Statute of Limitations pc-13

by Steven F Havill

  “Do you have any idea what happened after he left?”

  “No…and then the police cars came, and the ambulance. I looked out the door then. They were all down at that one car.”

  “Did you call 911, Miranda?” Gastner asked.

  The girl shook her head, a quick little I didn’t do it expression.

  “You’ve been here by yourself all evening?” Estelle asked.

  “Sure,” Miranda said. “I called Mr. P, though, ’cause of the people in the van. He said he was coming down a little bit later? And then this happened, and I called him again. So he should be here pretty soon. You want me to call him again?”

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle said. “But no one from here called 911? No one that you know of?”

  “Well, I didn’t. That’s all I know. I didn’t like know anything was wrong and stuff until all the cops started showing up? I mean, maybe one of the guests saw something out the window. You think?”

  “We’ll talk to them,” Estelle said. “Did you happen to see the owners of the little blue Dodge sedan that’s parked over around the side?”

  “I don’t think so. Well, maybe…I’m not sure. One guy, he like came to the door? It looked like he was going to come inside? And then he didn’t? He was talking to someone else?”

  “What did he look like, Miranda?”

  “He was like a big guy, you know?”

  “Tell me what you mean by big.”

  “Well, he was just big, like huge. He had on this funny little cap. All peaky and stuff?”

  “Like a welder’s cap?” Gastner asked gently, but Miranda just looked puzzled.

  “He pulled the door open a little? And then it like sounded like someone yelled to him outside. I think he went back down the sidewalk?” she said.

  “And you could hear someone else talking?” Estelle asked.

  “You said it sounded as if someone called out to him. This big guy in the funny cap?”

  “I think so. Oh, and he had this real long ponytail,” Miranda said, a trace of pride creeping into her voice. “When he turned and stuff, I could like see it? It hung right down his back.” She pivoted and reached around to touch her own back with her thumb.

  “Anglo?”

  Miranda nodded. “I think so.”

  “Did you see this man, or anyone else, talking with Chief Martinez? In all this coming and going?”

  “No. I think he like came in afterward?”

  “The chief did, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long afterward?”

  Miranda shrugged. “Just a few minutes, I think.”

  “Let me make sure I understand you, Miranda. The big guy comes to the door, starts to open it, and then changes his mind when someone yells to him. Just a few minutes later, Chief Martinez comes in, buys some aspirin, uses the phone, and then goes back outside. That’s the way it happened?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gastner leaned on the counter and regarded Miranda impassively. “When you say ‘a few minutes,’ young lady, what do you mean? Are we talking, say, two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

  “I…,” Miranda started to say, and stopped.

  “Just take your time,” Gastner said gently. “Relax, take your time, and remember what you were doing. Remember what you saw. We have all night.”

  Miranda looked down at the computer keyboard, frowning. “Okay,” she said. “Those people in the old van-she’s the pregnant lady-she and her husband had just gone, like to park? That’s when this guy comes to the door? The big guy with the ponytail.”

  “Seconds later, you mean?” Gastner prompted.

  “Like, just seconds. The van was parked right there by the door, and they started up and like swung around?” Miranda pointed to her left. “I mean like, right away, they’re gone and this ponytail guy is at the door.” The words came in a rush, as if she had finally warmed up to her role as key witness. “Like he would have had to almost step out of the way when the van pulled around. And then, this ponytail guy just like changes his mind and leaves. He walks off that way?” Miranda pointed to her right. “That’s when the chief came in, just after that.”

  “How long would that be?”

  “Like just a little bit.”

  Gastner smiled encouragement. “If you started counting from the time when Ponytail left to when the chief entered, how far would you get?”

  Miranda closed one eye, the opposite eyebrow lifting. Estelle watched as the girl replayed her mental tape. “I think I’d like get to thirty, maybe?”

  “That soon. Just thirty seconds?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t very long and stuff.”

  Estelle frowned at Gastner. “That’s why he chose to park along the side, rather than pulling under the portico. The van would still have been in the way.” To Miranda, she said, “I’d like the room number of the van folks. May I see their registration card?”

  The girl hesitated. “She was really pregnant?” Her hand drifted down to her own flat belly. “For a minute I thought all the ambulances and stuff was for her.” She slid the card across the counter toward Estelle. “They’re in 110? That’s the room down at the end. That’s where Mr. P said they should go.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I had to call him, ’cause they said they didn’t have any money and stuff? And she wasn’t feeling too good?”

  Estelle looked at the card. “He filled this out? The man did?”

  “Yes.”

  Neat block letters filled the card. “Todd Willis,” Estelle said. “Las Cruces.” She glanced at Gastner. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

  He shrugged. “No bells in this old head.”

  “They seemed like nice people. I was kind of afraid that she was going to have her baby like right here in the lobby,” Miranda said.

  “Are you up on first-aid procedures?” Gastner chuckled, and Miranda flashed a quick, nervous smile.

  “Not hardly.”

  Estelle continued to examine the card. “They both came into the lobby to check in?” she asked without looking up. Miranda glanced first at Gastner and then at Estelle, as if unsure whether or not to answer the question.

  “I think they did ’cause they couldn’t pay. Like maybe they thought…” Miranda let the rest of the thought trail off.

  “Good technique,” Gastner said.

  The door behind Miranda opened, and a dapper, swarthy man in razor-creased tan slacks, white shoes, and salmon-colored polo shirt stepped into the office.

  “Mr. Patel, good evening,” Estelle said. She reached across the counter and shook the man’s hand-his return grip so light and limp that it wouldn’t have supported a pencil.

  “Hey, Adrian,” Gastner said. “Good to see you.”

  “Miranda tells me there has been a problem,” Adrian Patel said precisely, with just a hint of rolled r’s in his speech.

  “Yes, sir,” Estelle replied. “Chief Eduardo Martinez was just taken to the hospital. We think with a coronary. It also appears that his vehicle may be missing.”

  “You mean all this while he was here at my motel?” Patel asked.

  “Yes. Apparently he came into the lobby to purchase some aspirin. There’s a possibility that he may have had a confrontation with someone outside, in the parking lot. But we don’t know yet.”

  “This is all most unfortunate.” Patel heaved a deep sigh. “A confrontation, you say? With a guest?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Ah. What may I do for you, then?”

  “For one thing, sir, we need to talk to two guests who might have seen the incident. We understand that they’re in Room 110, down at the end.”

  “Ah,” Patel said, and nodded. “Yes. We have those from time to time. Sometimes a bed and a meal may make a world of difference to them.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Gastner said.

  “I should think that they would still be in their room at this time,” Patel said. “Should you need to
talk with them.”

  “Just a couple of quick questions would be helpful,” Estelle said.

  “I will remain here,” Patel said. “Should you need to talk with myself or Miranda again about this, you will feel free.” He nodded as if to add, and that’s that.

  “We appreciate your help,” Estelle said. She paused, regarding Miranda. “They didn’t call 911 from the lobby. Is that correct?”

  “No, ma’am,” Miranda said promptly.

  “And not from their room?”

  “I don’t think so. The panel here lights all up and stuff if a phone line is in use?” Miranda said.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Once outside, Estelle stood under the portico, hands thrust in her pockets. “Interesting,” she said.

  “Yep,” Gastner agreed. “Interesting and stuff.”

  “The young couple can’t afford to pay for a room, but they have their own cell phone and van.”

  “These are the times we live in, sweetheart. And stuff.”

  “That new baby is going to have an interesting life.” Estelle grinned. “And if you’re going to talk like that, you have to have a bare midriff, sir.”

  He looked down at his gut. “Scary thought.”

  Estelle hunched against the drizzle, breathing the clean, wet air outside, relieved to be clear of the aroma of carpet cleaner and disinfectant. The two of them walked back to the county car and then drove the length of the motel toward Room 110.

  Chapter Three

  The van was parked with its tires cocked against the concrete curb. If the occupants of Room 110 had pushed aside the lightproof plastic curtain, their view outside would have been of the van’s blunt, rusted, and dented face. Estelle pulled the county car in behind and perpendicular to the vehicle, stopping just far enough away that she could both read the tattered license plate and watch the yellow door of Room 110.

  “That old boat has seen some miles,” Gastner said. He leaned back in the seat and cocked his head, looking at the ski-laden Toyota. “Oklahoma skiers,” he said. Two spaces farther down, the white utility truck was parked facing out, its doors clearly marked with magnetic signs. “And a Deming plumber.”

  Estelle nodded as she reached down to turn the radio up a bit, never taking her eyes off the van. The back windows were plastered with an array of stickers, most from national parks. The registration sticker on the license plate was valid. She keyed the mike.

  “PCS, three ten.”

  “Three ten, go ahead.”

  “Ten twenty-eight New Mexico four niner seven, Baker Edward Charlie.”

  Dispatcher Brent Sutherland responded before the computer had a chance to search the NCIC brain. “Three ten, four niner seven, Baker Edward Charlie should appear on a 1972 Ford Econoline van, color green, registered to Paula Ann Hart.” He spelled the last name. “Fourteen thirty-seven Mesa Park, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”

  “Ten four. Thanks.”

  “Three ten, be advised that the occupants of that vehicle were the subjects of a complaint earlier this evening.”

  “Ten twenty-one,” Estelle said, requesting a change from radio to phone. She hung up the mike. She turned and raised an eyebrow at Gastner, who shrugged.

  “Who the hell knows,” he said. Estelle had her phone in hand when it rang.

  “Guzman.”

  “Estelle,” Sutherland said, “you might want to talk with Jackie Taber about that van. She responded to a complaint at…just a sec.” Estelle could picture Brent leaning forward to read the log. “At the Prairie Rest B-and-B over on North Tenth. Apparently the young couple driving that van stopped there looking for a room. They claimed that they didn’t have any money.”

  “What was the complaint?” Estelle asked. Asking for a room was hardly grounds for a complaint.

  “Ah, nothing really specific. Mrs. Melvin-that’s Rachel Melvin, the owner? She called here and said that there was something suspicious about the couple…couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She wanted the police to check them out. I logged that call at 18:04.”

  “They were up front about not being able to pay for the room?”

  “Jackie didn’t say anything to me about that when she called in.”

  “But they left the premises of the B-and-B when requested to do so by the owner?”

  “I guess so. You might want to talk with Jackie, though. She talked to them a few minutes later over at Pershing Park. It looked like maybe they were going to camp there.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Brent. And by the way, did you log the caller’s name for the 911 involving Chief Martinez?”

  “No, ma’am. He hung up on me. He reported a man down at the Posadas Inn, then just hung up.”

  “But the caller was a man. You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll be out of service for a few minutes with the owners of that van, Brent. Bill Gastner’s with me, and the sheriff went over to the hospital with the ambulance.”

  “Right.” Sutherland sounded relieved. Estelle was reasonably sure that Bob Torrez hadn’t informed dispatch of his intentions. She clicked off the cell phone and glanced up as a sweep of headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A white, older model Ford Bronco nosed in and stopped. “Let’s see what Jackie has to say,” Estelle said.

  She got out of the car and joined Deputy Jackie Taber on the walkway in front of one of the service rooms, where the narrow overhang would provide some protection from the weather.

  “Nice night,” Jackie said by way of greeting. She was a large young woman, square through the shoulders and thick through the waist. “Good evening, sir,” she said, as Bill Gastner ambled up to join them.

  “Well, it was,” Gastner said.

  “I’m really sorry about Chief Martinez,” Jackie said. “It doesn’t look good for him.”

  “Nope,” Gastner said, and let it go at that. Estelle glanced at her old friend. Gastner and Martinez had been friends for decades, and with the village-county consolidation of public safety services, the two colleagues had met a dozen times in the past month.

  “Brent tells me that you had occasion to talk with the owners of this van earlier,” Estelle said, and the deputy nodded.

  “That’s why I shagged down here,” Jackie said. “I’ll go back and help the guys sweep in a minute, but I wanted to tell you-” she nodded in the direction of the old van “-they stopped at the B-and-B over on Tenth,” she said. “They told the owner that they didn’t have any money, but asked if they could stay the night. I guess Mrs. Melvin didn’t like the looks of them.”

  “Rachel Melvin doesn’t like the looks of anybody who’s younger than sixty,” Gastner observed.

  “That’s true, sir,” Jackie said, and a smile ghosted across her round face. “When we talked, she didn’t want to open the front door far enough for me to step inside, either. She said that the young couple inquired about a room and told her right up front that they were short of money. She said that they both came to the door, and that surprised her, since the girl was obviously pregnant and quite a ways along.”

  “And that’s it?” Estelle asked.

  “Mrs. Melvin said that she told them they should check in Lordsburg. That she didn’t have a room available.”

  Gastner chuckled. “Lordsburg? She didn’t recommend that they come down here to the motel?”

  “She didn’t say, sir. But it doesn’t sound like it.”

  “No room at the inn,” he said. “How goddamn biblical.”

  Estelle looked at the former sheriff with amusement, then at the deputy. “You talked with them?” she asked the deputy.

  “I talked with Mrs. Melvin first, and established that nothing had happened that would constitute probable cause for a stop. They asked for a room, told her they didn’t have any money, and went on their way when she refused. Mrs. Melvin admitted that they were perfectly polite and not the least bit pushy. She only grudgingly admitted that, by the way.”

  “Why bother
calling the SO, then?” Estelle asked, knowing the answer even before Bill Gastner voiced it.

  “Because she’s an old biddy,” he said. “And she wouldn’t recommend this motel because Adrian owns it. Part that and part that her sister owns the one she’s talking about in Lordsburg.”

  “Maybe so,” Jackie said. “But I saw the van a few minutes later, parked on Pershing, over behind the park. I’m sure that they saw me approach.” Jackie pushed her Stetson back a bit. “Since Mrs. Melvin had told me that the woman was pregnant, it seemed prudent to make sure that they weren’t in need of medical attention, so I stopped to talk with them. They’re a young couple from Las Cruces.”

  She slipped a small notebook from her blouse pocket and thumbed pages. “Todd Willis and Stacie Hart.” She closed the notebook. “And she’s eight months pregnant. Or nine.”

  “They’re married?” Gastner asked.

  “No, sir. They said not. Maybe living together.”

  “Bound for?”

  “Apparently headed for Tucson to visit Miss Hart’s relatives. The van belongs to her sister, who’s letting them use it for a while. Their own vehicle broke down. License and registration bears that out.”

  “Huh,” Gastner said. “So we’re only two hours from Las Cruces, even driving in that old heap. And Tucson is just four hours farther down the pike. Why did they leave Cruces so late in the day that they’d need a motel in the first place? Especially if they were short in the funds department?”

  “I didn’t ask them that, sir.”

  “Maybe the girl just became uncomfortable,” Estelle said.

  “Maybe so. Who knows why people do the damn things that they do.”

  “When you talked to them, Jackie, did either of them get out of the van?”

  “No, ma’am. I approached them and we spoke through the driver’s side window.”

  “Did Miss Hart appear in distress of any kind?”

  “She looked bedraggled,” Jackie said. “They both did. She’s huge, though, and she kept shifting on the seat as if she couldn’t find a comfortable position.”

  “Ay,” Estelle said. They heard the scuffing of a door opening and Estelle stepped away from the side of the building and looked down the sidewalk toward Room 110. A young man in jeans and sweatshirt stood framed in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, one on the knob. He saw Estelle and gave her a questioning look. “Let’s find out,” she said.