The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15

by Steven F Havill

  “I’ll do that,” Estelle said, and slid out of the Bronco. The air was raw, and she ducked her head against the sting of the mist, driven now by the funnel of air through the pass. “She’s coming sometime today, by the way. She should have been here for all this. She might have enjoyed clambering up and down that cliff.”

  “I bet.”

  “I’ll be home if you need to reach me.”

  By the time Estelle walked back to the dry protection of her own unmarked county car, the mist had thickened. The cloud pressed the San Cristóbals down to the prairie, enough to obscure the sodium vapor lights in the parking lot of the Broken Spur Saloon. Another few degrees and it would be sleet, Estelle thought. The asphalt up on the pass would take on a dangerous sheen of black ice. The ambulance was just pulling out onto the highway as she passed.

  A few minutes later, as she drove northeast on State 56 onto the flat of the prairie between the Rio Guigarro and the Rio Salinas, the windshield was dry. The mountain made-or at least captured-its own weather, letting hints of it fan out to evaporate over the lowlands. What had happened there in the rocks, moments after the crash, remained just as obscure.

  Chapter Five

  The traffic light at Bustos and Grande turned, and Estelle braked the county car to a stop. Lights blasted in her rearview mirror as a late model pickup truck pulled in behind her, red and blue emergency lights in the grill wiggle-wagging. With a grin, she reached out and keyed the mike transmit button twice in greeting.

  A right turn on Bustos and then a block past the Posadas State Bank she turned into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. The pickup followed and pulled into the spot reserved for sheriff Torrez.

  Formerly a Posadas County sheriff himself, and now a New Mexico livestock inspector, Bill Gastner took his time climbing out of the shiny new truck, a mammoth thing sporting chrome grill guards, extra spotlights, and enough antennas projecting from the roof that it looked like an imitation of a mountaintop bristling with radio, cell phone, TV, and microwave towers. The New Mexico Livestock Board’s shield was centered neatly on the door.

  Estelle patted the hood of the giant truck, waiting for Gastner to climb down.

  “Quite the heap,” she said. “You’ve been promoted, or what?”

  “‘Or what,’” Gastner replied. “They thought the old one looked disreputable. Probably like its driver. You just getting in from the pass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just the one?”

  “As far as we can tell, he was alone when he went off the highway. After that, we’re not so sure, padrino.”

  “Local guy?”

  “Las Cruces.”

  “Nasty,” he said, and leaned against the fender of the truck, crossing his arms over his large belly. “Ready for some breakfast?”

  “Because after all, it is after midnight,” Estelle added dryly. “Technically morning.”

  “You’re learning, sweetheart. It’s Friday, or was, and the Don Juan stays open until two. We have an hour.”

  “Uh,” Estelle groaned, thoroughly familiar with the old man’s prodigious eating habits, at any time of day or night. Gastner combined eating-especially foods that were high octane with green chile-and insomnia as his secret for longevity. “I really don’t, padrino. What I really need to do is go home to bed.”

  “Tough country out there, and a nasty night for mountain climbing. You did okay?”

  “I did okay,” she said, but sounded unconvinced. “The truck went off that really steep spot right at the top.”

  “That cliff on the east side of the highway?”

  “Exactly. Right where the Mexican car hauler got hung up on the guardrail last summer. But there are some things that don’t fit.”

  “That pass kills its share of people. What’s not to fit?”

  She grinned. Gastner’s curiosity was easily whetted. “He might still be there if Connie Ulibarri hadn’t been as sharp as she is.”

  “You ought to pillage the highway department and hire her away,” Gastner said. “She saw the crash?”

  “No, but the guy hit a deer, padrino. A doe wearing a collar. Connie stopped to collect the collar, and saw the skid marks. The truck’s down the hill, out of sight of the highway. It looks like maybe a day or two? The victim’s a twenty-one-year-old boy. He’s been lying out there all by himself, broken all to pieces, staring up at the sky. But…”

  Gastner raised an eyebrow.

  “But I think someone else was down there at the crash site. No…” She tapped the hood of the Dodge. “I know someone was. Whoever was there planted a boot on the victim’s hand.”

  “What do you mean, sweetheart? Like stepped on him, you’re saying?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Now why would he do a thing like that, other than tripping over his own clumsy feet?”

  “That’s one of our questions.”

  “Ah,” Gastner said. “Well,” and he pushed himself away from the truck. “You know how that goes. Someone witnesses the accident, climbs down to see, and sees too much. He doesn’t want the complications of that, and just leaves. People do funny things. Sometimes damn unattractive things. Trippin’ around in the dark, he might not have even known he stepped on the kid’s hand.” Gastner polished an insect speck off the hood’s air dam. “Now, I had something to tell you, but damned if I don’t remember what it was.” He inspected the fancy grill of the truck. “Oh,” and he straightened suddenly. “Had a call from some woman who wants to do a story on you. For A Woman’s World. You read that rag?”

  “No. But I got her e-mail a couple weeks ago requesting that she be allowed to spend some time with us. She’s coming today.”

  “You agreed, you mean? I’m surprised. Goddamn delighted, but surprised, sweetheart.”

  Estelle laughed and shrugged. “What could I say, sir. We’re a public agency. If she wants to come and see what we do, then fine. She’s free to do that.”

  Gastner regarded her for a long moment. “It’s not the department that she’s interested in, sweetheart. It’s you. Our star.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” he continued.

  “And she called you?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m to be the ‘deep throat’ in all this. She wanted to know if she could interview me for background…about your early years with the department.” His flinty blue eyes twinkled. “What you were like before your meteoric rise to power.”

  “That should take a couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll stretch it,” Gastner said. “I just wanted to clear it with you. If you don’t want to talk to ’em, I’ll tell ’em to take a hike. The Constitution is a wonderful thing, you know. The press can ask to their heart’s content. We don’t have to answer.”

  Estelle frowned. “There is one thing, though.”

  “And that is?”

  “She…the reporter…included some pictures from some of my misadventures that have been in the papers-I guess to show that she’s done some research. I didn’t mind that. But there was a photo of Francisco that was taken during his performance in Cruces at the Christmas concert with the university orchestra. I want to give anything that involves him a lot of thought. And I want to discuss it a lot with Francis.”

  “Could be a big deal.” Gastner nodded. “That’s the temptation, of course. National exposure like that doesn’t come along every day. That magazine has one of the largest circulations in the country. Hot stuff.” He shook his head. “We all knew this time would come, didn’t we. The coverage at the Cruces concert was a hint of that.”

  “Por supuesto, padrino, but it’s coming too soon.”

  “Everything comes too soon. Christ, all this philosophizing is starving me. Anything I can do for you? You have someone sitting the wreck? They’re not going to tow it up out of there tonight, are they?”

  “No. Jackie’s watching over it. You can cruise down that way and keep her company, if you want.”

  “Might
do that. I saw you zipping up the street, and wanted to check with you about this celebrity stuff.”

  “Ay, celebrity stuff,” she laughed.

  “She wants to interview me at one o’clock,” Gastner said.

  “One? As in today at one? This afternoon?”

  “That’s it. Striking while the iron is hot sort of thing. Won’t be long before your little one’s mug is on the front pages of the newspapers in the grocery store checkout racks, right there with all the alien abductions.”

  “Stop it.”

  He laughed. “How’s your mom, by the way? She recover from having a birthday?”

  “Just,” Estelle replied. Teresa Reyes had turned ninety-five years old the week previous, and had grumbled about the attention the special day had brought. A visit from Román and Marta Diaz and two of their children from Tres Santos had been an unexpected treat for Teresa. Román and Marta, her former neighbors in the tiny Mexican village where she had lived and taught school, had purchased Teresa’s modest little home and the twelve acres surrounding it five years before.

  “I wish I knew her secret,” Gastner said. “I’m seventy-three and feel like crap most of the time. She’s got me by twenty-plus years and seems to be getting younger every goddamn day.”

  “She’s had her bouts,” Estelle said.

  “Well, yeah…she has. Anyhow, I’ll let you go. I’m about to faint from hunger.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. “And I will swing by and chat with Jackie a bit later. This story lady is going to talk with her, too? That’s the impression I got.”

  “Sin duda. And Linda. And Gayle. And Leona, I would imagine.”

  “Well, damn. And it’s all my fault, isn’t it. I started it all by hiring you. Look where it got us.”

  “Sure enough, sir.”

  He touched the brim of his baseball cap in salute. “Well, I did good, if I do say so myself. Behave yourself. You’re sure there’s nothing that you don’t want me to tell the story lady?”

  “Positive, sir. She’ll find out for herself.”

  He waved a casual salute and swung up into the truck. She watched him drive off, the diesel engine emitting a low, guttural clatter.

  Inside the Public Safety Building, the air was institutional, stuffy and tinged with disinfectant. The “fresh evergreen scent” advertised on the side of the jug of cleaner that the custodian dispensed into the mop bucket bore little resemblance to the real thing-the damp air of Regál Pass, tinged with piñon and juniper.

  Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler had gone home as his shift ended, replaced by Brent Sutherland. Brent looked up as Estelle entered, and lifted a hand in salute.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “It’s going. Everything else quiet?”

  “More or less.” He leaned forward and looked at the log. “Since I came on, I’ve had a handful of calls. Edith Mallory is still arguing with her husband, who is still drinking. The schnauzer over on Tenth Street is still barking, and Mrs. Sanchez is still irritated at that. And the clerk over at Portillo’s called to say that he’s got a bunch of rowdies who can’t find anything better to do than gather in his parking lot. Abeyta is going to swing by there when he’s finished with the Mallorys.”

  “Wonderful. Did Dennis go home yet?”

  “I think he’s still in the workroom.”

  The telephone rang and Brent reached up to swing the headset boom back into place. “Posadas Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.” Estelle turned away, headed for her own office. She heard Brent say, “We’ll have someone swing by there in just a few minutes, Bernie.” He listened for another minute. “No, don’t do that. Just hang tight, all right?”

  Estelle stopped with one hand on the doorknob of her office. At the same time, Dennis Collins appeared, a sheaf of papers in hand. He dropped several of them in the office in-basket, then headed for the bank of filing cabinets across the room.

  “Just a minute,” Sutherland said. “Estelle,” he called, “this is Bernie Pollis over at Portillo’s again. He’s got a group of kids over there chuckin’ rocks at each other.”

  “As long as it’s at each other,” Deputy Collins observed.

  “Jackie’s down in Regál, and Pasquale is way the hell and gone down by María.”

  Collins sighed and shoved the remaining papers into the file. “I go right by there on my way home. I’ll stop by and send ’em all home. I don’t know what the heck kids are doing out at one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Dennis,” Estelle said.

  “You betcha.”

  As she closed the door of her office, she heard Sutherland back on the phone, assuring Bernie Pollis that an officer was en route. Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store was three blocks away. Had Estelle stepped outside to the front steps of the Public Safety Building, she knew, she would have been able to hear the kids yelling back and forth.

  Settling behind her desk, she turned the police radio down, then out of habit more than anything else awoke her computer. The list of e-mails included nothing that required immediate action, and most of them were taken care of with the delete key. With her office window closed, she could not hear the single gunshot that came from three blocks away, nor did she hear Deputy Collins’ frantic ten-sixty call.

  Chapter Six

  With the right circumstances, a quiet little village could produce a huge audience out of thin air. Only moments had passed from the time she was alerted to Deputy Collins’ call for assistance to the moment when Estelle pulled to a jarring stop in front of Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store, but she wasn’t surprised that the crowds were gathering.

  Parked askew just ramped up on the Grande entrance to the parking lot was Deputy Collins’ Expedition, one of the newest in the fleet. A black-and-white State Police cruiser blocked the other parking lot entrance. Pulled into the curb, looking like an abandoned derelict, was Sheriff Robert Torrez’s battered pickup.

  As Estelle climbed out of her car, she saw that Richard Black, the State Policeman, had five youngsters gathered at a late model SUV on one side of the convenience store, while Bob Torrez was engaged in animated conversation with four other people on the opposite side of the parking lot by the fuel pumps. His audience included a middle-aged woman, two young girls, and Bernie Pollis, who appeared from behind the store, walking sideways like a crab, looking over his shoulder at whatever the shadows hid. Torrez appeared to be holding something against the woman’s head. She leaned her rump against the back fender of the Volvo parked at the pumps.

  Deputy Collins stood by his vehicle with one hand on the right front fender. He appeared to be watching Officer Black.

  “Dennis, are you all right?” Estelle asked, and as she stepped closer she saw that the Expedition’s windshield had been one of the targets. Something had exploded on the glass in front of the driver, and the parking lot lights glistened on the liquid that had splashed across the glass, hood, and fender. From several paces away, she could smell the beer.

  “Yeah,” he said, but sounded far more subdued than he had before leaving the Sheriff’s Department to respond to the call. Just beyond the Expedition’s front wheel on the street side, she saw the neck portion of a broken beer bottle. Fresh liquid puddle around it. A large sunburst of cracks scarred the windshield.

  “What happened?” She stepped close so that the deputy wouldn’t need to raise his voice. Everyone in the parking lot was on his or her feet, and there was one officer with each group. Estelle focused her attention on Collins. He turned his back on the group with Black, and Estelle saw complete defeat on the young man’s face. The deputy, just turned twenty-five and the department’s most recent academy graduate, normally was not at a loss for words. He enjoyed the day shift, was adept at working with the media, and coordinated nearly all of the department’s efforts in the various public schools. He never complained when overtime, or covering another deputy’s shift, extended his workday, as it had now.

  “As I came down the s
treet, I could see those folks were over there by the Volvo getting gas,” he said, and then took a deep breath before continuing his recitation. “Bernie Pollis was standing in the doorway of the store, and those punks…” He turned to nod toward the group corralled by Officer Black. “They were gathered around the Lexus. I drove wide to give myself some time to look the situation over, and then turned into the parking lot. That’s when there was an explosion, and my windshield went opaque. My first thought was that someone had fired a shot at me. A little speck of glass winged off the steering wheel and hit the back of my hand.” He held up his hand. “It’s nothing.”

  Estelle looked at his hand, then turned and examined the windshield. The bottle had been an impressive shot, fired by someone with a better than average throwing arm.

  She turned back to the deputy, whose story didn’t jibe with the expression on his face. “And then?”

  “I bailed out of the unit, and I don’t even remember doing it, but I drew my weapon. I had to have done it as I was sliding out of the unit.” Estelle glanced down and saw that the large automatic was holstered-hammer cocked, safety on, in exactly the condition that the deputy had been trained to carry it.

  She held up a hand to stop the flow of words, a well of dread already rising in her gut. “Slow down,” she ordered. “Is anyone else here injured?” She saw the woman across the parking lot wave off Torrez’s attempts at first aid. “What’s going on over there?”

  “I think she cracked her head on the trunk lid,” Collins said morosely. “That’s what I think happened, anyway. The bullet didn’t hit her.”

  “You fired a shot?” She glanced across at Black, who now had the five young people sitting along the sidewalk beside the store.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Collins said. “That’s what I was saying. I got out of the unit, saw that it was just a bunch of kids over by the store, and probably not an armed robbery or something. Then I saw the glass scattered all over the place and smelled the beer. I heard another vehicle, and that’s when Rick Black pulled in. I holstered the weapon. I mean, I went to holster it, but I guess I fumbled it. I dropped the gun.”