The Fourth Time is Murder

by Steven F Havill

  “What?”

  “This happened Friday night?”

  “That’s when the wreck was found.”

  “Oh, my God,” Irene said again, a hand going to her mouth. “I wonder if CJ even knows?” She shook her head. “You know, I haven’t seen them since semester break. I mean, she and I weren’t roommates or best friends or anything like that. We just shared a lab space in that bones class. She hated the work more than I did. She wasn’t sure if she was going to come back for the spring semester. I guess she didn’t. But still…”

  “Do you happen to know her full name? We’ll make sure she’s informed.”

  “CJ Vallejos.” Irene’s brow furrowed. “She told me once what the ‘CJ’ stood for, but I don’t remember now. She lived off campus. Maybe she and Chris weren’t even still going together, I don’t know. But still…”

  “Did you get to know her pretty well during the course of the semester?”

  “Well, you know. She was my lab partner, and we talked about this and that. I didn’t cut class as much as she did, but…” And she made a resigned face. “Some of the guys can get away with that. I never could.”

  Estelle took a deep breath, letting her insides settle. A whirl of questions crowded her mind, but the door had been opened. At this early stage, the last thing she wanted was Irene Salas on the cell phone, back to Las Cruces, breaking the tragic news to college friends.

  “So, you’re going to fix up the Jeep?” Estelle asked Danny, and he brightened at the change of subject.

  “I think maybe,” he said. “First thing is to find a tire that fits.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you guys to do that,” Estelle said. “Irene, it’s great that you were able to visit Serafina today. She’s so pleased.”

  “I really like coming back here,” Irene said. “I wish I could talk Mom out of her love affair with Phoenix. It’d be so great for her to move back here and just…relax, you know?”

  “Not everyone shares our enthusiasm for the tiny crossroads,” Estelle laughed.

  “Thank heavens,” Irene said. “Regál doesn’t need a box store.” She reached out and took Estelle’s hand. “Or any kind of store, for that matter. I’m glad you stopped by. Say hello to the sheriff. The last time we talked, he was just a deputy, and he was writing me a traffic ticket.”

  “Lead foot,” Danny muttered, and he shook hands with Estelle, his grip firm and grimy.

  The undersheriff made her way back to the car, forcing her pace to remain at a casual amble. She could tell by the writer’s posture that she was primed with questions, but Estelle held up a hand. “Give me some time to think,” she said.

  The “time to think” lasted about twelve minutes, just long enough for them to shoot over the pass and take the switchbacks down the back side. As they flashed by the Broken Spur, Estelle reached for her phone. Gayle Torrez answered promptly, having relieved the weary Brent Sutherland.

  “Gayle, I’m ETA about twenty minutes. I know it’s Sunday, but I need Melinda Torrez to meet me at the MVD office as soon as she can.”

  “She’s home, I think,” Gayle replied. “Do you want me to have her give you a call?”

  “Actually, no. I really need the MVD computer.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If he’s not in the middle of anything, you might have Bobby meet me there as well.”

  “Right at the MVD office?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Gayle.” She put the phone down, and Madelyn Bolles waited for a moment before raising one hand, like an elementary school student asking permission.

  “Can I ask now?” she said.

  “Sure,” Estelle said.

  “What happened back there?”

  The undersheriff looked at Madelyn for a brief second as they charged northbound.

  “I found out how the name of a reclusive widow in a tiny village like Regál gets on the list,” the undersheriff said. She didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know that the needle was posted close enough to 100 to make any passenger nervous. “Now we see how quickly we can open some other doors.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “It takes a little bit,” Melinda Torrez said cheerfully. She turned away from the screen just far enough that she could see Estelle out of the corner of her eye. “Do I really want to know what’s going on? Do I want to have something really creative to tell the computer nerds in Santa Fe when they monitor my system and see that I opened up on a Sunday?”

  “This all stems from Friday night’s crash down on the pass,” Estelle said. “A nasty turn.”

  “Oh my, that,” Melinda said, and shook her head sadly.

  “There’s a considerable flight risk,” the undersheriff said. “Otherwise I’d take the chance and wait for tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah,” Melinda said, and nodded. She smiled and leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest as she regarded the magazine writer. There was little extra room in the crowded office, a tiny facility that rented space from the U.S. Post Office, and both Madelyn and Estelle waited at the counter as if they were in line to renew their car registrations.

  When she had introduced the writer to the sheriff’s sister, Estelle had seen the instant magnetism, that uncommon attraction that occurs when two people meet and instantly like each other.

  “How long are you in town for, Madelyn?” Melinda asked.

  “You know, I’m not sure. When I drove up here, I had all these visions of pastoral peace and quiet…you know, the aroma of chiles roasting and piñon burning.”

  Melinda laughed. “And now look at the mess Estelle and my brother have landed you in. What will the rest of the world think of us.”

  “I may have to go on vacation in some quiet inner city somewhere to recover,” Madelyn said.

  “Hey, take me with you,” Melinda said, raising a black eyebrow. She was obviously her brother’s sister, cast in the same Torrez mold, with a family resemblance that had once prompted Bill Gastner to remark, “Yep, they threw away the mold after they made Rafael, Elsa, Bobby, Melinda, Scotty, MaryAnne, Tiffany…” And he could continue on and name all nine of Rafael and Elsa’s children—the heart of an enormous extended family that virtually took over MacArthur Street in Posadas when the family had a reunion.

  What Melinda lacked, Estelle reflected, was the wonderfully dour, deadpan expression that her older brother had perfected as his substitute for charm. Four years younger than the sheriff, unmarried, dedicated totally to her enormous family, “Auntie Melinda” had always impressed Estelle as the very definition of contentment. As supervisor of the local Motor Vehicle Department office, she was adept at guiding folks through the sometimes frustrating labyrinth of state vehicle laws.

  A truck idled to the curb, and Melinda nodded, recognizing her brother’s vehicle. “Don’t say that I said so, but he was taking a nap. Here you all are working and he’s napping.” She leaned forward as something appeared on the screen, then quickly tapped in data. She relaxed back again as the computer went on digesting. “You’ll have to turn the key to let him in. I locked it.” Estelle stepped to the door and twisted the lock.

  “Hey,” the sheriff said, and let a nod to Madelyn and his sister suffice.

  “How’s the nap?” Melinda asked, and Torrez’s instant frown was dark.

  “How do you know if I was nappin’ or not,” he said.

  “’Cause Gayle said you were going to,” Melinda shot back. “And if Gayle says it, it’s true.”

  “She said I was going to. Don’t mean I got to, thanks to you guys.”

  “Okay,” Melinda said, and held up both hands. “We’re up and running. Who needs a new license first?” Her expression turned serious. “What do we need to know that doesn’t require a court order, which you don’t have.”

  “I hav
e a name,” Estelle said. “I need to know what vehicles are registered to her. And I need her last known address. CJ Vallejos.” She spelled the name, and both she and Melinda finished at the same time.

  “Well, now,” Melinda said, leaning back again. “I need something to narrow this down. There’s a whole city of Vallejoses in the state, and when I scroll down, let me see,” and she ran a finger down the screen. “Not a single CJ. Let’s roam a bit farther. How about Constance Vallejos?” She looked up at Estelle.

  “Maybe. She would be in her early twenties,” Estelle replied. “Certainly no more than thirty. The last residence we know of is in Las Cruces.”

  “Ah. That helps.” Melinda leaned an elbow on the computer console and waited as the cursor searched.

  “Do we have license photos?”

  “Sure we do.” Melinda reached out and pivoted the computer screen so Estelle could see it by leaning over the counter. “This is Ms. Constance. Her DOB is five five eighty-two. That makes her twenty-five, coming up on twenty-six.”

  “I don’t think so.” The photo showed a homely young woman whose fleshy, teardrop-shaped face glared into the camera. The rims of her tiny granny glasses nestled grooves into her heavy cheeks. The photo showed the top swell of wide shoulders.…No stretch of the imagination could call this woman willowy.

  “Well, then,” Melinda said. “In the same pew, we have Consuela Juanita Vallejos. That’s a nice, old-fashioned name, isn’t it. Ms. Consuela Juanita…” She looked up at Estelle. “CJ for short, maybe? She shows a DOB of eleven nine eighty-four. That makes her twenty-three come November.”

  Estelle’s heart jumped. It took a special kind of composure to look beautiful in a driver’s license photo, but Consuela Juanita Vallejos managed to do it. The young woman had cocked her head at the last moment so her face avoided that pasted-on look of Post Office bulletin board photos. Long black hair pulled back, her face finely sculpted, she had allowed the hint of a smile to touch her full lips.

  “I see a light,” Melinda said, smiling at Estelle.

  “Who the hell is this?” Torrez asked.

  “It could be one of Irene Salas’ classmates at State,” Estelle replied. “A lab partner, in fact.”

  “Irene give you a description?”

  “Of sorts. This one fits enough that I need to run it down to Irene to make sure. Melinda, may I have a copy?”

  “Um…,” Melinda said, thinking. Then she shrugged. “What the hell. I’ll give you the photo without all the personal data. How’s that?”

  “That’ll work as long as we can have her address,” Estelle said. “And that,” she said, pointing at the phone directory. While the photo printed, she found Serafina Roybal’s number and dialed, stepping away from the counter. “Come on,” she said, waiting as the ring count mounted. After eighteen, the phone connected with a clatter. Serafina’s voice was distant and sounded fragile.

  “Hello?”

  “Serafina? This is Estelle Guzman bothering you again.”

  “Yes, dear. How nice.”

  “I need to ask you…has Irene come back from the Riveras’ yet?”

  “Well, you know, I think they’re outside working on my old car. Would you like to speak with her?”

  “If that’s possible, yes.”

  “Let me call her.”

  “Take your time, Serafina.”

  “Oh,” and the old woman chuckled. “That’s a certainty.”

  As Estelle waited, she looked across at the others. “We need Irene to make a positive ID before we do anything else,” she said. “If this isn’t the girl, we’re back to square one.”

  The sheriff raised one hand. “I got some preliminaries from Mears, too,” he said. Estelle nodded, and in the background over the phone she could hear voices.

  “This is Irene,” a strong voice on the phone said.

  “Irene, this is Estelle Guzman again. Look, I hate to keep bugging you on your holiday, but I have another photo I need you to look at. Will you be at your grandma’s for a while longer?”

  “Sure, I guess.” She didn’t sound overly enthusiastic at the prospect of more morgue shots. “You bet. I wasn’t going back to Cruces until morning.”

  “Perfecto. It should be about thirty minutes, then.”

  “I’ll probably be back over at the shop,” Irene said. “There or here.”

  “I’ll find you. While I’m at it, do you have a cell?”

  “Oh, sure. You want that number?”

  “Yes. It’s hard for Serafina to get to the phone.” Estelle jotted down the number. “Thanks.”

  She snapped the phone shut. “Okay.” She stepped back to the counter. “Bobby, I’ve been beating this same horse to death. I just keep circling around to the notion of how Serafina Roybal’s name was chosen for this sweepstakes thing. I know, I know…we’re probably all on every list in the world. But Chris Marsh was up to something, and he knew where she was—where Joe and Lucinda were, too. This is the first link.” She held up the photo. “Almost certainly, Irene would have talked to this girl about Serafina. She and CJ Vallejos were partners in an anthro class during the fall semester.”

  “You got something else?” Torrez asked, openly dubious.

  “We’ll see. Irene remembers that Chris Marsh came by that anthro class from time to time to pick up his girlfriend.” Melinda handed her a printout of the photo. “Thanks. She describes CJ as looking about like this.” She passed the photo to the sheriff.

  “And?” Torrez said, still unimpressed.

  “Can you tell me what vehicles this one has registered?” Estelle asked.

  “Most recent is a 2007 Ford Mustang, color blue. License…oh, this is cute. ‘MY PONY.’”

  “Ay,” Estelle whispered. “There we go. She did buy it.”

  “‘There we go’ what?” Torrez said.

  “That jibes with what Marsh’s neighbors at the trailer park told Tony. This is the girlfriend. She’s got to be.” She read the address. “Off campus, for sure. I want Irene to confirm this photo,” she said.

  “Betty Contreras has one of those phone-fax-copier thingies,” Melinda said. “Might be quicker than driving all the way back down to Regál.”

  “That’s an idea, but it’d take almost as much time to include Betty in the loop as not. Besides, I need to see Irene Salas face-to-face when she IDs the picture.”

  “Mears finished dusting the beer can, by the way,” the sheriff said. “He was goin’ over to the county boneyard to finish with the truck. I’ll give him a heads-up.”

  “We have to have that,” Estelle agreed. “By itself, this is nothing.” She looked at the photo. “Just because she was Chris Marsh’s girlfriend for a while doesn’t mean she had any other connection with what he had going on. But if her prints are on the beer can, then that puts her at the scene of the accident.”

  “Abeyta’s still over there? In Cruces?” Torrez asked.

  “Yes. He was scouting car dealers.” Estelle leaned toward Melinda. “One more tiny little thing?”

  “Oh, here we go,” Melinda said. “My retirement out the window.” She smiled. “What?”

  “Did she buy the Mustang from a local dealer?”

  Melinda made a face and scrutinized the computer screen. “Just a sec.” In a moment, she sat back. “The dealer code is New Mexico.”

  “And?”

  “Sonoraland Ford, Lincoln, Mercury. You need the address?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Why not,” Melinda said, and read it off.

  “We’ll need this down the road, maybe,” Estelle said with satisfaction. “Right now, Tony needs to hotfoot it over to the last known address.”

  “From a distance,” Torrez said. “When you talk to him, make sure he don’t go runnin’ in there
by himself. I’ll tell him the same thing.”

  “Nobody does anything, yet,” Estelle replied.

  “But you’re thinkin’ that way,” Torrez said. He turned to his sister. “Any wants or warrants?”

  “Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.”

  “Okay,” the sheriff said. “One step at a time. You’re headed back to Regál to ID this picture. If we get a hit there, then we got enough cause to question this Vallejos.…Come up with a print match from something from the crash site and that’s it. I’m going to head that way after I talk with Mears and see what else he’s got. Lemme know.” He rapped the counter with his knuckle. “Thanks,” he said to his sister.

  “Wow,” Madelyn said as she settled into the car once more. The sheriff had already left, his truck trailing blue smoke. “I was watching your face when the young woman’s face came up on the screen.”

  Estelle didn’t reply. She had been calculating the time it would take Bobby Torrez to drive to the boneyard to talk with Sergeant Tom Mears, and then on to Las Cruces, an hour away even flying low. She hadn’t told Irene what photo needed to be identified, and that was good. Still, there had been enough questions asked about the accident victim, Chris Marsh, and his girlfriend, Consuela Juanita Vallejos, that Irene Salas, a member of the modern cell phone generation, might be prompted to make a quick telephone call. Even if done in compassionate innocence, it would be all the tip-off needed.

  If she was home in Las Cruces, CJ Vallejos was half an hour, maybe an hour, from the border crossing at El Paso. It was conceivable that she was already waiting in line.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Where are you now?”

  The telephone connection was scratchy, and it sounded as if Deputy Tony Abeyta was down in the bottom of a large tank, his voice both faint and echoing.

  “I’m at Lawson Brothers Ford,” the deputy said. “The sales manager doesn’t remember anything about a blue Mustang, but he’s checkin’ their records for me.”

  “Don’t bother. The MVD says that the car came from Sonoraland Ford. I have a name for you,” Estelle said. “Consuela Juanita Vallejos.” She spelled the first name. “She goes by ‘CJ.’”