Double Prey

by Steven F Havill

  “That’s first,” she laughed. “We have inquiries going out in about a dozen directions. By morning, we’ll have something to put together.”

  “You have someone working tonight?”

  “Sure. Our part-timer is staying central. Everyone else is on call.”

  “That would be Kenderman?”

  “Yes. He needs the experience.”

  “Who’s dispatching with him?”

  “Wheeler.” Estelle glanced at Leona, puzzled at the question. The county manager was usually most careful about treading on turf where her authority didn’t extend. As an elected official, Sheriff Robert Torrez didn’t answer to the county manager—and the sheriff’s deputies and staff were under his charge, not the manager’s.

  “Will that young man move into one of the vacancies?” Leona frowned. “And that’s assuming I’m successful in twisting money from the commissioners.” The department budget was also Torrez’s province…once the county commission approved it. Without the county manager’s support, the sheriff faced tough times.

  “I don’t think so, Leona.”

  “May I ask why, even though it is absolutely none of my business?”

  Estelle took a moment to frame her thoughts. “I use Deputy Kenderman as support and back-up, and occasionally under circumstances like tonight, when we just don’t have the staff. We’ll have state police in the area as well, so he’s not working alone. Beyond that, I don’t think so.”

  “He has an attitude, I’ve noticed.”

  “On occasion, yes, he does.”

  “And on occasion, he seems to favor inventing the law himself.”

  “You’ve had dealings with him personally, Leona?”

  “Others have whose opinions I trust, my dear.”

  “Then if they have complaints, they should come to either the sheriff or to me, Leona. I hope you tell them that.”

  “I’m meddling, aren’t I?” The county manager bent and circled an arm around Estelle’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Well, I do suggest that they refer their complaints to you, but you know how gutless some people are. On a happier note, you know the budget workshops loom next week. Will you let me know when we can meet for a few moments?” She drew back, regarding Estelle critically. “About a week of sleep would do wonders for you, but that’s not going to happen, is it.”

  “Things will work out.” Estelle did not believe that platitude for an instant. She saw the expression that flitted across Leona’s broad face, and knew the county manager didn’t either.

  “We don’t know yet how young Freddy’s death is related to the skeleton, do we?” Leona paused in the office doorway.

  “Not yet.”

  “But you will, my dear.”

  Estelle smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “One has to wonder.” Leona wiggled five fingers as a farewell, leaving behind only the scent of hibiscus.

  After another five minutes of fussing, Estelle finally shut down her computer and locked the files. Out in dispatch, Ernie Wheeler’s tall, angular figure was bent over a cabinet drawer, a sheaf of papers on one hand, fingers of the other puzzling through file headings.

  “You out of here?” he asked as Estelle appeared.

  “I am. I’ll be home.”

  “Jackie’s comin’ back on at midnight.” He glanced at the assignment board. “I guess Kenderman can keep himself out of trouble until then.”

  “Let us hope so, Ernie. Do your best.”

  The village was quiet as she pulled the Crown Victoria out of the parking lot. She looked down Grande Avenue in time to see Sheriff Robert Torrez’s battered Chevy pickup truck, its wrought iron bed and roof rack distinctive, pull out of McArthur and head south. If she had interrupted his solitude to ask, she could predict what he would reply. “Just some thinkin’,” he would say, and let it go at that.

  Turning onto Twelfth Street, she saw that solitude wasn’t in the cards for her. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her tired brain had reached a stage of repetitive and unproductive thought, and she welcomed the mob scene that the parking lot in front of her house promised. Irma Sedillos’ Datsun was snuggled into the curb with Bill Gastner’s SUV just behind. Her husband’s new BMW sedan left just enough room in the driveway for her county car.

  After backing into her slot, she let the car idle for a moment as she sorted through her mobile office, then reached for the radio as she jotted down a final entry in her log.

  “PCS, three ten is ten-forty-two.”

  “Ten four, three ten,” Wheeler acknowledged.

  Officer at home. That had a far warmer ring than the sterile ten code, Estelle thought. With briefcase in hand, she slid out of the car, and then stopped, one hand on the door frame. Down the street, George Romero’s Suburban was parked, but Tata’s sedan was gone. The front yard was clear of other machines—not the usual squadron of motorcycles, scooters, powered skateboards, ATVs, or dual-spring, chromed pogo sticks. Estelle gently pushed the cruiser’s door closed. The street was so quiet that the metallic chunk of the door seemed an intrusion.

  The front door of her own home opened.

  “Hey, there,” her husband called. “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine. Just slow.” Francis met her at the bottom step, and by the time she reached him, she could smell the aroma wafting from the house.

  “You look like you’ve been playing in Carlos’ dirt pit,” the physician said. He engulfed her in a fierce hug. “That’s nice.”

  “What’s nice?” she murmured, face buried in his soft polo shirt.

  “Eau de packrat, ” he laughed, and reached up to ruffle her hair. “Alan told me what you guys were doing.”

  “You should probably turn me upside down and shake me.” She pushed him away as he stooped to do that very thing. He ushered her inside, and Carlos appeared from the kitchen holding a colander, several other ingredients of the evening meal smeared on his face.

  “Better hurry up, mamá, ” he called. “We gots it almost all done.”

  “You gots it, all right, hijo, ” she replied. In the living room, Bill Gastner sat on the end of the sofa nearest the fireplace and the rocking chair, where Estelle’s mother sat wrapped in a white Afghan.

  “You go clean yourself up,” Teresa said as Estelle started to cross the living room. Her voice was as tiny as she was, raspy and cracked, but her black eyes sparkled. She had drawn the Afghan up around her face as if the gentle gas fire beyond her chair produced no heat at all on this mild late summer evening. “Por Dios, ” she groused as Estelle bent to kiss her cheek. “Where have you been, hija? ” Her aquiline nose wrinkled and she waved an arthritis-clawed hand.

  “Doing a little spelunking,” Estelle laughed, and she glanced at Gastner.

  “Yeah, I told her some of it.” He raised the can of dark ale to salute her. “I hope you didn’t forget that you invited me for dinner, sweetheart.”

  “I had ulterior motives, Padrino. But let me get cleaned up a little.”

  “Por favor, ” Teresa snipped. Nevertheless, her face, as wrinkled as the surface of a walnut, lit with a proud smile.

  In the kitchen, Irma and Francisco were working together at the window counter, the pan of lasagna bubbling as it rested on hot pads between them. Now tall enough that he didn’t have to reach up to the counter surface, Francisco was sculpting green chiles on a wooden board. As the boy deftly fashioned each piece of chile, he scooted it toward Irma, who slipped a fork under it and transferred it to the top of the lasagna.

  “You have fifteen minutes,” Irma said when she saw Estelle. “Or so,” she amended.

  “You’re staying to enjoy all this, aren’t you?”

  “If I may. Gary has a game in Artesia today. I’m a football widow.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s good for us.” She leaned over her son, resting a hand lightly on his bony shoulder. With the razor sharp knife, he was cutting the slabs of skinned and seeded chile into small rosettes, little green bu
rsts of flavor and aroma that Irma then arranged on top of the lasagna. To her left was a second pan, already decorated.

  “This is an experiment,” Francisco explained. “Ten minutes should be just enough to make them curl and crisp just right.” His brown was furrowed with concentration.

  “If it doesn’t work, I brought over some hot dogs,” Gastner called from the living room. Francisco ducked his head with pleasure. Estelle squeezed his shoulder.

  “You’ve made enough for an army,” she said.

  “That one’s for Mr. and Mrs. Romero,” Francisco said without pausing in his work.

  “Oh,” she sighed, “They’ll appreciate that, querido.” She gave him another quick hug and then turned toward the sink where Carlos, just tall enough to see over the rim, was attacking carrots with the peeler, sculpting the roots into fantastic shapes that only he recognized.

  “Will you take us to see the cave sometime?” he asked, pausing in his work.

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Estelle replied. “It’s just a dusty hole in the ground, hijo. ” That was hardly a deterrent, she knew, since excavating holes in the ground was the little boy’s passion.

  She felt grubby and out of place in this center of industrious creation, but five minutes later the blast of hot water from the shower began to pound away the grime and fatigue. For a long moment, she let the stream beat on her forehead and shampooed hair. She was standing thus when she heard the first shout.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Francis Guzman slipped through the bathroom door just as Estelle punched off the water. When the roar ceased, she could hear the loud, incoherent shouting from the front of the house.

  “George Romero is out on the front lawn trying to raise the dead,” her husband said. “He’s drunk as a skunk. Bill’s talking with him.”

  “My radio’s on the kitchen counter. Make sure Bill has it.”

  “He took it out with him.”

  “I’ll be a just a minute, then, Oso. Keep him out of the house.”

  “That already happened. Padrino intercepted him on the front step.”

  Estelle toweled herself off quickly, her clothing soaking up the wet spots as she did a fireman’s dress. As she came out of the bathroom, she saw Carlos standing in the dining room, looking toward the front door, his hands curled under his chin in that characteristic pose of delight or concern, depending. Irma had her hand on Francisco’s shoulder, and Estelle motioned for them to relax and stay where they were.

  When he’d gone outside, Doctor Guzman had closed the front door behind him, but even so Estelle could hear George Romero’s alcohol-fueled harangue. She paused, hand on the knob, and listened. Bill Gastner’s gruff voice offered up an assuaging stream of mellow commiseration, but George Romero was accepting none of it. His incoherence was fueled by alcohol, but she could hear the full measure of grief that had finally broken loose. Her name was thrown into the mix, but Estelle could not follow the context. If she appeared in the doorway, her very presence could fuel further eruption. But as Romero’s voice choked in a tone that grew wilder, she saw no choice.

  A second consideration presented itself, and she turned, heading for the back door. “Stay put,” she said to the trio now gathered in the dining room. She tucked her Tazer into her belt and then slipped out the back door. With the massive open pit mine that Carlos was excavating, the swing set, the garden shed, the bicycles and trikes, the backyard was a burglar trap. She negotiated around them carefully in the dark, finding her way to the side gate.

  The passage between the house and the side fence was five feet wide, illuminated by the street light in front of the neighbors. She could hear Romero clearly now.

  “Look, I talked to her, see?” the man bleated, his voice high-pitched and cracking with emotion. “I talked to Carla and she oughta know. She saw the whole thing. She told me she saw the whole thing.”

  “That’s a long way across that field, George,” Gastner said, his tone gentle and conversational. “I’m not saying…”

  “She wrestled the boy down, Bill. That’s what Carla saw her do. When she shoulda been taking care of him, she tackles him. I mean, Jesus, what for? Couldn’t Estelle see that my boy was hurting? Carla said…”

  “Now look,” Gastner said, “what she said she saw, and what really happened? You know, those can be two different things, George. She’s what, two hundred yards away? Lookin’ into the sun? And hell, she’s an old lady. Probably got vision about like mine. Couldn’t see a house at that distance.”

  “She coulda took him to the emergency room straight off. She coulda. But no, she wrestles with him, and makes him wait forever until the ambulance gets there.” He blubbered something that Estelle couldn’t understand. “And now he’s blind.” Romero balled his fists and took two steps away, head tilted back. “You tell her,” he shouted, turning on Gastner, “that I want some answers, by God.” By now he was openly crying. “I want some answers, by God.”

  Gastner reached out a hand as if to touch the man on the shoulder, but Romero apparently misinterpreted the motion. He swung a lumbering, clumsy blow at the older man, more of a fend-off than a punch, a swing that Gastner had no trouble in ducking.

  “It’s her fault.” Romero staggered backward a step. Gastner saw Estelle advancing across the lawn, and held up a hand. “If she’d just taken care of the boy…I got to talk to her. Got to find out why…” He lunged as if to pass Gastner, and Francis Guzman stepped forward, blocking the sidewalk. But Gastner was faster. He reached out a hand, triggering another wild swing from Romero. So fast that even Estelle didn’t see it coming, Gastner clamped Romero’s right wrist, twisted, and spun the man around, his left hand hard on Romero’s left shoulder, the man’s right arm behind his back.

  “You need to go home, George,” he said. “It’s a bad time, and you’re drunk and upset. You don’t know what you’re saying. Keep this up and it’s only going to cause you more grief.”

  Romero blubbered something incoherent, and twisted wildly in Gastner’s grip. “My boys!” he wailed.

  “Yeah, I know,” Gastner said. “Let me walk you home, Georgie. Is your wife home?”

  “No,” Romero whimpered. “She’s up in the city. She doesn’t know…”

  “Doesn’t know what?”

  “Carla said she saw the whole thing,” Romero cried. “She saw it.” He struggled and Estelle could see that this confrontation wasn’t going anywhere constructive. And as soon as George Romero turned and saw her, he would erupt again. Coming to the same conclusion, Gastner’s foot shot out and deftly jerked the man’s legs out from under him, and in a moment Romero was flat on his face in the grass. With a smooth transfer of his grip, Gastner held the man down while his right hand swept his sweater to one side, darting to the handcuffs that draped over his belt.

  “You can’t…” Romero cried.

  “I can until you behave yourself,” Gastner said conversationally. He put a hand through Romero’s right elbow and helped him up. The man swayed uncertainly. “Now, you can see how this is going to go,” the former sheriff continued. “You’re going to calm down, or are you going to have to spend the night in jail?”

  “No,” Romero moaned. “You can’t. My wife is going to call me.”

  “And you want to be home and sober for that, my friend.”

  “She’s with Butch. She was going to call…”

  “Well, you can’t talk to her like this,” Gastner said. “Look, let me take you home.”

  “You got me all handcuffed,” Romero said. “You aren’t even sheriff any more.”

  “That’s true, thank God,” Gastner chuckled. “Look, here’s what we’re going to do. Estelle and I are going to walk you home, all right?” Romero turned enough and finally saw that Estelle Guzman was standing a couple paces away. “And if you want to talk with her, maybe when you’re sober, we can arrange that. But right now you’re stinking fall-down drunk, and that doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  “Yo
u…” Romero said to Estelle, and then seemed to loose track of his jumbled thoughts. He swayed, eyes closed. “I can’t sleep. I just lie there…”

  “Maybe the doc can give you something,” Gastner suggested, and Francis looked briefly heavenward.

  “Not with what he’s got in his system,” he said. “He just needs to lie down for a bit and let the alcohol work.”

  “You hear that, Georgie?” Gastner said. “Just lie down for a little while. If Tata calls, I’ll let you know. And then in the morning, we’ll sort all this out.” It didn’t matter what he said, what promises he made. Estelle knew that George Romero wouldn’t remember a bit of the conversation in the morning. “Come on,” Gastner urged. “Let me walk you home.”

  Still mumbling, George Romero allowed himself to be led across the lawn, Bill Gastner’s path a straight one, Romero’s a meander. As they reached the sidewalk, a state police cruiser swung into Twelfth Street, its tires chirping on the pavement. It slid to an abrupt halt by the curb, and Officer Rick Black stepped out of the car, hesitating by the front fender.

  “We’re okay, Rick,” Gastner said. “George here is just walking home to sleep it off.” Black saw the handcuffs and then looked at Estelle questioningly.

  “They’ll be all right,” she said.

  “You want him charged? Public intox, anything like that?”

  “No, no, no charges. That’s the last thing he needs just now,” Estelle said. “You might give Bill a hand getting Mr. Romero back inside.” She pointed at the Romero residence. “Just over there.”

  The state trooper stepped to the sidewalk and slipped a hand through Romero’s left elbow. “You going to be okay with us now, sir?” he said, voice kindly and helpful. “Too nice an evening for a ruckus, don’t you think?”

  Romero managed a string of unconnected syllables, and his knees wobbled.

  “Just hang in there, sir,” Black coaxed as he and Gastner weaved Romero down the sidewalk to his own front door.

  “Keep my lasagna warm,” Gastner said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back just as soon as Georgie passes out.”