Before She Dies

by Steven F Havill

  No. To front.

  “Toward the front of her vehicle?”

  Yes.

  I slid the pad out and turned the page. Patsy Montaño had finished checking her machinery, but we were still parked right in the center of her day, making life difficult. She stood near the head of the bed, not sure what she should do.

  “Can you give me just a few more minutes?” I said.

  Patsy nodded.

  “Can you answer a few more questions?” I asked Linda.

  Nothing else to do. She was getting used to driving that pencil without looking at it, and the words came smoothly.

  I chuckled and squeezed Linda’s hand. Her mother’s eyes narrowed again.

  “Linda, what kind of vehicle was the parked vehicle?”

  The pencil tip drew a little spiral as if a memory was refusing to swim to the surface. Then she wrote, Chevy pickup.

  “A Chevrolet pickup. Do you remember what color it was?”

  White.

  “All white?”

  Just saw back.

  “But it was just a regular pickup?”

  Yes.

  “You’re sure?”

  Yes.

  Yes. She paused. Think so.

  “Were you able to make out the license plate, Linda?”

  No. Wasn’t one.

  “No license plate?”

  No. It had…The pencil stopped and I looked at Linda’s face. Her eye was closed.

  “She doesn’t have the energy for all this,” Mrs. Real snapped. “You should leave now.”

  The pencil wavered. Thinking.

  “Take your time,” I said.

  Temp tag in window.

  “It had one of those paper permits in the back window? Like it was just purchased?”

  Yes.

  “Linda, I need to ask you about the second vehicle. What direction did it come from?”

  West.

  “From the west. It came toward you then. And it stopped on the other side of the road?”

  Yes.

  “Was Deputy Enciños out of the patrol car then?”

  Yes. Standing by front fender. She shifted her grip on the pencil and I moved the pad a bit to give her room. Think was going to talk to Tammy.

  “And you didn’t see the driver of the second vehicle?”

  No. Headlights too bright.

  “Did the person fire from the vehicle?”

  No. Got out. Paul backed up.

  “Paul backed up? Can you tell me what you mean?”

  Linda made a small groaning sound as the memories surged back. Stepped back. I saw hand move down toward holster.

  “The first shot came from across the highway.”

  Yes. Right away. Then he walked across. He walked across road.

  “But you couldn’t see who it was?”

  No. I tried to get down. Tried. So scared. The pencil’s tip drifted along the line an inch or so before touching the surface again. So scared.

  I put my hand over Linda’s for a moment. The room was silent. Mrs. Real’s eyes bored into mine, but I ignored her.

  “Linda, can you tell me just one or two more things?”

  “Uh.”

  “Do you know why Deputy Enciños decided to drive out Fifty-six so late in his shift?”

  No.

  “It was just chance?”

  Maybe he wanted…The pencil stopped. Her forehead, what little of it I could see, furrowed, but this time in pain. Hurts so much, she wrote. Hard to think.

  “We’ll let you rest.”

  No, wait. The pencil almost stabbed the paper with determination. Paul thought Tammy maybe drinking.

  “He thought she was drunk? When?”

  This time, the pencil moved slowly, painfully. Linda wrote the sentence with her eye closed. A tear formed under the long black lashes and trickled back toward her ear.

  She was parked on Bustos near MacA. Paul stopped, talked to her. She didn’t know how to tune radio. He helped. He laughed.

  “Was this the same truck you saw later out on Fifty-six?”

  Yes.

  “And then the deputy headed out on Fifty-six as well.”

  He joked.

  She stopped writing and I placed my hand on her right cheek. She opened her eye and gazed at me. Then, ever so slightly, she shook her head. The movement cost her, and she closed her eye again. The pencil wavered and scratched.

  He said might as well check on Bob’s drunks one more time.

  “Bob’s drunks.” I smiled. Sergeant Robert Torrez would appreciate that. “Did he have any idea that Tammy Woodruff was headed out that way?”

  Yes. We drove around some, saw her later, not too long. Saw truck go under interstate, turn onto 56. Paul checked some buildings near interstate, then we went that way, too.

  She dropped the pencil and her hand curled up on the pad.

  I took a deep breath and straightened up. I clicked off the little tape recorder and slid it into my pocket.

  “You should leave now,” Mrs. Real glowered. “You’ve put her through far too much already.”

  “Lady,” I started to say, then stopped. Instead I touched Linda’s right cheek once more. “Nobody will bother you for a while. You get some rest.”

  Her eyelid fluttered. I moved to the door and beckoned Mrs. Real to follow. She did so, and when we were out in the hall, I waved Deputy Howard Bishop over.

  Mrs. Real surveyed Howard with distaste and I said, “Mrs. Real, the ICU waiting room is across the hall, right there. You’re welcome to wait there. I’ll remind you that your daughter, besides being gravely injured, is a material witness in a homicide investigation. You’re going to have to wait out here. Deputy Bishop, I want you to arrest anyone who enters that room other than medical staff until I return. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Real’s jaw dropped. “Now I’m her mother…”

  “I don’t care who you are.”

  “I have the right…”

  “No, ma’am, you don’t. Deputy, any questions?”

  “No, sir.” He moved toward the doors of the ICU.

  “I’ll be back shortly after noon.” I nodded at Mrs. Real. “Ma’am,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  As I walked off, I heard Mrs. Real mutter, “I don’t have to put up with this.” But she pushed open the door of the waiting room.

  Chapter 20

  I hustled across the hospital parking lot to 310, anxious to find out what Estelle Reyes-Guzman had tracked down and disappointed that our lead on the stolen Suburban out of Albuquerque had been shot to hell by Linda’s story. I settled into the car’s front seat and wrinkled my nose as a waft of air blew just right to carry the aroma of me upward.

  “Christ,” I muttered. “No wonder the woman was so grouchy.”

  I drove directly home without bothering to call the office. Hell, Gayle Sedillos was working dispatch, and she always knew exactly where I was. An instinct of some kind. Or maybe just stink. I hadn’t thought of that before.

  The long, hot shower was pure bliss, and I damn near fell asleep standing up. Afterward I dressed in comfortable wool flannel pants and my favorite blue-checked flannel shirt. I looked like an ad out of Retired Lumberjack Magazine. I sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on a fresh pair of socks and then made the mistake of lying back on the cool bedspread for just a moment.

  My eyes slammed shut and that was that. I might have slept all day had Linda Real’s mother not intruded. She appeared vividly in a dream where I was once again a patient. She, of course, was the floor nurse. No matter how much I protested, she still insisted there was nothing wrong with the king-size hypo she was about to jab in my butt. I could see that the tip of the needle was bent, as if it had been dropped point first on a Formica countertop. The needle looked fine to her.

  I awoke with a start, paralyzed. My feet were still flat on the floor, my back was flat on the mattress, and my sixty-three-year-old spine had mistaken the resulting curve as
a permanent set. I cussed and dragged the arm whose wrist held a watch up close to my eyes. It was quarter to four.

  I hauled myself to a sitting position and sat for a while with my head hanging, trying to clear my thoughts. “Tammy, you’re the key,” I said aloud. I pushed myself upright and padded in stocking feet down the long tile hall to the kitchen. I loaded grounds and while the coffeemaker did its thing I telephoned the office. Gayle answered on the second ring.

  “Gayle, it’s Gastner. Any messages for me?”

  “Let me check, sir.” An instant later she added, “Nothing while I’ve been here, except the sheriff asked for you a couple of times.”

  “Anything important?”

  “He’s got Captain Eschevera of the state police with him. They’ve been rummaging around here all afternoon. Eschevera had me in Holman’s office for nearly an hour.”

  “Yeah, well, give ’em whatever he wants. Has Estelle checked in?”

  “She was in earlier for a few minutes. Let me see.” Voices mumbled in the background and then Gayle said, “Bob Torrez wants to talk with you, sir.” The phone clicked and Sergeant Torrez’s soft voice came on the line.

  “Sir,” he said, “did Estelle tell you about the Suburban?”

  “No. But I found out that it’s not the vehicle we’re looking for.”

  “No, sir. It was recovered in Taos. So that’s that.”

  “Bob, when you talked with Tammy over the weekend, did she say anything about getting a new truck?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sunday night, Linda Real says that Tammy was driving a white Chevy pickup. Brand-new. Temporary sticker in the window. Linda says that’s the vehicle that Paul stopped to assist. I want that truck, and I want to talk with Tammy Woodruff.”

  “Is there any chance she could be mistaken?”

  “Of course,” I said cryptically, and Torrez understood the tone of my voice.

  “I’ll get a bulletin out, sir.”

  “And do you know where Estelle is at the moment?”

  “I saw her before lunch. She said she was going home for a little bit. And then she said something about going down to Regal. You want me to flag her on the radio?”

  “No. No. I’ll catch her later. What did you find out today?”

  “Estelle asked me to try and run down the shotgun ammunition that was used, sir. No number 4 buck has been sold anywhere around here recently. One of the Albuquerque detectives is running a check of dealers up there, but so far nothing. And nothing in Cruces. Not too many dealers sell the stuff in the first place.”

  “And they don’t have to keep records of sales anyway.”

  “No. It’s just a question of maybe a chance recollection, sir.”

  “Well, keep after it. And by the way, while you’re at the office, look at the duty roster and make sure we’re covered tonight by someone who isn’t dead on his feet.”

  “Gayle’s working on that, sir. We’re shorthanded. I think she’s got Tony Abeyta on swing, with Mears coming in at midnight. Here, she wants to talk to you again.”

  “Sir,” Gayle’s pert voice broke in, “remember the Weatherfords?”

  “Sure.”

  “The mother called early this morning. I forgot to tell you.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Just to thank you and the deputies for all the help. Her husband was discharged late yesterday afternoon. She said that they plan to leave today, if things work out. As soon as they can make arrangements. She said he’s still in a lot of discomfort, but apparently he can travel now.”

  “Well, good. I’m glad something worked out well. Gayle, if you need me, I’ll be out and about. I’m going to see Karl Woodruff for a few minutes and see if he’s had time to think of a few answers.”

  ***

  If anyone was wishing for answers, it was Karl Woodruff. He hadn’t seen his daughter since bailing her out of the drunk tank Saturday morning.

  We stood in the corner of the pharmacy next to the selection of foot pads. Karl’s face was worried as I told him what Linda Real had said.

  “She doesn’t have a new truck, Bill. I’d know it if she did. You can guess who holds the paperwork on the one she’s got.” He jabbed his chest with a thumb. “Dear old dad here.”

  “Maybe she borrowed it from a friend.”

  Karl Woodruff shook his head in disbelief. “Anything’s possible, I suppose.” He reached out and grasped my arm. “But where is she? If what Miss Real says is true, then what did Tammy do? Just drive off? Where?”

  “We hope that’s what she did, Karl.”

  Woodruff bit his lip. “She could be in some sort of real danger from this, couldn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God,” Woodruff said, and looked off into the distance in the general direction of the vitamin supplements. He looked back at me. “What can I do?”

  “Karl, we have to find her. We have a bulletin out for her, and for that truck. If you or your wife think of anything in the meantime, get right to us. If you hear from her, we have to know. If you think of any old favorite places she might be, let me know so I can have one of the deputies check it out. If there’s a relative she might have traipsed off to visit out of town, then we’ll look there.”

  Karl Woodruff buried his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. I could see that his fists were clenched.

  “I’ve never been so frightened,” he said finally. When he looked at me, his eyes were pleading. “For her, I mean.”

  I nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll do what we can, Karl. What’s important is that you keep in touch with us. Don’t let anything wait. If you think of something that might be of help at three in the morning, give the department a call.”

  I left the drugstore thinking about forks in the road. The myriad possibilities had narrowed to two that nagged. If Tammy Woodruff had been an innocent bystander that night, an unwilling, unlucky witness, then the odds were excellent we’d never see her alive again. And that shiny new truck she’d been driving, no matter whose it was, would be deep in Mexico, out of our reach, a nice bonus for the killer’s night of work.

  The other possibility was that Tammy Woodruff had been party to the shooting in some way.

  Karl Woodruff had every reason to be frightened.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday afternoon in February wasn’t a time of unrelenting sales in any store in Posadas, and folks sure weren’t standing in line to buy cars. Shoehorned into the showroom of Nick Chavez’s auto dealership were four vehicles, their svelte plastic bumpers a hair’s breadth from touching. Not a single customer salivated over the prospect of adopting one of those machines.

  I let the door close behind me and had time for two deep breaths before a tall young woman I didn’t know meandered her way across the showroom toward me. The cars were perfectly placed. In order to avoid a collision of thigh and plastic, she had to waltz her rump first one way and then another. I trudged forward and met her at the Olds station wagon.

  Her smile was megawatt as she tried to read first impressions. Was this old man dressed up in his go-to-town clothes ready to buy himself a new sedan? Maybe one of those humongous pickup trucks with four doors and dual back wheels, powerful enough to haul any stock trailer all the way up Regal Pass without dropping out of overdrive.

  “May I help you, sir?” she said. Her voice was the kind of husky that takes hours of practice at home in front of a mirror.

  “Nick Chavez, please.” I offered her a friendly smile.

  Immediately her radiant expression wilted a touch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chavez is with…” That’s as far as she got before Nick stuck his head out of an office door at the other end of the showroom, behind the blue Camaro.

  “Bill!” he bellowed, and beckoned with both hands.

  The girl nodded brightly. “I guess he’s free now,” she said.

  I thanked her and waddled my way across the showroom, zigzagging around the polished automotive snouts
and rumps with far less grace and elegance than the girl.

  Nick stretched out a hand as if to save me from drowning. His handshake was one of those rock-crushers that my arthritic knuckles dreaded. “Bill, come on in. By God, I didn’t think I’d ever get you back here.”

  Two other men were sitting in his office and Nick introduced them as if they were going to take part in the feeding frenzy. “Bill, you know Rusty Archer, my service manager.” Archer stood up and stretched a hand across the desk. He looked like a thirty-years-younger version of his father, high school principal Glen Archer. Rusty had attended the same school of knuckle-dusting handshakes as his boss, and I flinched involuntarily.

  “…and Carlos Sánchez, our business manager.” As we shook, this time with courtesy but no agony, I reflected that young Carlos had been spared his father’s looks. While Victor Sánchez bulled around his saloon like an old grumpy rhino, Carlos was lean, almost fine boned. The slight aquiline curve of his nose set off an intelligent, aristocratic face.

  “Sit down, sheriff, sit down,” Nick said, gesturing toward one of the conference chairs. “We were just putting a new ad campaign together.” He smoothed his glossy black hair and then remained for a moment with his hand locked to the back of his head, brow furrowed. “Bad season of the year, Bill,” he said. “One good sale yesterday, and son of a gun, that’s it for the past week.” He grinned toward Sánchez and Archer. “These guys are going to get hungry if we don’t do something to lure you hard cases in.”

  He beckoned toward the chair again. “Sit down. Take a load off.”

  “I don’t really have the time, Nick,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk with you just a bit.”

  Nick Chavez looked momentarily surprised, then nodded vigorously. “Sure, sure. Guys,” he said, “give us a few minutes.”

  When we were alone, I closed the glass door.

  “Nick, we’re looking for a 1994, white Chevrolet pickup truck. Temporary sticker in the back window.”

  He sat on the edge of his desk, face serious. “Is this the one involved out there?” He waved a hand toward the west.

  “We think it might be.”

  “Just plain white? No accent colors?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Half-ton? Three-quarter?”