Statute of Limitations pc-13

by Steven F Havill

“Hank, sir?”

  “Hank Sisneros.” He laughed again. “He used to live over that way, I guess. He asked if he could use the truck, and with the holiday and all, I thought, ‘What the hell.’ No big deal.”

  “Ah.”

  “But you said the truck’s abandoned? I don’t understand what that’s all about.”

  “Well, parked, sir. At a local business that’s closed. No driver.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. He’ll turn up, I guess. Old Hank, he likes the bottle. You might check one of the watering holes.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem.” Oh yes, it’s a problem, Estelle thought. “You know what he looks like, dontcha?” Wilcox said. “He’s short, kinda wiry. Mexican fella, I think. No wetback, though.”

  “An older man?”

  “Well,” and Wilcox laughed again. “That depends on your point of view, Sheriff. I would guess that he’s about fifty-five. I don’t consider that to be particularly old anymore. You sound like you might, though.”

  “Thanks for your help, sir.”

  “No problem. I guess the good news is that if he’s wrapped himself around a bottle somewhere, at least he isn’t driving my truck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you run into him, tell him to bring my truck the hell back here. We got jobs to do in the morning.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.” Estelle switched off and stood quietly beside the truck. She reached up with her left hand to rub the back of her neck, and realized the odd feeling was the hair on the nape of her neck standing erect.

  Her heart thumping in her ears, she returned to the car and looked through her log. On Friday night, Tony Abeyta and Jackie Taber were the deputies who had been assigned to talk with the rest of the motel’s patrons.

  She punched in Jackie Taber’s number, and the deputy answered promptly.

  “Jackie,” Estelle said. “On Friday night, when you and Tony talked with the other patrons at the motel? I need to know about the owner of the white contractor’s truck that was parked there.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, forcing her memory. “Willis’s van, then the sports car, and the white truck. Down a few spaces.”

  “Nobody was in that room,” Jackie replied. She hesitated. “We didn’t talk to ’em.”

  “No one there, but the truck was?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you remember how the plate came back?”

  “Just a sec.” Estelle could hear the rustle of paper. “The tag was November Thomas Charlie seven one one. Appears on a white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton. Registered to Bruce Wilcox out of Deming.”

  “Ay, he was there,” Estelle whispered.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Hank Sisneros was driving that truck,” Estelle said. “I’ve got it over here in the pharmacy parking lot. Just the truck. No Sisneros.”

  “I’m on my way,” Jackie said.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on,” Estelle said. She could hear the sound of the deputy’s vehicle in the background. “But I think I’ve got an idea. Silent approach, Jackie. Stop at the trailer park on Escondido. Okay? He doesn’t know we’re here, and I don’t want him to know.”

  “Copy that. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  What was now the parking lot of the clinic had formerly been a tangle of choked undergrowth. Guadalupe Trail curved around the five acres that had been Bill Gastner’s backyard, but now asphalt replaced the stunted oak, thistle, New Mexico olive, and ragged juniper. A narrow hedge of those unruly plants, perhaps fifty feet wide, separated the back border of the parking lot from the weeds around what had once been Gastner’s flagstone back patio-before he had stopped trying to keep up with the invasion.

  Estelle stood between her county car and the plumber’s truck, surveying the parking lot, listening to the gentle breeze and the occasional hiss of traffic on the interstate a block to the north. Through the hedge, Estelle could see the faint glow from Gastner’s kitchen window. She dialed dispatch again.

  “Ernie, I’ll be out of the car at Gastner’s for a few minutes. Is Tom clear yet?”

  “He is. He’s inbound now.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to him. You’ll hear him say that he’s headed to Regál for a few minutes. Just acknowledge that, Ernie.”

  Estelle clicked off and redialed. In a moment, Deputy Tom Pasquale responded.

  “Tomás, this is Estelle. How far south are you?”

  “About four miles, ma’am.”

  “Okay. Expedite north, but silent approach. I’m at Bill Gastner’s, and I think something might be going on. I’m not sure what. When you pull into Guadalupe, don’t turn down Escondido, all right? I don’t want any extra traffic around Bill’s house. Just wait by the driveway of the trailer court on Guadalupe. Jackie’s already there.”

  “Got it.”

  “And you need to radio dispatch and tell Ernie that you’re headed toward Regál.”

  There was a second or two of silence. “You lost me,” the deputy said.

  “If someone has a scanner, I don’t want them knowing where you are, Tomás.”

  “Oh, sure. Got it.”

  Estelle turned off her phone and slipped it in her jacket pocket. Bill Gastner did have a scanner in his kitchen, although he rarely turned it on. It served as a handy flat surface to cover with pocket junk. Someone else might find it handy indeed. If Hank Sisneros had come to Mike’s apartment and either cajoled or coerced the young deputy to go with him to Gastner’s, knowing there was a flood of cops outside wasn’t going to help matters.

  Skirting the back wall of the clinic, she cut across to the east side of the parking lot, well away from the sodium vapor light near the clinic’s back door, staying in the dark shadows along the thicket. The vegetation was musty, and once she heard the rustle of something in the dead leaves. She wanted badly to turn on her flashlight to make sure that she wasn’t about to stumble over a skunk, but resisted the impulse. The thick vegetation blocked whatever light might have strayed into the thicket from the quickly darkening sky.

  She followed the perimeter of the parking lot until she was directly behind Bill Gastner’s house, the kitchen window now clearly visible as a yellowish patch through the brush. She stopped. A hundred times, she had either looked out through that kitchen window, or stood on the back patio, or even walked through the thickets. Now, with only the parking lot light behind her and the faint light from the kitchen in her eyes, the fifty feet between her and the house was a formidable barrier.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on what she remembered. Off to the left of the kitchen window was an enormous cottonwood, its limbs lopped and pruned over the years so that when one dropped it wouldn’t crash through the roof of the house.

  Taking a deep breath, she started toward that tree, one easy step at a time. She felt the ground ahead of her with the toe of her shoe, slipping each footstep into the dry vegetation.

  The cottonwood loomed ahead of her, and she reached out a hand, touching its rough bark, reconnecting her balance with the sturdy, friendly trunk. She waited until her breathing eased and her pulse slowed. A dozen paces away, the back wall of the old adobe was a black shape against the tree-laced evening sky. Through the kitchen window, bare of curtains, she could see the top of the refrigerator and the wall cabinets beside it.

  Like an old Mexican fortress, the adobe’s windows were all small and set high-no picture windows that opened the house and its occupants to view from the outside world. Keeping her steps short, Estelle moved across the patio, staying out of the light from the window. She rested against the wall of the house, one hand spread on the rough adobe as if taking its pulse. A loud thump from inside the house jerked her body bowstring tight. She could hear what might have been voices, but the thick walls were effective insulation.

  Still holding her breath, she moved closer to the kitchen window, keeping her hand in co
ntact with the wall. Her left foot touched what she hoped was a loosely coiled garden hose, and she hesitated, then felt her way around the tangle. She ducked under the window, turned, and straightened up slowly, staying out of the light.

  To the right of the kitchen was a laundry room that Gastner never used, preferring instead to let Kealey’s Kleaners take care of his needs. That door was routinely closed. To the left, the kitchen opened into a large, formal dining room through an open-topped island-the countertop of which was the only table that the old man ever used. The dining-room table, a huge Mexican antique with enormously ornate carvings, could seat a dozen people-and most of the time was covered in a mess of newspapers, magazines, books, and mail, topped off with whatever hat Gastner might have been wearing last.

  Beyond the dining room, a sunken six-sided living room and library was insulated with stuffed bookshelves.

  Estelle sucked in a sharp breath. By standing on her tiptoes, she could see that half of the books were a mess, some lying open on the shelves, obviously many on the floor. The lampshade of the antique floor lamp hung bent and askew. She heard another loud thump, this time followed by a bellow of rage, and a broad back heaved into view, erupting up from in front of the leather sofa. Arms flailed, and Estelle saw a hand holding a pistol clamped in a grip that covered all but the last inch or two of the weapon’s barrel.

  Drawing her own.45, she reached out and touched the knob on the back door. The door was closed, but one of the small panes was broken, the door’s locks unsecured.

  The kitchen door opened inward, and she stayed close to the jamb. Another crash and a curse came from the living room. So focused were the two combatants that they took no notice of Estelle’s entrance. She quickly scanned the room and saw no one else.

  Bill Gastner’s face was nearly purple from exertion, his teeth clenched as he struggled with a smaller, more slightly built man. They were wedged in the narrow space between the leather sofa and the huge, slate table, and Gastner was using his considerable weight to advantage. Both men were slippery with blood, but despite the flailing limbs, kicks, and punches, Gastner was obviously concentrating on only one thing-control of the weapon.

  On his back on the floor, the man had his arm hooked around Gastner’s neck, hand on the older man’s chin as if he could twist the retired sheriff’s head backward. The muscles of Gastner’s shoulders bulged with effort, and the two men lay quiet for a moment, breath coming in rasping gasps.

  As Estelle moved across the kitchen, Gastner couldn’t see her, but his assailant could. With a violent wrench, he twisted, driving a sharp elbow into the side of the retired sheriff’s head. At the same time, he jerked his arms downward, driving Gastner’s wrists into the sharp edge of the table. Jerking free with one hand at the same time that he elbowed Gastner’s face again, he almost flung the gun toward Estelle as he yanked the trigger.

  The automatic roared and the heavy slug caught the edge of the countertop, exploding upward in a shower of Formica and chipboard fragments. Stung in a dozen places by the shrapnel, Estelle dodged backward. The man brought the gun down hard on Gastner’s head, rolled sideways, and slithered out from the cover of the table.

  Estelle used the corner of the refrigerator to steady her own weapon, and as soon as the man dove out from between the sofa and the table, away from Gastner’s humped form, she squeezed the trigger. Crouched and scrambling for his balance, trying to focus on the new threat, the man was a moving, dodging target. The.45 round took the man in the side of his right knee, buckling it out from under him. He fell with a crash, cursing, twisting toward her.

  Just a hundredth part of a second from pulling a second shot, Estelle saw Gastner’s large form materialize from the left. He crabbed the two steps on his hands and knees, reaching the man just as his assailant swung the gun to cover him.

  Gastner’s huge paw enveloped the automatic, and for a heartbeat, Estelle expected to hear another shot, even as she hurtled across the kitchen, down the steps, and across the living room.

  She saw her opening. Gastner had both hands on the gun, twisting it and the hand that held it down toward the floor, the muzzle down and away, the barrel wrenched back out of battery so the pistol couldn’t fire. The man’s other hand was wrapped around Gastner’s head. Things froze for a moment, and she tore her cuffs off the back of her belt and with a quick stab, slammed them around the man’s right wrist. Using the other half of the cuffs and the chain connector as a wrench, she twisted hard, driving the steel deep into the man’s wrist. At the same time, she dropped her left knee into the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

  He bellowed something incomprehensible just before her driving knee crushed off his wind and blood supply. He thrashed, disregarding the bite of the handcuffs on the one wrist, or Gastner’s powerful twisting on the other. One leg lashed out, the boot coming down hard on the floor in punctuation to his cries.

  Estelle shoved the stubby barrel of her own.45 into the man’s right eye.

  “Drop the gun.” She jabbed the barrel so hard blood welled up from his lacerated eyebrow. “Drop it or I’m going to spread your brains all over the floor.”

  Estelle could feel the man’s body freeze, and she twitched the gun barrel again. “I mean it. Drop it.”

  “I got it,” Gastner grunted, and the pistol flew across the room.

  “Let go of him,” Estelle commanded, and she twisted the cuffs again. The man’s hand opened, and Gastner shook his head free. One of Gastner’s burly arms was wrapped around the man’s elbow, dislocating it forward while the other crushed his thumb backward.

  Close as she was, Estelle could smell the liquor, heavy on the man’s breath.

  “Give me the other cuffs,” Gastner panted.

  “You’re breakin’ my arm,” the man squealed as Estelle backed a little of her weight off his neck, and he tried to writhe away from the pain. With one of Gastner’s legs braced and driving his considerable weight downward, there was nowhere the man could go.

  “We’ll break more than that, you son-of-a-bitch,” Gastner panted. With one hand still locked around the man’s thumb, he twisted even harder, then released the elbow long enough to take the cuffs Estelle thrust toward him. He snapped them around the man’s other wrist. “Gimme that.” He pushed himself up a little, reached around with surprising agility, and grabbed the other set of cuffs that secured the man’s right arm. Pulling hard, he brought the man’s wrists together and snapped the open cuff home.

  “My eye,” the man whimpered. “My knee.”

  “Lucky you still got a head,” Gastner said. “Let’s get me up.” Once more on his feet, drawing deep breaths, he shook his head at Estelle. “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a nylon?” He took the long nylon security tie from her. “Shoot him if he moves,” he said, and he made sure that Estelle had a tight grip on the cuffs being used as a tether.

  After sucking in air for a moment, Gastner pushed himself away, turning just enough that he could grab first one ankle and then another, pinning the man’s legs with his own. In a moment, the man was hobbled. Gastner stood up and wiped his face.

  “You okay?” he asked Estelle. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “My eye,” the man said again, this time with considerably less fight in his tone.

  “You’ll get over it,” Estelle said, not changing position. She pulled the.45 away, but just far enough that, when the man’s vision cleared, the yawning muzzle would fill his whole universe. “Sir, will you take the radio? Tom and Jackie are just around the corner.”

  Gastner reached down and pulled the hand-held out of the holster at the small of Estelle’s back.

  “Three oh two,” he snapped. “Officer needs assistance at Gastner’s. The front door is unlocked. And ten fifty-five. Two down.”

  “Three oh two,” Pasquale responded instantly. “ETA ten seconds.”

  That brought an attempt at a smile from Gastner, but his exp
ression immediately fell serious. “Mike’s down the hall,” he said, and stepped away, retrieving the automatic. “This is his gun.” He looked at it with disgust, then popped out the magazine and jacked the loaded round out of the chamber. For just a moment, he glared at his prostrate attacker. “And this is Hank Sisneros,” he said. “Shoulda just drowned him with the rest of the kittens long, long ago.”

  Estelle hadn’t seen much resemblance between the man on the floor, covered with blood and with a couple of extremities pointing the wrong way, and the man in the instant photo tacked to the accident report in Hank Sisneros’s file-a man standing beside the old, errant dump truck, looking foolish.

  “I’ll see what I can do for Mike,” Gastner said. “You all right?”

  “Just fine,” Estelle said. “We’re comfortable,” she added, and tapped her prisoner’s eyebrow with the muzzle of the.45. “Aren’t we? You’re getting more of a chance than you gave Janet.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when the front door burst open and Deputy Thomas Pasquale entered, gun drawn. He moved quickly to his left, out of the doorway.

  “Over here,” Estelle said. She moved back, lifting her knee but not relaxing her grip on the handcuffs. Pasquale holstered his own weapon and stepped around the table. Grabbing the man by the cuffs as Estelle moved him away, Pasquale turned him on his side, and then, with one hand on the cuffs and the other on the man’s belt, dragged him out away from the furniture. At the same time, Estelle heard someone at the kitchen door. Deputy Jackie Taber appeared, weapon ready.

  Moving so deftly and quickly that the man only had time to cough out the restriction in his throat, Pasquale recuffed him with his hands behind his back. The deputy handed the extra set of cuffs to Estelle. “Christ, what’d you do to his knee?”

  “I put a.45 through it,” Estelle said. “Maybe he’s lucky I’m not used to the new gun yet. And you probably shouldn’t move him any more than you have to until the EMTs get here.”

  “Shoulda aimed for his head,” Pasquale said.

  “I wanted to be able to hear what he has to say,” Estelle said. “First, we need to tend to Mike.”