“Yes.”
“Ain’t too many like old Milton Crowley, that’s for sure. I guess maybe that’s a good thing.”
“I’d like to look at that tape.”
“It probably wouldn’t tell you a thing you don’t already know,” Torrez said. “But there’s no point in jerkin’ Milt’s chain. Even if you could talk Judge Hobart into giving you a court order, Milt’s still going to refuse to hand over the tape, and if the judge throws his ass in jail for contempt of court, old Milt will just use that as front-page news in his little newspaper.” Torrez wiggled his fingers in the air. “The evil government tramples his rights one more time. He’s a freaky one. Leave him alone, and he’s harmless, though.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Yeah, he is. He talks a good talk.” Torrez grinned. “I like that sign of his. I’ve always wanted one of those in my driveway.” He shrugged. “I’d kinda like to stay on his good side, just the same. There’s nobody who knows that mesa country the way he does, and he’s been a help to us on a search or two. Sometime when you got nothin’ better to do, ask Wild Bill about the incident with Crowley’s ‘garden.’ He’ll tell you some interesting stories.” The sheriff dusted off his hands. “You’re on your way to the county barns now?”
“That, and I wanted to talk with Doris Marens again. She told the deputy that she didn’t hear or see anything, but if we don’t count Freddy, Mrs. Marens was the only one at home on that block about that time. Maybe there’s some little thing…”
“Did Mr. Flamingo give you anything yet?”
“He has nothing to give, Bobby. William Page is in the dark as much as we are.”
“How long is he staying in town?”
“Until we know about Kevin.”
Torrez grimaced. “That could be a long, long time.”
“I know, Bobby. But I don’t know what other direction to take.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Lemme know what grease you get into at the county barns.” He wagged his eyebrows, but didn’t smile. “I gave the go-ahead for Taber to go through Zeigler’s house again, one speck of dust at a time.”
“I don’t think the answer’s there, Bobby.”
“We’ll see. It’s something to do. That’s about where we’re at. Jackie asked if she and Linda could do it.” He shrugged. “I said what the hell. If there’s anything there, they’ll see it.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’m meetin’ Eddie at Zeigler’s office at ten o’clock. We’ll tear that place apart, one piece of paper at a time. And I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either.” He lifted a hand in salute. “Keep in touch,” he said, and Estelle watched him climb back into the Expedition and drive off toward Posadas.
As she settled behind the wheel of her own county vehicle, the radio clock flashed to 9:46 AM Less than twenty-two hours before, Estelle had been chatting with Kevin Zeigler outside the elementary school. She started the car, jabbing at the ignition key with impatience, irritated with herself for wasting time counting the minutes, irritated at wasting time hoping for an innocent explanation of the events that had caught up the county manager, impatient with the waiting while a lab tech removed and tested the tiny blood spatter from the lamp shade.
A few minutes later, with no recollection of the twelve-mile drive into town from Forest Road 26, she pulled through the chain-link gate of the county maintenance yard off County Road 43, just north of the Hutton Street intersection on the outskirts of the village. She parked in front of the office, swinging wide so she had an unobstructed view of the yard and the equipment stored there.
To one side of the towering shop doors, a veteran Highway Department dump truck was parked, its left rear hindquarters jacked high and all four wheels rolled to one side. The massive brake drums had been removed.
Across the yard, two men, one on a front loader and another on the ground, were wrestling a twenty-foot-long, four-foot-diameter section of drainage pipe toward a flatbed trailer. The shop doors were open, and Estelle could see three vehicles inside.
A young man appeared in the shop doorway, a Styrofoam cup in hand. He watched Estelle as she got out of the car and offered a tentative, snaggle-toothed smile as she approached.
“Good morning,” Estelle said. “Is Ralph around today?”
“Nope. He’s at a meeting.” The young man sawed the edge of the hand that held the cup across the back of his other hand, the skin no doubt irritated by the substantial amount of “contaminated grease.” Estelle read the stitched name tag on the breast of his dark green work shirt.
“Do you know where that meeting is, James?”
“I think it’s with somebody from the State Highway Department,” he said. “He was having to drive over to Deming.” He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the general direction of a fifty-five-gallon drum near the corner of the building.
Estelle turned and surveyed the yard. It was the sort of place that the meticulous Kevin Zeigler would manage from a distance. “You guys look a little shorthanded today.”
James laughed. “We’re always shorthanded, Sheriff.”
“Did the county manager stop by here yesterday?”
“What time?”
“Anytime.”
“Oh,” he said with sudden comprehension. “That’s right. ”
“What’s right?”
“No, I mean I heard about Zeigler goin’ missing. One of the guys was talking about that when he came in this morning.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.” James removed a can of tobacco from his hip pocket, and carefully charged his lip. “Weird, huh?”
“I wonder how he happened to hear about it.”
“Scotty? His brother’s with the ambulance thing there.”
“Ah.” Estelle wondered if there was a single soul in Posadas who didn’t know about Kevin Zeigler’s disappearance. The “ambulance thing there” had been called to attend to Carmen Acosta-and at that time, Zeigler had done nothing more curious than fail to return to the afternoon session of the commission meeting. James turned and spat brown juice. He wasn’t very good at it, and wiped his chin with a greasy hand. “So,” Estelle persisted. “Did you happen to see Zeigler yesterday? Did he stop by here?”
“Ah, you know…I don’t know,” James said vaguely. “I don’t pay much attention to who comes and goes. I got me this big old bastard to get out of here.” He nodded at the dump truck with the shattered axle. “You could ask Hobie, over there. He kinda keeps tabs on things when Ralph’s gone.”
“Hobie?”
“The guy on the front loader. Hobie Tyler. He’s one of the foremen.”
“Thanks,” Estelle said. “What’s your name?”
“J.T.,” he said. “Well, James.” He patted his name tag.
“James…”
“Oh. Volpato.” He spelled it quickly without being asked.
“You’re related to Katie Volpato?” Katie had worked as a custodian in the county building for years, a silent presence who kept the building looking fifty years younger than it was.
“She’s my mom.”
“A grand lady,” Estelle said. “Thanks, James.” Across the yard, the huge section of culvert crashed onto the trailer. As the undersheriff approached, the front loader backed off with a blast of black diesel smoke and shrill beeping of its caution horn. The hoist chain dangled from its lower lip.
As he maneuvered the machine away from the trailer, the driver saw Estelle and immediately jabbed the brakes so hard the ponderous loader rocked on its fat tires. The engine died and Tyler swung the cab door open.
“Morning!” he called. “What can I help you with?”
Estelle skirted an impressive puddle of something that would have raised the eyebrows of the EPA and walked up close to the loader. The tires were nearly as tall as she was, and the beast ticked quietly as it cooled, exuding a rich aroma of hot rubber, diesel fuel, and grease.
Tyler leaned out, looking down from on high. At the same time, the other co
unty worker tossed the tie-down chains across the culvert section with a mighty clatter.
“Good morning, sir,” Estelle greeted. She rested a hand lightly on one mammoth tire cleat. “I understand that you might have talked to the county manager yesterday.”
Tyler shot a quick glance at his companion, then eyed Estelle warily. “Well, he stopped by, is all.”
“What time was that, sir?”
Tyler pulled off his left glove and rubbed his cheek with a stubby finger. “He come by yesterday morning early.”
Estelle nodded as if the information was old news. “Do you recall what time that was?”
“Well, I get here at seven-thirty, and it was just a little after that. Maybe quarter till.” Tyler stretched upward in his seat and twisted his head hard to the right as if to ease a painful kink in his spine. “He had a tire on his truck that he thought was goin’ soft.”
Estelle’s pulse kicked. “Had he changed it, you mean?”
“No. But I told him that he needed to.” Tyler shrugged. “I gave him a squirt of air from the pump over there to keep him goin’. He said he’d try to drop it off later in the day. He said he didn’t have a whole lot of time.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. He was down to eighteen pounds, though. In that tire, I mean. I told him that if he put it off much longer, he’d be walkin’.” He twisted his wrist, looking at a nonexistent watch. “He don’t have a lot of extra time.”
“So you aired it up, and he left?”
Tyler nodded emphatically. “That’s what I did.”
“Did you see him after that?”
“No, ma’am.” He leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. “What’s goin’ on, do you know? Ralph told me this morning that nobody’s seen him since yesterday.”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Tyler. That’s why I appreciate the information.”
“Well, like I said, that’s the only time I seen him, all day.”
“He never came back to have the tire fixed, then.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Was anyone with him at the time?” Estelle asked, and Tyler shook his head. “And he was driving that little white Ford Ranger? His usual county truck?” Tyler nodded. Estelle patted the tire once more. “Did he happen to mention where he was headed after here?”
“Ma’am, if he did, I don’t remember. Old Kevin, you know. He’s kinda different. Keepin’ track of him is like trying to nail down one of them dust devils that goes spinnin’ across the yard here.” He grinned at his own poetic imagery. He reached forward toward the ignition key, but didn’t turn it. The hint was clear.
“Thanks, sir,” she said, and stepped back from the machine, waving a hand in salute as she did so. The diesel fired up, chuffing out a bilious cloud. As she walked back, Estelle found herself wanting to break into a sprint. She had learned only that Zeigler had stopped by the county yards, concerned about an air leak in a tire. Not many hours later, the lug wrench from his truck had been used to mash the back of Carmen Acosta’s skull. The link was invisible, but tantalizing nevertheless.
She slipped into the county car and stabbed the key into the ignition. There was no way that the killer would lean the Ranger’s passenger seat forward and unscrew the wing nut and clamp that held the lug wrench in place. The tool had to have been a weapon of opportunity.
What did fit was seeing Zeigler, intent on being four places at once, changing a flat tire in a fury, tossing the wrench and jack back into the cab, to be properly stowed later when time permitted. The flat tire had been tossed somewhere, too-but not into the most logical place, the bed of the truck.
Chapter Nineteen
Simple things. The ideas tumbled inside Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s head as she paused at the front door of Kevin Zeigler’s home on Candelaria Court. Jackie Taber’s county vehicle was parked in the driveway, immediately behind Zeigler’s pickup.
The deputy opened the door and greeted Estelle with a sober nod, then looked at her more closely, eyes narrowing. “What’d you find out?” she asked, then added, “Come on in.”
“I was just over at the county barns,” Estelle said. “Zeigler stopped there early yesterday morning with a soft tire. He added some air, but didn’t take time to change the tire. At least not then.”
“Really.” Taber settled against the arm of the sofa, her latex-gloved hands held away from her clothes. Technically off duty, she’d traded her uniform for an aging pair of army trousers and a brown T-shirt, neither of which did anything to flatter her powerful, stocky figure. “Now that’s interesting,” she said.
“If the tire went flat later in the day, like maybe when he was running errands at noon, that could explain why the wrench and jack were loose. He changed the tire, and didn’t want to take time to stow them properly.”
“Well, they’re a pain in the ass,” Jackie said. “So where’s the flat tire? It wasn’t in the truck.”
“That’s right-it wasn’t. And I don’t know where it is. But if Zeigler changed the tire, the most logical thing to do would be to clean up a little before he returned to the county meeting.” She held out her hands. “I mean, what’s anybody do after changing a tire? You can’tdo it and stay clean.”
“Huh,” Jackie grunted. “I see where you’re going. That would be a good reason for Kevin to stop back here. Clean up a little. Maybe.” She looked at Estelle skeptically.
“But there’s a simple reason he might have come here, rather than just use the restroom at the county building. If he just wanted to wash his hands, a sink is pretty easy to find. There’s one or two in the restroom right beside his office.”
“Maybe he needed to change his clothes,” Jackie said.
“That’s exactly right. I picture him kneeling down to put that jack in place, or scrunching down to lower the spare tire out from under the back, drag it out, put it in place, swing the old dead tire up into the truck.” She stopped. “And at some point, what if he gets dirty, or tears his trousers or catches his shirt on something-it’s almost bound to happen. Especially if he’s in a hurry and not paying attention.”
Jackie gazed off toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Okay. If that’s what happened, then there are some soiled clothes to show for it.”
“Maybe. We need to check.”
“That still doesn’t tell us much, though.”
“Jackie, it tells us something, and that’s a lot more than we had.”
The deputy regarded her quietly for a moment. “You don’t like the idea a whole lot, do you?”
“No, I don’t. What I’m seeing puts a truck lug wrench in Kevin Zeigler’s hand. It puts him here sometime yesterday.”
“None of that means that he swung the wrench against the back of Carmen Acosta’s head,” Jackie said.
“He didn’t do that,” Estelle said vehemently. “I know that as surely as I don’t know what actually happened.”
“And there’s another possibility, too. What if Zeigler wasn’t driving the truck?”
Estelle nodded. “I think it’s going to come around to that, Jackie. I sat in that truck yesterday. I could smell Zeigler’s cologne, or aftershave-whatever it is. When Bobby and I went through this place yesterday, it’s the same smell, right from that bottle on the bathroom vanity.”
“Leatherworks.”
“That’s it.”
“Nice stuff.”
“Yes, it is. But I also smelled cigarette smoke, and maybe something else, too. I’m not sure. Bobby thought it might be booze, and I think he’s right. Kevin doesn’t smoke; neither does William Page. Someone was in that truck who did-and it couldn’t have been long before, or it would have faded pretty quickly.”
“Too bad the aroma won’t fit in an evidence bag.”
“The assumption is that it’s Kevin’s truck, so he was driving it.” Estelle shrugged. “Maybe not so.”
“Or someone was with him.”
Estelle ran her
hand through her hair in frustration.
“Caramba,” she muttered. “Too many directions. I came over to check his clothes, Jackie. Let’s do that. Then I want to talk with Doris Marens again.”
“And she is…”
“The lady who lives up the street. Right at the intersection with MacArthur. She told Mike that she didn’t see a thing, but it wouldn’t hurt to put the thumbscrews on her a little. There might be something. It’s beginning to look as if she’s the only person who was home on the entire street at the time-other than Carmen. We don’t have ourselves a whole herd of willing witnesses.”
“In the meantime, there’s a dirty-clothes hamper in the master bedroom,” Jackie said. She stood up and beckoned. “Linda’s back there now, riffling through his drawers. Sounds kinky, huh?”
In the bedroom, Linda Real was sitting cross-legged on the floor with the bottom dresser drawer open in front of her.
“Hey there,” she said as Estelle and Jackie entered the room. She paused, one hand resting on the edge of the drawer.
“Anything?”
“A ton of slides,” Linda said, indicating the yellow boxes that filled a third of the wide drawer, “I checked a few at random. They appear to be what the box labels say they are. Vacations, bike races, that sort of thing. None of them are newer than 2000, the year before he moved here. And these”-and she tapped two large scrapbooks-“are family stuff, newspaper clippings, those sorts of things. I learned some interesting stuff that maybe I don’t need to know.”
“For example?”
“Well,” Linda said, “for example, I didn’t know that Kevin Zeigler was married before. His son is in second grade in Socorro.”
“Ay,” Estelle breathed. “I didn’t know that either.”
“I always thought he was the swinging bachelor type since day one. Apparently not. Anyway, that and a few other old things.” Linda reached up and ran a hand down the three upper drawers. “These are clothes, and this one is memories.”
“We need to rummage through his dirty clothes,” Jackie said.
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