Statute of Limitations

by Steven F Havill

  “And it’s entirely possible that Mike doesn’t know about his father and Janet Tripp,” Gastner said. “Hank would have known that Eduardo would never put a minor’s name in the report—if he wrote one in the first place. And Janet sure as hell wouldn’t tell Mike.”

  “Let me go up there, then,” Estelle said quickly. The idea of Mike Sisneros and weapons at the ready obviously was already front and center in Torrez’s mind, despite the newest revelations from Essie Martinez. Estelle didn’t believe it for a moment...except for the awful possibility that events had pounded the young cop down into such a deep depression that he had sought the quick way out.

  “Let’s find out,” she said. “If Eddie covers the inside stairs, then you and Bill can back us up from down here. Is there an upstairs back window in his apartment?”

  Torrez nodded.

  “Then one of you in the back, and one out here,” Estelle said, glad that the stairway was enough of an obstacle that Torrez was content to cover from below—not that either he or Gastner would be of any use if a foot chase developed.

  Two and two halves, Estelle thought. She reached into the car and unlocked the shotgun. “You want this, sir?”

  “I don’t think I need that,” Gastner replied.

  “Take it anyway,” she said.

  “Why, sure,” he said agreeably, but she could see the set in his eyes. “I’ll take the back.” He nodded toward a large air-conditioning unit that sat on a concrete slab at the end of the building. “I can watch the window from there, and you, too.”

  “You’ve already tried calling him?” Estelle asked Torrez.

  “Yup. No answer, no answering machine. No page. No nothing. Collins and Mears are both cruisin’ likely spots, and they ain’t found a thing. It’s like he just slipped off somewhere.”

  “Then let’s take a look and see what we have.”

  They kept close to the building as they moved down its length, Estelle and Eddie Mitchell moving quickly, with Gastner bringing up the rear. Torrez limped to a spot directly in front of the Mustang, and leaned against the wall beside the entrance to the inside stairwell.

  The stubby .45 automatic felt bulky in Estelle’s hand as she moved up the outside stairway, keeping her body against the faded siding. The air was quiet enough that she could hear a vehicle pull out of the parking lot of Tommy’s Handi-Way convenience store three blocks away. Across the alley, in full view of the stairway, the lumberyard was Sunday-afternoon empty.

  She was still several steps from the door when her radio, turned down just one click shy of silent, carried Eddie Mitchell’s velvety soft voice. “I’m here,” he said, and Estelle reached down and touched the transmit button once, sending the shortest burst of squelch as a reply.

  Reaching out with her left hand, she twisted the doorknob. It turned and then stuck. She jiggled it gently back and forth, then turned hard, rocking the knob at the same time. The latch released. Oh, sí, Estelle thought. This is supposed to be locked? She glanced down and saw Bill Gastner’s rotund figure. He raised a hand. Estelle looked back at the door, trying to visualize the apartment. She’d been inside once before, and nothing about the place had struck her as out of the ordinary. The door opened inward to the right, stopping against the kitchen wall. To the right was the living room and its window that fronted the parking lot. Farther down the hall was a single bedroom and a bath.

  The door outside of which Eddie Mitchell waited after climbing the interior stairway opened into the far end of the living room.

  From his vantage point, Bill Gastner would be able to see several feet into the apartment beyond the door. She pointed at her eyes, then to Gastner, then to the door, and he nodded, shifting position slightly. With the toe of her boot, she pushed the door as hard as she could, drawing back instantly. The door yawned open, and she glanced back at Gastner. He stretched as tall as he could, peering through the open door. He held up a hand uncertainly, then motioned all clear.

  Diving past the opening, she regrouped on the opposite side of the door, sifting through the brief image she’d seen.

  “I’m clear,” she said into the radio, and a second later heard the other door slam open.

  Estelle stepped inside, stopped, and listened. She saw Mitchell in the shadows by a large entertainment center just inside the interior door, doing the same. It took them no more than a moment to ascertain that the apartment was indeed empty.

  “You need me up there?” Torrez’s voice sounded tired over the radio, maybe disappointed.

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle replied. “He’s not here.”

  “Now what?” Mitchell said, holstering his own weapon. He was standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

  “I don’t know, Eddie.” She surveyed the living room, then moved into the kitchen. Lived in, on the verge of sloppy, with the owner preoccupied with far more important things than a clean carpet or washed dishes—Mike Sisneros’s home was exactly what a bachelor apartment might be expected to look like after a couple of days of neglect. The sink included a fair collection of unwashed dishes, glasses, and cutlery.

  She bent over toward the trio of glasses still on the counter and sniffed.

  “I didn’t think Mike is much of a drinker,” she said as Mitchell entered the kitchen behind her.

  “He isn’t. Actually, I don’t think that he drinks at all.”

  “Did Janet?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket, worked her fingers into them, and then lifted a glass gingerly by the very bottom. “Someone does.”

  Mitchell crossed to the sink. Estelle placed the glass back where it had been, and he bent down and sniffed all three. “Somebody does,” he repeated. “One’s had whiskey in it, or something similar. The others don’t.”

  “Was the front door locked?” Estelle asked, and Mitchell shook his head. “You didn’t try it earlier?”

  “I came up the outside,” he said.

  “That one sticks.”

  “Apparently,” Mitchell said. “I jiggled the knob, and when it didn’t turn, I assumed it was locked. Assume, assume.”

  “So,” Estelle said, surveying the room. “Where’s our man? His car’s here; he’s not.” She stepped close to the glasses again, inhaling the aroma deeply, then straightened up and methodically opened one cabinet door after another. Mitchell did the same, working from the other side.

  “No booze,” he said, and opened the refrigerator. “One six-pack of beer, two missing.”

  “Maybe down in the car,” Estelle said. She pulled the trash can out from under the sink and rummaged for a moment. “Not in the trash.” She straightened up. “Interesting possibilities, Eddie.” She stepped toward the living room and surveyed the simple quarters, then stooped down and looked under the table and the old sofa. No empty bottles lurked in any of the logical places where a drunk might cast them away. She stood for a moment, listening, looking, and smelling.

  The image came to mind of Mike Sisneros trudging down the alley in an alcoholic shuffle, shoulders stooped, the bottle of whiskey hanging from unresponsive fingers. That didn’t work. But Hank Sisneros came to mind, and the image fitted.

  She turned and looked back at Eddie Mitchell, and when their eyes met, she knew that he was thinking the same thing.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Gayle, I want an address for Henry Sisneros,” Estelle said when the sheriff’s wife answered the phone at the sheriff’s office. “Call Deming PD and have them find out where he lives and what kind of vehicle he’s driving. We think he’s in town.”

  “Ay,” Gayle said, and that was the extent of the time she wasted with surprise. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “As soon as you have a vehicle or tag number, we need a BOLO. Make sure that everyone is on their toes.”r />
  “Do you want me to wake up some faces?”

  Estelle thought for a moment. “Yes. Every single body you can find. If it’s a false alarm, I’ll be ecstatic.”

  Other than the single glass holding traces of whiskey, the apartment yielded no answers. Mike Sisneros’s uniform hung neatly in a bedroom closet, as did the heavy Sam Brown belt and its plethora of equipment. Although uneasy about its absence, Estelle was not surprised that the deputy’s department-issue .45 automatic was missing from the holster.

  “I hope Mike’s the one holding that,” she said. He had been wearing the weapon under his T-shirt when she met him for breakfast.

  The .22 pistol case in the dresser drawer was still there, and still empty. If Janet Tripp had owned boxes of memorabilia, she’d stored them somewhere other than Mike’s apartment. A single photo album rested on a coffee table in the living room, only three of its pages filled with recent photos.

  Estelle sat down on the well-worn sofa and leafed through the photos. In one, Janet and Mike sat together on a stone wall in front of an imposing church ruin that Estelle recognized as Gran Quivira National Monument, far to the north near the village of Mountainair. The shadow of the willing tourist who had snapped the picture for them marked the lower corner of the photo.

  In all, there were twenty photos of the two young people, including one Janet had evidently taken of Mike, the deputy posed proudly with one hand on the fender of his patrol unit. His smile was broad and sincere, and Estelle felt a pang. Happier days.

  She surveyed the pages again. The album began with photos not more than a year old. No parents allowed. No past history. No military photos. No first boy- or girlfriends.

  “I want to talk to her sister,” Estelle said suddenly.

  “The one in Kansas?”

  “Yes.” She walked back to the kitchen. “Mike doesn’t have a phone in this apartment?”

  “Makes do with the cell,” Mitchell said.

  “I want a land line,” Estelle said. “I don’t want to be halfway through a long-distance conversation and lose it.” She turned in place once more. “I don’t think this is going to tell us anything.”

  “Nope. We need to hit the road and find this kid,” Mitchell said. “And if his nutzo father is in town, we need to find him, too.”

  “Yes, we do,” she said emphatically, and glanced at her watch. “In about ten minutes, Gayle will have every person we have out looking for both Mike and Hank. I’ll go back to the office and make the call to Janet’s sister. That’ll only take a few minutes, and I’ll make sure Bill gets home. I want Mears to process this glass, too.” She held up the clear plastic evidence bag and examined the whiskey glass again. “Be interesting to know,” she said.

  There were others who wanted to know as well. When Estelle walked back into the sheriff’s office, she saw a bright Post-it note stuck to the front of her mail slot with Gayle’s elegant writing. “Dayan wants you to call him,” the note said, and Estelle saw Bill Gastner grin.

  “I’m sure he does,” Estelle said. “Maybe someday.” She crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket. “No interrupts for a while, Gayle,” she said.

  In her office, she settled back in her chair, the slip of paper with Monica Tripp’s phone number smoothed out on the desk calendar. “Bets?” she said to Gastner.

  “No bets,” he replied.

  She dialed and waited for the circuits to link New Mexico and Kansas. After four rings, the connection popped. A male voice answered, polished and practiced.

  “Good afternoon. Baylor residence. This is Max speaking.”

  “Mr. Baylor,” Estelle said, jotting down the name quickly. “This is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman calling from the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department in Posadas, New Mexico.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “Yes, okay. Just a minute.”

  The phone was covered with a hand, and Estelle could hear mumbling. We’re expected, she thought.

  “Yes?” The woman’s voice was small, with a quaver of emotion.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Estelle said. “Is this Monica Tripp-Baylor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Baylor, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman calling from Posadas. I believe Mike Sisneros contacted you earlier today?”

  “Yes. He called earlier this morning.”

  “He told you about Janet?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Estelle waited for elaboration, but when none was forthcoming, she added, “Mrs. Baylor, we’re sorry for your loss, but we’d appreciate any background you can share with us about Janet. Had you heard from her recently?”

  “You’re a sheriff? This Mike works for you?”

  “He is a sheriff’s deputy, yes.” This Mike?

  “I didn’t know him,” Monica said. “I didn’t know anything about him, other than that he was a year ahead of Janet in school.”

  “You and your sister didn’t correspond often?”

  That brought a sniff that could have been amusement. “We didn’t correspond at all, Sheriff.”

  “You’re a couple of years younger than Janet, is that correct?”

  “Four years. We weren’t close. Look, I don’t understand how she died, officer.”

  “What did Mike tell you?”

  “Just that Janet had gone to the bank on Christmas Day, and someone shot her while she was standing at the ATM.” What might have been a choked-off sniffle punctuated the sentence.

  “That’s basically what happened, ma’am. Any information you can give us about her background, about anything you might know, will be a help.”

  “I haven’t seen her since she was in the army,” Monica said. “We were never close. We never really wrote. She didn’t do e-mail, or anything like that.” She hesitated. “I have my family here. My life’s here.”

  “I see. You’re coming over for the funeral, though?”

  “I told the deputy that I probably would, but I don’t know for sure. The service is Wednesday, isn’t it? There’s a lot going on. I’m not sure that I can get off work.”

  “If you could...Mike said you might be able to come over tomorrow. There are some estate questions that I’m sure will come up. Mike and Janet weren’t married, and you’re the nearest relative for her estate.”

  Monica responded with a sigh.

  “Are either of your folks still alive?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Estelle frowned. “You don’t think so? There’s some question?”

  “My mother died a few years ago. I don’t know where my father went after he and my mom were divorced. And I’m not sure that I really care a whole lot, officer. He isn’t part of my life now.”

  “Do you remember when your folks divorced?”

  “Of course I remember. A long time ago,” Monica said. “Look, those things happen. Mom was really, really hurt by the whole thing. She divorced him, and then he just left. Just left. So as far as I’m concerned, that’s that.”

  “Hurt by the whole thing,” Estelle repeated gently. “What whole thing would that be?”

  “Look, it’s ancient history. That part of my life is over. I just don’t care anymore. And I didn’t talk with Janet much over the years, but I think she felt the same way. Look, officer, some families are just really close, you know? Huggy huggy close. We weren’t. She wasn’t my best friend, or anything like that. That’s as simple as I can say it. Did you need anything else?”

  “I need to know what the ‘whole thing’ was, Monica.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Why your mom and dad were divorced.”

  “I think...I think it would be easiest just to say that they didn’t much like each other any more,” Monica said. “That’s just about the size of it.”
r />   “When your dad lived over on Sixth Street in Posadas, in that little yellow house? Were you with him then?”

  “No. He bought that place after the divorce. He was going to fix it up, but then he just left. He wasn’t there all that long. No goodbye, no nothing. Just up and left. Janet told me that he put stuff in storage and then left.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Well, you know. His furniture and stuff like that. Maybe he was going to come back for it later. I don’t think he had much over there. I know that Janet visited him a few times, but I never did. Mom wouldn’t let me.”

  “So you never saw the inside of that place.”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever know Mike’s parents?”

  “Mike? Oh, the cop, you mean? Janet’s boyfriend? No, I didn’t know them. I didn’t even know him, let alone them. What was their name?”

  “Sisneros.”

  “That’s right. No...I didn’t know them. I don’t know them.”

  “Did you know Hank Sisneros? That would be Mike’s father.”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have any reason to know him. Look, are you guys going to find the person who killed my sister?”

  “I certainly hope so, Mrs. Baylor. And we appreciate your help. When you come to Posadas, you need to stop by the sheriff’s office. There will be some civil paperwork for you to deal with. As the nearest relative.”

  “The cop can’t do that? This Mike guy?”

  “No, he can’t.” Even if we knew where “the cop” was. “Sergeant Bishop is our civil affairs officer. Ask for him. He’ll take you through it one step at a time,” Estelle added. “I’d like to talk with you again at that time.”

  “I suppose.”

  Estelle left her name and number, and when she hung up, Bill Gastner shifted restlessly in the chair. “That sounded productive.”

  “Ay,” she said. “How dare Janet interrupt their busy life by dying.”