“He already is famous, my friend,” Waddell said. “Look…I’ll cut you a deal. You give that gun to the undersheriff. You can trust her. You do that, and you’ll come out of there in one piece. If we find out you’re not lying to us…that your brother had absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Scott’s murder…then maybe we’ll have something to talk about. That’s the deal. ”
Garcia lowered the phone. “You heard him?”
Estelle nodded. “It’s recorded, Arthur.”
He nodded and lowered the revolver, then reached out to place it in her lap like a little kid sharing a favorite toy. The ends of the revolver’s cylinder were clearly visible, and she could see that the gun was not loaded. “Okay,” Arthur Garcia said. “If that’s what I got to do.” He slid out of the seat to his knees, bowed his head, and laced his fingers together on top of his skull. Only when Estelle snapped the cuffs on his wrists, bringing his hands down behind his back, did the little red dot of light that had hovered on his skull wink out.
Chapter Thirty-six
District Attorney Dan Schroeder took the gamble. A defense attorney might argue that Art Garcia, chubby and uncoordinated and not much of a fighter, had to defend himself against the tough and quick-thinking Clint Scott, whether the coach was naked or not. The four carefully placed shots told a different story, and that’s the version that made sense to the district attorney. There had been no risk for the assailant. The young man had returned to the school, had sought out Scott, and then basically executed him in the shower. That pointed to a first-degree murder charge. Arthur Garcia would never have to pay rent again.
Arthur, perhaps with the notion of avoiding lethal injection—which New Mexico was usually loath to administer anyway—turned into a fund of information. The idea for the graffiti design he had appropriated from a passing BNSF freight train whose boxcars were rolling billboards for spray art. And it made sense to him that his tagging kudos would benefit from spraying targets that had recently garnered lots of publicity—Waddell’s locomotive, impressive venue of Waddell’s telescope, and even the gym where the Posadas Jaguarettes had scored yet another romp and stomp, much-ballyhooed victory.
The only catch, he told them, was that he didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. That’s what younger brothers were for.
One thing Arthur Garcia did not know—and Estelle quizzed him relentlessly. The “chick” he had seen approaching as they worked on the school wall was nothing but a shadow to him. She could have been four feet or six feet tall. She might have been blond, or brunette or bald. He maintained that the approaching figure was a woman because of the sashay of her hips. “Man don’t walk like that,” he insisted.
The vague description of what might have turned into an important material witness did not coalesce. Had the woman been fearful for her safety? If so, why choose to walk around behind a darkened school building so late at night? And when she saw taggers working so diligently on the wall, she had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Had she witnessed Coach Scott’s confrontation with the two young men? Did their raised voices scare her off? Did she see one of them draw a pistol? If so, she had not lingered. The Garcias had not seen her again—not that they had had leisure time to look. And she hadn’t called police.
Sheriff Robert Torrez sat down in one of the cushioned chairs in Estelle’s office, crossed one leg over the other and regarded his undersheriff.
“This is the issue.” Estelle patted the pile of depositions that was growing on her desk. “The back door was unlocked when Clint Scott burst out and confronted the two Garcia boys. They didn’t hear the rattling of a chain, or the turn of a lock. Bam! The door flies open, and there he is. He must have heard the boys talking, or the thunk of the ladder on the wall…something. He gets up, takes the stairs two or three at a time, and looks out that little side window in the foyer. He sees their flashlights. He bursts out and confronts them.”
“Yep.”
“So why was the door already open? Why was the coach so primed that he heard what had to be comparatively faint noises coming from outside? When he went up to check, was he expecting to see someone else, and blew his stack when he saw what was going on?”
“I’d guess.”
“He was waiting for someone.”
“Coulda been. And it coulda been the chick, right?”
“That would explain a lot. It would explain why she was there in the first place, going around to the back door. It explains why he made sure that those heavy doors were open. Maybe even a pebble on the threshold to catch the door. He was waiting for her. So what she sees as an altercation, maybe even one involving a gun, does she stay? No. She flees the scene.”
The sheriff regarded Estelle with amusement, a rare expression for him.
“Coach Avila said that she saw one of the girls on the team walking back toward the school the next day—Ginny Trimble? She said she was attracted by all the cops converging at the scene. But there’s no evidence that says she was at the school after the game.”
“You already asked Todd Stewart about what time his wife got home after the game?”
“I did. Stacie Stewart told her husband that she went out for a bit with Dana Gabaldon. Dana says that she didn’t. Maybe she was headed to talk with Scott, and spooked when she saw the taggers, and then the fight.”
Torrez sighed mightily. “It don’t matter a whole lot, anyways. Garcia confessed, and he ain’t protecting nobody. If Stewart witnessed anything, that’s just a little loose end to tighten up.”
Estelle smiled. “Yes.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Posadas County…I’m going to have to find a map.”
“West of Deming, east of Lordsburg,” Estelle said. “About fifty miles west of Las Cruces.”
“Oh, now wait a minute. I was with a detachment at Fort Bliss for a while back in the eighties. We’d go over to Tucson once in a while.”
“Then you drove right through the heart of Posadas County, ma’am.”
Pinnacle County Sheriff Sharon Naylor laughed abruptly. “How about that. And you’re the undersheriff out there.”
“I am.” Estelle reached out and adjusted the computer screen so she could see Sheriff Sharon Naylor’s portrait more clearly. The eastern sheriff appeared trim and formal in her dress uniform with its five shoulder stars. Her portrait dominated a classy web page, laden with colorful photos of the New York State Finger Lakes country.
“Hold on a minute. I’m pulling you up. Got to know who I’m talking to before we get down to business here.” A pause, and then Naylor said, “My goodness.”
“Ma’am?”
“That’s a charming photo of you, Estelle Reyes-Guzman. And the big buff hunk on the other side of the page is your sheriff. Mr. Robert Torrez. Is he a good man to work for?”
“The best, ma’am.”
“Can’t be. I’m the best. What’s your husband do? You’re hyphenated, so I assume you’re married.”
“He’s a physician, ma’am.”
“Well, good deal. Mine operates one of the major marinas down on the lake. So…you didn’t select our department out of thin air for a chat this lovely evening. And you’re lucky to catch me on a Saturday. I just stopped by the office to check a few things, and then was going to head home for dinner. That’s how busy I am just now. Much more of this and I’d guess that crime is going out of fashion.”
“I don’t think there’s a ghost of a chance, ma’am.”
She chuckled dryly. “So what can I do for you?”
“I have a brochure here for Pinnacle Estates Winery. Outside of Casaroga?”
“Nice place. I’m not a wine drinker, but I’m told it’s pretty good stuff. They’ve won all kinds of awards.”
“The brochure lists the owners as Clifford and Elise Gordon?”
“Sure. Nice couple. They’ve worked their butts off renovating an old stone house and barn. Hell of a nice spot.”
“We have reason to believe that a wom
an from Posadas named Stacie Willis Stewart is Elise Gordon’s younger sister.”
“That could be. I don’t know Mrs. Gordon that well. I mean, I would recognize her in the grocery store, of course. What have we got going on?”
Estelle spread out the brochure that had been found among Stacie Stewart’s papers. The photo of the Gordons, taken as the couple leaned smiling against one of the mechanical grape harvesters, showed husband and wife, he broad of shoulder with a shoulder-length mane of brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and Elise Gordon stamped from the same mold as her sister, Stacie Stewart—pretty, blond, curvaceous. Her blue jeans and waist-tied blue denim shirt appeared molded in place.
“She may be a material witness to a homicide, Sheriff.” She quickly recapped the murder of Clint Scott, the subsequent arrest of Arthur Garcia, and the concurrent disappearance of Stacie Stewart after abandoning child and dog.
“And she would be involved in this shooting how?” Naylor asked.
“I don’t think she was. At first, she was a suspect simply because of circumstances. Odds are good that at one time or another, she had had an affair with the victim. Now we think she just left it all…her husband—and her boyfriend. And her two-year-old daughter.”
“What’s he do? The husband?”
“He’s a banker, ma’am.”
“Huh. Well, wife leaving husband has happened before. What makes you think she witnessed the shower murder, if that’s what you’re saying?”
“Actually, I don’t think that she did. We know that earlier in the evening, she attended a volleyball game at the school. She sat with the victim, and appeared to be pretty chummy with him. Later, sometime after that game, I think she witnessed the victim beating up the two young men who were caught in the process of painting graffiti on the outside wall of the school. I would be interested to know about that.”
“Why would she have been there?”
“I think she was coming to meet with Coach Scott—the victim. Maybe to make her break with him final, maybe to rekindle, maybe…who knows why.”
“What, she was going to take a shower with him?”
“The only one who can tell us that is Stacie Stewart, ma’am.”
“But you have the shooter?”
“We do. We have an uncoerced confession, we have the murder weapon and matching ballistics. We know that one of the two brothers who was confronted by Coach Scott returned to the school later that night—probably less than an hour later—and then killed Scott.” She briefly recounted the issue with the confiscated gun.
“You’re kidding,” Naylor said. “How did that turn out? Did he take his gun back?”
“No. One of the deputies found it stashed in one of the coach’s filing cabinets.”
“Duh.”
“What can I say.”
“So this guy shoots the coach, and then doesn’t recover the confiscated gun.”
“It appears that way. He might not have been able to find it. He might have panicked. Maybe he thought someone would have heard the gunshots.”
“And the little brother?”
“He’s up in intensive care in Albuquerque right now. Broken elbow, broken ribs, ruptured spleen that had to be removed.”
“The other brother—the shooter—he wasn’t hurt?”
“No. Nothing more severe than a scrape or bruise, if that. He was no match for the victim.”
“So, two young men…why didn’t the coach just do the smart thing and call the cops?”
“He can’t answer that,” Estelle said.
“And ain’t that the way it always is, though? Testosterone for brains.” She laughed dryly.
“Likely so, ma’am.”
“So the one mental giant goes home, or out to his car or wherever, and fetches the old equalizer,” Naylor mused. “The way courts work today, you’ll be lucky to win a murder-two out of this one. Look, I’m sure I have half a million questions, but let’s cut to the chase. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve tried calling the winery, with no luck. I don’t know if their phone is out of service, or it’s after-hours, or what. And there’s no listing for the Gordons’ personal number.”
“Or they see your area code on caller ID and don’t want to have anything to do with you,” Naylor chuckled.
“Sheriff, anything pending against Mrs. Stewart will end up as no more than a petty misdemeanor. No one is going to pay extradition costs for that. We simply want to talk with her. Lots of unanswered questions remain. We need to know what she did, why she did it, what she saw that night. Whether they win it or not, there’s going to be a first-degree murder charge against the brother in this killing, unless there turns out to be some kind of extenuating circumstances—and she might help us uncover those.”
“Tell you what, Undersheriff. It’s a gorgeous evening here, and I have never actually visited Pinnacle Estates. You have a recent photo of Mrs. Stewart handy?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Fax that to me right now, and I’ll take myself a tour. See if she’s there. There’s a nice little restaurant at the winery, and they won’t be closing early on a Saturday night. I know my husband wants to eat there, anyway. You’re certain that this young lady left your town Friday at noon?”
“Yes.” Estelle rearranged her notes. “She took the bus to El Paso, and she hit that connection just right. Then the flight to Rochester, New York, with one stop in Chicago. The flight landed on time in Rochester at ten-fifteen your time Saturday morning.”
“Makin’ tracks. Well, we’ll just see. Fax me that photo, and I’ll get back to you ASAP. Keep your cell phone handy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“No problem. Glad to help. And by the way, if nobody is home, I’ll give you a call anyway, then check again tomorrow. They’re right in the middle of harvest now, so they won’t have gone far.”
“Thank you again.”
In a moment, the fax of Stacie’s photogenic face was etherized across the continent. Estelle sat quietly for a moment, lost in thought. A large figure appeared in her office doorway, and she looked up to see Bill Gastner regarding her. A grin spread across his broad face. “I saw your car here, and wondered if the chow was still on back at the house.”
“Of course it is, Padrino.” She glanced at the clock. Four fifty-six in Posadas meant almost seven in upstate New York. Stacie Stewart would be exhausted from her stress, from her travels. And she’d get even more of a kick when she saw the Sheriff’s Department car swing into the winery driveway.
“You know, I wondered why you were spending so much time with a broken kid up in Albuquerque when you had a homicide on your hands. The politicos have actually been calling me, trying to get a hint about what the hell was going on.”
“Revenge is the most natural motive in the world. When I found out that Arthur hadn’t gone to the hospital with his brother and mom, it wasn’t rocket science to figure out what his agenda might be. He didn’t come to us to report the beating. He went back to the school to take care of things himself. His one big magic moment. I almost got sidetracked.”
Gastner raised an eyebrow.
“What Stacie Stewart did—just dropping everything and running—put a shadow over her. It just complicated things. I never thought that she was the shooter—the crime was just too brutal and cold. There was rage there that didn’t make sense for her. She wouldn’t have done it. Maybe her husband. But his behavior didn’t fit either. So,” she held up her hands in surrender, “I had no better course than to go talk to Efrin. See what he knew, what he might have seen. I guess that panicked Arthur. He thought he’d already been fingered.”
“It’s a good thing most criminals are blabby,” Gastner said.
“Yes. In a way I guess I admire him. Not for shooting Scott, of course. But when he knew it was all over, he wanted to protect his brother after all. Efrin has talent, Padrino. Even Arthur knows that, and tried to protect him. To him, the threat to Christina Prescott wasn’t e
ven real. His revolver wasn’t loaded.”
Gastner nodded. “He’s a lucky boy, then. Lucky that our esteemed sheriff has ice water running through his veins.” He looked pointedly at his watch. “See you at home?”
“Yes. The Mass of Celebration is tomorrow at ten in Tres Santos, by the way. Are you going to make that?”
“If they can stand a heathen in the crowd, sure. The more interesting question is, are you?”
She looked heavenward and offered a heartfelt, expressive shrug. “I’ve given up planning. But I think, yes. And I have a proposal for you.”
“Uh oh.”
She reached out and took his right hand in both of hers. “How would you like an all-expenses paid trip to Missouri?”
He frowned, one eyebrow creeping upward.
“I can’t let the two kids drive back to school by themselves.” She lowered her voice. “I just can’t do that.”
“So…”
“Look, Angie is eighteen. She can do what she wants. But no. Not Francisco.”
“And your proposal is…?”
“You drive my car with Francisco, and I’ll ride back with Angie. That way, we have the chance to talk about all kinds of things. If she won’t go for it, I’ll drive Francisco myself. But he loves to talk with you, and he’ll keep you awake.”
“I’m not about to drive nonstop to Leister,” Gastner said. “Francis needs a little vacation, anyway. Volunteer him.”
“He can’t. I already asked him. He’s got…well, he just can’t. That’s the way it is.”
“Bobby can spring you loose right now?”
“Sure. There’s the phone if he needs anything.” She gave his hand an additional squeeze. “We can leave Sunday afternoon and stay the night in Amarillo, or someplace like that. On to Leister on Monday. You and I turn around and come home Tuesday and Wednesday.”
The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Gosh, what fun.”
“Better than worry,” Estelle said. “If something happened to them, I couldn’t live with that.”
“And what if Angie says no…no chaperone riding shotgun with her?”
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