A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  Torrez shrugged and pushed himself away from the truck as Deputy Pasquale approached. He hitched up his belt. “But none on the gun. None. Zero. Nada. ”

  Estelle regarded the sheriff silently.

  “Somebody made a dumb mistake,” the sheriff said. “Maybe the shooter made some others, too.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s late. First thing in the morning, let’s take a look. That’ll give Mears time to finish processing everything anyway. And Alan might have something for us.”

  Estelle nodded.

  “I’ll give you a lift back home.”

  Estelle took a deep breath. “Actually, Bobby, I’d like to walk.”

  “Walk?” Torrez sounded as if the idea were preposterous.

  She nodded. “A little stroll would suit my nerves just fine.” She turned to Gastner. “Are you up for that, sir?”

  “Oh, certainly,” the older man said without hesitation. “I’m a great hiker. We all know that.”

  A few minutes later, as they watched Pasquale’s unit pull away followed by the village car, Estelle breathed a loud sigh of relief. “You just never know,” she said. Torrez had vanished in the darkness, finding his way through the backyard to his truck. She fished the small cell phone out of her pocket, and as they passed under the next streetlight, she dialed. Francis Guzman answered on the first ring.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the first block or so, they walked in companionable silence. Estelle linked her arm through Gastner’s and slowed her pace to match his amble. His head bobbed as he worked to keep the shadow of the sidewalk in focus through his bifocals. As they moved out of the aura of each streetlight, his steps became more deliberate, as if he were sinking his feet through murky water, trying to find the bottom of the river crossing.

  Their route through the neighborhoods north of Bustos Avenue paralleled that main drag. Each house was marked with the glow of a television, and occasionally Estelle heard indistinct voices through an open window. The symphony of dogs moved with them, a new one taking up the barking as they walked out of range of the last.

  “You did a good job with Kenderman,” Gastner said as they stepped off the Fifth Street curb.

  “I don’t remember what I said,” Estelle replied. “All I remember is that I was furious when he came to my house and I was still furious with him when I saw him standing in the corner of that bedroom, holding Ryan.”

  “Hmm,” Gastner murmured, sounding amused. “You met the other brother, too, I understand.”

  “I don’t think I like him too much. He’s a young man who’s really full of himself, as my mother would say.”

  “I would imagine there are several folks in Posadas who are pleased that Richard decided to move to Las Cruces,” Gastner said.

  “He needs to stay there, too.”

  Gastner chuckled. “All kinds,” he said. “All kinds.” He sighed heavily. “I knew George Enriquez pretty well,” he said, “speaking of all kinds. He never seemed like the suicidal type, whatever type that is.”

  “It wasn’t suicide, sir.”

  “That’s what the chief tells me. Pretty clumsy attempt to mislead the cops, then.”

  “That’s not unusual, sir.”

  “No indeed.”

  “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “About George? He’s been selling insurance in Posadas for more than two decades. He’s a fixture.” He shrugged and grunted as they stepped up on a curb. “Was a fixture, anyway. George is a backbone kind of guy, you know what I mean?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was the backbone of every service club he joined. Hell, he’d been after me to join one or another for years. Every fund-raiser, there’s old George. You go to a high-school game, and there he is in the concession booth that the Knights of whoever runs. He wasn’t into politics as such. I mean, he never ran for office, except for a turn or two on the school board. Never on the village board, never a county commissioner. That wasn’t his style. But now…” and hesitated while they navigated around a camper that was blocking the sidewalk, “he just about owned the chamber of commerce. That was his kingdom.”

  “He’s talked to Francis about that,” Estelle said. “Francis and Alan hadn’t even opened the clinic for their first patient when an entourage from the chamber were on their doorstep.”

  “And I imagine Georgie was in the lead.”

  “Yes, he was. He recruited Louis.”

  “Louis Herrera? Well, that’s not surprising. A drugstore is a pretty important part of a community. And with you guys opening the one at the clinic, that makes two for Posadas. All the hypochondriacs in town should be in seventh heaven with two pharmacists to pester.”

  “Do you remember Enriquez ever having any trouble with anyone, though?”

  “Enemies, you mean? Nah. Well…not more than the average person who lives in a small town and has to deal with neighbors and customers. There’s always going to be something, you know.”

  Estelle fell silent and after a moment Gastner slowed down so he could look at her. “That’s what you need to find, sweetheart,” he said. “That ‘something.’ That little ‘something’ that each one of us has…some more than others, of course.”

  He looked down the deserted stretch of Eighth Street, pausing on the curb. “With George Enriquez, I wouldn’t even hazard a guess about where to start to find that ‘something.’ As far as I know, he and Connie got along all right-at least no shouting matches out in the street in the wee hours of the morning. They’ve been married a long time, not that that means anything, either. Georgie had a good business going with the insurance agency, and if a few folks didn’t actually have formal policies, well,” and he shrugged, “that’s not the end of the earth. He never shafted anyone out of any money when it came to paying claims.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, sir,” Estelle said, amused.

  “Well,” Gastner said, shrugging again, “there’s the school that says ‘no complaint, no crime.’ You’ve heard that one.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Now, obviously, given enough time, there would have been a complaint, unless George was prepared to cover a whopper of a loss. Maybe he was; I don’t know. But I can imagine his rationale. He was working as if he were the parent insurance company. Hell, why pass on all that premium money when he could just go into business for himself? I’m not saying that’s right or legal, mind you. I’m just saying I can understand it. And that’s the one big chink that I can think of in old Georgie’s clean profile. It’s a good place to start.”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because whoever murdered George Enriquez did so in desperation. I don’t think that the killer had time to really think the whole thing through.”

  “They often don’t.”

  “I know, but this one really impresses me as a crime of opportunity. There’s the target, sitting in a chair. The door’s closed, there’s no one watching.” She clapped her hands. “Boom.”

  “Okay. We might wonder how the killer got a hold of George’s revolver. What were they doing, playing show and tell?”

  “I don’t know, Padrino. But that kind of rage is more than just astonishment at finding out that you’ve got a bogus insurance policy, sir. For one thing, if you kill George, you’ve got no way to recover funds. Kiss the money good-bye. Mata la gallina de los huevos de oro, so to speak. You’ve killed that goose and its golden eggs.”

  “So to speak. If you ask me, the place to start is with the murder weapon. That’s what doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, the goddamn thing is a cannon, right? What’s George Enriquez doing with a.41 magnum? Fascination? Infatuation?”

  “He purchased it legally from George Payton four years ago.”

  Gastner looked pained at the mention of one of his closest friends. “Would that George Payton could give you some answers, sweetheart. He can’t tell us why he sold it, and the other George can’t tell us why he bought it. There y
ou go.” He held out both hands. “Except.”

  “Except?”

  “Except the old rule. That’s what Enriquez had, so that’s what he used. Boom.”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to think, anyway. I think about that revolver a lot, sir. And I think about what Enriquez told the district attorney.”

  “And what was that?”

  “According to Schroeder, Enriquez called him on Sunday, looking for a last-minute way to hold off the grand jury. He wanted to meet, and when Schroeder asked why, Enriquez said they should meet because he had information about me that would change the complexion of things. According to Schroeder, Enriquez said, ‘I can give you Guzman.’ He wouldn’t explain what he meant by that.”

  Gastner stopped abruptly. The streetlight winked off the gold rims of his glasses as he regarded Estelle. “Nobody told me about that.”

  “Schroeder told me last night when we were at the motorcycle accident. I don’t think that he’s discussed it with anyone else yet. Bobby doesn’t know.”

  “I can give you Guzman.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Which Guzman? Did he say?”

  Estelle found herself tongue-tied, tripped by her own assumption.

  “You’re thinking that Enriquez meant you?” Gastner asked when she didn’t respond.

  “Yes, I guess I was,” she said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

  Gastner nodded slowly. “He could as easily have been referring to Francis, you know. If all he said was Guzman …”

  “That’s something I can’t even imagine, sir. Even if he meant me, I haven’t a clue what he was talking about. He has no dealings with my husband. Never did.”

  “There has to be a connection,” Gastner said, and this time he took Estelle’s arm, ushering her south along the Twelfth Street sidewalk toward the bridge two blocks ahead of them. “Nobody says something like that without reason. Maybe Enriquez was just desperate and wanted to stall the grand jury. Everybody makes deals all the time, and maybe he figured that the district attorney would do the same thing. He thought that he could buy himself some time.”

  “What kind of connection could there be? I don’t understand that.”

  “There doesn’t have to be one, sweetheart. There only has to be a perceived connection in George Enriquez’s mind. Something he was dwelling on. Some rumor that he thought might work some magic for him.”

  “Rumors?”

  “The lifeblood of a small town, Estelle. You and your hubby are the perfect target. You know that. Don’t be naive.”

  This time it was Estelle who stopped short. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What sorts of things have you heard?” He didn’t reply, and she added, “Sir, I really need to know.”

  “Sweetheart, you can’t open a wonderful facility like the one built in my backyard without making enemies…or at least jealousies. It’s that simple.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “It’s along the lines of ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’ As I’m sure you remember, more than one realtor in Posadas came close to hanging me in effigy when I gave you guys the property behind my house for the clinic. None of them had the opportunity to make a mint off the deal. That’s just one angle of the damn thing. We don’t even need to talk about what bankers probably thought when your hubby’s Aunt Sophia gave him the money to build. And we don’t need to talk about what some folks think about poor Mexicans coming across the border, legally or otherwise, so they can receive treatment…treatment that they might pay for…or not.”

  “That was part of the understanding when Sophia underwrote the idea,” Estelle said.

  “That doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I know it was. You know it was. But…”

  Estelle looked down at the darkened sidewalk, head swimming. “You’re saying that maybe George Enriquez had some connection with my husband’s clinic. Somehow…”

  “It’s a place to start, and no, I didn’t say that George had any connection. But he might have thought there was something there. Maybe something he didn’t understand. He heard one of those wonderful rumors and decided to run with it. What you know for sure is that you have no connection with George or his business dealings.” He laughed gently. “Unless you’re a gangster on the side and I don’t know about it.”

  “No,” Estelle said. “But Francis isn’t either.”

  “Remember what I said,” Gastner said gently.

  “I wish I did.”

  He linked arms with her again. “Perceived is the word to keep in mind, sweetheart. Perceived. Repeat ten times after me.”

  “Perceived.”

  “Right, and that’s just once. You’ve got nine to go. When Georgie Enriquez told our fine district attorney that he could hand over Guzman, it’s conceivable that he meant Francis…that he was trying to make some hay based on one of the creative rumors that he’d heard. And just as likely that he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Ay. This makes me sick.”

  Gastner squeezed her arm affectionately. “Use it as a place to start, sweetheart. But don’t lose sleep over it.”

  “That’s easy to say,” she replied ruefully.

  “Exactly. And maybe that’s why I’m the world’s leading expert on insomnia. I’ll worry about it for both of us.” They crossed the bridge and walked past the broad flanks of the Don Juan de Onate Restaurant.

  “You want to stop for a snack or something?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I need to get home. Come have something at the house. We even have some leftover cake from your birthday.”

  “Pour some green chile over it, and it’s perfect. Have you told Francis, by the way?”

  “About?”

  “I can give you Guzman.”

  “No…I haven’t told him. Not yet.”

  “Then you should.”

  “I know. But he doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now.”

  “He needs to know, sweetheart. Don’t put it off. That’s my fatherly advice for the evening.”

  “Yes, sir.” She grimaced with resignation.

  “That wasn’t a promise,” he said. “That was just an agreement.”

  “Yes, Padrino.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The revolver lay on Sheriff Robert Torrez’s desk, still enshrouded in plastic. Sgt. Tom Mears sat in the sheriff’s swivel chair, head on one fist, writing with a pencil on a yellow legal pad. He reminded Estelle of a kid taking a boring test.

  As she walked into the small office, Mears looked up with an economy of movement. The pencil stopped, his eyes shifted, but that was it.

  “Long night?” Estelle asked. Mears was one of the “denizens of the night,” as Dr. Francis Guzman called them…the deputies who rarely worked day shifts.

  “Very,” he said. “As if we needed something else, last night was National Domestic Dispute Night.” He flashed a tired smile, still not moving his head from its leaning post. “You should see Pasquale negotiate a dispute between a fifteen-year-old pot-head girl and her great aunt, who happens to be the fastest cane in the West.”

  “Cane?”

  “Cane. One of those old, gnarled things made out of briar or whatever.” He dropped the pencil and leaned back in the chair, both hands on the sheriff’s desk. “She about fractured the kid’s skull with it before we got there.” He held up index and thumb an eighth of an inch apart. “She came that close to being zapped with the Tazer.”

  “That might have gotten her attention.”

  “Yup. Then the kid tried to run auntie down with a pickup truck that she didn’t know how to drive, and hit the neighbor’s tree instead. Pasquale took the call, and auntie damn near ended up fracturing his thumb when he tried to take the cane away from her.”

  “It’s in the drinking water, I think. Who are they, by the way?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Estelle looked quizzically at him.

 
“Esmirelda Vasquez? Does that ring a bell?”

  “Bobby’s aunt.”

  “Yup. Esmirelda of the cane. And niece Paula. Some such as that.” He waved a hand in weary dismissal. “I can’t keep track. As Bobby likes to say, ‘just arrest ’em all.’ ”

  “Is that where he is now?”

  Mears shook his head and glanced over at the wall clock. “No. He and Chief Mitchell are doing something. I don’t know what. He said you’d want to look at this.” He nudged the revolver with the eraser of his pencil. “I looked at the case and receipt you found in George’s desk at the house.”

  “Yes. What did you find out?”

  “For one thing, we’re reasonably sure that it’s the murder weapon. There’s blood and tissue on the muzzle.”

  “Match?”

  “It’s O positive, the same as the victim’s. We’ll be waiting on a DNA profile from the lab. End of the week, if we’re lucky.”

  “What about the bullet in the wall? Bobby thought it was consistent.”

  Mears nodded. “That’s the easy part. No doubt there. One shot, and that was it.” He opened the left-hand top drawer of the sheriff’s desk and drew out a large manila envelope. From it he extracted a smaller plastic pouch and handed it to Estelle. The weight of the single revolver slug nestled in her hand. The brass half jacket was pealed back, but still in place around the lead core. She could see the white traces of Sheetrock imbedded in the lead.

  “Ay.”

  “Is right. But look here.” He slid the yellow pad he’d been using across the desk toward Estelle. “This is what I think is interesting.” He reached across with the pencil. “The bullet’s path is about like this, Estelle. We really can’t tell exactly how he was sitting in his chair…all we know is that the bullet passed through his head from left to right, angling from front to back a little. It hit the edge of the bookcase behind him at enough of an angle that it glanced off and into the wall.” He drew a lightly dotted line from the drawing of a figure in a chair.

  “Two things,” he continued, and his pencil paused in midair as he looked up at Estelle. His head still rested on his hand. “For one thing, there’s blood and bone fragments along the top of the chair back.” He pushed himself up and twisted, resting a hand on top of the sheriff’s swivel chair. “Right here. And the residue extends down the backside a little bit.” He ran his hand over the top of the chair, out of sight.