayan.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “Is right. He’s irked with you and Bobby.”

  “That’s not unusual, sir.”

  “Nope. But I ran a little interference for you.” Gastner moved to one side so Estelle could close the office door. The undersheriff locked her office, and then followed Gastner out to the central dispatch island. Gayle Torrez was on the phone, and Estelle waited until she hung up.

  “I’m ten-seven, the Don Juan no doubt,” Estelle said. “If anybody calls for me, tell them I took early retirement.”

  Gayle smiled sympathetically. “Can I come, too?”

  “You bet,” Gastner said. “Just put the ‘your call is important to us’ recording in the nine-one-one answering machine, and let’s go.”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  “May I bring you something back?”

  “No, thanks,” Gayle replied. “I didn’t mean lunch, anyway, Bill. It’s the early retirement that sounds good.”

  Outside, Gastner gestured toward his state truck. “My chariot?”

  “That would be a nice change,” Estelle replied. They drove west on Bustos Avenue so slowly that had Posadas had traffic, they would have been a cork. For the first six blocks, they rode in silence. With the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant in view, Gastner slowed even more, allowing the truck to drift up to the blinking caution light at the intersection of Twelfth Street and Bustos.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you mention the R word, sweetheart.”

  “The R word?”

  “As in ‘retirement.’”

  “It was a tired joke, sir,” Estelle said. The truck thumped up into the restaurant parking lot.

  Gastner maneuvered to park in the near-empty lot with one hand, the fingers of his other hand counting imaginary numbers. “What have you got now, about sixteen years with the county? You were absent without leave for a couple.”

  “Today, it seems like sixteen years, ten months, two weeks, five days, three hours, two minutes, and fifteen seconds.”

  Gastner laughed. “That bad, eh.” He waved a hand at her door. “Lock that, will you? I’ve got a bunch of state money in the glove box.”

  They strolled across the lot to the restaurant. The Don Juan had settled into dimly lit silence after the noon rush, and Gastner made his way to the back where a divider created a small intimate area with only three booths. “Is this all right?” he said, as if there was a choice. The former sheriff had settled onto this same patch of yellow plastic upholstery for decades.

  He drummed his fingers on the vinyl tablecloth as Estelle eased back in the booth with a sigh.

  “You look tired.”

  “I am. Tired and frustrated.”

  “Sixteen years, ten months, blah blah,” he said with a smile. “That’s part of the package, you know.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Hell, you’re still good for another twenty-five or thirty years.”

  Her eyes rolled and she dropped her head back against the booth’s upper roll of padding. “When I click twenty, sir, I’m going to pull the car over to the curb and park it, even if I’m in the middle of a call.” She closed her eyes. “I’d like to see what it’s like being home when Francisco and Carlos come home from school.”
She lifted her arm and opened one eye to look at her watch. “Coming up in fifteen minutes, by the way.”

  “We’ll eat fast,” Gastner said, and he leaned back as JanaLynn Torrez approached. Tall and statuesque, Sheriff Torrez’s niece glowered at Gastner.

  “You’re still trying for that frequent-flyer discount, aren’t you?” she said.

  “You bet.”

  “How about you, Estelle? What can I get you?”

  “A taco salad with sliced jalapeños would be wonderful.” She grinned at the look of mock astonishment on Gastner’s face.

  “She eats,” he said.

  “Of course she eats,” JanaLynn retorted. “How about you?”

  “Coffee and apple pie, if there’s any left.”

  “Sissy,” JanaLynn chided. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No burrito, sir?” Estelle asked.

  “I had one for lunch. I pried Frank away from his newspaper for a grand total of about fifteen minutes. He would be grateful if you’d give him a call this afternoon.”

  “I’ll try to do that.”

  “This is a big one, Estelle.”

  “Ay, I know it, sir. The whole thing makes me sick.”

  Gastner hesitated while JanaLynn delivered coffee for him and a large glass of ice water for Estelle. She left the plastic coffee carafe on the table.

  “I talked with Milton Crowley,” Gastner said. He nodded as Estelle’s eyebrow shot up. “I happened to swing by the county building this morning. I guess it was a few minutes before noon. Bobby said that you guys had gone out there earlier today.”

  “Crowley’s an interesting fellow,” Estelle said. “That’s a nice sign he has on the boundary fence.”

  “That’s something, isn’t it? But old Milt’s okay. I mean, other than being a complete ass.”

  “I’d give a lot to be able to see the videotape of the meeting.”

  “That’s what Bobby said. Shrewd idea, too. But you know, I agree with him that a court order won’t accomplish anything, even on the slim chance that Judge Hobart would give you one. It would just feed the flames. Milt would take a stint in the lockup as a badge of courage. Anyway, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk with him myself. We get along all right. I got the same answer you did.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe he’d lighten up a little.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type, sir. The more we talked, the more he bristled.”

  “Yup. He does love an audience.”

  “Bobby said you had some interesting stories to tell about him. Something about his garden?”

  Gastner laughed. “Yeah, well…” He took a long, thoughtful sip of the coffee. “His wife died a while ago. I guess it’s been seven or eight years now. In the last few months, she was just a bag of hurtin’ bones, Estelle. After a while, she refused any more chemo and radiation. Hell, they couldn’t have paid for it, anyway.”

  “How sad.”

  “Well, that’s the way it goes, you know. Old Milt, he had himself a nice stand of that funny tobacco. I’d been there a time or two, and knew it was there.” He shrugged. “I didn’t give a shit. I mean, so what? He wasn’t selling it down at the high school or anything. If the marijuana eased things for his wife even a little bit, what the hell. I don’t know if you remember the search we had for those two hunters that got themselves lost on Cat Mesa?” He nodded. “Anyway, that was right behind Milt’s property. I kinda steered folks around his place. I knew damn well what would happen if some straight arrow from the Forest Service or State Police saw Milt’s crop. There’d be a war, for sure.”

  “I can imagine. Or even a couple of our own, for that matter.”

  “So—I suppose in the great balance beam of life, we could imagine that Milt owes me a favor or two.” He leaned back and looked wistfully at the mammoth taco salad that JanaLynn delivered to Estelle. “And look at this pathetic little thing,” he said to the generous piece of apple pie that she slid onto his place mat. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  The jalapeños were fiery, and Estelle felt herself relax. She hadn’t thought that she was hungry, but now she found herself digging into the spiced chicken and chile concoction as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.

  “Anyway,” Gastner said. “I chatted with Milt this morning, and that was that. I just wanted you to know I gave it a whirl, for what it was worth—which turns out to be very, very little.”

  “I appreciate that, Padrino.”

  “Have you stopped by the county manager’s office in the last couple of hours? The sheriff and your new captain are tearing the place apart. I didn’t dare step too close. They’re apt to put me to work.”

  “I bet Penny’s delighted with that mess.”

  “Penny needs a good, powerful sedative by now.”

  Estelle hesitated, toying with her fork. “I keep imagining Kevin’s face,” she said. “We’ve got people going through his house, his truck…his office. You know how meticulous he is. I imagine his reaction if he suddenly walked into the middle of all of this. As if Penny somehow missed a message that he had to go to Cruces or something—some family emergency. He comes back and walks into the middle of this mess.”

  “Considering the alternatives, that would be all right,” Gastner said. “I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “No, sir. It’s not.”

  “You have a bulletin out?”

  “Everywhere on the planet. Bishop talked to Zeigler’s mom and dad in San Diego. Nothing there. No word at all. He has a sister in Seattle. Nothing. We just found out that he has an ex-wife…and a son.”

  “No shit?”

  Estelle nodded. “They’re in Socorro. The boy is in second grade. Surprise, surprise.” She sighed and looked out the window. “And needless to say, Kevin’s roommate is just kind of slowly dissolving.”

  “Page seems like a decent-enough sort.”

  “He is. He’s not coping with the waiting very well. But then again, neither am I.” She pushed the salad to one side, her enthusiasm for food blunted after half a dozen bites. “Padrino, we know that Kevin stopped by the county maintenance yard early yesterday morning. He had a soft tire on his county truck, and had it aired up. He didn’t change it. But it’s been changed since then. The spare is mounted on the truck, but the flat tire is missing. The jack was on the floor in the passenger side of the cab.”

  “Who knows where it might have gone flat,” Gastner said. “Unless somebody comes forward to say they saw Zeigler struggling with it along the road somewhere.”

  “No one has. Not yet, anyway. I talked with Doris Marens this morning, and there’s a little piece there. I don’t think that it was Kevin Zeigler who brought the truck back to his house sometime after noon.” She quickly recounted her conversation with Doris Marens, and as she did so, she saw the expression of skepticism settle on the old man’s grizzled face.

  “Because he’s driving slower than usual, and because he puts his foot on the brake? Sweetheart—”

  “It makes sense to me, Padrino. It makes sense that maybe it wasn’t Kevin. Someone brought the truck back, parked it in the driveway. Now”—and she dug her finger into the soft tablecloth—“if that person didn’t want to be noticed, he’d drive carefully.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “If he wasn’t exactly sure where Zeigler lived, he might well slow down several houses early—making sure he pulled into the right place.”

  She settled back and watched Gastner toy with the last scrap of pie crust.

  “Why would any of that happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Estelle replied. “Suppose someone kidnapped Zeigler.” She smiled wryly. “Someone after the county’s millions. They spirit him away someplace, and return the truck?” She shook her head. “No sense.”

  “Well, somebody returned it,” Gastner said.

  “Yes. Someone did. There are no prints, no fibers, no nothing. Just a hint of tobacco smoke and body odor.”

  “What if the whole mess with Zeigler isn’t related to the Acos
ta girl’s assault, sweetheart? Have you looked that way yet?”

  “It is, sir. It is related. The lug wrench says it is. The grease smudge on her bedroom wall says it is. The whole coincidence of the truck’s being there at the time of the assault, and Zeigler’s being missing, says it is. I know it is.”

  “Just asking.” Gastner poured the last of the coffee. “So let’s assume someone grabbed Zeigler—for whatever nefarious reason—and returned the truck—for whatever bizarre reason. After he returned the truck, did a buddy pick him up in another vehicle?”

  “I don’t know. Doris didn’t see anyone. Or she didn’t notice anyone.”

  “If he wasn’t picked up, what did he do, walk? No one saw strangers walking up and down Candelaria about that time?”

  “No.”

  “Or on a bike?”

  “No. Zeigler has four bikes, sir. Well, he and Page have four. All of them were in the house. And that’s the thing.” She leaned forward again. “No one has been inside Zeigler’s house since he left for work Tuesday morning. I’m sure of that.”

  “Not even himself?”

  She shook her head. “That’s impossible to say. But I don’t think so.”

  “You’ve pretty much taken all of the Acostas off the hook?”

  “Sure. First of all, the attack on Carmen wasn’t their style. I mean, getting mad at a sister results in some bruises, some yelling and hair flying. Not what we saw. Freddy may be a tubby little bully, but it’s not his style, either. Juanita was at work. And the one thing that makes me certain is”—she held up both hands—“the truck. Something happened that involved that. Someone pushed his way into the Acostas’ home and attacked Carmen. There may be evidence that Carmen managed to hurt the attacker, at least a little bit.”

  “With the hat pin.”

  “That’s right. She had it with her. When she knew she was in serious trouble, what’s she do? She tries to use it. Her attacker wrenched it out of her hand and stabbed her with it. A lucky shot.”

  Gastner grimaced. “This someone really wanted her dead.”

  “You bet.”

  “Why?”

  “The only thing that comes to mind is that he didn’t want a witness. A witness to whatever he did. Whatever that was,” Estelle murmured. “Whatever happened to Kevin Zeigler happened somewhere else, then. There’s no sign of a struggle in the house, or in the yard, or in the truck.”