Statute of Limitations pc-13

by Steven F Havill

  “I saw you drive into the parking lot,” he said. “Goddamn gorgeous day, you know that?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Have you taken any time to enjoy it yet?” He turned and grinned at her. “You missed Christmas, you know.”

  “Actually, I have, Padrino,” Estelle said. “And you look like you’re ready to go.” She had almost said huggable, since his brown Hush Puppies, russet corduroy trousers, and plaid flannel shirt made him look like a comfortably rotund teddy bear.

  “That’s for sure,” Gastner said emphatically. He looked at the hospital bed with distaste. “Thanks for agreeing to play taxi.”

  “I bet you’re hungry,” Estelle said.

  “Of course I’m hungry,” he replied. “Let’s go get a little something.”

  “I just spent a half-hour with Mike Sisneros at the Don Juan, so…”

  “Without me? How could you? I’m crushed.”

  “Well, we could have used your touch, sir. JanaLynn says hi, by the way.”

  “God, the love of my life,” Gastner said.

  “I ordered a breakfast burrito, and didn’t touch it. We can go back to the house and nuke it for you.”

  “Sounds good. Although their breakfast menu leaves a little something to be desired in the size department. But that’s a good start.” He went to the closet and pulled his jacket off the hanger. “Let’s get out of here before they show up with that damn wheelchair.” He patted his pocket. “And I have enough drugs to go into business.”

  “Should I ask if the doctors actually checked you out?”

  “Of course they did,” Gastner said. “Francis was here and left. That’s the same thing. I asked if I could get dressed, and your hubby agreed that was a good idea. I translate that as my ticket to freedom.”

  A few minutes later, as they walked across the tarmac toward the car, Estelle noticed the care with which Gastner placed each step. As he reached the back fender, he stretched out a hand and stopped, leaning against the car. “The best thing about being stuck in that place is the getting out,” he said. “The only thing I’m going to be able to smell for a week is spray cleaner and bleach.”

  A few minutes later, when Estelle turned south on Grande, Gastner looked puzzled. “I thought we were going to your place,” he said.

  “You’re not ready for that yet,” Estelle said. “And we wouldn’t get anything done.”

  “I appreciated the troops stopping by my room earlier this morning,” he said. “Sofía brought the urchins.”

  “They were excited about getting to do that. They worry about you, Padrino. You know that?”

  “Rodgers and Hammerstein,” Gastner mused. “How are they doing?”

  She nodded noncommittally, and he reached out and closed the cover on the center console computer as if it might be listening. He leaned his elbow on it, slouching sideways in the crowded seat.

  “You’re allowed to brag on ’em, you know,” he said. “Hell, I do.”

  “Oh, sure!” Estelle laughed, well aware of Gastner’s aversion to inflicting photos of relatives and tales of their innumerable accomplishments on the unwary.

  “Well, I would if the opportunity presented itself,” he added. “You worried about ’em?” That took her by surprise, and he reached out to point at Escondido when it appeared that she was going to drive right by the intersection. “I live down there.”

  She braked hard and turned.

  “You know, I have a granddaughter who plays the piano,” he said. “I think I told you that. Camille’s youngest? Sherri goes to the keyboard, and the rest of the family hightails to the woods. She absolutely has a passion for playing the piano…and she has absolutely no talent whatsoever. Go figure. Her mother does, but not the kid.” He shrugged. “I worry about number one son, though.” He turned and regarded Estelle. “Francisco, that is.”

  When Estelle didn’t respond, he added, “It’s not going to be easy for him.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said, and pulled to a stop in front of Gastner’s adobe. She pushed the gear lever into Park. “I’m not sure what to do, Padrino.”

  He relaxed back against the door, showing no inclination to get out of the car. “You have a list of options?”

  “I suppose we do.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he beckoned with his fingers.

  “Sofía made a suggestion that scares me,” Estelle said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.

  Gastner cocked his head. “Scares you how?”

  “She suggested the Conservatorio de Veracruz.”

  His heavy brows beetled a little. “For just him, you mean? Or the whole clan?”

  “Either way. But I don’t think…,” and one of her hands fluttered hopelessly.

  “Don’t think what?” he said bluntly, refusing to let her off the hook.

  “I don’t think that I could send Francisco away,” she said. Once the words were out, they sounded silly to her. “For one thing, I can’t imagine Carlos home all alone. He and Francisco are the next best thing to Siamese twins, sir.”

  “Tough stuff,” he grunted. “So what are the options? All of you could go, right? I mean, whether it’s Veracruz or Juilliard in New York doesn’t matter much, does it?”

  “It matters a lot, sir. But yes. We all could go. We’re not going to, but we could.”

  “You think hard on what an opportunity that is, sweetheart,” he said, lurching around so he could reach the door handle. “Hell, there’s sick people in every corner of the world. It can’t matter a whole hell of a lot where hubby works. Sick is sick. With Sofía’s influence, the whole bunch of you would have to get used to living in grand style. Hell, you could get a job working for the federales, or some such.”

  Estelle laughed. “That’s what Francis said, sir.”

  “Well, listen to somebody, sweetheart. Hey, look,” and he leaned back toward her. “I’ve been around a while, and when my wife was alive, we went to concerts and stuff like that. Best one I can remember was that opera guy, what’s-his-name? The Mexican.”

  “Plácido Domingo?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “The ‘opera guy.’” She laughed. “He’d love that.”

  “Well, he is. Anyway, we saw him in concert in Houston, back when he was younger. You know, he spends a lot of his time working with young musicians. Anyway,” and he paused and reached up to pat the bandage on his head. “What was I trying to say?”

  “That you’ve been around, sir.”

  “That’s it. And anyone who hears the little wart play, or who watches him make love to that damn piano, or watches the way he tells stories with it…hell, anybody will tell you the same thing. He isn’t some little kid who should be stuck with once-a-week piano lessons in some backwater place out in the desert. What a goddamn waste to the world that would be, sweet-heart.” He stopped suddenly and thumped the computer lid. “It’s none of my business. Except it is my business, because he’s family.” He shrugged. “So there it is. Do what you got to do, sweetheart. Don’t let it wait.”

  “Francis and I need to talk about it some more. Right now we’re leaning toward bringing the world to him, instead of vice versa. Let the rest of the world find out that there really is a Posadas.”

  “What a concept,” he said brusquely. “And a damn good idea, too. I could have come up with that if I had half a brain.” He opened the door and struggled out of the car. “Stop letting work interfere with your home life. That’s my advice for the day.” He shot her a wide grin. “Notice how effortless it is to say asinine things like that.”

  He stopped in front of the door and regarded the sad little acacia by the step.

  “Ruined that, didn’t I.” He twisted and looked back at the corner of the patio where the piece of rebar had been found. “Either I was preoccupied, or deaf, or stoned,” he said. “Not to hear someone crunching across that gravel behind me.” He frowned and turned to the door. “I can’t remember if I was in the process of turning, or
not,” he added. It took him a minute or so to find the right key, and then to find the keyhole. “Don’t get old, sweetheart. That’s my best advice.”

  He swung the heavy door open. “There we go, then. Let’s eat. And you can tell me what you’ve found out about Janet Tripp. I’ve been lying in bed thinking about her a lot lately.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Mike Sisneros went to school with Janet,” Estelle said. “Sort of. He was a year ahead of her. He didn’t go out with her or anything like that, but he knew her. That’s all.”

  “Infatuation from afar?” Gastner asked.

  “I don’t think so. He just knew who she was, that’s all. And then over the years, he had occasion to see her once in a while at A amp; H Welding. Just a familiar face. He was the officer who provided initial treatment when she was hurt the night of the Pope fire. She stepped in a ditch and sprained or broke her ankle.”

  “Ah,” Gastner said. “I didn’t remember that.” He scooped another generous load of burrito, deftly wrapping the strand of cheese around the loaded fork. “She lived over at the trailer park on Escondido. I recall that. See?” He held up the morsel. “Feed the brain, and off you go.”

  “She’s been with Mike for a while now,” Estelle said.

  “Now, yes. But when she was on her own, that’s where she lived.”

  “There’s a sister, too. Mike says that she lives over in Kansas. He’s going to find the number and address for me.”

  “No one’s contacted her yet about Janet?”

  “No, sir. Do you remember anything about the sister?”

  “Not a damn thing.” He frowned. “That may require several more of these.” A tiny fragment of green chile lay at one end of the empty platter, and he speared it with his fork. “Her folks,” he mused, and shut his eyes. Estelle wondered what mental process it was that sifted through half a century of memories and associations, searching for a single face or a single name. Bill Gastner had once described his memory as being like an enormous walk-in closet filled from floor to ceiling with trivia scribbled in fading ink on millions of 3 × 5 cards, a true ROM.

  “Terry Tripp used to work for the electric company,” he said after a moment. “The mother. I think that’s where she worked. If it wasn’t too long ago, Kevin Tierney could tell you for sure. I don’t recall who was manager before him.” He closed his eyes again, perhaps watching the cascade of file cards. “She died of cancer. God, how long ago? I have no idea. Ten, fifteen years? Something like that?”

  “How about Janet’s father?” Estelle asked. Gastner had pushed the plastic take-out box away, and she scooped it off the counter and put it in the sack of trash under the sink.

  Gastner rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the counter. “This is interesting,” he said. “I haven’t thought about any of these folks for a long, long time.” He turned just enough so he could see Estelle. “You know, when Janet came into the Sheriff’s Office for the last time, whenever it was? Christmas afternoon? God…that’s yesterday. Anyway, I thought of her mother. I guess in part it’s because they looked a lot alike. I’m sure that at one time, I knew who Mr. Tripp was.” He shrugged and one hand sought out the bandage on the back of his head. “But that’s too long ago.”

  “Ancient history,” Estelle said.

  “Be careful with that ancient stuff,” Gastner said. “Mike didn’t know?”

  “No. Eddie and I are both going to talk with him again today sometime.”

  “His dad was a piece of work,” Gastner said. “Mike’s, I mean. A joyous drunk might be a good way to put it. He was one of those guys who just plain loved alcohol. A real love affair with old Nancy Whiskey. And you know what? I don’t recall a single time when he was actually arrested for DWI, or public intox, or anything like that. You ask Bobby Torrez. There’s never been a cop who had it more in for drunken drivers than Bobby. You know that. But even he never managed to nail old Hank for anything.”

  “Careful, or lucky, or both. Mike says his old man had a fine temper.”

  “Well,” Gastner said, hunching his shoulders, “probably.” He sighed. “But he and Irene split up eventually. Mike’s mom. Irene? She dumped him, he dumped her, I guess it doesn’t matter. Old Nancy got in the way, is all.”

  “And a few other issues, Mike says,” Estelle added.

  “No doubt.” He squinted at the opposite wall. “She is Native American.”

  “Zuni.”

  “I knew that.” He frowned. “Brad Tripp,” he said suddenly. He pronounced the name and then fell silent.

  “The father? Janet’s dad?”

  Gastner nodded and his gaze shifted to the coffee maker. After a moment, he pushed himself off the tall kitchen stool and approached it. He leaned on the counter with one hand on each side of the Brewmaster as if trying to decide a strategy.

  “Ask Bobby about Brad Tripp,” he said finally, and he smiled broadly at the memory. “Remember the old office, back before the county built the annex? Maybe that was before your time.”

  “No. I was here then.”

  “Well, Bobby hauled Brad in for something…. I don’t remember what it was. All I remember is that it involved Brad spending the rest of the night in the slammer. They were going up the stairs to the second floor, and old Brad decided that it might be a good idea to take a swing at Bobby.” Gastner turned around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his belly. “No one could figure out what Brad thought that might accomplish, including Brad, probably.”

  “I remember the time,” Estelle said. “Everyone was talking about it the next day. I’d forgotten that’s who it was.”

  “That’s it,” Gastner said. “A huge crash, and Brad lands at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled heap. The dispatcher at the time was Miracle Murton, and he about jumps out of his skin. Murton asks Bobby what happened. ‘He fall down, go boom,’ is all Bobby would tell him. Miracle worried for days about whether he should be writing reports about what happened. He was afraid old Brad was going to sue Bobby, the county, and every living soul within shouting distance.”

  He turned back to the coffee maker. “Goddamn good thing Brad didn’t break his neck. But he was drunk enough that he bounced pretty well. No injuries that showed.” He frowned at the coffeepot again. “Little squirt of a guy. I have no recollection what the incident was all about.” He shook his head with frustration, then hauled the bag of coffee beans out of the cabinet above the counter.

  Estelle watched him go through the process of measuring and grinding the potent beans, and then filling the machine with enough water to supply coffee to a dozen troops. Everything accomplished without disaster, he stood and regarded the gadget thoughtfully. “Helps,” he said aloud, and flipped on the power switch.

  He turned back to Estelle. “You want some tea or something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s still a puzzle,” he said, and watched as the first thin stream of coffee gurgled out the bottom of the filter basket. “I don’t remember what became of old Brad-assuming I ever knew in the first place. And all this ancient history isn’t getting us very far.”

  “I think that the same person attacked both you and Janet,” Estelle said, and Gastner looked at her with surprise at the sudden change of subject.

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “What makes you think so? I mean, other than that this is a tiny town…and that makes the odds a gambler’s choice that violent episodes in one day are connected.”

  “Same MO, for one thing,” Estelle said.

  Gastner frowned at that, but took a moment to slip out the filling carafe and pour a partial cup.

  “In both cases, the intent was to kill,” she said, and saw Gastner’s eyebrow drift upward. He dumped too much sugar into his cup without bothering to stir it. “One shot to Janet’s head, execution style. One blow to yours, darn near in the exact same spot.”

  “He didn’t shoot me, though.”

  “No. I think he changed his mind at
the last minute. Maybe he figured that if he shot you, that would tie the two events together for sure. He’s working on being pretty clever, sir. The assault on you is obviously a grudge motive-hit and run, no robbery, no burglary of the house, no auto theft. Someone from your past, making the score even.”

  “And Janet?”

  “It’s supposed to look like a robbery at an ATM-not the most imaginative thing. But then I think he changed his mind again somehow. He shoots Janet, makes it look like a robbery, and then for some inexplicable reason, takes the body and dumps her in the arroyo.”

  “It makes sense if he wants to buy some time,” Gastner said.

  “And that fits, sir. The key to Mike’s apartment was gone from her key ring. We don’t know how or why. And on top of that, there’s this: Mike owns a.22 pistol. It’s missing, and he can’t account for that.”

  “Well, shit,” Gastner mused. “He’s missing a weapon?”

  “Just the.22. An odd coincidence, maybe.”

  “But see, none of those pieces fit. If the killer took the key…that’s what you’re thinking?”

  Estelle nodded. “There’s that possibility, sir.”

  “If he took the key, he wanted to use it. So he disposes of the body, which by his bizarre thinking might give him some extra time. He goes to the apartment. How does he know that Mike won’t be there?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he talked to Janet before he shot her.”

  “And maybe dumb luck,” Gastner observed. “You don’t have a lick of evidence that she talked to anybody in that bank parking lot. And after he does that, and then steals the gun, which he didn’t need to kill Janet, by the way, he comes over to my house and clubs me on the head.” He looked at Estelle skeptically. “I don’t know, sweetheart.” He sipped the coffee and out of thirty years’ habit as a smoker, his left hand drifted to his left shirt pocket, searching for a phantom cigarette.