After a series of general, all-inclusive photos of the area, the truck, and its contents, she had Gastner hold the two flashlights so she could try close-ups of the ladder ends while avoiding use of the flash. A tiny fragment wedged in the junction of the top rung and the left rail winked a reflection in one of the resulting photos.
“Glass,” Estelle said.
“Maybe so.” Gastner remained noncommittal.
Headlight beams touched the unmowed verge as the white county Expedition stopped out on the road. The sheriff got out and strolled over toward them.
“House open?” Torrez asked by way of greeting.
“No, it’s locked. No sign of Arthur yet.”
Torrez shrugged and turned in place as if inventorying the neighborhood. “What did Francis say about Efrin. Any guesses?”
“He thinks the young man’s injuries were consistent with a truck wreck.” She pointed at the distorted steering wheel. “That nailed him, for sure. The broken elbow too. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and he got tossed around hard.”
“And mom is up in Albuquerque with him now.”
“Yes.”
“And Arthur ain’t.”
“No sign of him.”
Torrez looked across at Gastner. “How are you doin’?”
“It’s a gorgeous night to be out and about,” Gastner said. “I’m the official flashlight-holder.”
Torrez actually laughed. “I always knew you were good for something.”
“Damn right.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Dried blood samples, looking like microscopically thin brown wafers, lifted easily from the Nissan’s plastic seat cover, using a single-edged razor blade. The tiny samples were placed in a series of thin, plastic specimen boxes.
“Right side of the driver,” Torrez observed. “He bled heavy. That don’t make sense.”
“And right side is where the severe ear laceration was, Efrin’s right ear and scalp.” Estelle agreed.
“How’s that gonna work?” Torrez turned in a circle, gazing off into the night. “Truck hits the pole, he goes out the door.” He bent down, aiming his flashlight at the mangled doorframe. “If he twisted around, maybe.” He examined the door for another full minute. “No blood, no tissue on the doorframe itself. If this is where the right side of his head got caught, you’d think there’d be something.”
The three of them stood away from the truck, and Estelle pointed at the back window.
“Something smashes through the back window and hits him. That’s the way most of the glass went. Even up on the dash, around the vents.”
“Yep.”
“The ladder, you’re saying?” Gastner asked.
“I think so. It hit so hard that a fragment of glass caught in the aluminum.”
“How’s that going to work?” the sheriff asked again. “Hold this.” He handed his flashlight to Gastner. “If this is ridin’ in the back, one end down against the cab, the other up on the tailgate, what’s it gonna do when the truck hits the pole?” He lifted the ladder sharply. “It’s gonna pitch right on over the roof. Or swing wild sideways. It ain’t going to bust through the window and punch all the way through to the dashboard.”
“Maybe when the truck bounced over the deer,” Gastner offered.
“Maybe,” Torrez said. “And then it keeps on bouncin’ on down the road until it hits the pole?” He raised an eyebrow skeptically and exhaled loudly. “Look, you headin’ to the city in a little bit this morning?”
“Waddell offered the contractor’s jet, and I took him up on it,” Estelle said. “We leave at eight, and I’ll be back by noon. Bobby, I have to have some time with Efrin. To talk with him. There’s all this,” and she held up the collection of evidence bags, “and there’s evidence he might have been at school, maybe in time to hear or see something that tells us more about Scott’s murder.”
“Okay.” He reached out with a toe and thumped the back tire of the little truck. “If the kid dies, we’re going to wish we had all this in evidence.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then let’s get Stub back out here and get it towed in. Ladder and all. And make sure everybody keeps an eye out for numb nuts. If he’s still drivin’ his mother’s car, he ain’t goin’ far, and he won’t be hard to find. Pasquale seems to have a good nose for findin’ things.” He looked at his watch. “That’ll work. I’ll get Stubby out of bed. And make sure we bag the rail ends of that ladder.”
“We’ll wait until the tow gets here.”
“Nah. Go on ahead. I’ll stay in the area. But lemme know what you find out in Albuquerque. ASAP.”
Chapter Thirty
Her house was quiet and dark when Bill Gastner dropped her off shortly before two a.m. Despite Francis being on-call for the emergency room rotation, Estelle had hoped that his SUV would be parked in the driveway. It wasn’t, and her wistful dream of being able to snuggle against Oso for three hours of sleep winked out.
Light illuminated the stained-glass panels beside the front door, nice touches created by younger son Carlos during one of his many experiments in the arts. She keyed the door and swung it open to see Angie Trevino seated at the dining room table, several sheets of music in front of her. The girl offered a brilliant smile.
“What a day for you,” she said softly, voice husky. “I was just having some green tea. May I make you some?” She rose from the table, placing her pencil just so, beside her cup. The light cotton bathrobe was cinched tight, accentuating her lithe but sturdy figure.
“Absolutely wonderful.” The last thing Estelle wanted at the moment was to be conversed awake, but her curiosity won out. “What time did Dr. Francis leave?” They had agreed years before not to interrupt each other’s work except in dire emergencies, so avoided something as simple as a phone call just to chat, or even a text message to be read at leisure.
“I think it was about midnight,” Angie said. “I heard him leave, and then couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to finish some work. I hope that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right. It’s welcome.” She noticed the dark circles under Angie’s eyes, but resisted the temptation to glance in the hallway mirror to see how her own compared. “What’s the work?”
“The cello part for your mom’s birthday mass. I wasn’t happy with what I had written…well, with my transcription of what Mozart wrote, and thought I’d spend some time with it.”
“My mother will be so pleased.”
“She is a dear. By the way, Carlos mentioned that the acoustics in the church in Tres Santos aren’t very good, so I was making some adjustments for that.” She paused at the sink, teapot in hand. “You know, he is a remarkable little boy. There’s a rendering of the church’s interior there on the table that he drew for me. Basically the church is just a box, so that’s not so bad. He says it will be like playing in a large garage.”
Estelle laughed. “My son studies these things, and he doesn’t make suggestions lightly.”
“That’s what Francisco said. What a pair those two are.” She looked up at Estelle. “You and your husband are very fortunate.” Angie sounded eighteen going on forty.
“Thank you. We think we have a couple of keepers.”
Angie watched the pot as the gas flames caressed the bottom. “I hope you’re not angry with me for this road trip.”
“Apprehensive, maybe. Not angry. Francisco acts so mature sometimes, it’s easy to forget he’s only fifteen. And there are times when that includes the judgment of a fifteen-year-old.” The young woman looked down at the counter, and Estelle added, “It’s hard to cut apron strings, Angie. This whole experience with the academy has been something of an ordeal for us. For Francis and me.”
“Sometimes…” she glanced at Estelle, “my dad is afraid that the only thing I’ll ever hug is the cello.” She shook her head and sighed. “He’s a funny guy, my dad. He really believes that there is absolutely nothing on this planet that a check in the
right amount won’t cure. You know—and I think this is funny, but it’s pure Dad—without telling us, he went to some auction in New York and bought the most amazing cello for me. I mean, the Gignone is amazing. Some critics say it’s better than a Guarneri. And you know what? It’ll turn out to be an amazing investment, too, if you wanted to think of it that way. Dad is well aware of that aspect of it, but he also thinks that since the cello is so fantastic, I wouldn’t have to practice so much! How’s that for logic?”
“It’ll make its own music.”
“Exactly. For a man so smart, he can be really dumb sometimes.”
Estelle thought of the early hours alert for a flight crew to prep the jet parked at Posadas Municipal—Mr. Trevino would appreciate Miles Waddell’s checkbook approach to challenges.
“There are lots of situations where money is what starts the ball rolling, sometimes good, sometimes not so.” Estelle said. “What does your dad do, actually?”
“He sells breeding interests. Doesn’t that sound exciting? This bull, that bull—this stud, that stud—he makes sure that they stand for the highest prices. And he’s very good at what he does. He’s sort of a realtor for livestock services. An agent, he prefers to call it.” She smiled brightly. “And on top of that, he’s a financial investor. A very, very successful one.”
“And your mom—she’s provost at the college.”
“Yes. A more unlikely couple you’ll never find. He dotes on me, she makes sure the barbed-wire fence around me stays in good repair. I guess that’s her version of the apron strings idea, right?” She held up both hands, balancing. “He thinks I practice too much, she thinks I don’t practice enough.” She grinned. “Mom is the one who had trouble with my turning eighteen.”
“Third cupboard.” Estelle directed. She found it pleasant to be waited on, and sat at the center island while Angie found the cups, the bulk-tea spoon, and the canister of tea.
“And how much do you practice each day?”
“Well, that depends on your definition of practice, I suppose. I’m involved somehow with things musical most of the time, in one way or another. But actually sitting with the cello, working specifically on some aspect of performance? I suppose five or six hours a day. More, if I can find it.”
She turned and looked at the counter clock. “I haven’t played since we arrived, and I didn’t play in the car. So that’s something of a record for downtime. But almost the whole trip, Francisco and I were thinking, working, talking music. It’s not something that just starts up when we pick up an instrument.”
“Of course not.” She studied Angie as the girl relaxed at the kitchen counter. The long, heavy eyelashes that seemed to stroke the air with each blink were natural, the skin of her face so smooth as to invite a caress. And the eyes…lavender in this light, an unusually dark shade that would shift and morph. Estelle wondered, if she were to ask her son, how Francisco would describe his girlfriend’s eyes, for surely he would have become lost in them a time or two.
Estelle lifted the tea holder out of the water, letting it drip for a moment. “You and Francisco have spent time with each other since…?”
“We met last year after one of our recitals. I mean, from a distance before that, but the recital in Little Rock was our first sorta date, I guess.”
“A sorta date?”
Angie smiled, just a tinge of blush touching her cheeks. “Leister is pretty strict in that regard.” She blushed a little brighter. “Well…that sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, here we are, right?”
“Here you are.”
“But Leister thinks we’re at my house in Kansas. We didn’t ask them if we could do this trip. We just did it.”
“One of those ‘easier to ask forgiveness than permission’ moments.”
“That’s exactly right,” Angie said in her careful, thoughtful way. She glanced down as Estelle shifted a bit on the kitchen stool, her suit jacket swinging out to reveal the holstered handgun, badge, and cuffs.
“You know, yesterday afternoon, when we first came into town? That was the first time in my entire life that I’ve talked with a police officer. Sergeant Taber seems like a really nice person.”
“She is. We’re fortunate to have Jackie on staff. She could work anywhere in the world. But here she is.”
“Francisco said that she was shot two years ago? That Mr. Gastner saved her life?”
With her knuckle, Estelle reached up and knocked a couple times on her own vest. “It was one of those moments during a traffic stop when everything goes to hell in a heartbeat. The charge of birdshot hit her square in the chest.” She tugged a bit at the top of her vest. “There’s a ceramic insert there, so she wasn’t hurt. But the blow knocked her down. Bill Gastner happened to respond as civilian backup, and became involved.”
Angie grimaced. “The man died, Francisco said.”
“Yes, he did.”
Shaking her head slowly, Angie refilled Estelle’s cup. “How awful that must be.”
“More so if Officer Taber had been hurt. The man made a choice. He fired once at Jackie, then turned the shotgun toward Padrino. That was it. The lawsuit afterward took up too much of our time, but turned out all right.”
“How could they sue?”
“Oh, that’s the last refuge, Angie. It wouldn’t have mattered if the guy had managed to shoot three or four more people. When he gets hurt, the family sues. Go figure.”
“But they didn’t win…”
“No.”
“Wow.” Angie shook her head in wonder. “How long have you known him?”
“Padrino? Since I was a little kid in Tres Santos, Mexico. He and my Great-uncle Reuben were friends. And then I started work for the department when I was twenty-one, when Padrino was undersheriff.” She stopped abruptly and sipped the tea, eyes fast on Angie Trevino. “I’m supposed to be interrogating you.”
“But I’m boring,” Angie said. “I’ve been playing the cello since I was six. And if you ask my dad, that’s all I’ve been doing. He pictures me old, gray, wrinkled, sitting in a rocking chair, clutching my Gignone as my only company.”
“It all depends on what you do between now and that rocking chair, Angie. I’d say that you’re off to a dramatic start. You and my son both. You both have an incredible amount to share with the world. That’s the responsibility with talent like yours.”
Angie looked down at her cup pensively. “Hmm,” she murmured. Estelle let the moment grow without interruption. Finally the violet eyes lifted and locked on Estelle’s. “Do you ever regret the directions you’ve taken over the years?”
“Not for a heartbeat.”
The young woman smiled. “That’s what I want…to be sure, and then to be content with the way things work out.”
“And the great thing is that there’s no way to be sure until after the fact,” Estelle said. “That’s what keeps us up at night.” She yawned hugely. “Por dios, I have to curl up for a little while. I have a flight at eight, so it’s a short night.” She stood up, nodding at the sheet music. “Good luck with that, Angie. I have to find a way to stop the world so I can step off and find time to hear it on Sunday.” She started to walk past the girl, but paused. She stroked the back of her hand down the girl’s cheek, looking down at her as if trying to X-ray every cell. “I’m glad you’re here, Angie. And I’m going to ask that you be thoughtful with my son. And that he be thoughtful with you. And I mean that in the deepest sense of the word.”
As she left the kitchen, she saw Angie pour another cup of tea and settle once again at the table. In the bedroom, Estelle took two minutes to shed her heavy belt and its accoutrements, then stripped down to her underwear, enjoying the huge relief of shedding the weight of belt and vest. The sheets were cool and fragrant, and for several minutes she lay on her back, her left arm over her eyes, blocking out the faint ray of light from around the bedroom door. In a moment, she groaned.
“Shut off, brain,” she whispered, and reached to the nightstand fo
r her phone. The wireless Internet connection was always slow, and she waited for it to boot, running light fingers over the tiny touch-screen. Her first attempts garnered nothing except to understand what the name Gignone meant to string players. Another moment or two of persistence took her to the website of an exclusive violin dealer/auctioneer in New York, and under “recent notable sales,” found a brief report of the most recent purchase of a Pietro Gignone cello. The instrument had somehow avoided the penchant for instrumental nicknames, but had sold in auction for 1.9 million dollars. The buyer was listed as Derwood Trevino of the United States.
Chapter Thirty-one
Estelle tried to relax in the Cessna’s plush seat, already knowing that she wouldn’t be able to doze while in flight. After her husband had returned home, just moments before three a.m., she had managed two hours of rest as his strong fingers dug the kinks out of weary muscles. She’d finally drifted off, but when the alarm intruded, her eyelids felt as if heavy bags were attached. On board the corporate jet, she rested her head against the seat back. She willed each set of muscles to welcome the brand new sun that flooded through the jet’s small windows.
Waddell had requested “wheels up” at eight, and sure enough, the two Rolls Royce engines began the spool-up at seven-fifty. Miles Waddell had been busy with paperwork, not trying to engage Estelle in conversation, but he put the folders aside as the engines lit. “We’ll be off in a couple of minutes. Coffee? Tea? Soda?” He looked around the surprisingly spacious cabin, designed for work around an oval table. “Hell of a rig, huh?”
“Spectacular.” Estelle tried to sound cheerful, but accepted flying only as a necessary expediency. “And nothing, thanks.” Her phone vibrated and she fished it out of her pocket.
“Good morning.”
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